#*belle voice* what the fuck does marcus even do

[thebearer]

no but i love your writing! ever since i watched s1 and 2 last weekend because of a youtube ad, i peaked in the carmy tag and was a surprised to see the amount of stories carmy had! would love a scenario where he’s married to a sassy, take no shit type of reader sim to natalie. his wife legit could work with him for all i care. but for whatever reason he does something w/o checking in— he prolly just forgot. she finds out and confronts him hella pissed (could be at family or during restaurant prep idc) and she says “oh, if carmen said it was cool.” not even carmy the full government name bro 😭. p much how natalie articulated it 🤣. can’t remember the ep but in early season 1 when marcus blew the fuse you can also include slick commentary from richie (and fak) if you’d like! tysm in advance 🥰. also if you don’t me me asking, do you have name/alias on this blog? what we can call you? enjoy your week

- 🥣

yes yes yes ahhhhh! he definitely needs someone who keeps him in line but walks that fine line where he can also keep them in line (bc dom!carmy is living in my heart rent free forever lol). also you can call me e if you'd like :) thank you for your sweet words! i hope you have a good week, and hope you enjoy this!

"What's this?" You ask Sydney, looking at the new box being unloaded from the truck- big and bulky in a crate, far too large to be a produce shipment.

"Uh, I think it's the new glassware for the bar." Sydney looked at her clipboard, back at you carefully.

"Glassware? What new glassware. We haven't picked that out yet." You frowned, looking at the crate carefully.

"Oh, well, it was in Carmen's notes for the day, so... I think that's the only shipment we have. Unless the hostess stand came early, which would be amazing, but you-" Sydney stopped her ramblings, seeing your soured expression. "You know what? Never mind, uh, ignore me. I'm just...Carmen's with Sugar and Richie in the back if you want to ask him."

"Thanks, Syd." You muttered, ripping the bell open with a shrill before bounding towards the back. You could hear them before you saw them, a familiar chorus of chatter and rising voices.

"Hey, so what's the delivery out front?" You ask, not bothering to wait for them to acknowledge you. If you did, you'd never talk, they all talked over each other.

"The new glasses for the bars." Sugar turned, smiling softly at you. "How are you doing?"

"Good." You muttered, eyes cutting to Carmen. "We haven't ordered new glasses yet."

"Uh, well, I thought you liked the ones from last week, angel." Carmen's eyes were bulged, clearly flustered.

"I said I liked them for basics, but I needed you to confirm a drink menu." You glared at him, arms crossing over his chest.

"You can't put the drinks in that?" Carmen asked, hand flying out towards the hall.

"Not if you want the specialty, no." You huffed. "Carmen, I told you to wait just a few days and we could get them at the wholesale market. The textured ones for the signature at least."

"Uh-oh," Richie muttered, snickering to Fak.

"Can you not use the glasses I got?" Carmen sighed.

"I can, but did you get enough? And did we decide if the signature is going in a whiskey glass or a cylinder one? Did you order double of those?" You lifted a brow, taking a step towards him. Richie and Nat watched, heads turning from you and Carmen like a tennis match.

Carmen paused, running a hand down his face. "N-No, but-"

"-So what are you going to do when we open and you run out of drinks, huh? When everyone orders the signature and it comes in different glasses? You think those travel groupie influencers won't notice? Won't post about it and make it a big fucking deal?" You countered.

"Then we'll figure it out!" Carmen huffed. "Look I gave the order to Richie, and-"

"-Hey, no fuckin' way cousin. You gave me your order." Richie held his hand up. "Sweetheart, Carmy said it was good so I just placed the order."

"Well, if Carmen said it was good, then it must be, right? He's the fucking boss." You snarl, glaring at Carmen furiously. "Seems like you've got it under control, Carm, so I'll leave it to you." You turn on your heel, furiously stomping away.

Richie and Fak wait until they hear the slam of the office door, to release their cackles. "Oooh! Cousin, you are in the fuckin' dog house now." Richie laughed, Fak's chorus of barks emphasizing his statement.

"Shut up, ok? Just shut the fuck up." Carmen growled, running a hand through his hair.

"Carmy, why wouldn't you ask her before you ordered? She's your mixologist." Nat sighed, shoulders heavy with disappointment.

"Also your girlfriend." Sydney added, poking her head in. "I told you to wait. Just saying."

"Thank you, alright, thank you all for your fuckin' helpful words." Carmen snapped. "Just... Nat, make sure they get all that shit set up right, ok? Make sure the dishwasher fucking works before we're open, please."

The office door was shut, and Carmen hesitated, reaching for the knob anxiously. He wasn't sure if he should knock- I mean, fuck, this is his office but... you were already so mad at him. Knuckles rapping on the door, he didn't wait for the invite in- knowing he'd never get one.

Carmen found you, sniffling in a furious pout in the corner, body angled away from the door. "Baby-" Carmen started with a sigh, shoulders falling gently at your upset state.

"-Don't." You snap, wiping your eyes. "Don't even start with me, Carmen." The way you say his full name sounds so bitter, too formal and full of malice to be from you.

"I-I'm sorry. I thought we agreed on it, and-and Richie was pressuring me and... And you're right. I shouldn't have made that decision without you, and I'm sorry." Carmen said slowly, waiting for your gaze to meet his, angry, wet, waterline.

"Yeah, you shouldn't have." You agreed bitterly, wiping your eyes. "I get this is your restaurant, Carmen, but don't ask for my help if you're just gonna do what you want anyways. That's-That's not nice."

"I know." Carmen nodded slowly, approaching you with the caution he would a wild animal. "I want your help. I do, and-and I like your idea that the house drink goes in the special glass. Makes it stand out."

You lifted your gaze up to his. "Yeah?" You asked, he nodded, sitting next to you. "Did you blow your budget?"

"No," Carmen shook his head, not a total lie. Fak had been able pull some strings with the new stoves, turns out he did have a guy. It left a little over five thousand left over.

"We could go to that place, if you want to. Go look and see if they have the glasses. Get a rough estimate of about how many we'd need." Carmen offered, his hand cupping your thigh gently, thumb rubbing over your leg in soothing circles.

"As long as Sydney or Nat does the numbers and not you." You snorted lightly, rolling your eyes at him.

He laughed, nodding in agreement. "Yeah, I'll get Sugar to run 'em, alright? Then we can go. Call it an early night."

You beamed at the idea, letting him slide in next to you, melting into your side. "That sounds good." You hummed, letting your head fall on his shoulder.

"I-I'm real sorry I didn't as you ." Carmen muttered. "That was shitty."

"Yeah." You sighed in agreement. "I just... I want to be included in things." You asked, looking up at him sweetly. "Not everything, but-but at least the things that apply to my area."

"I know." Carmen nodded, his hand catching your cheek softly. "I'll let you handle it next time, alright? I trust your opinion."

"You don't have to do that-"

"-No, you're right, I don't. But-But I want to." Carmen nodded. "I know you're lookin' out for the best in this place just like I am."

[novankenn]

So Maifa Au. So Mercury is sent after Jaune by his still alive abusive father. So when Mercury is about to attack Jaune and Pyrrha but them Mama Arc steps in to deal with it. Cuts to Mercury crying on the couch with some and hot chocolate and a blanket telling him about his terrible father and how he didn't even want to do this. Mama Arc does on him then cuts to Arc sisters wailing on Marcus.

Date Night Disaster

(A snippet from "a Mafia" & "From Assassin to Sales Clerk" AUs)

Pyrrha was and Blake were hurting. Whomever this guy was, that ambushed them outside the movie theatre, he was good. Hampered by nothing having their weapon s, and also needing to keep Jaune and Blake safe, the pair of "former" assassins, ran, dragging their dates with them.

It was almost a good plan, but the jackass was fast and agile, meaning he was going over stuff Blake and Pyrrha had to take Jaune and Yang around. So for a good twenty minutes of a running fist fight the quartet found themselves in front of Pumpkin Pete's Novelty Store. Blake used her keys and got them all inside. Locking the doors the quartet backed from the plasticized-plate glass windows and doors.

"We just have to hold tight. The alarm should be going off, and someone will be by to check the store out." Blake panted out, as she and Pyrrha kept Jaune and Yang behind them.

"Are you guys okay?" Jaune asked.

"Who the fuck was that psycho?" Yang snapped.

"He's an asshat whose after Jaune." Pyrrha replied, her emerald eyes watching for any movement. Any sign of a threat. "We'll be safe here. It's like Blake said. Security should be around soon."

"Why is anyone after Jaune?" Yang asked, her voice filled with anger.

"It's complicated!" Blake snapped.

"Then uncomplicate it!" Yang snapped back.

The conversation died at that point as the glass of one of the doors exploded towards them, followed by a arrogantly smirking grey haired young man. He said nothing as he just came at them like a whirlwind of strikes. Both Pyrrha and Blake took multiple stiff hits from his feet and shins, before they could recover from shielding their eyes from the flying glass.

It was Pyrrha trapping on of the bastard's legs under her arm when he landed a side kick to her ribs, that gave Blake a chance to go on the attack. Blake was fast, but not a powerhouse, so while she was getting hits through the guys defenses, they weren't doing near enough damage.

"Pyr?" Jaune was at her side trying to help her up as Blake took the fight to their attacker. "Pyr!"

"Yang!" Pyrrha shouted, as she climbed to her feet gritting her teeth against the pain in her side. "You and Jaune get out of here!"

Blake was starting to get pelted by hits, so without waiting for an answer Pyrrha rushed in. The guy was a much better unarmed combatant than either Blake or Pyrrha. As the two young women specialized in bladed weapons. They were by no means slouches... they just didn't have the skills to counter the rapid kicks he was favoring.

Trapping his leg again, Pyrrha tried to grapple him. A knee strike to her chest, followed by a jumping spin kick to her head sent her spinning towards the floor. Blake knew just from how Pyrrha was stumbling that she just had a bell rung.

"Goddess of Death... what a fucking joke." the man quipped with his ever present sneer. "You're both jokes. The great Nikos, and Belladonna. You're nothing without your tools..."

"Hey asshole!" Yang shouted. "Behind you!"

"I'm not stupid enough to..." the sound of twenty pounds of sheet metal, electronics and plastic slamming into flesh, followed by a grunt of pain cut off the asshat's comment.

Blake stood there in shock. Yang had used herself as a distraction so Jaune could... rip the till from the counter with his bare hands and then swing it into the guy's shoulder and head like a flail using the power cord.

"Blake!" Yang yelled trying to get the cat faunus' attention.

"Fuckers!"

"Yang look out!" Jaune shouted, as their attacker recovered and decided game time was over. Blake dashed forward blocking the vicious strike with her back, sending her and Yang sprawling along the floor.

"Jaune!" Pyrrha screamed as she stumbled towards him, as the tall blond covered up and took a kick to his forearms that should have cracked his skull. Jaune went down and down hard. Pyrrha shoulder checked the grey haired asshole aside, and dropped down overtop of Jaune, using her body as a shield.

When a follow up attack didn't happen, Pyrrha looked up with blurry eyes. Her mind found it hard to register what she was seeing. Their attacker was getting his ass kicked by Deery, of all people! Pyrrha's vision swam and a second later she blacked out.

Deery was not happy. The store was a mess, the front door was broken, and her staff had been assaulted, along with her friends. Deery decided she would worry about explanations after. This young pup thinking he was hot shit, needed a lesson in humility. Deery's hands and feet moved with precision. Blocking, countering and redirecting every strike from her opponent, while also punching through his defenses... which he didn't have much talent for.

Snapping a kick of her own out, catching his leg with the flat of her foot, she threw him off balance. That was the beginning of the end. A blazing flurry of punches, open hand strikes, forearms and elbows peppered the s mug little shits' chest shoulders and neck, rocking him to his core, and dropping him unconscious in seconds.

"Deery?" Blake asked weakly pressing her hand to her side. Pain obvious on her face. "What?"

"I was in the neighborhood."

"What was that shit?" Yang asked, her split and swollen lip making her words sound slightly distorted.

"Self-defense course. I took it at the community center." Deery replied, "Good course, you should look into it. Great exercise. Check on Nikos and Arc. I'll take care of this..."

As the pair of young women supported each other in the walk towards their friends, Deandra "Deery" Thistle dragged the unconscious young man into the back staff room. Propping him up in a corner, she checked him over. He was breathing, which was a good sign.

Deery sucked on her front teeth as she confirmed something she had felt in her short confrontation. She sighed as she looked at the prosthetic legs hidden under the loose track pants the young man was wearing.

"Well kid you're in for a very tense talk with an angry momma bear real soon." Deery muttered as she rose and left the staff room to check on Blake and her friends.

/==/

Mercury Black awoke feeling like he had been hit by a truck, then backed over and hit by it again. Groaning he opened his eyes and blinked them back into focus. It was then he realized he was sitting on a couch, with a quilt draped over him. He also noticed his prosthetics were missing.

"Good you're finally awake." came a stern voice. Mercury turned his head to focus on the individual who was speaking. "Well I guess some introduction s are in order. I am Prismeya Arc. You are Mercury Black. You tried to kill my son, at the urging of your shit for brains father."

Mercury swallowed. He had failed the job. If he got out of this alive, his father was going to kill him.

"Now normally you wouldn't be sitting in my house, having a chat with me, all things considered. But your situation is special." Prismeya sat back in her plush arm chair and swirled her glass of red wine. "And just so you know. Everyone is a little roughed up, but they will survive. In fact you answered a couple questions for me, so thank you for that."

"Questions?"

"You need not worry about those. That's a family matter." she took a sip of her wine. "I do have a question for you, and I do hope you answer me truthfully. Did your... father..."

"Yes." Mercury answered knowing exactly what was being asked.

"I see. Excuse me a moment." Prismeya set her glass down, and picked up her scroll. "Did you here that Saphron?"

There was a pause as she listened to this Saphron, who had to be on the other end of the call.

"Good. Are all of you ready?" Another pause.

"Perfect." Prismeya gave Mercury a warm smile before speaking again. "Remove him."

The scroll was set down, and Prismeya picked up her wine glass again. She gave Mercury a soft smile before taking another sip.

"Now. Let's have a chat about your future."

[narcolini]

night//morning - pt. 2

part one - ao3 link luca x marcus (or luca & marcus tbh), 2.6k, i have no idea what to label this i can't lie. pining and un-satisfaction tagging: @drabbles-mc @ashlingiswriting @garbinge @hausofmamadas (bear squad jeje)

Tuesday, 05:48:

‘Hey mate, um, hope you’re doing alright. Just thought I’d check in and, yeah, well, actually I had something I wanted to talk to you about. No rush, of course, but when you’ve got a minute—and everything’s, you know, less intense. Just, um, give me a bell when you can. Cheers.’

Seen, 22:53.

‘That’s not yours.’

Four ounces will do twelve, six will do eighteen.

‘Luca.’

‘Yes, chef?’

‘That’s not your dough.’

‘What?’ He straightens, palms stilling on the floured edges. ‘Shit. That’s the…’

‘The filo.’

‘The filo, right. Sorry.’ Not the shortcrust he’d made, but the pastry she’d taken out of the fridge herself. He’d even reached across her to grab it. Mind in the locker room behind, sense on the wood-panelled floor of his bedroom. He’s spun the filo into a useless ball in his daze, patted it with flour it didn’t need, fucked up her prep entirely. ‘That’s my fault, Ali.’

‘Yeah.’ She scoffs, but there’s no malice in it. There’s no time for that.

‘I’ll make more.’

Ali nods, eyeing him from the side as he sets about fixing his mistake. 

It wasn’t an easily made mistake, it wasn’t even a common one. It was an absolutely absurd thing for anyone with even a crumb of kitchen experience to do. They both know that, so there’s no point in trying to pretend otherwise. In shutting the door for the sake of pride. 

‘I haven’t been focusing,’ he says. Bowl, flour, oil. Bin the old and wipe down the counter before starting again. ‘Got a friend and…Yeah, he’s been on my mind a lot. Haven’t been sleeping well.’

She does him the mercy of ignoring the pause that slipped between friend and—friend and—to say, ‘I can tell,’ instead. ‘It’s not like you.’

He nods. ‘I know.’

‘To mistake filo for shortcrust.’

‘I know, mate.’ He laughs, smile spreading, all corners and teeth. ‘You gonna rub that in all day?’

She shrugs. ‘Maybe all week.’ 

‘Alright, cool, I deserve a week.’

But with Ali, it’s never a week, it’s twenty minutes and then it’s forgotten about, because stress sits on her like lead. Shoulders down, jaw tight. He never gets a word from her after opening. Whether he’d been her best friend that day, or the nitpicking prat by her ear. 

‘Have you spoken to him about it?’ she asks, reaching for the shortcrust that he was supposed to be working with. Picking up slack like they’re trained to do. ‘Problems shared, and all that.’

‘Sent him a few voice notes.’ One, to be exact, three days after the last message Marcus had sent. ‘I don’t want to push him.’

‘So he’s going through some shit,’ she deducts. ‘And you’re dragging yourself through the same shit, along with him?’

He sighs, talking around the end of it, ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

‘You know what I’m going to say,’ she adds, throwing a smile that he only catches the shadow of. Wry and knowing. 

‘Yeah.’ Can’t help anyone when you’re both in the mud. ‘Thanks, Ali.’

She nods, chin flicking to his half-made dough. ‘Thank me by working faster.’

‘Alright.’ 

Faster and more efficiently. More focused. He pushes his hands into the mix, knuckles deep, welcomes the attention it requires from him like a rope thrown overboard. A gnarled root on the edge of the pit. 

For the rest of the day, that’s all there is. Ali as a silent partner, in tandem, in sync. Rudy talking about football through every break they overlap on. The mice in the bins, the customer sending his praises to the chef. 

Open, service, shut. Then the cold of his pillow as he gets into bed again.

And still no reply from Marcus, either. Just a little thumbs up, pinned to the corner of his voice note, sent some time around lunch. 

He’s seen it, at least, listened and agreed to get back to him when possible. So it’s Luca’s turn to wait again, because he can’t do more than that. Shouldn’t, even. It’s easy to add things, fix the acid, sweeten the sour, but harder to take them away. He has to remember that. At one end of the spectrum, is that shit with Frankie, and at the other? This mania he’s driving himself into with Marcus, brakes off, steam pluming.  

It’s not like him. It’s deeply unlike him, even, he’s unfamiliar and stumbling because of it. 

Control what you can, control the reaction to what you can’t.

‘Fucking hell.’ He draws the fuck out, long and groaning, and presses his palms over his eyes. Finally time to rest and he’s lying here thinking about it, turning it over and over, fold mix fold. ‘Get a grip, man.’

Marcus is fine. And he’s fine. There’s no way to perfect a recipe with an undecided end product, no fine tuning to be made on a relationship with no future. Spending this much of his time trying to do so, will only twist him further into the ground. Bury him neck deep.

His phone buzzes then—buzzes because it’s still on silent from work, audible against the wood of his bedside. He’s on it before it gets to the second round of vibrations. Taps answer before he realises it’s a video call, and not just the usual voice-only chat. 

Marcus appears on his screen, well, the top half of his head does, the bottom is lost somewhere beneath the home button. ‘Shit,’ he laughs, ‘you answered too quick, man. I’m still—hang on.’

‘Yeah, course.’ 

It’s near black in Luca’s bedroom, his own image nothing but a pixelated blob of grey in the bottom corner. He clicks the lamp on while Marcus finishes whatever he’s doing and, God, shit, that won’t work. He looks like the fucking personification of pillow-talk. Amber lighting, bed-squashed hair, bare shoulders against his mattress. 

He sits upright, and holds the phone at an appropriate angle. 

‘Wasn’t expecting you to call this late,’ he says.

Marcus’s beanie bobs back into frame. ‘It’s only late for you, dude.’

‘Right, obviously.’

‘Sorry—there. All done.’ His face fills the screen at last, still angled like he’s got the phone sitting on his chest, but his smile is there now. Cheeks to either side of Luca’s phone. ‘You good?’

‘I’m alright.’ He nods. Puts his free arm across his chest, hand anchoring on the shoulder. ‘Are you on break?’

‘Nah, had the morning off to sort some things out. Heading over there now.’

‘Cool. Nice.’ 

‘Yeah, real fun.’ Marcus laughs, dry and unaffected. ‘Sure love spending the morning with some anaemic-looking dinosaur, going over Mom’s will.’ 

He mirrors the empty laugh, nodding alongside it. ‘Beats brunch though, right?’

‘Fuck brunch,’ Marcus quips. 

It barks through his screen, passionate enough to make Luca laugh for real that time, a smile tugging on his lips. 

‘Who the fuck invented giving up two meals for one?’ 

‘Dunno,’ Luca humours, ‘the French?’

‘Probably the French, yeah.’ 

He’s walking now, buildings passing by from the upwards angle Luca has access to. It’s raining, misting Marcus’s camera, and pearling on the knit of his hat. He walks a few more steps without saying anything else, head shaking like he’s still thinking about brunch. 

‘Did you listen to my voice note?’ Luca asks, switching the rain-dropped Marcus into his other hand, and covering his chest in the opposite way. 

‘Shit, yeah,’ his eyes flick down to the phone, into the camera, ‘was gonna ask. What’s up? You wanted to talk about something?’

‘Yeah, I did.’ And suddenly it’s back down his throat, fleeing and cloying to the sides. Unwilling to come to life. ‘I know you’ve been having a tough time of it.’

Marcus sighs, or scoffs, or whatever sort of frustrated, dissatisfaction sits in-between the two. ‘I know, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disappear on you.’

‘No, no, that’s not it,’ Luca corrects keenly. ‘I get it, it’s completely understandable, mate. But I’ve been thinking—well, wracking my brain, really, over what I could do to help out.’ Drag it back, claw it out. ‘And I settled on coming to Chicago,’ he says. ‘I think.’

‘What?’

‘I was thinking I could come to Chicago.’ It’s easier the second time. Goes out of him like it isn’t an utterly absurd, completely over-stepping, gesture. ‘I've got some holidays to use up, y’know, been saving them for something important.’

Marcus frowns slightly, staring ahead like Luca’s there and not sitting under his chin. ‘Shouldn’t you be using it to, I don’t know, see your family or something? Go back home?’

He could do that in a weekend. Could go for a day, once a week, if it really compelled him. ‘I mean, Mum’s in Copenhagen so often she may as well buy a flat here, and Frankie. Well, yeah, you know.’

‘Would sooner close the borders than have you back,’ he says, with half a smile printed in his cheek.

‘Mhm. So. My remaining two weeks are yours, if you want them.’

The lump’s back in his throat again, this time paired with a creeping heat in the shell of his ears. Marcus says nothing, head tilting like he’s physically weighing up the idea, a set of scales balanced between his eyes. Luca’s offer slow-rolling between the two. 

It feels like three minutes pass in wait of it. Four now. The room’s silent minus the tinny echo of downtown Chicago, cracking through the line. He pulls his knees up, bent, to balance his arm and the phone on top of them. 

‘You really wanna stay here?’ Marcus asks eventually. 

He shrugs, watching himself do it in the corner of his screen. Easier to look there than— ‘I can get a hotel,’ he suggests.

‘No, I mean,’ he looks down at Luca, ‘you really wanna waste your vacation days on me?’

‘Yeah,’ he replies, thick with sarcasm, ‘call it self-flagellation.’

‘Self-what?’ Marcus laughs. ‘Come on, none of your cryptic shit when I’m being serious, please.’

‘Sorry.’ He smiles. ‘Bad joke. But it wouldn’t be a waste, Marcus.’

And he knows better than to think of it like that, because he knows Luca, right? Even if it’s only in that surface level, co-worker sense—which it isn’t, it can’t be—because he knows Luca isn’t one for waste. Ever. Not when he’s paying attention, that is. 

‘Wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to,’ he adds, once the silence starts to itch again.

Marcus sighs. ‘I don’t know, man. I mean, that’s, it’s fucking crazy that you would do that for me—’

‘Steady on, it’s not just for you.’ He laughs, voice full of fake offence. ‘I like holidays too, y’know?’

A tsk scuffs through the phone. ‘No you don’t, man.’

‘Alright,’ he knows him, ‘but I am long overdue.’ Outside of the kitchen, he knows him. ‘Been promising Carm for years,’ he says. Heat along the top of his ears, skin reddening down his neck, hidden by the orange of the bedside. ‘I’m sure he’d be glad to see me.’

‘Yeah,’ Marcus nods, ‘would be glad to have you in the Beef, too.’

‘Well, I didn’t say anything about working.’

‘Come on, like you’d be able to help yourself.’

‘I might.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’ 

The silence steps back in; uninvited, between the laughs, over the unfinished hypotheticals. He watches Marcus duck under a low portion of scaffolding, then nod in a no problem way, as he pauses to let someone past. A whole world in his palm, a snapshot of a day he’s already lived through.

‘What’s your hesitation?’ he asks, quiet in a way that’s only appropriate for Copenhagen. For his bedroom in the dark, after the turn of midnight. ‘About me coming?’

Marcus shrugs, he assumes, only able to see the upside-down crescent that his mouth forms with it. ‘Guess I was kind of hoping to get out of here myself.’

‘We can do that,’ Luca answers, far too quick. Sharp enough to invite another silence in, hand on the door, fingers catching the edge of it. ‘You should, I mean. It’d be good for you.’

If Marcus notices the fumble, he chooses to ignore it. ‘Thing is, I can’t imagine myself leaving right now. Y’know, going far from home, incase I…’ He laughs without the spirit of it. ‘Man, fuck, I don’t really have a reason, do I?’

Luca shakes his head. It makes sense. He’s seen it before. ‘I get it,’ he says.

‘Really? Cause I’m feeling like all my logic is mad crazy right now. Keep doing shit and I don’t even know why.’

‘It’s normal.’

‘Is it?’

‘Were you wanting me to disagree?’

He holds his frown just long enough to make Marcus crack, teeth flashing as he smiles. ‘Okay, yes, I wanted you to tell me I’m not crazy.’

‘You’re not crazy,’ Luca obliges.

‘Thank-you.’

A nod. It’s nothing. ‘So where do people from Chicago go, when they don’t want to leave Chicago?’ he asks, lying back onto the pillows at last. He’s been slouching deeper and deeper as the call goes on, and it’s starting to bite. Numb-ache tugging between his shoulder blades. He needs his spine flat, stretched out. He hovers phone-Marcus over his face while his arm can tolerate it still.

‘I have no idea,’ Marcus answers, back to looking ahead of him. Into the road Luca has no view of. ‘Fucking…Costco?’

Luca snorts. Then he lifts his eyebrows, head tilting, like it’s a plausible option, something worth considering. Costco hotdogs and a Coke. He’d take it, if the offer was there.

‘Yeah, y’know, Costco might fix me,’ Marcus continues, laughing in between. ‘I will definitely do that.’

The smirk toys in the corner of Luca’s lips again. ‘I’m glad we could sort something, mate.’ 

‘Plus, it saves you buying a plane ticket.’

‘Yeah.’ He swallows, back to watching himself in the corner of the screen. A square of gold over the blue of Marcus’s jumper. Tired eyes watching tired eyes, slow blinks in-between. ‘I should probably head off,’ he says. ‘Getting late.’

‘Shit,’ he glances down, ‘I’m always messing with your sleep, dude. My bad.’

‘Yeah-no, don’t worry about it. I’m glad you called.’ His arm’s aching, and the phone drops slightly as he tries to maintain it. ‘It’s good to speak to you.’

Marcus is indoors now, having just stepped from the grey sky into the bright, man-made lighting of the Beef. ‘Hit me up tomorrow?’ he asks, with a quickness that gives Luca no time to do anything but nod in reply. ‘Sweet.’

‘Have a good day, man.’

‘Yeah, you too.’ He corrects himself. ‘Night.’

‘Night.’ 

The call ends, Marcus’s image replaced by the blinding white of their text conversation, that thumbs up emoji staring back at him again. 

There’s no relief now that his idea’s been voiced, because he’d barely even argued the case. Marcus didn’t want to travel, it was right there, even after his hesitation, the stone through the stream. Then I’ll come to you, he should’ve said, it makes the most sense. And I’ll muck about whenever you need a break from me, do all the touristy shit, you know? Visit the Bean.  

He sighs and lays the phone flat on his bare chest, screen going dark after a few passing breaths. 

Marcus was right, it was crazy of him to even offer to do that. Like throwing slate into a lake and expecting it to float. Another angle then, another gift in the post, maybe, one that neither of them can talk out of existence.

Or maybe nothing at all.

He switches the light off, night blanketing him. Tomorrow. He can think about it tomorrow. 

[stupidcanofpeaches]

currently on ep6 of s3 of tua and i gotta say, i do wish we got more scenes characterizing the sparrows. like overall there are some pretty fun parallels between them and the umbrellas and the characters are quite fun to watch. alphonso and jayme seem to have an interesting dynamic between them, always hanging out together, and even in the past scene we're shown that alphonse is probably the most worried for her during her sparring match with ben - that proud look he gets on his face when she kicks the bell? that's real nice.

also from what im seeing this is scene from before ben was demoted? there's no scar on his face and marcus seems to hang back more compared to his first episodes when he's their official leader and number one. alphonso has far less scarring and melted flesh as well, which in turn makes me wonder if his current appearance is the result of ben's fuck up which led to him being pushed down to number two? he does appear really cocky and ready to resort to no holds barred violence during the spar, not to mention the way he storms out in what is basically a temper tantrum after the match. i do wonder how come he ended up like this in the sparrow timeline, especially compared to his original iteration from the main timeline. a higher position on the feeding chain and more competetive environment coupled with less interpersonal bonds with his siblings im guessing?

bc like, speaking of parallels between the two families, while sparrows do appear more united as a front, it seems very much. not that personal except for maybe alphonso and jayme who seem to be hanging out together during most of their scenes. like coworkers you like a lot but not to the point where you love them? while the umbrellas are at each others throats more often than not but are really ride or die for each other when the push comes to shove. i have an inkling that the whole thing with ben wanting to avenge jayme and alphonso's death is more about his injured pride and getting to be the top dog again rather than genuine upset and grief. but hell, maybe i'm wrong! maybe we'll see more of it in s4.

also All Walls Fall by I_Logophile has altered my brain chemistry irreparably and i was mildly disappointed that christopher does not talk in a little kid voice and that we do not have any sort of explanation or backstory for him.

and Also going off reginald's attitude and how they immediately listened to him, this is before they started drugging him.

[tastelcsshaze]

“I was going to go inside but I overheard you and the superfriends having a special moment and I came over a bit queasy.” holden @ belle

@stillyouth // some meme from 3 blogs ago.

“charming.” belle says��with a short laugh, or perhaps it had been more of a puff of air out her nose. “that what we are? ‘superfriends’? you realize that’d include you, right? i mean you can’t read minds or shoot plants out your hands or do whatever it is marcus does, but you’re kinda super old. and being super old makes you a super-friend.”

[absurdthirst]

Heyyyyy!

As someone that's very appreciative of weed, I was wondering what it'd be like to get stoned with the Pedro boys?

🖤🖤🖤

Getting Stoned With Them:

Javier: Uhhhhhh, do you remember who he works for? That’s NOT going to happen. He’ll get shitfaced drunk with you, but he doesn’t even need to be around you when you do it. They drug test him at the fucking DRUG ENFORCEMENT AGENCY after all. 

Ezra: Getting high with Ezra is an experience. He mellows out and there is an even slower drawl to his voice. Talking about the meaning of life and how small you are in the grand scheme of the universe. Bits bars are consumed with uncharacteristic enthusiasm and Kevva, he starts talking about the foods he’s craving. Things he hasn’t eaten since he was a boy, rich and decadent. After he’s philosophical for a bit, he moves on to being handsy. Despite, or maybe because he is normally encased in a sealed suit, he wants to touch, to feel you. High sex with Ezra is out of this world, pun intended. He will pleasure you for hours, or maybe minutes but it seems like hours. 

Mando: No. The only way you are getting high with this tin can man is if he accidentally eats or inhales something laced. Mando is not in the habit of taking things that will make him lose control of his faculties. However, if he accidentally gets high???? This man is like a human teddy bear, uncharacteristically cuddly and talkative. Lord this man runs his mouth when he’s high. Mostly cute shit, but he can also get a little dark with some of his stories. Wants to plant his Beskar covered head right in your lap or curl around you while he does. 

Frankie: Relaxed and giggly. This is probably the most relaxed you’ve ever seen this man, even when he’s sleeping. Everything is funny and he’s laughed more than he has in months. The anxiety, the depression, the fucking weight on his shoulders feels lesser and he can just be free. There is some nasty ass Taco Bell in your future for sure and he MIGHT have eaten all the kids fruit snacks. Maybe. Possibly. 

Tovar: More sarcastic if that’s possible. More talkative and those barbs are on point. HANDSY. Lord his hands are all over you. He doesn’t know what he wants to do more, eat or fuck. Maybe he will just eat you. 😏 Or maybe he will gorge himself on food then spend the rest of the night fucking you. Gets the best nights sleep of his life. 

Agent Whiskey: Not going to happen. NEVER. And to be honest, if he knows you smoke weed, he’s out. He has too much baggage with drugs and as a result, has no tolerance for any kind of drug use. Even the wacky weed.

Max Phillips: Sorry sug, vamps can’t get high. HOWEVER...he can taste it in your blood. So you smoke up baby, Max will order you whatever munchies you want. Especially if he can taste you afterwards. 

Marcus Pike: Another one that won’t do it. He’s a Fed, baby. However, he won’t judge you for partaking. He knows that there’s bullshit bureaucratic reasons why they haven’t just federally legalized weed. It’s not like he never tried in when he was younger. This man will go and get you the food you are craving and just smile and laugh at you while you are stoned. Talking to you because it’s just so cute how you are when you are relaxed. 

Dave: Nope. Not because he disapproves of weed, but he doesn’t like to be out of it. He didn’t even like when he was having surgery and had to be put under sedation. This man is the definition of ‘I need to be in control at all times’ and weed will just cloud his instincts. He will however sit with you. But he does not inhale. 

Oberyn: ANGRY. Like yeah. He was fine for a bit, then someone mentioned a Lannister. Then it was fucking game on. This man will rant about those fucking golden lions and how they killed his sister and her babies. He’s not physically violent, but passionate, hatred seething from his pores. He needs to stick to wine to be honest. Leave the weed alone. Although, if someone hadn’t mentioned Tywin, you were definitely gonna fuck, so hate them for that. 

Max Lord: Honestly, it’s a fucking miracle to watch this showboating, pretentious man let loose. Not be putting on a show or trying to protect an image of who he wants to be. His natural accent is more noticeable and he starts rambling on about what he wants to do and WHY he wants to do it. Soaks up affection like a sea sponge and becomes a needy little ball of love. Will cry. 

Marcus Moreno: Wants to stock the kitchen will all kinds of his favorite goodies and just mellow the fuck out. Missy is out of the house, he’s not on Heroics call and he can just fucking get stoned and relax with you. He used to do this with his late wife and after her death he stopped. Will end up draped across your body snoring after a few amazing hours of just talking about nothing or giggling over past missions. It’s what he needed and to be honest, he’s looking forward to it happening again. 

Zach Wellison: If ever someone would need to get stoned it’s this man. That chip on his shoulder is gone, he’s not acting like you are doing him a favor by feeding him. He actually opens up a little faster. Deep shit too. What’s going on in his head and how he ended up on the streets. Also an affectionate little ball of cuteness. He’s giggled more between hits than he probably has in years. You learn about the man he is beyond his misfortune and it’s great to see. 

MasterList

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[cactiem]

coming back to you // m.b

Pairing: Marcus Baker x OC

Requested: Nope

Summary: How does Victoria Lexington know Marcus Baker?

GIF Not Mine

Everyone knows everything about everyone in Welsbury. That’s what is part of the charm. Deep in the roots of the picture-perfect town are secrets and lies, feeding its residents. Maybe that’s what brought Georgia to this quaint town. She was intrigued by the flawless front the town presented, a place where nothing could go wrong. It did go wrong though. One fateful summer afternoon, Caroline Lexington was found dead in her home leaving a giant hole in the Lexington home and one in the town she put all her a time and effort in to.

No one had heard from Victoria Lexington after her mom’s funeral. She just disappeared off the face of the planet without telling anyone. Her classmates just thought that she moved away or something after the traumatic year she had but the stares and whispers said otherwise. Her hair was straight, and lips painted a deep red, hips swinging as she walked down the hallway with everyone’s eyes on her. Nothing had changed. It was like the whole summer didn’t exist.

“Who’s that?” Ginny asked, intrigued by the presence Victoria had.

“That is Victoria Lexington.” Abby said as if it was obvious.

Seeing Ginny’s puzzled look, Max couldn’t help but laugh a little. “You’re so cute.” Ginny just gave her a deadpanned look before she continued. “Her family like owns this town and her mom died at the start of the summer so we’re all waiting for a breakdown to happen.”

Ginny looked at the brunette taking in her appearance as the rest of MANG fell into conversation. She didn’t look like she just lost her mom. Her red lips were pursed as she rummaged through her locker, aware of all the attention that was on her and loving every bit of it. Victoria was well put together. Ginny knew everyone handled loss in their own way, but something didn’t sit well with her, she just couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

There was one thing that was getting on Victoria’s nerves as she went through her first day back at school and that was everyone asking her if she was okay. Was she okay? She didn’t know. Nothing was ever black and white. There were many levels to being okay and right now Victoria was okay enough. That didn’t stop her from plastering on a fake smile and thanking everyone for their forced condolences as if they cared. They didn’t. The only person who really cared about her was Marcus and she fucked that up. He saw at her lowest and Victoria couldn’t allow that. After all Lexington’s don’t cry in front of people.

She heard her mom’s voice clear as day, feel her claws digging into her jaw as she gripped it forcing Victoria to look up at her mom. “If you cry at any inconvenience then you’ll never stop crying. Crying is a weakness and Lexington’s aren’t weak.” Deep breath in. “You’ve gotten fat. Please don’t make me alter this dress so close to the gala.” Deep breath out. “This is all your fault. He’s dead because of you.” Deep breath in. “You stupid ungrateful bitch!” Deep breath out.

“Hey, its okay.” Victoria heard Marcus’s familiar voice and felt his hands clasp hers to stop her from hurting herself any further. She opened her eyes to a concerned brown pair looking back at her. He cupped her cheek, wiping away the tears she didn’t even know fell. Victoria quickly brushed him off, stepping away from him and wiping away her own tears.

“I’m fine.” She said, her smile forced.

“Tori, you don’t have to lie to me. I won’t judge.” Marcus slowly walked back over to her, making sure it was okay.

“I know I should feel sad today but I-I don’t. Does that make me a bad person?”

“There’s no wrong or right way on how you should be feeling.” Marcus said and Victoria such collapsed into his arms, gripping his lapels of his jacket as she cried, letting everything out.

At least when she got home, Victoria could count on some sense of normalcy. Her dad in his office doing work leaving the house to herself. That’s at least what she was hoping when she walked through the big oak front doors. Instead, a woman’s laugh could be heard from the kitchen along with her dad’s. Victoria slowly walked into the room, observing what was happening. “Hey, sweetie.” Her dad greeted, happier than he has been in a while. “This is Georgia from the mayor’s office. She’s helping with the business.”

“You must be Ginny’s mom, right?” Victoria said after a moment, looking the blonde women over.

“I am. Are you two friends?” She asked, her smile growing even bigger and her southern drawl thick.

“Great friends.” The brunette returned the smile, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl on the island before going upstairs, a plan hatching in her head.

Looking in the mirror, Victoria finished touching up her hair, her hand knocking over her drink all over Ginny who had just come over to wash her hands. “I am so sorry!” She gasped, feigning shock. “Here let me help you.” She quickly grabbed paper towels to try and help Ginny even though her efforts were pointless knowing the top will stain.

“Thanks.” She mumbled taking the towels to try and salvage her top.

Victoria leaned against the side, looking over Ginny with a sly grin. “If I was you I’d keep my hands to yourself.” Ginny gave the girl an incredulous look as she made her way to the door. “Same goes for your mom.”

Ginny was speechless, standing alone in the bathroom. She couldn’t believe what had happened, well she could but still. Her friends told her not to retaliate knowing that Victoria will make her life a living hell. What they didn’t know though was that Ginny also had a mean sting in her and never pulls her punches. She was a woman on a mission and made a beeline for Victoria after the final bell rang. That was why her friends followed her and Marcus hung around to see what was going to go.

“Can I help you?” She asked, already bored of the conversation that hadn’t started yet.

“You owe me a new top.” Ginny simply said, her arms crossed to help seem more intimidating.

“I told you it was an accident.” Victoria said innocently.

“Oh, please, you and I both know you did this on purpose.” She scoffed. “Why did you this?”

“Because, as classy as ever your mom has already got her claws into a new man, a recently widowed one at that.”

“You mean your dad, right?” Ginny asked before continuing not waiting for an answer because she already knew. “Because let’s not forget why he is a widow in the first place. You killed her, right? Your mom?”

“Ginny.” Victoria heard Marcus warn her, but she held her hand up.

“No, I wanna hear what she has to say.” She clenched her jaw trying to hide the tears that were threatening to fall.

“You killed your mom because you had enough of all the shit she put you through since your brother’s death which, was also your fault.” The silence that had fallen onto the group was suffocating. Everyone was waiting to see Victoria’s reaction, expecting her to breakdown or something. She didn’t though, the many years of hiding her emotions coming handy.

“You’ve what, been here five minutes and you think you know everything? Well, you don’t so how about you keep that pretty mouth of yours shut and run along unless you want me to destroy you and everything your mom built.” Victoria warned, walking away from the stunned crowd.

Her chest rose and her eyes burned from the tears she was holding back. Victoria ended up in the nearest bathroom, not caring if it was the boy’s or not. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the sink hard, trying to calm herself down. “What Ginny said isn’t true, you know that, right?” Victoria should’ve known that Marcus would have followed her. She continued to ignore him, staring down at the floor. “Hey, look at me.” He said, gently lift her chin up so she could see him.

“Why are you being nice to me? I pushed you away, remember? I treated you like shit.” Victoria said.

“Because even though you did that I still find my way back to you just like you find your way back to me.” Marcus leaned down, his lips ghosting hers. The same electric feeling coming back from their first kiss.

A/N: if you have any requests for Marcus please send them in

Tag List: @mayaslifeinabox @princess-of-the-fandoms @live--aloud @les-bio-lie @ivvitm1109 @seninjakitey @dontdowhatisayandnobodygetshurt @genius2050 @tiannawashere

[supernaturalgirl20]

Catching Feelings

Pairings: Marcus Moreno x nanny!reader

Warnings: Smut +18, fluff, angst, mutual pining.

Summary: After your sex filled dream about your new boss, your about to meet his daughter. This isn’t going to be awkward at all, right?!

*As always comments and reblogs appreciated*

Chapter 2:

The evening arrived sooner than anticipated. As the car that Marcus had sent round for you pulled into the drive, you find yourself gaping at the beautiful rustic home. You get out of the car and make your way to the front door, your nervous, which isn't helped by the fact you had illicit thoughts about Marcus last night. Oh god! Those hands and the thought of them slipping between your legs. No! Focus. You ring the door bell. Your lost in thought when a voice startles you

"Oh thank god your here, come in quick. Can you cook?"

"Uh.....yeah I'm not bad at it. I make a mean chicken alfredo"!

"Fuck.....sorry sorry.....Missy I didn't just say that."

“Is everything ok?”I say looking towards the kitchen. Missy grabs me by the hand and pulls along. I’m greeted to the sight of pure chaos. Marcus is hunched over the sink, seemingly in defeat and I can’t help myself I let out a laugh. He turns around with lightening speed, his hand goes to scratch the back of his head. Something he must do when he’s nervous. I catch a tinge of pink on his face.

“He’s a disaster in the kitchen, seriously you should see what he does to eggs.” I turn to Missy

“Ok, here’s the plan. How about me and you clean up this mess and then you can help me cook something up?” Shrugging her shoulders she says “sure.”

“Uh.. I will just..”

I turn to Marcus “ you….will go relax and we will call when foods ready.”

“Are you sure, I feel bad.”

“Dad just go.”

Holding his hands up in defeat “ ok ok, I know where I’m not wanted.” With Marcus gone Missy turns to you “ok let’s get to it.”

***

With the kitchen clean you fish out the ingredients to do your chicken Alfredo, explaining each step to Missy as you go.

“Is it always this chaotic at dinner or was that just for my benefit you say with humour in your voice. Missy let’s out a snort.

“Oh no that’s pretty much how it around here. My mom. Used to do the coming and since she’s gone dad tries his best but… I don’t know. My abuela normally cooks.” You see she is getting sad talking about her mom so you change the subject.

“Ok looks ready, give your dad a shout”

You all sat together around the table. “This is delicious, you are amazing.”

“Oh …thank you”

“Missy is right, this is the best meal I’ve had in a long time, really thank you. Also maybe don’t tell my mom I just said that.” You laugh at the fact that this grown man, and a heroic no less is still afraid of mom. Catching his eyes, his gaze is searing into you, you look away quickly trying to distract yourself . Standing you go to clear the table but are stopped with a hand on your wrist. Looking up you meet those warm brown eyes again. “No, you’ve done more than enough tonight. Leave all the cleaning to me and Missy.You can go sit in my study and I’ll bring you a glass of wine. Oh it’s just down the end of the hall.”

“Um… ok thank you.” Once you arrive into his study you can’t help but notice all the pictures he has. One in particular catches your eye. It’s one of Marcus kissing his wife the day Missy was born.

“I love that picture.” You jump slightly having not expected him to be there. “ I’m sorry I wasn’t snooping I just..”

“It’s ok, if your going to be living here you should know about our family.” You look up at him surprised “does that mean I got the job?”

“You we’re amazing tonight” he says moving closer, so close you can feel the warmth coming off his body. “Plus you have the Missy deal of approval, which really is the most important thing.” It’s as if she knew her name has been mentioned. She came bustling down the stairs all kitted out for bed. She comes up to you and without eating wraps you in a hug.

“I’m so happy your going to be living here with us, and thank you again for the nice food.” With that she ran back up the stairs to bed. Marcus gestures for you to sit.

“You have a beautiful home” you say looking around the room.

“It is…beautiful.” Clearing his throat he takes a seat beside you, leaving a comfortable amount of space between you. Your not sure if your relieved or disappointed. You make conversation by asking him about his wife. He takes a sip of wine before he speaks.

“It’s been four years since she passed. It was a car accident, drunk driver, she died instantly. He suddenly go quiet and stares at the floor like it’s the most fascinating thing. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned her.” “It’s ok, it’s only fair you know these things. Enough about me, tell me what makes you thick?”

“Me, oh gosh. I suppose family really. It’s why I jumped at this opportunity, I love children. It’s probably why I want a big family of my own one day.” He’s looking at you that way again. There’s something behind his eyes, you think it’s admiration.

“ I feel the exact same way. Everything that I do, it’s for Missy. Nothing else matters.”

“She’s a wonderful kid, you should be really proud.”

“Thank you.” Your suddenly aware that you both have somehow moved closer and your breath catches when you look into those brown eyes. A bolt of confidence course through you and you lean towards him. Marcus mimics your actions. As you inch closer you close your eyes. He whispers your name and you can’t tell if it’s a promise or a warning. Your still dreaming when he spills his wine all over you. “I’m so sorry here let me get something to dry that up” he’s says as he leaves the rooms be arrives back with a towel, and a change of clothes. “ I’m afraid this is all I have.” You look down to the clothes he has and notice there his own, a t shirt.

“No, thank you these are perfect.” With that he leaves you to change while he goes and refills the wine. When he walks back in he almost drops the glasses. His eyes rake over your body and he feels himself getting hard his thick cock straining in his pants. Seeing you there in his clothes is doing things to him. It’s making him almost feral. He wants to posses you. He is brought out of his thought when you move to take the glass from him.

***

You spend hours chatting getting to know each other when you look at his clock. “Oh god, I better go, I didn’t realise the time”. You go to stand.

“You can stay, I mean here, in the spare room, if you want?” Thinking it over for just a moment “that would be great actually.”

“Ok I can show you where to go.” As you enter the room you see a large king size bed, and the images from your dream flood your mind.

“I want you to ride me baby.”

“Y/N?”

“Sorry did you say something?” “ I said you can start moving your stuff in whenever you like.”

“Brilliant.”

Your unconsciously biting your lip and when you meet his gaze you notice his eyes are fixed on your mouth. You run your tongue along the bottom lip,knowing he is watching you. He clears his throat “ok uh…I guess I’ll let you get settled for the night”. He makes to leave when you say

“You could stay here too!” He stops suddenly turning to look at you. You can’t tell what he’s thinking. Afraid you have ruined everything you say “I’m so sorry, forget I said anything, thank you again…” Your rambling is cut short as his presses his lips to your hungrily. His hands trace the curve of your body, slipping under your top to grab your breast. You let out a moan. Suddenly he pulls away and rests his head to yours. “Are you sure you want this, I won’t be able to stop once we start.” “I’ve thought of nothing else since we met yesterday. Please Marcus, I need you to fuck me.”

He wastes no time and pushes you onto the bed removing the sweatpants he lent you earlier along with the t-shirt. Your laying on the bed in nothing but your underwear and he can’t take his eyes off you. “Your gorgeous.” “Marcus you have too many clothes on” you say with a slight pout. Stripping himself so he is completely bare before you,you gulp as you take in his thick cock. Will that even fit! He crawls on top of you and you moan when his obvious desire for your comes in contact with your core. You rock against him. He rolls onto his back pulling you with him so you are now straddling him. His hands run up and down your spine sending sparks of electricity through you. He moves to unclasp your bra “you won’t be needing this anymore.” Your nipples grow hard as they meet the cool air and you let out a gasp as he runs his tongue over its peak. Your growing inpatient now so you quickly remove your thong and line him up at your entrance. Slowly you sink down on him and his head pushes back into the pillow as he groans in pleasure. “Jesus, your so fucking tight.” You pick up your pace as you ride him letting out a loud moan. He puts a hand over your mouth “you gotta be…quiet…don’t….want…Missy..to…hear us” He look down to where your joined watching as his cock moves in and out of you “this pussy was made for me, isn’t that right baby?” Your unable to speak as your body is thrown into ecstasy. Without warning he flips you over and begins pounding into. He can feel his balls tighten as he nears his release. “Where…do ..you want..me?” “Inside, I’m clean and on the pill.” With that he fills you up, you can feel his release dripping out of you. He moves off you and makes his way into the bathroom. Arriving back with a cloth to clean you up. He gets back into bed beside you and wraps his arm around your waist. “That is not how I pictured tonight going at all.” You laugh “me either.” “You should get some sleep” he says and you feel your eyes getting heavy as you give in to the tiredness.

The next morning you wake to sunlight shining on your face. As you turn over you realise your alone. You put your hand on the side Marcus was and it’s cold, meaning he’s gone a while. You flop back onto the bed and put your hand on your forehead. Oh god what have I done.

Previous/next

Tagging:

@lunaserenade , @asta-lily , @maievdenoir , @librariantothejedi , @seasonschange-butpeopledont , @elinedjarin , @day-off-inkyoto @toomanystoriessolittletime

If you want to be added or removed please let me know.

[viking-raider]

The Belle and the Bane - Chapter I

Summary: Your simple life is disrupted, when the Bane raises the taxes of Mintwillow, yet again. Forcing your father to do something desperate to save you both.

Pairing: Henry Cavill/You

Word Count: 5,667

Rating: G - Fantasy!AU, Bane!Henry, Language, Loneliness

Inspiration: This is my oddball take on the Beauty and the Beast.

Author’s Note: Thanks to @wondersofdreaming​ for helping me out with this! Tell me what you think!

You woke early the next morning, figuring your patient hadn't gotten any worse or died, since you weren't woken up in the dead of night to rush out to her hut. The birds were singing outside your window, the rising sun pushing back the darkness of the night and the fog from the village, filling every corner of it with beautiful light. You hummed happily as you got dressed and went downstairs for breakfast, you could hear the steady and rhythmic clang of your father's hammer pounding and working some piece of metal into impossible shapes.

“Morning, dove!” He called out.

His forge was an open lean-to attached to one side of the house, a doorway giving him access to both. He always left the door open, it had become a habit between him and your mother, so they could talk to each other over the clang of his work and the quiet of hers, keeping them connected throughout their day, since they were almost always in close proximity. It also worked out, when you were younger and your mother had to run off and tend to someone. He would either sit you on the hearth rug with some of your toys, going back to his work and keeping an eye on you through the door, or he would set you down on a workbench in his area, so you could watch, and be safely out of his way. You always loved when he did that, you loved watching him shape things, making whatever his customers ordered.

“Morning, Papa!” You called back with a smile.

In more than one way, you had put on your mother's shoes, both of you would talk through the open forge door as you went about your day, making herbal packets and other things you needed, while he worked at his anvil.

“What's on the fire today?” You asked, getting the stove going and started breakfast.

“One of the boys in the village is proposing to his gal, so he's asked me to make her a ring.” Your father replied, bending over his work.

Apart from being a blacksmith, your father also dabbled in metalsmithing, since the village metalsmith had moved away almost a year ago, to hard hit to live in Mintwillow any longer.

“Jeremiah or Marcus?” You asked, frowning at the cooking food as it sizzled in the pan, the village was too small and gossip moved faster than the wind.

“Travis and Daisy.” Your father replied, changing tools.

“What?” You snapped, surprised. “I thought they broke up a month ago?”

“Love!” He laughed, shaking his head.

“Hormones!” You huffed back, chuckling.

“That too!”

“Come, eat!” You said, plating up breakfast and setting it down on the breakfast table, then taking a seat yourself.

“Smells amazing, as always.” He smiled at you, taking a seat beside you and took up his fork and knife.

“Thanks.” You smiled back at him, digging into your own plate.

A little while later, you were sitting at your table, making a parcel of herbs for one of your regular patients with a chronic illness, when you heard the clang of your father's hammer go quiet. You paused for a moment, worried that he'd pushed himself too hard and had one of his dizzy spells again. But, a second later, you heard his voice out the front window, he was in the front yard of the house, speaking to someone else. Getting up, you looked out the window and saw your father talking to a tall male, both looked stiff and angry, the strange man's face was nearly purple, he was so angry. Concerned, you went out and stood on the porch, crossing your arms over your chest and listened to them argue.

“You can't do this!” You father barked, hand clenched around the heavy hammer he was still holding. “Your master has already raised the taxes on my goods, two months ago! I'm barely breaking even with that. If he raises it again, I won't make anything!”

“Mr. Cavill can do whatever he wants with the goods his company supplies you. I was just sent here by his butler to tell you the information.” The man gruffed back, scowling at your father. “So, you can either give him everything in your possession to pay his taxes, or you can find someone else to supply you your trade goods.” He started coldly, then turned on his heels and marched away.

Your father's shoulders tensed up before thrusting his hammer into the dirt and storming away, only to come back a moment later to retrieve his hammer, then returned to his forge. You frowned after the now gone man, before walking around the house to your father's forge, finding him sitting down on a small stool beside his raging forge, hammer between his feet and his face in his hands.

It was a rare sight, to see him so dejected and beaten down.

“So, the Bane raised the taxes again?” You asked, softly.

“Nearly double since the last time.” He replied, not looking up or taking his hands from his face. “I don't know how I'll make this work.” He mumbled to himself. “I can't raise my prices, it's almost more than the villagers can afford now, with him taxing them as well.” He sighed, scrubbing his calloused hands over his tired and sunken face. “We'll either end up destitute or end up like Sheamus, the metalsmith, and move away.”

“You promised mum you'd never move away from her grave.” You said quietly, biting your lip, and feeling a hot knot in your stomach.

“I know I did, girl. I know I did.” He sighed again, sitting up and letting you see his pained expression, the glitter of unshed tears in his eyes. “I don't know what else to do.” He said softly and stood. “I'm a bit tired, Dove. I think I'll take myself a long nap.” He slowly moved into the house.

“Do you want me to make you a cup of your tea first?” You asked, following after him, concerned and worried.

“Maybe later.” He sighed, going into his room and quietly closing the room.

You stood there, at a loss from the situation, you were even more helpless in the situation. You couldn't make your patients pay anymore than your father could his customers. Sighing, you went back to your herbs, needing something to distract your mind from the grim situation. Glancing out the window, and even though you couldn't see it from this side of the house, you cursed the Bane and his evil presence in your life, in the lives of Mintwillow.

A little while later, your father came out of his room, carrying his jacket in one hand and a sealed letter in the other. You turned in your chair to face him, frowning and shaking your head at him. It was quite rare that your father went out anywhere, anything that needed to be done elsewhere, usually fell to you, while any of your father's business came to him.

“Where are you going?” You asked him as he made for the door.

“Out.” He replied, in a rather short tone. “I need to take this letter out.”

“Surely, I can do that.” You told him, shaking your head and getting out of your chair, hand held out for the letter.

“No, I'll take it out.” He shook his head back at you. “Hopefully, the walk will clear up some of my melancholy.” He told you, then went out the door.

You watched him go, troubled and worried he would do something dangerous to himself, with the state he was in.

“Sir?”

“What is it, Damien?” His master snapped from behind his massive desk, cluttered with papers of all kinds.

“You have a letter, sir.” Damien replied, unbothered by his master's perpetual sour mood.

“Put it with the other, Damien.” He huffed, rolling his eyes at the report in his hand.

“It's been labeled urgent, Sir.” Damien answered, stepping up to his desk and holding it out to him.

Rolling his eyes again, his master took the letter from his hand and opened it, skimming through it once, before actually reading it; his brows slowly lifting as he did. “This man can't possibly be serious!” He barked, reading the letter again to be sure he wasn't misreading it. “Fucking Christ, he is!” He huffed, holding the letter out to Damien.

“Who does he think I am?”

Damien read through the letter. “Perhaps, it's all he has, Sir.” He replied, finishing the letter.

“Perhaps!” He roared, huffing. “But, that isn't the type of collateral or possession I can do anything with! I'm not in the business of trafficking! Tell him no! Either useful possessions or he can go elsewhere.”

The butler frowned at the letter, his brain brewing. “Of course, Sir.” He bowed and showed himself out of his master's office, returning to the man standing in the enormous foyer. “Call back here in a week's time.” He told him, his shoulders square as he surveyed the downtrodden man.

“Thank you, sir. Thank you.” The man rambling, bowing over and over again. “Thank you.”

Damien opened the door for him, the man still thanking him as he went out the door. The butler knew his master was going to be furious that he'd taken it upon himself to reverse his choice to reject the man's offer, but hoped that, perhaps, it would brighten his master's life and the dark and oppressive castle. If it didn't, both he and the man's offer would likely be tossed out the door, if not off the nearby cliffs.

Your father came back two hours later, he looked both relieved and increasingly more troubled. He wouldn't talk to you about where he had gone or what the letter was about.

“What's done has been done. It can't be undone now, no matter how much I wish it wasn't to be.” Was all he would say to you.

Then, returned to his room.

“Dove.” Your father called up to your room.

You groaned and rolled towards the window, it was barely light out, and it was odd that your father was waking you up. Figuring you had a sudden patient, you got out of bed and quickly dressed, rushing down the stairs.

“What is it?” You asked, eyes looking around for your possible patient.

But, your father looked you over. “Why don't you go change.” he said, biting his lip. “Put your best dress on and fix your hair.”

“Why?” You frowned at him, not understanding.

“Please, Dove.” He begged you, softly.

A deep suspicion filled you, but you slowly turned and went back upstairs, doing as your father bid. He smiled at you as you came back down, but there was a poorly guarded sadness in his brown eyes. You tried asking him more questions as you followed him outside, but he was silent, his lips clamped into a thin line that went with the growing sadness in his eyes; it worried you to no end. You both trudged through the village, your father giving fellow villagers a short nod as they greeted each other as you passed them by. After a ten minute walk, your father took a sharp turn, heading out of the village and up the nearby road, the steep drop off of the cliffs to one side and a thin lining of willow trees that divided the town from the road and cliffs on the other side.

You both kept walking, you trailing slightly behind your father, your heart pounding and stomach twisting in hot and sharp knots of nausea, until you couldn't take it anymore, and you grabbed the back of his elbow, pulling him to a stop; which took an effort on your part, even though your father was weakened from the illness, he still had the thick and muscular body of a lifelong blacksmith.

“Papa, tell me what's going on?” You begged him, looking up at him with pleading eyes. “Where are we going? And, why?” You demanded, a hard lump forming in your throat as you saw just how sad and broken he really was.

“Please.”

“I promised your mother,” He paused, the emotion of mentioning your mother and the situation sticking in his throat. “I promised your mother, that I would take care of you. No matter what I had to do to make it so.” He told you, lifting his hand to your cheek, his fingers cold from the blustery winds whipping off the choppy ocean.

“What's that supposed to mean?” You frowned at him, gripping the sleeves of his coat.

“You'll find out soon enough.” He replied, pressed a kiss to your forehead. “No need worrying about it, just yet.” He added, turning away from you and continued on.

“But, I'm worrying about it now.” You replied to his back, the sound of your voice getting lost in the roar of the waves.

Sighing, you started following your father again, even more worried and concerned over what was going on. Did he arrange a marriage for you and was too worried about telling you about it, so he was just taking you to the parish church to spring it on you. Or was he planning something else entirely. You weren't sure which one worried you more, but your anxiety boosted, when your father took another turn and started up a steep road through a massive thicket of trees. You had lived in the area all of your life, so you knew what lived in this direction, and you weren't at all happy with it.

“The Bane!”

You barked at your father's back. “Why are we going to see the Bane!? What does that selfish and greedy bastard have to do with your promise to Mum?!” You demanded, stopping in the middle of the road, and refusing to go any further until he answered your questions.

His shoulders slumping, your father rubbed his face with both hands and turned around to face you. “He's agreed to see you.”

“For what?!” You growled, hands clenching.

“We'll find out when we get there.” He replied, chewing his bottom lip to bits. “So, come along, we don't want to be late.”

“I don't care if we're late!” You hissed at him. “He does nothing but hole himself up in that giant castle with all his riches, while we starve down in the village! He can wait on us for a change.” You argued, but still angrily followed. “I can't believe you're entertaining any of this! Of all the choices you could have made to keep your promise. You could have just married me off to someone in the village.”

“All the boys in the village are either betrothed or already married.” Your father sighed, shaking his head, and feeling his heart fall deeper into his boots.

He had considered that.

You were fuming by the time you both reached the Bane's door. Your father rang the doorbell, waiting for the butler to answer, and after a couple of minutes, the door opened with a loud creak. Damien lifted a brow at your father in silent acknowledgment, then looked over at you, his eyes scanning you, head to toe. It wasn't until he settled on your face that some kind of emotion showed from him, and he looked rather pleased at the sight of you, which only made you even more anxious and annoyed at the whole situation.

“This is my daughter.” Your father said, giving Damien your name and tried smiling at you proudly, but the smile itself didn't happen as well as the pride he did have in you.

“She's exceptionally beautiful.” Damien commented back. “I am sure my Master would love to have her company.” He added, with a nod of his head, like he was sure of it.

“Oh, I don't think so.” You shook your head and started to walk away.

“Come now, Dove.” Your father said, stopping you and bringing you back to the door. “He didn't mean it that way.” He told you, giving the butler a dark look.

“Of course not.” Damien replied, with a polite bow of his head. “Pardon, my unintended meaning, Ms.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Pardon given.” You said, softly, pressing your sweaty and shaking hands to your sides.

Nodding his head at you again, Damien stepped aside and motioned you inside. “I'll show you up to your room, I've made it ready for you.”

“Wait, what about my clothes?” You asked, looking at your father, confused. “This is all I have with me.”

“Worry not, Ms.” Damien told you, easily. “Clothing will be provided for you.” He assured some of your anxiety away.

“You'll be fine, Dove.” Your father smiled, giving you a strong hug. “Come and visit, when you can.” He told you, cupping your face in his hands. “And do mind your manners, for your mother and I.” He added, giving you a stern look.

“I'll try, but no promises.” You replied, rolling your eyes, hugely unhappy with him leaving you here with the Bane.

Sighing, you stepped inside the castle, shivering as the door closed with a slam and the cold air of the castle wrapped around you. You looked around the dim foyer, only a few lights were burning, just enough to see where you were going without bumping into any of the covered, but expensive, furnishings. Damien led you up the huge spiral staircase, going up several floors until he led you down the hall and to a room that was nearly the size of your father's house in the village. There was a fire already burning in the room, the heavy curtains were tied by from the three windows and the double French doors, that open out onto a private balcony. The gigantic four poster bed had its curtains pulled back and tied to its posts as well; the blankets were pulled down and the pillows fluffed. There were three other doorways as well.

It was like nothing you had ever seen before.

“If you give me your size,” Damien said, dropping a few more logs into your fireplace. “I will have a wardrobe put together for you.” He told you, offering you a friendly smile.

“Of course.” You replied, peeking out the windows. “Where's the Bane?” You asked, turning to him.

“Mr. Cavill,” He answered, with a soft sigh, he had always hated that people referred to his master as 'The Bane'.

If only they knew him, as I do. He thought for a moment.

“Is in his private chambers.” He explained to you. “I'm sure you'll be meeting him some time soon.” He added. “For now, I'll go down and fetch you some lunch.”

You gave Damien your size before he left you alone in the room. Biting your lip, you went to the double doors and stepped out onto the balcony, you were on the side of the house that faced away from the village, only seeing the two or three huts at the far end, everything else was trees, cliffs and ocean, which was so much louder, now that you were so close to the cliff's edge. It had been less than an hour, and you were already homesick, unable to stop the tears that dripped down your cheeks, but quickly wiped them away as Damien knocked on your door and came in, carrying a delicious smelling tray of food for your lunch, setting it on a table by one of the windows, then poured you a steaming cup of tea.

“Thank you.” You smiled at him, taking up the tea. “So, why doesn't the B--” You cleared your throat. “Mr. Cavill, come out of this place?” You asked him, sitting down. “No one's seen him in years. Some don't even believe he's still alive.”

“Oh, he is very much still alive.” Damien laughed, shaking his head with amusement. “And more than well. But, Mr. Cavill prefers a calm and quiet life, here in the castle. The world out there holds nothing for him.” He explained to you.

“Other than taxing people out of food, homes and livelihoods.” You snorted, with a roll of your eyes. “and sometimes, their lives themselves.” You added, your eyes darkening as you recalled all the bodies of the Villagers being washed away by the waves crashing against the cliff sides.

“When the mood befouls him, he does do some rather rash and cruel things.” Damien replied, his face darkening. “But, he's really not as awful as the villagers make him out to be.” He defended his master.

“If you say so.” You retorted, taking another sip of your tea.

“I do.” He answered, lifting a brow at you. “I've known him since he was born. So, between the two of us, I believe I am the better judge of his character.” He told you, with a sharp edge in his voice.

A bell sounded somewhere in the vastness of the castle, cutting off your and Damien's conversation.

“If you need anything, just pull the rope. I'll bring you your dinner when it is ready.” He said, pointing to the rope, then rushed out of the room and to his master's room, elsewhere.

You listened to the echo of his shoes fade away the further he got from your room, and sighed, before finishing your lunch. Once your food was gone, you stood and opened one of the three other doors, finding it was a large bathroom, then moved to the next and found it was a huge, and empty, walk-in closet. The third door, to your surprise, led into a massive library, the shelves lined with dusty and cobwebbed books, the reading sofas had white sheets draped over them. It had a huge bay window, the two side panels of the filthy window were stained glass, the Cavill family emblem and coat of arms were in the center of them, throwing reds, blues and greens onto the big rug.

Stepping into the room, you touched the spines of the books lining the tall and deep shelves, leaving fingerprints in the dust as you did; reading their names. The air in the library was musty from being closed up for so long, but still held one of your favorite scents, the smell of books. You loved how books smelled. No one book smelled the same, like their one of a kind stories between their sheltering covers gave them a unique scent all of their own. The scent of their adventures, heartbreaks, triumphs and laughs, like how people had their own special scent. A couple of the books were in languages you didn't understand, some were so thick and heavy, you had to hold them with both hands.

But, many of them you hadn't read, or even heard of.

You pulled another book off the shelf, whose title interested you, flipping open the stiff cover, the spine crackling as you did. Flipping to the first page, you started reading from it, slowly pacing the room as you did and getting lost inside of it, forgetting for several hours, that you were no longer in your own home, until your ears realized how quiet it was, there was no clang from your father's hammer meeting the anvil. It all came rushing back to you, as you looked up, blinking your dust irritated eyes as you glanced around the room, and a massive lump formed in your throat and chest. You took a shuddering breath, tears brimming in your eyes as you tried to hold back your steep loneliness and the growing weight of being homesick.

“It hasn't been a day, and I already feel like I'm dying.” You choked out loud to yourself. “How can he stand living here, with only a butler.”

“Chess.” Damien's voice retorted, startling you so badly, the book fell out of your hands with a thud. “My apologies.” He said, clearing his throat. “I've brought you your dinner.” He told you, motioning back into your room.

“Thank you.” You said, your voice no more than a squeak around the lump still there. “But,” You cleared your throat. “I'm not hungry, just now.” You told him, bending down to pick up the book.

“Of course.” He nodded, sympathetically. “It'll be there, when you do. Is there anything I can do for you?” He asked, blinking at you.

“No, thank you.” You shook your head, biting hard into your cheek to keep your emotions at bay.

Nodding again, Damien bowed to you and disappeared again. Sighing, you tried picking back up at your place in the book, but couldn't get past the first sentence, so you pulled a ribbon from your hair and used it to mark your place in the book and carried it back into your room. Setting it on one of the bed's nightstands, you rounded the bed to the tray of food on your table, your lunch tray cleared away. It smelled even more fabulous than your lunch had, but you just refilled your teacup and went into the bathroom, setting it on the sink counter and turned towards the large, claw-foot soaking tub. You plugged the drain and spun open the hot tap, humming as it came out, instantly steaming, not having to warm up buckets of water by the hearth was amazing.

“That's a nice perk.” You said, slipping out of your clothing.

Taking up your teacup, you stepped into the full and hot tub of water, with a deep and satisfied moan. You stayed in the tub, washing yourself with the expensive soap and washcloth, sipping your tea, until the water was almost ice cold, then finally got out again. Drying off, you found a silk bathrobe hanging on the back of the bathroom door and pulled it on, before padding back into your room and sitting down at the table, nibbling at your dinner. With a little bit of something on your stomach, you turned out the lights, tossed several more logs on the fire, so it would burn through the night, and crawled into bed.

Picking up your book, you read it by the flickering light of the fire, until your eyes grew heavy and you fell asleep.

You woke several hours later, in a sweaty panic, your heart thundering in your chest, like the waves battering the cliff side outside your window. It took you several long minutes to calm down and remember where you were and why. Resting back on your pillows and headboard, you closed your eyes and focused on the roar of the waves, trying to relax yourself enough to fall back to sleep, but had no luck. So, getting out of bed, you slipped on your shift and robe, before tiptoeing up to the door, pressing your ear to the cool wood to listen for any movement in the hallway. Hearing nothing, you cracked open your door and stepped out into the hall, it was dark, for obvious reasons, but you didn't let it deter you as you moved down to the stairs. The whole castle, other than your room, seemed to be as cold as a grave, it felt like one as well.

You stopped on one of the floors, and snooped around it, before turning back towards the stairs, not noticing a door behind you open and a body stepping out into the hall. A shadow followed quietly behind you, as you moved down the stairs again, to the main floor, peaking around the foyer and the open door of a study, only then, sensing the presence behind you.

“Who are you?” The shadow asked in a deep voice.

A shiver racing down your back, knowing it wasn't the soft voice of Damien, that had asked. You froze in place, realizing that the Bane was behind you, who else could it be? Surely, a would-be thief wouldn't ask who you were, giving away their own presence in the house, where you could likely scream, waking the house and get him caught in his act.

“I asked you a question.” His deep voice growled, making you gulp.

Your shoulders stiffened as you managed to mumble out your name, too afraid to turn around to face him.

“What are you doing here?” He asked, sounding no less aggravated at your presence.

You blinked several times, brow creasing with your confusion, you were about to answer him, when a rush of steps came into the room and Damien appeared behind his master, holding a light in his hand.

“Sir.” He blurted out, out of breath and panting.

“Who is this girl, Damien?” Cavill asked, turning towards his startled butler. “Why is she here?” He demanded, jaw clenched.

“She's uh..” Damien licked his lips and glanced at you as you turned around. “She's that girl, sir.” He gulped, thickly.

“This..” Cavill started to say, pointing a finger at you as he turned back to look at you, both of your eyes locking together.

Your mouth almost dropped open seeing his face.

No one had actually seen the Bane in years, especially in the village, they weren't good enough for the rich likes of his family and their station in the world. You had pictured a,—well you never really pictured him as anything. But, so many people described him as an evil and twisted bastard, who was probably uglier than the devil himself. However, the Bane was anything, but ugly. He was incredibly, and surprisingly, handsome. He couldn't be more than thirty-five, from light that Damien held, that danced in his dark curls and lit up his cerulean blue eyes, throwing lines on his face, that made the frown he was wearing, look more like a smile; which also made him look even more handsome and dashing, in his night clothes.

Damien looked between the two of you with a lifted brow, watching the both of you stare at each other, taking in and sizing the other up, before Cavill cleared his throat.

“This is the girl?” Cavill finally said, his eyes not leaving yours. “From the letter?” He frowned, finally looking away from you, and back to Damien.

“It is, sir.” He nodded at his master, a teeny ping of hope appearing in his stomach.

“Well.” Cavill cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair, seemingly flustered.

Perhaps, he isn't as horrid as everyone thinks. You thought, staring and blinking at him.

But, you had thought too soon, it seems.

“Then, why the hell is she wandering around the castle in the middle of the night!” He growled, angrily at Damien.

“I couldn't sleep.” You squeaked, startled.

His head snapped to you, like he was going to yell at you too, but his lip only twitched before he looked back at Damien. “I don't want her wandering around at night.” He hissed at the butler.

“Deal with her and send her back to the room, you surely, have made up for her.” He barked, rubbing at his temples.

“Of course, sir.” Damien nodded, looking highly concerned for his master. “I'll do that right away, sir. Can I get you anything, while I'm at it?” He asked, biting his lip.

“No.” Cavill huffed, then looked at you, his eyes had darkened to a stormy blue, but his tense shoulders relaxed the teeniest bit. “Good night.” He half whispered, half growled at you, before storming off, back to his own bedroom.

“Come, let's get you some warm milk.” Damien said, smiling at you, gently. “It might help.” He said, turning and heading towards the kitchen.

“I'm sorry, if I've gotten you into any trouble.” You told him, watching as he warmed the milk. “I didn't mean too, or to disturb anyone either. I just couldn't sleep.”

“Oh, it's all right.” He waved it off and shook his head. “You just surprised him, is all. I hadn't found the opportunity to tell him you were here. I meant to tell him during breakfast, tomorrow. But..” He chuckled, shaking his head, very amused by the whole situation.

“I surprised him?” You chuckled back, grinning at the thought you could startling someone the size of the Bane, he was easily over six foot, his body thick with well defined muscles, that you could see, even under his night clothes.

“Seems a bit far fetched.”

“It's not hard.” Damien told you, pouring the warmed milk into a glass for you. “Henry is honestly a very tender soul, under all that muscle and growling. But, life hasn't been easy for him, after losing everyone in his family to that illness several years back. Being thrust suddenly into the man of the house and the head of the family business, and so many other things, has taken its toll on him.” He explained as he escorted you back up to your room.

“Give him a chance.” He said, stopping at your door. “You two will warm up to each other in no time, and you'll see who he really is, deep down.”

“Well, you are the best judge of that, aren't you?” You replied, quoting him from earlier.

Damien laughed, looking down at his socked feet. “That I am. Good night, Ms.” He bid you with a bow of his head.

“Good night, Damien.”

[volturicangetit]

F.V- One soul, two bodies

Summary: You come to Italy with Bella to save Edward. You didn’t expect to meet your mate there, though.

Reqeust: YES/no @bugmanor ( I can’t tag you :( idk why ) : Would you be able to do something with Felix Volturi and the prompts 10 and 11? Maybe the reader is Bella’s human sister and comes with her to save Edward, where she meets Felix, who realises she’s his mate? Thank you :))))

10. “Fuck me” “I might”

11. “I am one second away from losing my fucking shit”

Warnings: cussing

Wordcount: 2604

Sometimes, you thought that you're sister got the brains in the family. You could never compare to her grades and complex subjects seemed like child's play to her. But in moments like these, you knew that she got one, single brain cell. Edward had left Bella since it was too 'dangerous' for her to be around the Cullens. You were sure that she would be in more danger since it's a known fact under the Cullen's enemies that Bella and you know about their vampirism. And now Edward isn't here to keep Bella's impulsive self in check. But you kept your mouth shut since you knew better than to piss off a vampire. You'd rather not have a pair of fangs in your neck. You were there for Bella to pick her up and put her back together after Edward broke her. For months, you heard her painful cries and calmed her down after a nightmare. So when you heard that Edward wanted to expose himself because he thought that Bella was dead, you were pissed. You were even more pissed when Bella asked you to go to Italy with her to save him, but you complied.

So there you find yourself, running after your hysteric sister through a thick crowd in Italy. If a large number of red cloaks around you wasn't making you dizzy, it would be because the sun burning above you. Sun was new to you. In Forks, there was a collective ten days of sun a year, max. "Bella! Wait," you call after her in between heavy pants. You are close in her tail as you both run towards an open door, where Edward is lurking in the shadows. The loud clanging of the curch's bells egos through the square. Kind of ironic for there to be a church next to a castle full of vampires. Bella jumps over the small stone wall around the fountain and runs through it. You groan before following her through the water. You jump out of it on the other side, feeling the water squishing in your now soaked shoes. Bella jumps onto Edward and pulls him back right at the last second, saving him from public exposure. They both stumble back into the castle as Edward wraps his arms around Bella. You follow them into the castle and quickly close the door behind you, sealing Edward away from the sunlight. You can hear Edward and Bella exchanging some emotional words but you don't listen to them, more occupied with catching your breath. You lean against the cool wall with your back as you let your head fall back against it. The stone feels like ice cubes against your burning skin but in a good way. You are too caught up in calming yourself down that you don't notice the two men entering the hallway until Edward starts to talk to them. "I won't be needing your services after all, gentleman," Edward cool voice says.

You look up at the two men. One has slightly curly hair and is holding one hand behind his back while the other removes a cape, that they both are wearing, from his head. The other is terrifyingly tall. From his red eyes that keep staring at you to the muscles protruding from under his skin, everything about his screams danger. Yet something in you feels the need to run up to his and hug him. You quickly shake that feeling of you thought, because you're sure that he would rip you in half if you did that. "Aro wants to speak with you again," the tall man says without taking his eyes off you. Edward quickly looks at Bella before looking back at the men. "No rules were broken," Edward huffs.

"None the less, we should take this conversation to a more appropriate venue," the smaller man says. He has a slight accent, one that the taller man doesn't have. The giant finally takes his eyes off you and now looks at Edward and Bella who are clinging onto each other for dear life. You push yourself off the wall to stand up straight, whipping some of the dust of the back of your pants. "Fine," Edward says.

"Bella and Y/n, why don't you go enjoy the rest of the festival," he states. Bella looks at you with big eyes. You nod, walking towards Bella and grabbing ahold of her hand. "They come with us," the giant says darkly. His tone sends shivers down your spine and not the good ones. Edward shakes his head, pulling Bella back with him and accidentally pushing you of her. You stand there awkwardly. "No, you can go to hell,". You have to hold in a giggle. O, he'll go to hell alright.

As if on cue, Alice pushing open a door, breaking the lock while doing so. She takes her big sunglasses off. You recognize the pair, you bought them for her as a "thanks-for-putting-up-with-Bella's-ass-for-a-month" gift. She hasn't taken them off since. Her hands go of the rip the bright red shawl of her hair. "Come on guys," she says as she makes her way over to you. "It's a festival. You wouldn't want to make a scene.". The tall man glares daggers at her. You can almost feel his hatred towards the Cullens. "We wouldn't," he says through clenched teeth.

From behind him, you can see a small figure walking towards you. A pile of blond hair forms a bun at the back of her head, a bit of it sticking up and being visible from the front. She's wearing the same cloak as the two men are, just a smaller one. "Enough," she says coldly as she pulls the cloak off her head. What do these vampires have with putting stuff on their head? Edward quickly looks down, so does Alice. Bella looks at you with panic in her eyes to which you simply shrug. "Jane," Edward says quietly as he pulls Bella behind him a bit more. Him, Bella and Alice are all standing very close to each other while you are standing by yourself of to the side. The distance between you is impossible to go unnoticed to you. You wrap your arms around yourself as a form of comfort while you stare right into the blond girls' eyes. "Aro sent me to see what was taking so long.". Her voice sounds very nasally, almost like she has a cold. She glances between the two men who she is now standing in the middle of. Her short height only emphasises how tall the man who won't stop staring at you is. She quickly turns on her heels. Edward, Bella and Alice eclectically follow behind her. "Just do what she says," Alice says. You pass the two men as you follow behind your sisters. The tall man glances down at you. "Okay, creep," you say under your breath. The man's eyes grow big. Fuck, he could hear you. The tall man takes a couple of quick strides to catch up with Edward and push a red robe into his hands.

You all walk down the halls until there is a dark staircase going down, into which the blond girls go. This is how you are going to die. In a dark basement by vampire's who'll use you like you're a fucking Capri sun. "Don't be scared," you hear Edward says to Bella. Don't be scared. How the fuck are you not supposed to be scared when your socks and shoes are wet while you're in a creepy castle filled with human blood-drinking vampire. "Are you?" Bella says. "No,". The blond girl scoffs at this. Who do you already like these three vampires more than Edward even though they're the human killing ones? An elevator opens up. "I'm not going into that thing with them," you say as you stand still before the doors. You point at the three vampires who are now standing in the elevator along with Edward, Bella and Alice. "No offence, I just don't feel like going into a small room with five vampires.".

Alice steps out of the elevator and drags you into it. You struggle but your strength is nothing compared to her's. The doors close and you couldn't be more uncomfortable. The silence that hangs over you all and the fact that your socks and shoes are still soaked doesn't help with it either. The doors open again and you quickly walk out of the elevator. Jane walks past you to lead the way. You see a woman sitting at a desk. She says something in Italian, probably a greeting, but you can't understand what she says. She still has normal, human coloured eyes and her cheeks still have a blush to them. "Is she human?" Bella asks.

"Yes," Edward says. Jane turns another corner as you follow behind her. You can still feel the tall man's eyes staring into your skull. "Does she know?". You try to tune out of Bella and Edward's conversation. You don't care about if the women are human or not, you care about making it out of here with a beating heart. "She wants to be..." Bella trails off. "And so she will be," the men with the accents says. Them turning someone seems as unlikely as Bella making a smart decision since their hatred towards humans is very well known.

"For dessert," the blond says. O yeah, you're definitely going to die. She pushes two dark doors open, revealing a surprisingly light and clean room. On a plateau or three thrones seated, a man with long hair sitting in each. All have a different hair colour though. Carlisle told you about them. Aro, Marcus and Caius. "Sister," a boy who looks to be a bit younger than you says. "I send you out to get one and you bring back two. And two halves. Clever girl.". You scoff at his words. Almost nice to be treated you a half of a person. The raven-haired man stands up.

"What a happy surprise," he says with open arms. "Bella is alive after all.". He clasped his hands together in front of his chest. A creepy smile is glued onto his face as he looks over you all. Behind him is sitting a brunette, Marcus, who is staring at the wall sadly. You heard the story about his wife. You always have found it tragical. The blond, Caius, is looking at you with an angry face. He doesn't like having the Cullens or humans around him. "Isn't that wonderful," Aro says, dragging out every word a bit. He walks over to where you are standing. "I love a happy ending,". He grabs Edwards hand out of Bella's and looks up at his face. His gift, Carlisle also told you about that. "They are so rare," he says sadly. His comment is clearly pointed at Marcus who immediately looks down at his shoes. Aro looks over Edward at the tall man standing there.

"Un'anima in due corpi," he says he lets go of Edward's hand and rushes over to the men. It happens so fast that he is there in a flash. He grabs the tall man's hand as his eyes are focused on you. "Felix has found is mate," he says before rushing over to you. He tries to grab your hand but you shake your head and step back from him, clutching your hands over your chest. "I'd rather not have you touch me, thank you very much," you say in a polite tone. His smile grows a little.

"This one has manners," he says before shooting Bella a glare. "Roasted," you mumble under your breath as you quickly look over at Bella who’s cheeks are now red. Aro holds his hand out to you again. "Would you please be so kind?" he asks. You nod, slowly laying your hand in his. The moment your skin touches his, you can feel him entering your mind. It's a weird and fuzzy feeling. You can feel him scanning through your mind. He lets out a soft chuckle.

Aro lets go of your hand before he makes his way to his throne again, sitting down in it. "Can I please ask what mates are? Because I'm kind of in the dark here," you ask. Caius rolls his eyes and looks the other way, not wanting to be bothered by humans. A smile is now on Marcus's face as he at the invisible red line connecting you to Felix. "A soul split in half, divided over two bodies. You are meant to be," he says in a raspy voice. You nod and look at Bella with worry in your eyes. Apparently, the Swan's had something for vampires. "Cool, great," you say. "I'm sharing a soul with a vampire...Fuck me!" you exclaim.

"I might," you hear Felix say behind you. This was apparently the last straw for Edward, who now runs up to Felix and throws a punch at him. The man with the accent runs over to Alice and holds a hand around her throat to keep her in place as Felix and Edward fight. You know it's bad, but you are secretly rooting for Felix and hoping for him to hit Edward a couple of times as payback for how he made Bella feel. The fight goes so fast that you can't even comprehend what's happening until Felix has both hands around Edward's head who is now on his knees in front of the thrones. Bella is shaking and running her hands through her hands like a manic. Her mouth opens like a fish but no words come out. "Stop!" you yell.

You take a couple of step towards Felix and Edward. You can see Felix's grip on Edward loosening. "Let him go and I'll...I'll do 'mate' stuff with you. Okay? Just don't-don't hurt him," you say. You pluck at the hem of your shirt from the nerves. Felix looks at Aro who gives him a condescending nod. Felix lets Edward go and is in front of you in the blink of an eye. You look up at him. He is handsome and hot. And extremely terrifying. You gulp down your fears as you shot him a smile. "Listen, my shoes are soaking, I think I just had a minor heart attack and I think I just heard someone being murdered down the hall. Basically, I am one second away from losing my fucking shit so you better listen up.". Felix nods, bending down slightly to be more on your level. The action brings a soft smile to your face.

"I'll come with you and do what you want but if I find out that you hurt my sister or the Cullens I will kill you. I don't know how to do that yet but I'll find it our really soon.". Felix nods, mumbling a soft 'okay'. Aro's voice causes Felix to quickly stand beside you and straighten up.

"Felix, you and young Y/n can take some time to...get to know each other," Aro says. Felix grabs your hand softly and guides you out of the throne room after saying his thank you's. You shake as he starts to pull you along with him. Is he going to kill you? "Do you have clothes with you?" he asks. You shake your head quickly, not trusting your voice at the moment. He sighs before shooting you a smile. "Then we'll have to go shopping because you'll be living here from now on.". O God, what did you get yourself into?

TWILIGHT TAGLIST:

@scuzmunkie​ @thanossexual​ @prettyinblack231​ @kpopgirlbtssvt​ @cullens-stuff​ @rexburn12​

[omlwhatamidoinghere]

Mr. Moreno

Chapter 2: The Report

Summary: You have to give a presentation in class but the person grading you can't help himself

Warnings: SMUT, language, don't get caught

Word Count: 1735 words!

See MASTERLIST for the rest of the series!

___________

Your apartment filled with clicking as your fingers glide from key to key, typing tirelessly past your minimum word limit. "Finally! It's done! I finally finished my report!" You cheer as your document saves and flies out of the printer. The stapler clicks and you carefully place your report in your folder, a sigh of relief breaks through your lips. A gentle push to place your chair back in it's spot followed by a gaping yawn. With your apartment being located so close to campus, you've got some time to spare before you need to leave for class. Collapsing backwards onto your bed, a thought drifts to the front of your mind......

"Mr. Moreno-"

"Call me Marcus"

The heat of his breath on your neck, the musk of his cologne, his hands on you. All of that happened last week and it hasn't left your mind all weekend, just like your hand hasn't left the warmth between your legs as the memory ignites you. It still feels like a dream; you and your hot teacher getting handsy with each other. Unfortunately that moment didn't last very long because another teacher decided it was the perfect time to talk to Marcus. Granted, none of your clothes came off during that passionate moment, but damn do you think about what would have happened if you got into each other's pants: how big he would be, how good he would feel inside of you. A catch in your breath briefly pauses your moans before releasing his name from your lips, "..M-Marcus....." A secret whispered to only yourself. His name brings you over the edge,  pleasure crashing through you harder than you've ever experienced. Imagine how hard you'd crash if it really was him  between your thighs right now...

You clean yourself up just in time to leave for class, still extremely sensitive from a few minutes ago.

Stepping through the doorway of the classroom, his cologne welcomes you. A familiar sound flows through your ears while you take your seat, "Hello, sweetheart." His hands hold him up against your desk, a smile decorates his face.  Thank the stars you're the only student there so far or else someone would know something was up between you two. Your hand gently glides up his forearm, peering at him with a devilish grin, "Hello, Marcus" a growl rumbles in his chest at your remark. He leans in a little more, closing in on your personal space, "You're really tempting, baby. You keep that up and I'll have to take you into my office..." the heat between your legs growing, biting your lip in response. Marcus' eyes gleam as you readjust in your seat, his lips now almost touching yours, "What if I....would just...kiss you..." Your eyes close as you feel his breath on your lips, you can almost feel the scratch of his scruff, oh stars you just want his lips on yours again-"Get ready for class." He pulls back with a wink as you open your eyes, jaw dragging on the floor. Giving him a dirty look as you close your surprised and offended expression, you grumble through your clenched jaw, "Yes, Mr. Moreno." He smiles at your slight frustration, lighting your fire without laying a finger on you. Cooling yourself down from that mischevious little game, you pull your report out for the class.

Your classmates are killing it on their reports! How are you supposed to do well when these are all hard acts to follow? Your confidence remains at a steady level though, you chose to do your report on your major. The list grows shorter as your time quickly approaches."Oh goodness I'm up next, I'm up next, I'm up next! Just don't make eye contact with him during your report. It's a short report! You'll be done in no time!" Class is almost over when you finally get to go. You stand from your seat and proceed toward the podium. Taking your report out of your pristine folder and turning to the start of the information, you begin to spill your knowledge to the rest of the class. It's going so well! Adrenaline lighting your path through your report when- you do it. The one thing you told yourself not to do and you do it. Your gaze locks onto Marcus' deep, teasing eyes. A break in your flawless report by a simple action. That look conducts a wave a heat that rolls through you, he knows exactly what he's doing. The way he thumb rests on his lower lip and his eyes map out your contours.  Your eyes dart away from his as you successfully carry on and your report comes to a close. Saved by the bell has never been more of a true statement; the bell rings, telling the campus that the day is over.

Proud of yourself for nailing your report, you stride over to your desk to pack up. A hand grips your wrist, "Sweetheart." you whip around, "I saw that look you gave me, Mr. Moreno." Not yet giving him the satisfaction of hearing his first name fall from your lips. "I promise, baby, I wasn't trying to give you a look, I want you to succeed," his voice simmers to a growl, "I just couldn't stop thinking about how good you'd look bent over my desk." Before your mind has time to catch up to your body's sensations, a moan slips from your mouth. A smirk appears on Marcus' face as an idea brews in his head, "Come with me."

His office door swings open as he guides you backwards, leading you to sit on top of his desk. Pulling your legs up to his waist, he leans in closer to you, his eyes only leaving yours to glance at your lips. Heavy breaths fill the room, his hand reaching back, forcing the door closed. Thank the stars his powers allow him to do so without touching the door; having Marcus Moreno between your legs is the best thing you've ever felt...for now. His lips melt with yours, passion and desire taking the wheel. A break in your kissing as he speaks, "Are you okay with going any further? If not, we can stop right now. But if you want to, I need to hear you say it." His leader-of-the-Heroics voice is extremely hot, damn does it turn you on. You need more of it, more of him, "I want to go further. I want..." you trail off. A hand lifts your chin to match the alluring gaze of the man you've been getting yourself off to. 

"What do you want?"

"I-...I want..."

"If you tell me what you want, you might get it."

"...you. I want you."

"Good girl."

His hands tugging on your pants, he pulls your lip between his teeth. Your arms snake around his neck to pull him even closer. Marcus travels from your lips to your neck. You gasp at the cool air that hits the heat between your thighs. A groan escapes him as your legs wrap tighter around him. Playing with the hem of your shirt, he quickly strips you down to the cute set you bought for yourself. His lips and tongue dance on your skin, carefully trailing down your body. The noises you make only push him closer and closer to tearing off your underwear. Almost at the peak between your thighs, he runs his hand back up your body, squeezing every part he can. "Baby," he pants as he endlessly places kisses on your stomach and thighs, "your skin is so soft...so perfect." Moaning seems to be the only response you can give him. "Lift your ass for me." Intrigued, you follow his order. As soon as your ass leaves his desk, his teeth grip the lace cloth, the only thing separating his mouth from you. His eyes, filled with desire, hold contact with yours. He slips your underwear down your legs, almost knocking off his glasses as he comes back up. His hand rubs between your legs, fingers gliding through your folds. He stands back up while continuing to touch you, "You're so wet already, baby." He kisses your lips before lowering himself back down to your legs. With a swift movement of his arms, your legs were over his shoulders and his tongue was on your slit. His name jumps from your throat to the soft echo of his office. He quickly puts his hand over your mouth, "If you want me to keep going, you'll have to contain your moans a little more....don't wanna get caught now, do we?" slightly muffled from his hand, "No, sir. I'll be quiet, I promise." You can tell he enjoyed that name from the way he dives back into you like a starved man, devouring you from the inside out. You grab onto him before he places your hand in his hair, immediately grasping the soft strands between your fingers. The fluttering of his tongue leaves you teetering on the edge of your climax. Marcus notices how close you are, growling into you and squeezing your thighs tighter as his mouth continues to work you over that edge....closer....closer...closer....

Nirvana.

You ride through your orgasm, his mouth leading you. A moan escapes him as your grip tightens in his fluffy brown locks. Fuck, were you wrong about Marcus Moreno just standing between your legs being the best thing you've ever felt. The scrape of his scruff against your skin, the heat from his mouth, the noises he makes, stars this is amazing.

Marcus places light kisses on your overly-sensitive clit, shaking you to the core once your soul returns to your body. How did he make you come that hard with his mouth? He climbs back up, his glasses slightly fogged over. His voice, husky and hot as his lips reach your ear, "You came all over my mouth, baby. You're so delicious." He cleans off the remainder of you from each of his fingers. The sight makes you want to go again. You grab his tie and pull him closer, "It's all thanks to that tongue of yours, Marcus." He kisses you like it's the last thing he'll ever do. Pulling back enough so his lips carefully brush against yours, "Well if you like my tongue that much, sweet girl, I can't wait to show what my cock can do."

Taglist: @no-droids @autumnleaves1991-blog @absurdthirst @velvetmel0n

[jrueships]

The vampire Russ thoughts you have given out are 😌. He def speaks in a Dracula sort of way sometimes, idk if it’s just me

BUT the main reason for this ask is for some redacted Marcus/giannis thoughts. Or some Chris Paul/ others thoughts, in honor of the finals being almost over!

He is DEFINITELY Dracula core LMAO like dark academia fancy man but... with more fashion

Like... you cannot show me This and NOT tell me he's a fancy possible vampire kin WNDNSKNX

I'm just like. Obsessed with russ as a whole. I know some people don't like him and for valid reasons but like... he's so?? Interesting??? On the court he is unhinged but off the court he's just ?? Chill. Like basketball is anger therapy for him and when hes done with it, he's done LMAO. He sits all fancy and elegantly sips his wine from a glass and braids his kids' hair like!!! King shit man! After a hard day's work of screeching on court, he can lounge back on his throne and speak softly in his weird little mafia king pin sounding sweet voice: totally unbothered. Like!!!! That's so enigmatic to me!!he's so interesting !!!! A truly magnificent Dracula man...

OKAY BUT ABOUT. .... THEM....

HMM....

I think they're a lot like john/trae where they're definitely on the VERGE of being sexy together when they're having sex... but their goofy personalities just ruin the moment (not for them but for normal humans who don't laugh at every single thing LMAO) ... BUT I'LL TELL YOU ABOUT THEM ANYWAYS... I just don't know if it's HOT. Yknow like those are my fav ships. When they have sex but they don't have to have like... the perfect porno version of sex where everything is always hot and perfect and?? Yeah LMAO. I like when they're a bit more realistic and have to pause and ask if something is ok like?? Idk!!that's my shit! Idk maybe that's just me???

ANYWAYS REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED...

Okay. We all know about Mr. Foreplay at night Antetokounmpo. And we ALSO know how much raw short king energy Marcus exudes... I feel like on those special nights, maybe after a hard fought game where they're both competitively Pissed at each other (giannis moreso than Marcus.)... the goofiness is flown out the window for just. Straight up fierce, competitive sex. Whoever c*ms first loses. AJBDJS just practically wrestling. Like.. picture after a Celtics bucks game. Marcus has been bothering giannis nonstop with his defense and giannis is fucking. Mad. Nostrils flared, shoulders hunched up. He hasn't been getting any foul calls and the refs have not been on his side at All during the Marcus defense. In fact, they found it amusing how a 6'3 man can stop a Greek Giant. And they aren't the only ones laughing, because everytime Giannis turns back to look at the little defender... he's got the widest grin with two taunting smile lines adjacent.

Oh hell no.

After a tiresome game, normal players would have went straight to their hotel to take a long nap... but giannis wasn't Normal people. He's storming right into the Celtics locker room, right as Marcus is sending away some straggler rookies from the locker because he Already Knows what's gonna go down.

Giannis has the politeness to wait for everyone to leave before walking Marcus so far into his locker that the defender's knees buckle and he has to sit literally inside the locker looking up at Giannis's looming form. Two big hands at each side of the locker, Giannis cranes himself down at just. Glares at Marcus and his permanent smug smile. Normal people would have shit their pants if they saw this 6'11 man staring like he wanted to rip their intestines straight from their body, but Marcus wasnt normal people. He just grins a big toothed smile and states matter-of-the-factly "you played like shit today."

Next thing he knows, he's smirking at Giannis eye to eye level now that Giannis has him slammed high up a wall, supporting his lower half with strong arms. Marcus's legs wrap around and his hands are already trying to claw marks into the other's skin, tearing at the jersey. Marcus digs into Giannis's back, as if it was the only latch he had onto life. He doesn't care that Giannis has to tighten the hold when he leans over to try and rip a bite into his carrier's neck, in fact, he Likes making Giannis struggle for it. For him.

So yeah, in short, they have locker room sex.

AS FOR LIKE.... just in general ideas of them doing redacted UHHHH

Marcus Definitely gives Giannis lapdances.

But he's got rules that are held in place with an iron fist. Sometimes he says that Giannis can't touch him or he'll have to bind Giannis down into a chair to keep him steady while Marcus Gets To Work. Of course, giannis laughs it off and promises that he won't lay a finger on Marcus. It's simple, all he's gonna do is just dance on his lap? He won't disturb that. Nothing bothers the Greek Freak.

So Marcus keeps him to his promise and climbs into his lap. And straddles him. And he does one long R o l l of his hips, right down where Giannis is feeling the hottest and

O h .

γαμήσω..

Giannis WANTS to keep his hands at his side, wants to keep them steady but Marcus's hips are Right there just Right There and his body is Right there and his bright smile is Right There and his cute freckled face is grinning Right There and he's so close and . Fuck he's so close. He's so fucking close-

Giannis whines and pleads and begs and gives his best puppy eyes. But Marcus holds him to his promise despite it all.

And then, to make Giannis squirm even more, the shirt comes off and Giannis can see just a Hint of a bare skinned hip peeking out from Marcus's pants and Oh Fuck. He's gotta. He's gotta.

Marcus is so slow with his dancing, planting kisses so sweet like he wasn't the one killing Giannis. Like he was playing unaware at what he was doing to Giannis. It was so hot and Marcus was Right there and it'd be so easy to. Just can he Please take off his pants? Both of them? Please? The underwear is constricting everything and it's so- he's so close. Fuck. He's so close. And-

Y e a h . So marcus gives Giannis lapdances.

In sex, they both kinda take turns teasing the other. Even when Giannis is smothering Marcus deep into the mattress with each thrust, Marcus always finds the energy to twist his head back and snicker at how concentrated Giannis is, how sweaty his face is. If Giannis tries to shut him up by sticking his fingers down his everyapping jaw, Marcus simply responds by biting. Still, Giannis takes it as a challenge and responds with his own quips, finding the most success during the aftercare when Marcus is too tired to retort.

After cleaning themselves off in the shower (and having a mini towel whip fight), they both cuddle under the covers. Marcus and Giannis both attempt to be the big spoon, usually ending up with their limbs tangled under the sheets. Giannis whispers about how much he liked seeing Marcus's eyes roll, about how cute his noises were. And Marcus just mutters for him to shut up and weakly hits him with a pillow.

AND FINALLY... just mini thoughts about them..

- giannis sometimes speaks Greek when he gets Really into sex. And he mumbles songs in Greek while he sleeps. Sometimes Marcus wakes up from a nightmare, stays up for a bit, but then hears the faint murmuring of an odd tune sang from his boyfriend's sleepy lips... and it lulls him back to rest.

- as much as giannis prides himself over being a Greek Freak, he's honestly not All that freaky. Just has a high sex drive, really. So does Marcus so their restless libidos work in tune.

- giannis likes pulling at Marcus's braids and trying to undo them. Marcus fucking kills him for it though LMFAO

- giannis does have a 'ring for blowjob' bell. Sometimes Marcus throws it at him if he's not feelin it JABDJAB

- giannis calls Marcus "stinky" in greek but says that it means "I love you" in greek

- giannis is still trying to introduce 'sexy roleplay' into the bedroom but it just ends up spiraling into two theater kids trying to act out their theater kid dreams

ANYWAYS... YEAH... they THEM. A very teasing kinda... unstoppable force vs unmovable rock KABDJSN UHHHH yeah! Those are my redacted marcus/giannis thoughts LMAO. I HOPE U LIKE IT LITTLE ANON!!

I WILL REBLOG THIS WITH CP3 CONTENT SOON!!!!!!!!!! busy rn so if this sounds insane it's because it is LMAO but YEAH. S o o n

[russian-romanova]

sunday

title: sunday

pairing: joe goldberg

warnings: spoilers through season one of ‘you’. adult language. mentions of death, stalking and sexual content. mature themes explored by and mentioned in ‘you’. JOE IS NOT A GOOD GUY, HE’S JUST HOT. 

notes: i have no idea what this is. word vomit. joe’s point of view because i’m dumb and edgy like that. why do i like this character so much whyyyyyyyyyy

summary: you just have to make it through the week, because come sunday you have the whole day off to spend relaxing with your boyfriend. at least, that’s what you have planned. 

+      +       +

MONDAY.

You are incredibly smart. That goes without saying. I watch you read books, devour them from front to cover before other people would even decide to begin them. You’re willing to try new things because the first two times you came into Mooney’s you wandered for close to an hour. You came in not knowing what you wanted but left with anything you could possibly be interested in. 

That was two months ago. 

You’re a regular visitor now because we’re an item. Dating. In a relationship. I never know what to say, but neither do you since I’ve heard them all in descriptions of your friends. It doesn’t even matter, anyway, because you smile to your friends no matter what you call us. I never know if I’m doing this right Y/N, but with you I’m positive. You’re happier than I’ve ever seen you. 

You’re here at Mooney’s now, talking to me as we eat lunch together. We’re both sitting behind the counter on stools, the flow of people slow for now. It’s always like this around this time of day, and we’re both plenty familiar with that by now. Every so often some asshole comes in looking for a Tolstoy they can stare at for years or some autobiography they’ll only skim through, but besides that, it’s just us. 

“Okay, okay,” You’re laughing and waving your hand about the answer you just gave. We’ve been doing this a lot, asking each other pointless questions like this to simply know the answers. For you, plenty of these questions lead to these marvelous stories. It’s as if you want me to know everything about you so easily.  “Okay, you see a pothole in the road ahead, do you swerve or straddle?” 

I’m not sure about my answer, but that doesn’t matter anymore. I can tell what you want me to say. “Straddle,” My voice comes out a little above a whisper.

“Oh really?” You respond back in a voice that’s even quieter, biting your lip without even realizing it. “Me too. Crazy.”

“Crazy,” I repeat, and my mouth is already pulling into a smile. You lean forward and kiss me once -- eagerly -- then pull back to look at me before we kiss again, slower this time. I want you here, and I know you want me too, but we also have some normal human decency and know when the bell rings to stop kissing quickly. The man who wandered in didn’t seem to notice the two of us at first, too absorbed in his fucking phone. 

“Hello!” He speaks up when he notices us. “Can you point me to where Marcus Zuzak would be?” 

You smile. “Over there, under fiction. Near the end, because it’s by last name.” You lean over the counter ever so slightly to point him in the correct direction. He’s lucky you volunteered to help him because I doubt I would have been so polite. 

“Oh, of course. Thank you, dear.” The elderly man nods and moves in the direction of your pointed finger. You smile at him for a moment longer before you turn back around, grinning. 

“Wow, I might just take your job.” You joke, moving back up to sit on your stool. I had secretly hoped you would return to kissing me, but I knew deep down that wasn’t a likely possibility. 

“Yeah, do you want the apron?” I pull at the apron. “You can have the apron.” 

“Yeah, apron and nametag. I’m changing my name to Joe now.” You continued, before softly laughing and transitioning the conversation into silence. You look at me again, but it’s a much different look than last time. It’s not the heavily passionate look that I got over questions and sandwiches, this is a much more caring look. A loving look. “Hey, it’s been a while since we had a date night.” 

I want to return the look you give me, and I hope I am. I hope you understand I love you as much as you love me, Y/N. “Yeah, you’re right. Hey, we should plan one.”

“Okay,” You nodded once, slowly as you plunged through your invisible mental calendar. “Are you free Sunday?”

For you, Y/N, I’m free any day. “Yeah, I think Sunday should work out. Seven?” 

You nod once more, kicking your legs. “Okay, seven on Sunday it is.” 

I want to reply, but the man returns with a book that is certainly not Zuzak, but I’m not one to say anything. 

“Ready to check out?” I ask him, but you hop up before I can move forward.

“Here, I can help you. My name is Joe,” You joke, and the poor old man nods his head. “Looks like a good book.” 

TUESDAY.

I’m not supposed to be at your apartment, which I suppose is part of the reason my heart rate spikes when the doorbell rings. I have been trying to get away from this, from the pointless apartment lurking, but I couldn’t resist today. I missed you, Y/N. 

For a second, I think the doorbell might be you come to pick up something you’ve forgotten, but then I realize you wouldn’t be ringing the doorbell. It buzzes again and is now followed by a series of pounding knocks. “Hey, Y/N, are you in there?” A man’s voice comes through into the apartment. “C’mon, it’s Arthur. Let me in.” 

Arthur.

He sounds vaguely desperate, his voice tinged with a whine. How could you ever have loved this man, Y/N? He’s like some distressed puppy dog who found his way home after being left on the side of the road. He says some word pleas, but I’m already turning over possible ways this could go down in my head. 

“Listen, I know that you probably hate me,” Arthur speaks again. You’re right; I’m sure you do. “But I just want to talk to you. I need to apologize. I’m sorry.” He sounds genuine. 

I open the door, and Arthur looks stunned. “Shit, is this the wrong apartment? Sorry, I’m looking for Y-”

“Y/N. I know.” I put on a fake smile. This is polite Joe, boyfriend Joe. This is the Joe that you know, Y/N. “She’s not home right now, actually.”

“Oh,” Arthur’s face turns red. 

“I’m Joe,” I stick out my hand. “Y/N’s boyfriend.” I almost smile at the words. 

He takes my hand and shakes it, although his mind is clearly elsewhere. “I’m Arthur. Bishop.” 

Jesus, Arthur Bishop? What kind of a name is Arthur Bishop? “I heard.” I’m still smiling, although it’s uncomfortable now. He’s ignoring me, and I know his thoughts are on you. “Did you need me to pass along a message?” I push, trying to get answers. I need to know if Arthur is a threat to you, Y/N, a threat to us. 

“Yeah, um, I haven’t seen Y/N in two years, actually. But we used to date-” I could see him remember who he was talking to. “It was a long time ago.” He added. 

“Yeah, I think she’s mentioned you.” I lied. Do you wanna come in?” 

When Arthur says yes, I really begin to doubt what you see in him. Is he stupid? Arthur has no idea who I really am, no proof that I’m your boyfriend or that I can be trusted. If he had been at least a little doubtful, I would have at least respected that. I almost feel bad for him, Y/N. 

An ex-boyfriend. Here we are, two of the people who you have loved in your apartment without your knowledge. He makes himself at home very quickly; without even taking off his shoes. He’s jittery, unfocused. His legs bounce up and down as he sits on your couch, and I’m suddenly self-conscious for you, Y/N, because of all the clothes you had strewn around. I walk towards the kitchen and kick a bra under the couch. 

“So, what did you say the deal was between you and Y/N?” I ask, moving towards the counter.

Arthur hesitates for a moment. Never a good sign. “Is there a bathroom I could use?”

No, dipshit, no bathrooms here. “Yeah, just down the hall. You okay?” 

He nods, clearly lying. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be right back.” He moves quickly, but once I hear the bathroom door close I move twice as fast. The bathroom, Arthur? Do you think I’m dumb? On second thought, are you dumb? 

I know where your medicine cabinet is, and I know where the prescription sleeping pills you keep are. My fingers grasp the small bottle and I shake a few out onto my palm -- not so many that you’ll notice they’re gone, but enough to take care of Arthur in the other room. 

I move silently back to the kitchen, pulling one of your knives from the display. At least your counter is clean enough that I can put the pills down directly and crush them with the knife. One, two, three presses and I’ve deemed them powdered enough to brush into my hand and shake into a glass of water. 

I hope you’re thirsty, Arthur. 

WEDNESDAY.

The cage is no longer empty, which is always a strange feeling. And Arthur is so quiet I practically forget he’s down there. 

I wonder a little if I overreacted with Arthur. If I should have just stayed put and pretended no one was home or let him come in and leave on his own time. But deep down, Y/N, I knew that he was a risk. I didn’t even have to know what this guy wanted and I could tell, from the way he spoke about you that he wanted to get in the way of us. And God, we’ve been so perfect together that I couldn’t fathom letting someone take you away from me. 

He was out for a while, and I worried I maybe overcompensated with the sleeping pills and his insides were slowly shutting down. If I had known your shifty ex-boyfriend was going to show up I would have maybe done my research a little better, but things like this never seem to want to pencil in a date on the calendar.

The second time I check on him during the workday, he’s awake. Quiet and confused, but awake. He asks the usual -- where he was, why he was there, if you had something to do with it. And I’m at least polite, Y/N. I answer his questions to the best of my ability and all he does is swear and yell at me. After a while, I think he realized that I wouldn’t be telling him this stuff with the intent of letting him go, which quieted him down. Which is not to say I don’t want to let him out.

“Listen, I didn’t do anything wrong. Please. Man, if you want me gone I’ll leave. I’ll leave to where ever the fuck you want me to go. Just let me out.” 

Even his pleading is in a soft voice. I wonder if he was a good boyfriend or the annoying, man bun and kale type you seem to have been interested in before.  “You just need to wait a while, Arthur. Have patience, it’s a good quality.” But even my sound reasoning doesn’t persuade him.

He’s quiet the next few times I come down, but he takes the fast-food bag I pass him and he eats, which is good at least. I considered asking him about you, but I decided that if he was comfortable and quiet now, it was probably better to keep it that way. Besides, you sent me a text asking if I wanted to come over and watch ‘Friends’ with you. It wasn’t the show I was excited for at all, but the idea of you, and the idea that you thought of me when you were flipping through the channels. 

I give Arthur his supper and then I’m off to you, Y/N. You open your door for me in sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt, and I swear you’ve never looked so beautiful. You smile at me and I come inside the apartment I know you cleaned especially for me and you direct me to the couch, where we settle down and you turn up the volume. 

“I hope you weren’t busy or anything,” You mention offhandedly during the third episode. “I don’t know, I just know you don’t watch a lot of TV but Friends is classic and I thought you might want to-”

“No, no, no, you’re good. I love it. I love Friends.” I lie, gesturing to the screen.

You look at me and I know you’ve read right through my little lie. “Do you know?”

I pause. “No. But I love it now!” 

“Sure, Joe,” You laugh before turning back to the screen and moving closer to me. We’re pressed together like we’ve known each other for years. And we may as well have, Y/N. 

THURSDAY.

I wake up Thursday morning, and you’re already gone. A glance at the clock -- which reads 9:51 -- explains to me that you’re already at work. A note you left me on the table reflects this thought, and I know that neither of us expected me to stay the night. I’m happy to be welcome here in the morning, and I pocket the note before sitting back to breathe it in. 

I love the way your apartment is decorated because it reminds me so much of you. It reflects your personality, from the way things are carefully placed to the way you so desperately want things to appear thrown into a particular spot. Even alone in your apartment, Y/N, you’re trying too hard. 

Last night was perfect, and I think my mind is clearer now. I know what I have known in the back of my mind for days, that Arthur needs to be taken care of. Nothing gruesome or excruciatingly painful, he’s been good enough. I almost hate to do it, but if he sticks around things are bound to go wrong for us. Please realize that I’m doing this all for us, Y/N. 

FRIDAY.

I have learned from my mistakes. I allow Arthur -- or what’s left of him now -- to wait for me overnight but come Friday I know the body needs to be taken care of. 

Ethan is too gullible and I tell him I need to close early to do some inspections of Mooney’s. At first, he asks some questions, but I tell him only simple answers and he eventually leaves. The day as a whole is normal but seems to drag on as the same type of men and women come in to buy the same books, or walk around and leave. The only half-hour that breezes by is our lunch together, where we sit in the same area as always and laugh and each and hope that time will freeze. 

I manage to slip into the conversation a small asking about ex-boyfriends, and you spill the beans on Marcus and Dwayne and Roosevelt, all of whom I know have long since moved on, before you bring up Arthur. 

“We dated for a year, I guess. But then he told me that he had some other life offers to pursue in Nepal -- whatever that means -- and we broke up and he left.” It doesn’t seem to mean lots to you, as you shrug and eat forkfuls of salad. “Then I met this really nice guy at a little coffee shop in New York and his name was Joe, and he worked at a bookstore, and we ate lunch together and have a date on Sunday.”

“Wow, Joe sounds like a great guy. Looks like I’ve got competition.” 

You laughed, the beautiful laugh that I know you try to keep in your mouth but it just bubbles out, and you lean over and bring your hand up to hide it. I have never understood why Y/N. Your laugh is beautiful, but it’s impossible to bring that up without sounding creepy.

But you leave eventually, sooner than you should have to, and I’m left alone again. It returns to the same boring routine, and the closing time comes after a hundred years. Ethan leaves with a wave and a farewell, but I’m already right behind him as I moved to flip the open sign. 

The basement has begun to reek of death. It only gets stronger as I push open the doors to the cage, allowing the smell to come out as I enter in. Arthur has already texted a few of his friends -- douchebags, by the sounds of it -- to tell them that he’s returning to Nepal. He missed it, and he misses the feeling it brought him and his idiot friends seem to accept it. I plan to bag him up -- which is more than vile and I can’t count how many times I throw up or gag -- and bury him in the woods, where the trees are thick and the dead leaves from several years have built up and no one will look. 

The gloves are the smartest choice I’ve ever made. There are things getting on them that I can’t identify and don’t want to be identified. He’s already in the bag -- deep and black, hopefully sturdy -- and I’m on the clean-up phase when I’m startled.  

“Joe?” I hear your voice. Fuck, tell me I’m going crazy. How the fuck do I hear your voice through all of this, unless…

I spin around to face you. It hits me almost instantly-- I didn’t lock the door. How the fuck could I forget to lock the door? Shit, one mistake and now… now this, Y/N. 

Unsurprisingly, you’re stunned. Eyes soaking in everything that they can, your hands already shaking. “Y/N,” I begin, but you don’t give me a chance to talk. A chance to explain myself to you.

“What the fuck, Joe?” You ask, and I know you’re hoping for some logical explanation to pour out of my mouth. And, Y/N, believe me when I say that I wish I had one, at the very least in the form of a crafted lie. “What the actual fuck is this?”

You want to run, but you also want this to all be a misunderstanding, so you stand there, frozen. I look at you, hoping that you’ll look into my eyes and remember how much we love each other, how perfect we are for each other. I hope you’ll forgive me and you’ll throw your arms around me instead, and you’ll know it was all a misunderstanding. You’ll love me no matter what, and we’ll get the happily ever after that you read in your books and crave so much. 

I see you look once more from me to the bag containing Arthur. Your breathing quickens again, the only thing to split the silence at first. Then your footsteps follow, tennis shoes hitting the concrete. 

Life is far from a book, Y/N. I’m sorry this is the point you have to realize this. 

SATURDAY

You wake up in the cage, and I’m already sorry that it has to be this way. You look like a small child, lost in the supermarket with no parents in sight. Sleep is in your eyes, but you quickly blink it out and lookup. For a split second, I think you have forgotten about where you are, about what has happened. 

You tried to run upstairs, to tell the world, Y/N, and I care about you too much to let that happen. You won’t understand this right away, no one ever does, but maybe you’ll have a change of heart someday. You refused to talk to me at first, so I talked to you and tried to act as if everything was normal.

“What the fuck,” When you spoke, your voice was rough from dehydration. I made a mental note to get you a coffee that you might drink, unlike the water glass you had disregarded in the corner. “What, you’re just going to pretend like I’m not in an actual cage, Joe?”

“It’s just temporary,” I assure you hurridly, but I can tell that you don’t believe me. “I’ve never lied to you, Y/N. Please.” And this is mostly true. 

Your voice is getting a little louder,  a little more passionate. “How am I supposed to know that? Huh?”

“Trust me,” I say, and I see an echo of Beck in myself. The thought startles me enough that I shake a little, and you think that I’m shaking because you’ve made some mental breakthrough. You were smart and kept out of my past, you trusted what I told you and never questioned the things I left out. 

 “How?” You ask me, bitterly. “How can I trust you in here?”

I look at you for a moment, our eyes locked. You look sad, Y/N, and I need to remind myself that it isn’t my fault. You could look for the best in this, you could choose to be happy despite what you see to be a bad situation. “You have to,” I beg simply, and I need to go back to the bookstore. I will be back down here, Y/N, I promise. 

SUNDAY.

The door opened with a soft noise, and your eyes follow me as I walked forward, watching you as well. I have nothing to say, but I can tell you’re waiting for me to speak. “It’s Sunday,” So I speak for you, glancing around to try and find the key. “We were supposed to have our date tonight,” I find the key and twist it around my fingers. 

“We still can,” Your voice comes out cracked from crying. “Let me out, please, Joe. C’mon. Please.”

I pocket the key and give you a look. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Why, Joe? Because you think I’m going to tattle on you? I’m not fucking stupid.” You stand up and move a little closer to the edge of the cage. “You made a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes, it’s okay. I forgive you, Joe.”

You forgive me. My hands are trembling and I take a step forward. You forgive me, or so you say. 

“How can I trust you?” My voice is a whisper, and suddenly I’m the scared boy in the supermarket again. “You already tried to run, Y/N. You need to trust me, this is what’s best for you.”

“What’s best for me?” Your eyes water. “What’s best for me? Do you think being locked in a cage is what’s best for me? 

I don’t react. 

“Jesus, Joe, what do you want? What do you want me to do?” 

“I want you to be happy. I need you to be happy.” The words come out of my mouth before I even realize it. “But I need you to be happy in here, at least for a while. If you really still love me, you’ll wait.” 

“I don’t want to wait, Joe. Please. If you love me, you’ll let me out.” 

My hand reaches back for the key, and I’m fumbling with it as I say, “You know I can’t do that.” You seem to have given up with that, but you continue to stand against the edge of the cage and watch me. “Can you sit down? I have to empty out the bucket.” You glance back at the bucket you’ve been using as a bathroom and then back at me. 

You sit down, defeated, and I walk in towards the bucket. This is the most humiliating part of this whole ordeal, Y/N, and I’ll be happy when it’s all over and we can joke about the things I’d do for you. You’re watching me with big eyes that I can hardly look at up close because they’re swollen with tears by now. 

I’m near you, and you’ve gone silent. You watch as I reach down to grab the bucket’s handle, but you very swiftly stick your foot out, and I felt myself falling backward in slow motion. Fuck, Y/N, you weren’t supposed to do that. By the time I can turn myself over to look at you, you’re already up on your feet. Without pausing to look back, you’re making a run for the door 

Now, this is just fucking unfair. I push myself to my feet and stumble after you, and I feel like a toddler who doesn’t know how to walk. I push myself out of the cage for physical support and grab a knife from the shelves. I hope I don’t need this, Y/N, but your persistence worries me. 

It doesn’t take much to overpower you. I’m pumping my legs and feeling the adrenaline pumping through my body. I reach once and miss, almost stumbling but I doubt you notice. The second time I reach, my fingers grasp your arm and pull you back. I have to think fast here, and I push you against the wall to stop you. 

You’re quiet, panting and terrified. If you could, I’m sure you would spit in my face here. I turn over possibilities in my mind, and I must say that I’m not particular to any of them within my control. Shit, Y/N, I didn’t want this to turn out like Candace or like Beck. I thought you were different, I thought that maybe you would understand. 

I don’t want to kill you. Believe me, Y/N, it’s always the last thing I want to do. But I had to kill Beck before, and that turned out fine because I met you. I met you, and you made my life that much better. 

Your eyes flick between mine, your breathing steadies. The knife suddenly feels so much heavier in my hand, but we both know what I need to do. 

I’m sorry, Y/N, but I’ll make it quick. 

[everyhowlmarksthedead]

LOSE TO WIN.

Che “Taza” Romero x reader

Anon asked: Hey! Could you do a Taza x Reader, where he is kind of quiet around the reader after what happened to Riz and the reader somehow understand what he have done and she confronts him, but she says that she still loves him anyway?

Word Count: 2.4k

Thanks to my lovely beta reader @chibsytelford 💘

Author Comments: As I explained, this is kinda painful to me. I've never been so in love with a TV show, nor with a character as I am with Riz. This imagine is somewhat random, writed in first person as I think I would have lived it, more or less. So, take it as it's a piece of me and enjoy. Gif credit: @angels-reyes.

Tag list: @starrynite7114 ​ @chibsytelford ​ @dazzledamazon ​ @mara-mpou ​ @sammskellington ​ @gemini0410 ​ @1-800-imagines ​ @briana-mishell24 ​ @sassymox @whyisgmora @aquamento @sadeyesgf @viviansafizada @samcro-jnt @jade770 @losolvidad0s @arved ✨ (if you wanna be tagged, send me a message!)

I’ve held his hand, since the doctors said that we could see him. I was constantly sitting by the left side of the bed, with my fingers tangled with his. And every time it came somewhat cold, I grabbed it with mine to raised it so I could give it some warmth with my breath. The surgery was good, better than expected, but I was unable to leave him for a single second. I didn’t even notice who more was in the room with me, I was so focused and so obsessed controlling his breathing, that the time was something relative. And I’ll blame myself all my life for leaving him alone the moment he stopped fighting. Yes, Taza was with him, but I wasn’t. He stopped fighting when I was no longer there. It was just a minute. A hallway. I was falling asleep and I needed a coffee. When I came back, his soul was already gone and so did a piece of my heart. Che held me before I could even fall, after the doctors said his lungs had failed. Taza has always been my anchor, since I met him when I was almost twelve years old, but he couldn't even keep me from sinking.

━━━━━━ ﹅ ━━━━━━

I was sitting outside of the clubhouse in a picnic table. There was no noise more than some crickets grilling. I was wearing his kutte without believing that he wasn’t gonna appear with his bike, complaining about whatever shit he saw on the road, before hugging me as he used to do. Raising my eyes to the sky and having a sip of my beer, I couldn't help but thinking about the first time I saw him. It was nine years ago at Stockton, when my uncle decided to open a new Mayans’ subsidiary. The southern Cali at Santo Padre. Marcus made somewhat like a party to celebrate with the Sons of Anarchy and my father brought me there. I was sitting alone, just like I’m right now. I was almost twenty years old and I didn’t know half the shit I know now. Yes, I wasn’t stupid. The motorbikes, the guns, the travels. I didn’t need to be a genius to know what my family used to do. A mexican with short and black hair sat next to me, offering me a tequila shot to greet with him.

“Por la familia”. (For the family). He said before drinking his, so I did. “I’m Michael, but everyone calls me ‘Riz’”.

“Well, everyone calls me ‘shit, kid, you did it again?’

He laughed with some kind of naturality and purity that I’ve never heard it before. It was a warm and nearby laugh, as my father’s. I don’t even know how I can explain it. It something that you really need to hear to feel it as I did. He was my first friend, because he wanted, and not because he was scared of who my family was. Through the years he became my family too. We spent a lot of time together, doing everything or doing nothing. Not even our silences were uncomfortable, we enjoyed each other's company, without more. It’s been just one day and I kept looking my phone, waiting for a call or a text that woke me up of this nightmare. But the only thing that pushed me back to reality it was the crew’s motorbikes roaring full of rage. I practically jumped off of the table, throwing away the beer before my father could lead the march. The main door was closed and they were waiting for me to open it, standing there with my arms crossed on the chest.

“I’m going”. I was determined like never in my life and no one would change my mind.

“Open the door and stay here”. My father just said.

“I’m going”. In case he didn’t hear me, I repeated it.

“It’s a risk I’m not gonna take. Don’t argue with m—”.

“He lost a battle ‘cause ‘Los Vatos. And I’m gonna defend his honor at war!” I interrupted him, yelling at my father as I never did it before. I had too much contained inside me, squeezing my heart till make me cry blood tears. “You can’t… put me aside, dad. Not tonight”.

My father shook his head sighing and rubbing his face, after some seconds seeming thoughtful, before finally nodding. I looked at the rest of the faces, they agreed too. Riz was my family, and he will always be even if his body isn’t present. So I ran to his motorbike, taking off the keys from the chest’ pocket. I had ridden it before but that time, when I turned on the engine, was pretty different.

━━━━━━ ﹅ ━━━━━━

It’s been a month since the funeral and sometimes looks like nothing had changed. Nothing but the way Taza used to treat me. He became somewhat cold, he turned away from me. Maybe I was so focused in my pain, that I didn't see his. I tried hard to talk with him, wanting to know how he felt, but he never did it back. No answer at any question I made. And I was falling into a black hole, into a loop. I wasn't capable of getting up from bed some mornings and I needed him as never before. I really needed him. Taza was always by my side, at the bad and at the good. But now, he was like a ghost. Running away from me. It was like if another piece of my heart was breaking. Till I had the enough strength to stop it, when my father told me that Che was leaving the Mayans. I lost Riz. So losing him too wasn't an option.

I drove the road to the ranch by heart, in the cold darkness of the night. I was decided to bring him back by my side and I didn't care what it might cost me. I was, and I am, surrounded by people that loved me without any doubt but no one like him. He taught me many of the things I know today. He covered me every time I fucked up things. He picked me up every night I called him drunk, being afraid of going home so my father could see me in that kind of condition. He cleaned my tears and cheered my smiles. I took care of his wounds, of his doubts, of his fears. I took care of his house and his car. I took care of him whenever he was sick or lost. We were made for each other. Again, losing him it wasn't an option.

Turning off my motorbike and taking off the helmet to leave it over the leather seat, I walked straight to the front red door. The light outside, in the porch, was on so he was at home. I had a copy of the keys, but I didn't want to burden him. After knocking the door with the knuckles, I waited there for some long minutes. It was cold outside and I started to freeze, when I called again using the door-bell. I could hear his steps coming, stopping for some seconds on the other side. 

“Please, don' leave me”. I begged, knowing that he didn't want to let me in for some reason I couldn't understand, containing the tears that were claiming to fall down. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry for closing myself, for not talking to you at the beginning. I know I don' have any excuse, that I can't simply say ‘I did it with everyone’, 'cause you know you're not in that bag. You've been always the exception that proves the rule. And I love you, Che... You know that I do”.

It was the first time I said that. To him. I didn't say that to anyone that it wasn't my father, nor my uncle. But I really felt that shit. The same one that was taking away what little life I had left. When the door got opened, my heart jumped raising my eyes to the reddened ones. He look as bad as I was. I couldn't help but hugging him, surrounding him with my arms, while he was pushing me inside the house so he could close the door. I've never been a lot of affective, always respecting my own personal space. But with him was different. His arms around me were like a indestructible fortress, protecting me from the world and its evil. He was the air I needed to breathe whenever I felt I was drowning myself. And sometimes, this fact was a problem.

“This is my fault”. He whispered with his voice breaking somewhat more as he uttered each word.

“No, it wasn't, Che. It wasn't. They did wrong every thing they considered it was well done”. I tried to comfort him. I didn't know why he was blaming himself. Riz stopped his shots. Is what I have would done. And that wasn't his fault either.

“You don' understand… Riz is dead because of me”.

“No, it's not!” I was nervous, out of me, pulling him away so I could be able to support his cheeks between my hands. Seeing him cry like a heartbroken child was more painful that I could imagine, oppressing my chest as I was thinking that I never asked how he was.

“His lungs… His lungs didn't failed because of the shots, but because of me”.

My hands fell down, as my eyes got opened more than normally. Twisting my head like a dog does when he's confused, I walked a few steps back. Taza rested his body against the closest wall, crawling down till finding the floor with his knees curled to his chest. He was crying desperately, unable to look at me. Then I started to think about that night. No. It wasn't a coincidence that Riz and him were alone when he left us. I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe that that poisoned words were true. Everything was crumbling around me, breaking with the same facility as a wet paper does between my fingers. The tears was running through my cheeks with my gaze on nowhere.

“Los Vatos… That trash should disappear, after all the damage he made to… innocent people that only wanted to have a better life”. He sob cleaning his eyes with a forearm. “I knew that your father wouldn't do anythin', and I knew that Riz was suffering… The surgery went well, but… doctors said that maybe he never could get out of the coma… He was my friend too. My br—brother. What could I do?”

Even if I wanted to punch him till death, I couldn't help but see the sense of his words. I was feeling his pain, his grief, his misery. I was so stubborn trying to save Riz, that I forgot him. He was carrying it over his shoulders all this time. And, no. He hadn't any excuse. He killed Michael. He never gave the benefit of the doubt. And it was dolorous when I found myself being unable to hate him.

“How you feel is my fault... Because of me. Because I didn't think in Riz, neither in you. I couldn' look you in… the face. So I thought it could be easy pull you away. Leave Santo Padre and come back to Arizona. But I can't… Shit… I can't”. He turned towards me, with his head supported against the wall. “Tell me you love me again… please”.

The anxiety was consuming me like a thick liquid clotting my blood, flooding my throat, my lungs, my stomach. It was like I was dying slowly, because I still loved him. Knowing that he killed my best friend, I still loved him. Unconditionally. I walked next to him, even if my brain was not sending any command to my legs, nor my body in general. I knelt down. In front of him. And I kissed him. Feeling like Judas, betraying Riz, I kissed him. Taza wasn't expecting it, neither did I. It was confusing. Every inch of my skin bristling as his tears met mine on our dry lips. When he gave me some space between his legs, surrounding me with his arms, it was like I forgot how to kiss, how to breath, how to live. Again without being conscious, my hands went to his nape. I just wanted to feel him close to me, almost lying on him, falling apart because of his fault.

“Tell me you love me again”. He begged me hopeless with his hands on my neck, keeping my gaze with the same darkness in them.

Life isn't fair. When you're part of something like Mayans, yes, everything at the end is about family, but sometimes there are collateral damage that you, nor anyone can't avoid. And that was Riz became. Sometimes you have to lose to win. A part of myself, to end human trafficking. And even if I wanted to hate him with all my efforts, I couldn't. And that made me hate myself so much. But I was seeing why he did it. It was a payback that, sooner or later, had to happen. 

“I do”. I just said. “I love you, Che”.

His cry got louder with his forehead on mine when he heard me. I knew that he was suffering more than anyone around us and I had to save him, of one way or another, so that Riz wouldn't have died in vain.

“But you can't go”. I sat down between his legs, holding him as he was doing with his face sinked in my neck and one of my hands on his head. My fingers got tangled in his hair, pushing him somewhat closer. The agony was oppressing us, knowing that we should live with that secret anchored in our hearts. But, what else we could do? Keep fighting for a cause. “Stay with me. We have so much road to ride. Don' let Michael die for anything”.

“I'm so sorry”. He said with all the sincerity I could felt in him. 

“I know. But we're together, you hear me?”

[notagamersdey]

At The Expense of Others

By Tyler D. Ortiz

Rating: T

Word Count: 2k~

Warning: Depictions of physical and mental abuse, gaslighting, slight violence, and bad language

Summary: Derrick Teller is preparing for his first big boxing match when he injures his hand.

~~~

Pain explodes over Derrick’s right cheek as he starts to fall. The force of the punch whips him around, splitting his cheek. The crowd cheers as his body whacks onto the canvas floor. Blurry vision, body out of control, legs feel stiff yet move like pasta. His arms have no strength left. His vision falters, filled with cracked black stars. He tries to get up as a distant countdown fades to nothing.

...

One week earlier, Derrick Teller is at the bag, his powerful punches echoing in the empty gym. His grey shirt clung to his chest, black shorts loose at his waist, old hand wraps providing little protection over his knuckles. He was currently in one of the most prestigious boxing gyms in the city. Marcus, his trainer, ran the joint. The man was old, grumpy, and picky. People outside the gym have warned him about the old trainer. They often warned that he was intense, and selfish; however, Derrick only saw passion and drive. If not for his trainer, he would be in some coke den or dead in a ditch. The older man had practically hand-picked him and molded him into the fighter he was today. If it weren’t for him, he’d be a nobody.

“Jab! Jab! Jab - cross! hook-” the trainer shouted.

Sweat drips from Derrick’s hairline as he followed Marcus’s command. He’s been training as the fight approached. Now, only a week from the event, Marcus prescribed him a daily dose of bag work and cardio. This meant that he was at the gym day and night, beating his knuckles bloody. It was exhausting. Most days, this rigorous training left him unable to walk the stairs to his apartment.

“Ten pushups, on your fists!”

“Weren’t squats before pushups?” Derrick huffs, sweeping the sweat from his eyes.

“Don't question me, Boy. Pushups.”

Dropping to the floor, Derrick's wrists shook as he began his pushups. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. Trying to distract himself from the discomfort of his knuckles, he honed in onto the familiar burn in his abdomen.

“Lower!” Marcus commands, standing above Derricks’ head.

“My hands...” The younger man huffs, losing concentration.

“Push,” Marcus said with a forced voice.

Derrick starts to drop lower, slowly, willing his fists to hold his weight. His face clenched in pain as fire travels from his knuckles to his wrist. It became too much. He dropped. Ragged breathing filled his ears as he tried to sit up, holding his hand, rubbing it softly. He looked up at Marcus and was met with red, angry eyes. The older man opened his mouth, prepared to reprimand the young athlete until there was a ding at the front desk. Marcus’ froze at the sound, letting out a frustrated huff before walking off without a word. Derrick felt his shoulders relax. Quickly glancing at the front desk, making sure that the trainer wasn’t looking, he began removing his right wrap. Revealed underneath the worn-out fabric was his hand swollen, dark, and blotchy.

“Baby!”

Wincing, Derrick looked up to see Julie, his girlfriend of a few years, skipping towards him excitedly, with Marcus walking at a slower pace behind her. Her purse bounced as she leapt up to kiss him.

“Are you ready for dinner, Baby? I was thinking we could go to that vegan joint over on Tarvar-” Julie grabs his unwrapped hand excitedly.

“Ow! Julie!” he pulls his hand, but not before her excitement switches to concern.

“Derrick! What the hell?” She gently pulls his hand toward herself, inspecting it. “This doesn’t look normal...”

“Jules, you’re not supposed to be here…” Derrick tried to whisper, avoiding Marcus’s prying eyes as the man drew closer.

“What’s this ‘bout dinner? Your trainin’s not over.” Marcus places his hands at his hips, like a parent disciplining their child.

“He can’t continue with a hand like this…” Julie argues, showing the bruised hand, as the trainer grabs at it, harshly. Derricks nostrils flared as he closed his eyes while the man squeezes his hand roughly.

“This, Baby Doll, is the result of hard work! He’ll heal, and then he’ll be stronger. That’s the way it works.” Marcus scoffs offhandedly.

“He’s been boxing since we got together, and it’s never been like this before…” the girl argues, looking to her boyfriend for support, but Derrick widens his eyes at her, shaking his head, willing her to stop.

“I’m not going to argue with some prissy chick who wails at a broken nail. Get rid of her, Boy. You’re not done yet,” and with that, he walks away from the couple.

Julie scowled, turning to Derrick, “What the hell is-’’

“I know, I know,” The boxer grabs her face, placing his forehead onto hers, trying to calm her, “I’m sorry… I’ll make it up to you, I promise. It’s just… Marcus believes I have a real chance! He just needs me to train a little bit more.” He kisses her forehead.

“Der… This is too much; I barely see you anymore…You come home hours after closing, only to leave a few hours later. Hell, even your boss called me asking if you were okay… Der, it’s like you don’t exist. And to top it off, you’re getting even more hurt!”

“Babe, that’s not fair…”

“Your health matters, doesn’t it? Life outside the gym matters…right?”

“Of course it does…” She gives him a skeptical look, “I promise I’ll make it up to you, Jules, I swear…” He gives her a pleading look as he swept a strand of hair out of her face, “I just need this to work. I need to prove to him that I have what it takes to make it.”

Julie grabs his hands, looking at them for a moment before speaking, “Look… I’ve supported you since we’ve got together but its never been this intense before. I’m just worried.” Derrick gives a harsh sigh, “But… if you think this amount of work is necessary, then I’ll support you… just please, be careful. Be mindful.” She places her hands onto his cheeks, giving him a warm smile as she caught his eyes, “I’ll see you later.” She lets him go, and turns to walk out the door.

“She’s bad news, Boy…” Marcus says from behind him.

Derrick hangs his head, “You shouldn’t talk to her like that-”

The older man scoffs, “Oh please, don’t give me that crap, shit’ll make you soft.”

Derrick’s raises an eyebrow, “Because I want you to respect my girlfriend?”

“Because you’re whipped. Its weak… women shouldn’t have a say in what men do. I mean vegan? You better not be eating that fake shit so close to the fight.” Derrick glared at him, “Oh…don’t give me that look, I’m only protecting you. She will weasel her way in and try to get you away from your true calling… From your future success…” the older man claps his back, gesturing out towards the empty gym. “You don’t want that,” Derrick shakes his head again, “That’s right… Now, lets get back to work.”

The young boxer looks down at his swollen hand, “Sir… my hand really does hurt…”

“Pain leads to glory. This is normal. This is a good thing. The more pain you push past, the better fighter you’ll become. Now, back to the bag.” Marcus points to the punching bag. His face turns dark as Derrick starts to put his glove back on, “No gloves…”

Derrick’s head shoots up, “But-”

“You want to be better? No gloves.” Derrick warily removes the other glove, moving into position in front of the bag, “Jab.” He throws a right punch, the pain exploding up his wrist. “Jab,” he throws a left punch. “Hook,” Derrick swings his right at the bag, the power behind his knuckles waning. “You’re checking out. Push.” He repeats the rhythm, the pain getting worse. He stops for a moment, “Do what you’re told, Boy. If you listen to me, you’ll win this fight.” With that, Derrick picks up his fists, pushing through the pain.

It’s the day of the fight. Butterflies in Derrick’s stomach begin to flutter rapidly as they approach the stadium doors. He retreats within himself as he briefly closes his eyes. You’re fine, just do what you're told. They announce his name. Metal music fills the stadium as the crowd roars. They walk towards his corner when he spots his opponent. His opponent was not that different than him, similar gait and chest size, but he was a seasoned fighter, that alone gave Derrick a run for his money. A nervous sweat builds behind his neck.

The fight starts. Derrick immediately spots an opening and goes in hard for the first hit. Jab, Jab, Hook! There’s a sickening crack. Pain radiates up his right arm as his fist connects with the other mans cheek. It was excruciating. Unbearable, but he keeps pushing, trying to ignore the pain. His opponent attempts a few jabs, but he quickly blocks, causing the punches to land onto his gloves. He grunts, getting angry as the pain worsens. He moves to the side and throws another punch with his left. Its weak, as though he tapped him on the chest. He’s losing focus.

“Right hook!” He hears Marcus yell.

Derrick breaths heavily through his nose. He throws the right hook, only for his opponent to dodge it. The crowd starts to boo. He feels himself becoming distracted, more frustrated than before. He’s losing control. His opponent suddenly rushes him, pushing him towards the opposite corner. The seasoned boxer throws punch after punch, not letting Derrick get away.

Amidst the chaos, he can hear Marcus, yelling his head off, “God Dammit Boy! What the Hell are you doing?” The bell lets out three high dings, calling for the end of round one. Derrick walks to his corner, cradling his trembling hand.

“What the fuck is going on?” Marcus spits.

“M-my hand. Something’s wrong.”

The trainer slaps him. Hard. Nostrils flared, he pokes at Derricks’ forehead roughly, “Don’t bullshit me. I will not lose to your excuses; you hear? Go back out there and fight like I trained you!”

When the bell dings, Derrick is pushed into the middle of the ring. Circling his opponent, all he can comprehend is the ugly throb beneath the glove. His arm became stiff, sluggish. He stops for a moment, letting his right hand relax when suddenly, all he sees are the lights on the roof, then black.

...

When he opens his eyes, he is met with the stale white hospital room. He is still in his boxer shorts, with his chest covered by a hospital gown. He moves his toes and then his fingers, realizing his right hand was wrapped in a cast. Julie sat in the chair next to him, reading an old book.

“Jules... what happened?”

She looks up from her book and gives him a sweet, sad, smile, “You lost the fight, sweetheart...”

“Yea... I figured, but why am I here?”

“You broke your hand; you have a concussion… Doc says you’ll be fine if you take it easy for the next few weeks…” She gently grabs the cast hand, bringing it up to her lips, kissing it lightly.

“God… well… lesson learnt… I’ll be better next time,” He gives her a half smile.

“Der, are you sure there should be a next time.”

His smile falters, “What are you saying…”

“I’m saying that it’s killing me. You barely exist outside of the gym, and you’re pushing yourself too hard.”

Derrick is about to reply but not before Marcus bursts into the room, “Leave.”

Julie looks to Derrick who nods towards the door. She huffs quietly, “I’ll be right outside the door.” She pushes herself past the old trainer, clipping his shoulder roughly. She exits the room.

Marcus waits till the door closes before speaking, “Best teach that bitch some manners.”

The boxer huffs, “Don’t call her that.”

The older man ignores him, “What the fuck was that, boy. You cost the gym a lot of money pulling the shit that you did.”

Derrick is taken aback, “What the hell are you-?”

“Don't! No fuckin’ excuses. I train, you win. That’s how it works. That bitch has gotten to your head, made you soft. Filling your mind with pussy shit. You checked out before even entering that ring,” the heat of his anger rolls off him in waves.

“What are you talking about? I didn’t check out! I was hurt! I tried to tell you; you wouldn’t listen.” Derrick brings up his right hand to show the cast, “and what do you mean lost the gym mo-”

Marcus grabs the cast and pushes it back into the bed, putting his weight down into it. Derrick yelps, “That is still no excuse. What if it had been a real fight, what if she was in the line of fire? Would you have given up? No... Only on my time and on my money, right? You lost me my fucking gym because of your stupidity,” Marcus gives one last weighted push on the cast before releasing it, stepping back.

“So that’s what this was about? You bet the gym?”

“I don’t have to explain anything to you.” Marcus avoids his eyes, starting to pace.

“If you’re going to be a dick, then leave.

“You don’t want me to leave, Boy. Who is going-”

Derrick stops, ‘Boy’… Never Derrick… “What's my name?” He asks.

“What a ridiculous question-” Derrick is quiet, waiting. Marcus’s jaw locks, “A disrespectful question…” He turns towards the door, “You’re fuckin’ high or something… I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“No, fuck you... What’s my name?”

Marcus stops, “Ungrateful child… A disappointment…”

Derrick glares, “You don’t know… do you?” Marcus doesn’t reply as he continues to avoid Derricks eyes. “Just get out of here. Don’t contact me, don’t come to my house. I never want to see you again.”

Marcus looks to the ceiling, scoffing as he rolled his eyes, “I’ve given you everything, and you choose to shit on my name and quit? You would be no one without me. You and me… we stick to our own. We are a team, a family, don’t you see?”

Derrick shakes his head, “You’re not worth it… family is who you choose to keep around, Marcus, and I don’t need you around.” He holds Marcus’s gaze, “Not anymore…” The older man turns sharply away, silently, as if waiting for Derrick to take it all back. But eventually, he walks out the door.

Derrick relaxes as Julie walks back inside, “Did you hear all that?”

She nods, taking a seat beside the bed, “I’m sorry about all this…”

“Its not your fault… You were right… Looking back at these past few weeks, I see how overly intense it was becoming…” He laughs softly, “And to be honest, I’m not even sure if I liked it… I just liked that he believed in me.”

“Der…”

“-And you know, he pushed and he pushed. And I tried to get him to understand about my hand but he said it would be worth it. He said I’d win. He said that it was normal. I fucking trusted that asshole!”

“Der, you don’t need him.”

“I know that! I know now that I don’t need him and that he didn’t actually care, but jeez, I was with him for a long ass time…” He pauses, huffing to himself, “He was the only one to show me kindness and show me that I was more than the lowlife junky that I was, and now? Its all been stripped away because he was fucking faking the whole time.” Derricks voice cracked, and his breathing staggered. Julie grabbed his injured hand gently, rubbing her thumb against his.

“It’ll be okay Der-”

“I saw him like a fucking father, Julie. I wanted him to be proud. Now, I’ve disappointed him and myself. Fuck!” He yanks the pillow from behind his head with his good hand, throwing it across the room. The pillow slams softly against the cream wall, only to land unceremoniously onto the ground. He lays back against the flat bed, turning away from Julie as he wiped his face roughly.

Julie stands, walking over to the pillow to pick it up. She turns back towards Derrick, who is staring at the ceiling with a deep frown. She walks over to him, pulling at his shoulder slightly, silently asking him to sit up. He moves forward while she places the pillow behind his head, clean side facing up.

“I understand-“

“You don’t understand.”

Julie fluffs the pillow a bit, running her hand comfortingly across his brow, forcing him to look at her, “I do. I can’t say that I’ve experienced your exact situation, but I can see how it effects you. And I can see what you’re going through. You don’t have to go through this alone, Derrick.”

He remains silent. His eyes bore into hers. His frown relaxing. He is the first to break contact, nodding. She sits back down onto the chair letting the silence overtake the room.

~~~

Thank you for reading my short. If you want to be put on my taglist fill out this form.

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Till Next Time!

-Dey

[thelegendofclarke]

still got scars on my back (from your knife)

A Bellarke Knives Out Au in which Kane is probably Benoit Blanc, Clarke might be Ransom Drysdale, Bellamy is definitely Marta Cabrara, Dante was Harlan Thrombey, and like Detective Elliot, Miller is just along for the ride.

Written for @bellarkejanuaryjoy Day 29 and dedicated to @marauders-groupie and @woodswit who were the best sounding boards and cheerleaders and are the reasons this fic exists in any way, shape, or form.

When Bellamy walks into the Mt. Weather police station again, where he has been far too many times in far too few days, he is tired. The kind of tired that starts in your bones and slowly leeches into your soul. He has a migraine that feels like it originated in his prefrontal cortex, and he genuinely can’t remember the last time he felt like he could breathe normally or wasn’t on the verge of puking.   He’s led into an interview room in the back and when he enters he stops short. Marcus Kane, the self-proclaimed “last of the gentleman sleuths,” is perched on the corner of the table, posing dramatically as always. And sitting in a chair next to him is Clarke. Despite being arrested over 48 hours ago, she isn’t wearing handcuffs or an orange jumpsuit. Damn it must be nice to be a rich white girl. She’s just wearing a regular button-down shirt and jeans, and that small smirk that always made him want to kiss her. There’s something softer about it now though, and he hates how much that just makes him want to kiss it off her even more. Detective Miller motions for Bellamy to sit down in the chair across from Clarke. He does so without looking at Clarke or saying anything, just glaring down at the table so he doesn’t do something stupid like cry.

“You’re probably wondering why we’ve called you back here…” Miller starts.

“Oh, I’m wondering about a lot of things.” Bellamy shoots back at him.

Miller just snorts and looks over at Kane, “I’ll let you take it from here.”

Kane pulls out the pipe he carries around with him and starts to pack it. Bellamy can feel his scowl deepening, who the fuck even carries a pipe anymore?

Continue reading below or on Ao3...

“First of all, Mr. Blake,” he starts without looking up, “we must begin by giving you our most profuse and sincere apologies.” Kane lights the pipe and brings it to his mouth, then he looks at Bellamy and grins. That dramatic asshole actually smiles, far wider than Clarkes’ smirk, but equally as infuriating. “But you are just far too honest and decent a man to have been let in on all our plans.” He turns to Clarke and nods.

Clarke takes a deep breath and starts talking, but Bellamy can’t bring himself to look at her. He knows if he does all he’ll see is her grabbing his hands when he started having a panic attack, all he’ll feel is her fingers running through his hair, all he’ll hear is her soft but strong voice telling him to look at her, to focus on his breathing, reassuring him “It’ll be okay I promise… We’ll figure this out… Together.”

“You know, I used to be one of the only people that could ever beat my Grandpa Dante at Go. I used to pride myself on that,” she chuckles. “And then you came along and he told me you beat him twice as often as I did.” Bellamy looks up at that and finds Clarke looking right at him, her eyes focused on his. “He said you beat him almost every time. That you had never even played before you met him, but that somehow you would always win. And god that used to drive me fucking crazy,” she laughs again. “I couldn’t figure out how the hell you were beating him. I knew he wasn’t letting you win, he wasn’t that nice. And I knew he wouldn’t lie about it, he was far too arrogant. It was one of the mysteries he could never solve” she shakes her head ruefully at the memory. “How you beat him at that goddamn game night after night.”

“He never figured out that answer to that mystery,” she continues. “But I did. I finally solved it… You win because you don’t just play from the head, you play from the heart.”

“And you won again Bellamy… You won this game not by playing my way or my grandpa’s way, but by playing your way. You won because you are a genuine and honorable and fundamentally good person. You played it honest, you didn’t lie or mislead anyone or try to throw them off your trail. That’s why all the pieces fell perfectly into place: because you made all the right moves. You won by figuring out your strategy and making your decisions the same way you always have: from the heart.”

Bellamy just stares at her for another minute and then looks at Kane. “Look I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s been a really long couple of days and I’m pretty worn out so I’m just going to be really straight with you here and ask: what the actual fuck is going on?”

Miller snorts again, “I asked the same damn question.” He turns to Kane and Clarke and pulls out his little yellow notepad. “Actually, would you mind starting from the top again? Because I’m still not sure I really understand what in the damn hell happened.”

Kane and Clarke look at each other again doing that annoying nonverbal communication thing they seem to be so good at. Bellamy thinks he probably can’t complain about that too much though, since he and Clarke had gotten pretty damn good at it themselves after years of knowing each other, pretending to hate each other, and refusing to admit that they secretly adored each other.… Or so he thought… How the hell did he get her so wrong?

Before this week, Bellamy would have told anyone who asked, with a higher degree of confidence than he possesses about most things, that he could tell you almost everything there is to know about Clarke Griffin…

Namesake: Science fiction author Arthur C. Clarke, who her father had been a massive fanboy of and managed to convince her mother to let him name their newborn daughter after while Abby was still high as a kite on epidural anesthesia. Evidently, he had persuaded her by arguing that it was probably better than Arthurette or Arthurina; when Abby tells the story she always magnanimously says that at the time it seemed to be “the least of the evils.”

Middle Name: Matilda, after Empress Matilda, a member of the British monarchy who was some distant relative of the Wallaces, but that she pretended was after Matilda Wormwood because that Matilda was “infinitely cooler in all ways.”

Notable Likes: Inclusive, intersectional feminism. All forms of alcohol; with the notable exception of tequila which she will not look at, smell, touch, or tolerate in her presence in any way, shape, or form (he’d tried to ask her why once but she’d promptly turned green and puked into the nearest potted plant so he decided not to push the issue). Shark Week. Jane Austen novels. True crime documentaries. The Jonas Brothers (“They’re making a comeback Bell, whether you like it or not! Just save yourself the trouble later and lean into it now!”) Any and all things Harry Potter related (he’s pretty sure she’s on multiple bar trivia teams, including his own, just to answer the Harry Potter questions… And get the free booze.) Netflix. Adult coloring books. Anytime someone climbs a building to tear down a Confederate flag. Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Antique tea sets. Movies that have women wearing armor and/or holding swords. Wearing high heels because they make her feel tall (her diminutive frame is something she endlessly despairs over, but Bellamy maintains she makes up for through presence, spitefulness, and sheer force of will.) Her cousin Roan.

Notable Dislikes: Donald Trump. Tinder, which she has an active profile on (a fact that definitely did not bother him. Much.) Twitter, which she hates even more, and has an even more active profile on. Blavy (“I don’t care what Tom Ford or Marc Jacobs said Bell, it’s a disgrace!”) Humidity. The NRA. The Twilight series (because it was “pushing the suspension of disbelief” that anyone would pick Edward over Jacob, and “downright offensively unrealistic” that Bella wouldn’t just dump them both and run off with “the hot Cullen sister… Either one of them.”) Most forms of organized sports. All forms of organized religion. Camping. When people talk during movies. Having to wear “real pants” for more than a couple of hours on a given day. The American Healthcare System. Toxic masculinity, men yelling, manbuns, manspreading, mansplaining and men having to put the word "man" before everything because their egos were so fragile. Wearing high heels because they are “torture devices of the patriarchy” (Clarke speak for “they make her feet hurt and she’s a wimp.”) Her cousin Ontari.

Favorite Foods: Sushi. Guacamole Doritos (which she had cried genuine tears over being discontinued). Her grandfather’s disgustingly greasy fried egg sandwiches that taste like heartburn. Her mother’s blueberry cheesecake. Avocados (Bellamy never understood what the deal was with white people and avocado; like yeah avocados are great and all, but damn do white people really love avocado.) Movie theater popcorn. Bellamy’s adobo. Octavia’s empanadas. All kinds of Indian food, the spicier the better. Watermelon, especially when it’s filled with vodka. Almost anything that has chocolate in or on it. Potatoes in all their forms, especially the ones that have cheese on them. Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. Cheese Blintzes. Cheese fondue. Cheese in general, honestly. “That one thing we got at that one place that one time, Bell!” which he always knew exactly what she was referring to (Dante had always said that Bellamy, like him, was “fluent in Clarke: a skill coveted by the many, but possessed by the few.”)

Hobbies: Smashing the patriarchy. Art; painting, drawing, sculpting, anything that struck her fancy really (she even went through a sand art phase at one point, which ended up being short lived because while she loves art, she hates sand.) Making fun of Bellamy. Conspiring with Octavia to make fun of Bellamy. Making fun of her grandpa Dante. Conspiring with Bellamy to make fun of her grandpa Dante. Equestrian activities, the only kind of formal, organized “sport” she was actually good at (“All I have to do is sit there and tell the horse what to do, Bell. I’m so good at sitting around and telling people what to do!”). Fighting Twitter trolls. Reading, especially her grandfather’s mystery novels. Krav Maga, which Bellamy will admit surprised him a little (and then surprised him more than a little when he’d asked where she’d learned it and she shrugged and said “Israel” like it was as obvious as the inevitability of death and taxes.) Online shopping. Pretending to hate it when Bellamy calls her Princess. Buying and playing video games she doesn’t really understand with her little sister, Madi (“ I can’t trick her into thinking I’m cool anymore so it’s the only way I can get her to hangout with me. I’m just embracing bribery as a form of bonding!”) Over, and incorrectly, using the word “literally.” Telling Bellamy he is literally a pedantic killjoy.

He knew that she was deathly afraid of heights and irrationally paranoid about catching scurvy and getting cat-fished. He knew that she liked real bananas and blueberries but hated banana and blueberry artificial flavoring. He knew that her first kiss was with her best friend Wells in a closet during a game of 7 minutes in heaven at a classmate’s birthday party in 6th grade, and that her first kiss with a girl was in the exact same closet playing the exact same game at the exact same classmate’s birthday party two years later with a girl named Glass. He knew she lasted exactly one and a half years in med school before telling her mother that she needed to choose between Clarke being a doctor and Clarke being alive, because it was it was killing her slowly and driving her insane. He knew that she always ordered some kind of strange, obscure plant or flower to place on her father’s grave every year on the anniversary of his death because “he was weirdo who liked weird shit” (this past year it was a Venus Fly Trap, the year before that it was a Ghost Orchid because she was “feeling ironic.”)

He knew that she once met the Clinton’s at a charity fundraiser when she was little where she told then President Bill Clinton that he looked better with brown hair and threw up on Hillary Clinton’s shoes. He knew that she’d actually thrown up on several member of the rich and powerful elite; notable examples including Condoleezza Rice’s Hermès Birkin bag, Paul Ryan’s Armani sports coat, and Eric Trmups whole entire arm (which she admitted was definitely not an accident.) He knew that she loved school and learning and once got her English Lit teacher fired for failing her on a paper where she argued that Humbert Humbert was an obsessive, delusional, predatory pedophile who deserved to be medically castrated and the teacher had tried to tell her that Lolita was a “tragic love story” and that she was “simply too narrow minded to appreciate Nabokov’s true message.” He knew that she had unsuccessfully tried to pierce her own belly button in high school and managed to successfully pierce her own nose in college. He knew that she has four tattoos: a small crown on the back of her neck (which only made Bellamy double down on the Princess nickname after he found out about it), a lion on her left foot for her father, a lotus flower on her on her right wrist for her ex-girlfriend Lexa, and the Latin translation of “do no harm, take no shit” running down the left side of her rib cage.

He knew that she pretended to hate Valentine's Day when really, every single year, she handmade super elaborate and incredibly awesome cards for all her friends and family members (well, the ones she liked anyway). He knew that she was planning on naming her first daughter Gertrude after her grandmother, Dante’s deceased wife, even though the kid would probably hate her for it because her grandma was a badass and “metal as fuck.” He knew that otters were her favorite animal and that he favorite type of otters were those terrifying Amazonian river otters that could fight crocodiles (which was typical Clarke, honestly.) He knew that she loved her adopted little sister Madi more than anything or anyone in this world and was as fiercely protective of her as he was of his own little sister. He knew that she loved horror movies and hated Claymation because it freaked her out that that she has seen every single episode of F.R.I.E.N.D.S. at least three times and could sing all the lines of every single song Lana del Ray has ever recorded from memory.

He knew that she started drawing when she was really young and would sit on the floor in her dad’s office and draw on his grid paper while he worked on his designs; he knew that art had helped her through some really hard times like when she started questioning her sexuality and when her father had died and when he girlfriend had been killed and that she hoping to go back to school to become an art therapist. He knew she was stubborn and loyal and empathetic and unafraid to speak her mind. He knew she could be cunning and calculating and ambitious and ruthless and even downright vicious when it came to things going her way or getting what she wanted. Bellamy had just never thought there would come a day where he would be on the receiving end of all that Clarke Griffin Intensity. At least, not like this.

In all the years he’d known her, Clarke had never treated him like one her family’s employees or made him feel like “the help.” She got along (scarily, in Bellamy’s personal opinion) well with his little sister, and took (or sometimes dragged) him out places with her. She asked his opinion on things, and incorporated him into her friend group (while gleefully teasing him about how hot they all thought he was). She went to him for advice, and liked all his friends. She actually read the books and watched the movies and listened to the music he would recommend to her, and made him feel included at Wallace family events and dinners. She always laughed at his dumb jokes (sometimes so hard she would snort, which was his favorite), and would go to his apartment to feed the cat and water the plants when he was out of town. She would text him while she was on a bad date or at a boring event, and listened to all his rants about mythology and colonialism and the Star Wars universe and representation in media and all the historical inaccuracies in every single period drama they ever watched together. She would show him the art pieces she was working on, and remembered shit like his birthday and that he was allergic to tomatoes and the anniversary of his mom’s death and that Nerds were his favorite candy. She treated him like he was someone important to her, someone she cared about even. She made him feel valued and respected. She’d never treated him or made him feel like anything but her equal.

But now, finally looking up at the girl across from him, knowing just how much time and planning and work and effort she’d put into trying to fuck him over and ruin his life, it feels like being in the room with a complete stranger. And it might be one of the worst feelings in the world. Bellamy thought he knew her. Thought he could trust her, that he understood her, that they understood and trusted each other. He had considered her a good friend and, after so many years of knowing her, possibly even a best friend.

He had introduced her to his friends and his sister, and texted her links to stuff she would find funny and when someone said something absurdly ignorant or hilariously dumb on TV. He started keeping those alcoholic ciders she liked better than beer in his fridge, and thought way too hard about what to buy her every year for her birthday. He told her stories about his mom, and his childhood, and his first kiss, and his first girlfriend, and the first time he got punched and the first time he punched someone which were, to Clarke’s endless amusement, two completely different situations.

He told her about how terrified he’d been that he would never see his sister again when they were separated after their mom died, and how for years the only time he felt truly happy was during their weekly visit with their social worker when he got to see her, and how it took the longest time after he was officially able to get custody of her for him to finally relax and not worry that she wasn’t coming back every time she left the apartment, and how fucking proud he was of her for getting into a good college, and all kinds of personal shit he would never just tell to just anyone.

She’d become a fixture in his daily life, a staple in his routine, the first person after O that he wanted to share good news with, and the last person he wanted to say goodbye to before he left the Wallace estate to head home for the day. He let her in.

After years of his mom’s revolving door of terrible boyfriends, and moving around different towns to where ever Aurora could find a job, and constantly having to switch schools, and never really having time to hang out with kids his age because he had a little sister to take care of, and being passed around from foster home to foster home once he was put in the system, Bellamy didn’t just let people in and make friends with them. He has a screening process, a thorough one, what he had thought was an effective one; but somehow, Clarke Griffin had managed to make it through with flying colors in record time.

Bellamy is well aware that, in all likelihood, he should be more concerned about the fact that finding out he didn’t really know Clarke as well as he thought he did feels like his whole world has turned on its head and he doesn’t know which way is up. But between Dante dying and being framed for his murder and having paparazzi actually camped out on his front lawn and being put in charge of an entire estate he has no idea what to do with and bequeathed an amount of money so high he wouldn’t have believed it existed, there’s a lot to be concerned about. He can prioritize. Or at least multitask. Probably.

“Well why don’t we start with who it was that hired me,” Kane begins as he puffs on his pipe.

“We know who hired you,” Bellamy interrupts. “Clarke did. As part of her plan to frame me for Dante’s murder… I really don’t need to hear about it again.” If he has to listen to the whole story in terribly thorough detail again he is definitely going to do something stupid like cry. His voice breaks a little on the last words and out of the corner of his eye her sees Clarke bite her lip and look down at the table. Good, he thinks, she should feel like shit.

“Yes, Clarke did secure my employ,” Kane confirms.

Bellamy almost rolls his eyes. ‘Secure my employ?’ who the actual fuck even talks like that anymore?? While smoking a pipe??? Jesus tap dancing Christ.

“But she did so by proxy,” Kane continues, “under the instruction of her grandfather.”

That stops Bellamy and his internal running commentary on Kane’s outfit (Who the hell wears actual suspenders? And a goddamn deerstalker hat?? Where the hell do you even buy a deerstalker hat anymore?!?) right in their tracks. “Wait… What?”

“Dante Wallace hired me not only to solve his own murder, but to help his granddaughter frame herself while she also pretended to frame you at the same time.”

Bellamy blinks at him.

“You see Dante Wallace knew he was going to be murdered before he committed suicide,” Kane begins what Bellamy suspects is going to be one of the most confusing and ridiculous stories he has ever heard in his life. “And yes, Dante Wallace most definitely did commit suicide.”

This time Bellamy turns to blink at Miller. “Yeah,” he says dryly, “this is about where I started screaming internally too.”

Instead of continuing, Kane uses the pause to pull out that stupid coin he’s always tossing around and flips it in the air, catching it again without even looking but with uncanny precision. Bellamy is sorely tempted to tell him exactly how far he should shove the damn thing up his ass, but he physically restrains himself and waits for Kane to go on.

“Mr. Wallace knew not only that he was dying, but that he was being murdered. Slowly and painfully at that. He knew he was going to die and how, but he didn’t know when it was going to happen or who was doing it. He had a murder and a murder weapon, but no body and no actual death.”

Kane pauses and runs his fingers over his beard. Bellamy is like 99.9% sure this dude grew a beard just so he could stroke it dramatically. “He did have one other thing though,” Kane goes on, “and that was an obvious suspect.” He nods in Bellamy’s direction, “you.”

All three of the room’s other occupants are looking at him in silence. Bellamy’s breath catches and he starts to panic, “But you already cleared me. You said you know it wasn’t me. It wasn’t… I didn’t… I couldn’t… That’s…”

Clarke reaches out and grabs one of his hands. Bellamy can’t help but think that her tiny hand on his huge one shouldn’t be as reassuring as it is. “We know you didn’t do it Bell,” she tells him softly but firmly. She squeezes his hand, “we know you could never.”

He wants to smack her hand away and tell her not to call him that. He wants to tell all three of them to fuck off, he wants to get the hell out of here, he wants to get some weed from Monty the groundskeepers’ stash in the garage, or go down to Polis Pub and have O mix him up of those “kitchen sink” drink thingies she makes that he is pretty sure have what must be an illegal, non FDA approved amount of alcohol in them. He wants to go home and sleep forever, he wants to wake up tomorrow and have this all just be a terrible dream, he wants to travel back in time and never take this fucking job in the first place. He wants to do a lot of things, but he doesn’t. He just stays quiet and waits.

Clarke withdraws her hand and he sees her clench it into a fist on the table in front of her. “Grandpa Dante was being poisoned,” she says matter-of-factly. To anyone else it would seem like she was emotionless; but Bellamy sees the tension in her shoulders, the clench in her jaw, the rapid blinking of her eyes. He has been around the Wallace family long enough to know that they know how to put on masks. The can tamp down their anger, and swallow their sadness, and choke back their tears, and fake out their fear, and affect apathy along with the best of them. But Clarke has her tells, and he knows them. Dante always told him he was observant for his own good; that he was a good judge of character, that he pays attention to detail, that he notices the little things others wouldn’t even know to be looking for. And that one of these days it was going to get him into trouble.

He saw Abby disguise her sorrow and depression and grief after the tragic death of her husband Jake. And a few short years later, saw Clarke as the ice-cold, emotionless mirror image of her mother after her girlfriend Lexa was shot in a drive by. He saw Maya mask her terror the day she got her diagnoses, when she’d found out that she had developed a rare, life threatening blood disorder before she was even able to drive a car, that she would have to go through painful blood transfusions for the foreseeable future just to stay alive, and sees her to the same every time she leaves to go get her treatment. He saw Roan force back his fury every time he sees his mother treat people like dirt and watches his little sister show up to yet another family event high out of her mind. And he constantly saw Dante hide his sense of regret, his feelings of helplessness and hopelessness, when he reflected on what his family had become.

None of them managed to mask their feelings the day Dante’s will was read though, their emotions were written all over their faces: Nia’s fury at being passed over for “the help.” Abby’s shock and confusion at her father’s decision and clear feeling of betrayal and heartbreak that her father trusted Bellamy with his legacy more than he trusted her. Emerson’s horror over not being able to continue to maintain his lifestyle or pay for the treatment his sick stepdaughter needs to survive. Ontari’s hysterics at the easy funding for her pill and powder fixes being cut off. Roan’s indignation when he finally snapped ad yelled at his family members to “chill the fuck out and back the hell off! Bellamy clearly doesn’t know what the fuck is happening even more than we do!” And finally, Cage’s rage over Bellamy daring to take what Cage saw as rightfully his.

Not Clarke though. Clarke remained seated in the arm chair she had unceremoniously plopped down on when she arrived, throwing her legs over one of the arms and pulling up Candy Crush on her phone. Her attention wasn’t focused on her phone anymore though. Unlike the rest of her family, she stayed silent. Also, unlike the rest of her family, her ice blue, all seeing eyes were focused not on him, but on the people gathered around him, yelling and screaming, all hellfire and fury, threats and accusations flying. At first glance she appeared stone faced and detached. But while she studied her family Bellamy looked closer at her and for a brief moment, no more than a second, he saw it: the slight smirk curving at the side of her mouth.

Bellamy couldn’t tell exactly what was running through her mind that day, but he knows what she’s feeling now: grief over Dante’s death, sorrow over losing a family member (one of the only family members) she was close to, anger over her grandpa being murdered, and primarily: pissed as fuck that someone would do this to him. Bellamy still isn’t sure what’s happening or been able to process all the information he’s been given, but he’s starting to strongly suspect that hell hath no fury like Clarke Griffin scorned.

Kane rests a reassuring hand on her shoulder, wordlessly encouraging her to continue. Clarke takes another deep breath seemingly trying to calm herself, like it’s been ages since she felt like she was able to catch it. He knows the feeling. “I figured out he was being poisoned a while back,” she says. “He was just… He was getting sick way too fast.”

“I might not have been in med school for long but I was there long enough to know that his condition shouldn’t have been deteriorating so quickly,” her voice is getting steadier now. “He shouldn’t have been in so much pain, he shouldn’t have been so tired all the time. And nothing was working; some of the treatment should have been working, something should have been working.”

“You must have noticed it,” she half states, half asks. “I mean… He was just so… And nothing was… You had to have noticed it too?”

Yeah, she’s right; he had noticed it. Dante shouldn’t have been so sick so quickly. No matter how much he slept, he always felt tired. He started to lose drastic amounts of weight and his skin started to yellow at a disturbingly rapid pace. His heart rate and blood pressure were all over the place. His bones appeared to have become brittle overnight and he seemed to be in almost perpetual pain, his body shrugging in on itself while he sat, or contorting itself while he slept, just trying to get comfortable. He started getting spells where he was confused, he would have no idea where he was or not remember why he walked into a room or forget something Bellamy had told time only minutes prior. The spells wouldn’t have normally been too alarming in an elderly patient except that this wasn’t any other elderly patient, this was Dante Wallace. He had never been anything but sharp as a tact, quick on his feet, alert and awake and of perfectly sound mind.

She was also right about the treatment. Lung cancer is obviously nothing to scoff about, but the kind Dante was diagnosed with should have at least been manageable, if not treatable or even curable, with the right medication. Medication Bellamy knew he was on because he was the one that administered the drug to Dante every day, which subsequently brought him to the shit storm he was currently caught in without rain boots or an umbrella. Not only did the medication not seem to be doing anything to improve Dante’s condition in any way, they seemed to be making him worse. It was almost like they were causing new symptoms in addition to exacerbating the ones that were already there.

So yeah, he had noticed. Bellamy was no medical professional or trained expert; he was just a caregiver, a companion, he was just “the help,” but even he could tell that something was wrong. Whenever he had tried to express his concerns to members of Dante’s family as well. But whenever he tried to speak with Dante’s children about his health, he was either told off-handedly that it would be checked into, or told in no uncertain terms to mind his own goddamn business or his ass was fired.

“I mean, I’m well aware that me making the illogically, dramatically huge jump straight from ‘my grandpa is super sick’ to ‘MY GRANDPA IS BEING POISONED!’ is a little odd,” Clarke shrugs. “But it turns out that when you’re majoring in pre-med and spend your summers researching insane, off the wall ways to kill someone for your grandfather who writes murder mystery novels, you pick up some things,” she says grimly.

God, he thinks, her whole entire life must just be so weird.

“I remember taking a random medicinal chem class in undergrad,” Clarke starts rambling. “That’s how I think I first figured out what was happening. It took me a while to figure out the specifics, but once the details starting becoming clear it was obvious: Grandpa had anthracycline induced cardiac and pulmonary toxicity that was incorrectly diagnosed as potentially malignant, early stage lung cancer.” She’s talking even more animatedly now and gesturing wildly with her hands like she’s really getting into what she’s saying. Bellamy hates how cute he finds it.

“He was then treated with unnecessary, prolonged, and continuous exposure to radon which not only served to exacerbate his current vascular symptoms, but also caused additional idiopathic neurological, respiratory, skeletal, cardiovascular, and immunological afflictions that caused his condition to deteriorate to the point of inviability,” Clarke explains. Kane is nodding along like this all makes perfect sense to him and that she was explaining something as simple as how two and two makes four.

Bellamy and Miller just stare at her with blank expression of incomprehension on their faces. Miller previously had his pen poised over his notepad like he would have written down every word she said if he knew how to spell half of them. Now he just sighs and tucks his pen behind his ear and shoves the notepad back into his back pocket.

“Uh huh, right, exactly,” he says dryly. “How about you repeat that one more time in Normal Person.”

“He was poisoned with something that made it look like he had lung cancer,” she states matter-of-factly.

Miller shots Bellamy a look that he knows is asking “the fuck couldn’t she have just said that the first time?!” There’s a similar expression on his own face right now, he’s sure.

“Then he started getting chemo and radiation for the Not Lung Cancer which probably ended up giving him the Actual Lung Cancer and definitely gave him a whole bunch of other bad shit. He was slowly but surely dying,” she swallows and looks down at her hands, picking at one of her fingernails. “And the stuff that was supposed to be helping him was really just causing radon poisoning and killing him more quickly and painfully,” the crack in her voice makes him want to fold her up in his arms and tell her everything is going to be okay, the way she had for him so many times over the past week. Until he reminds himself that we don’t comfort people who try to frame us for murder. People who try to frame us for murder are assholes, no matter how pretty they are.

“My first guess was obviously Cage,” she goes on, “mostly because he sucks and I hate him. But still, it's not like I was wrong. It took a while for me to convince grandpa though, he was actually really pissed at me for even suggesting it in the first place.”

Bellamy remembers those few weeks severalmonths back when Clarke had stopped coming around and Dante had gone from his usual “exasperating old man shouts at cloud” to “insufferably cranky asshole.” When Bellamy suggested that maybe they invite Clarke over to cheer him up since she hadn’t been around in a while, Dante had just glared even harder and huffed that he and Clarke had “parted ways” due to “irrevocable creative differences” before flouncing from the room like an egregiously offended prima donna and locking himself in his study for the remainder of the day.

“I finally managed to convince him by figuring out where Cage would have been getting whatever he was poisoning grandpa with: his wife.”

Bellamy didn’t really know Cage’s wife, Dr. Lorelai Tsing Wallace, very well. Nor had he made any effort too. Primarily because she gave him the fucking creeps. She wasn’t the same brand of downright terrifying like Nia, or intimidatingly poised like Abby. She was scary in her very own, unique “don’t stand so close to me,” “makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up,” Stranger Danger kind of way. He would catch her eyeing him with interest sometimes, and he could never quite tell if it was in an “I want to jump you” kind of way or an “I want to kidnap you and harvest your organs” kind of way.

“It seems that the pharmaceutical development company Dr. Tsing works for had been doing a great deal of experimentation with alternative forms of radiation and chemotherapy treatment.” Kane says from where he’s returned to his perch on the table. “Namely, orally administrated, pill forms of radon.”

“We haven’t been able to establish any conclusive evidence that Lorelai Tsing-Wallace was knowingly or willfully involved in her husband’s plot to kill his father,” Miller interrupts, all procedure and formality. All three of them look at him with thoroughly unimpressed faces. “But yeah,” he concedes. “I honestly have no idea how the hell Cage would have gotten his hands on so much radon for so long without her help.”

“So yeah,” Clarke continues. “Once I was able to sit grandpa down and calmly and rationally explain to him what was happening to him and how, he was persuaded to see reason.

It’s another part of the story that Bellamy can’t help but snort at, because looking back, he’s pretty sure he remembers the exact incident she’s talking about. After going weeks without seeing her, Clarke had stormed into the house like a category 5 hurricane (as opposed to her typical level 2 tornado) and stomped up the stairs to Dante’s study. She’d pounded incessantly on the door, demanding he let her in and talk to her. And when he’d continuously and steadfastly refused she’d threatened to “kick in his antique, handcrafted, mahogany door with her heavy-duty riding boots that he knew would fuck that door right up because he bought them for her and knew exactly how expensive they were and exactly how much she was not screwing around.”

Eventually Dante had relented and after that there was a lot of muffled yelling and what definitely sounded like things being thrown and furniture being knocked over, all of which was typical for a Wallace family argument. “You can never say we lack passion,” Dante had always told him. But it was the eerie silence that came after that was concerning. After they were quiet for so long that Bellamy genuinely began to worry that they had somehow managed to kill each other, he relented and made his way up the stairs.

His soft knock was met with an even softer “come in.”

Bellamy had popped his head in and teased “just wanted to make sure everyone was still alive up here.”

God in hindsight that was such a terrible joke, pun absolutely not intended he swears.

“Yes, yes, everything is just fine Bellamy, fine.” Dante had said quietly. Both he and Clarke had been sitting at his desk, red eyed, red faced, and looking horribly sad and defeated.

“Uh ok,” Bellamy had cleared his throat. “Well can I get either of you anything?”

Dante didn’t answer, still staring at his desk, so Clarke said “No I think we’re fine… Everything is… Fine.”

Dante had looked up at that point. “Yes,” he’d said, still sounding odd. “Just fine… You may go for the day.”

Bellamy should have known at that moment that something was up; it was only 11 am and Dante rarely ever even dismissed him an hour early, much less before noon. But he’d just shrugged it off as “family stuff” he didn’t want or need to get involved in, and made his way home, honestly happy to have a day off.

“All that evidence combined with the fact that, starting several months earlier, Cage had apparently started coming around more often wanting to do “guys night” with grandpa and bringing over whatever absurdly exotic, stupidly expensive liquor he could find that week for them to try, was what finally did it.” Clarke continues her story.

Bellamy remembers that, too. Cage had started coming around in the evenings to visit with Dante and they would drink and smoke cigars out on the screened in porch or in the den. Bellamy had been wary of why Cage started coming over so often when he had basically never made an effort to spend any time “getting to know” his father since Bellamy could remember. Dante had, of course, decided to humor him saying “perhaps there’s still time.” Bellamy had never really figured out what there was possibly still “time” for, given that there was no amount of time in the world that could reform Cage into a halfway decent excuse for a human being. But he guessed that was really none of his business.

When he’d asked about it off-handedly, Cage had thrown him some kind of excuse about “who even knew how much longer the old quack was going to survive, so he needed to get in quality time while he could.” Bellamy had just glared and scoffed quietly when Cage turned his back, chalking it up to Cage being an insensitive asshole and generally awful person who was just trying to make sure he would get his cut after his father died. Bellamy just hadn’t realized exactly how far Cage was willing to go to make that happen. At that moment, Bellamy also remembers that after the Hurricane Clarke situation was apparently resolved, that Dante stopped seeing Cage as often. He would make up well and truly absurd excuses like “he volunteered to referee a charity tennis game… at 7 at night… in the middle of January” for Bellamy to give Cage about why he couldn’t come over in the evenings or why Dante wouldn’t be making it to Cage’s house for their usual Thursday night dinners. Eventually Cage got the message and just gave up; not that Bellamy had minded getting to blow Cage off. It had become one of the highlights of his day.

“It was also me who figured out that the person he was probably trying to pin the poisoning on was you,” Clarke says.

“Okay this is one of the parts I’m still a little fuzzy on,” Miller interjects.

“Same,” Bellamy agrees, with feeling.

“I mean it was basically just simple process of elimination,” Clarke says, like figuring this out had been nothing more than a leisurely stroll in the park. And for her it might have been honestly. She’s terrifying.

“Cage was going to have to pin it on someone, he might be a slimy little shit weasel but he’s not completely stupid. And the fact that you gave grandpa his meds, including his radon shots, every day and night, made you the most obvious and ideal candidate.” She’s right of course. “They were going to need some way to explain the inexplicably high levels of radon in Dante’s system. So the most straight forward strategy would be to make it look like you were either knowingly, willfully, and purposefully trying to kill him, or at least make a solid case for elder abuse and negligent homicide.”

“That’s also why we felt we couldn’t go to the police at that point,” she says sadly. “We had no real idea how long Cage had been at this, except that it had been awhile. And we also had no idea just how much evidence he could have fabricated against you, how well he had covered his tracks. He wasn’t just a step ahead of us, he could have hiked the whole Appalachian trail for all we knew.”

“That’s probably also how he came up with the insulin and morphine ol’ switcheroo scheme,” Kane says.

Switcheroo? Bellamy can’t with this guy, he really just can’t.

“And this is where you lose me,” Miller interjects. “How do we jump from Long-term Radiation Poisoning to Lethal Morphine Overdoes to Slit Throat. Not that I don’t think it’s not possible,” he reassures them, "mostly because you are all insane,” he tacks on to the end. “It’s just that I’m gonna have to explain all this to a jury, and with those three potential causes of death, I can barely draw a Venn diagram… And juries love diagrams, so I’m gonna have to come up with something to show them.”

“Have you considered a histogram?” Kane asks, completely unhelpfully. “I know they have developed a somewhat questionable reputation in the chart and graph community, but there is really something to be said for…”

Miller just levels him with a glare that Bellamy is pretty sure could cut through bullet proof glass and Kane raises his hands in apparent surrender. “Just something to consider.”

“Anyway,” Clarke says, bringing them all back to the task at hand. “Like most heartless psychopaths, Cage is nothing if not a determined little creep. It’s why he has several restraining orders again him. I don’t even know how many it is at this point to be honest.” She glances over at Miller, “Could you look that up for me actually? I’ve always wondered and whenever I try to ask him about it he gets all testy.” Miller just looks at her disapprovingly, but when she turns away Bellamy sees Miller write a quick note on his pad and yeah, he’s totally looking that up. They’re all curious about how many it could possibly even be now.

“Since his quality poisoning time with grandpa had been severely limited once we figured out what he was doing, we knew he was going to come up with another plan. He once called 73 ‘Kate Johnstons’ trying to find a girl who had already changed her phone number once because he wouldn’t stop harassing her. His brand of Relentless Creeper Bravado knows no bounds,” she says with a disgusted, despairing look on her face.

“We could never tell exactly when it was going to happen or how it was going to go down,” Clarke said. “But we knew it would be coming eventually. Grandpa knew he would have to help you when the time came, and he also knew that I would need to be there to have your back and cover anything that might look like your tracks in the aftermath. I mean, I had to make it look like I was throwing you under the bus and then hanging you out to dry. But I really was trying to cover your ass. It’s a great ass, I would have hated for anything to happen to it,” Clarke grins a little like the cat that ate the canary and Bellamy can’t catch himself before he starts to grin back. It’s been a long day alright, there’s no way he’s going to be able to keep track of everything that’s happening and control his facial expressions at the same time, sue him.

God he would be a terrible murderer. There is just way too much going on, he would never have been able to keep all this straight.

“We knew we needed to make the plan, including the final cause of death, airtight so that no average cop would ever even consider you as a suspect. No offense,” she says, glancing over at Miller who just shrugs like he wouldn’t have even considered taking offense in the first place.

“So that’s when it was decided that Clarke would be the Moriarty to our Holmes and Watson,” Kane says with a flourish of his pipe.

“I want you to be the Watson to my Holmes on this Mr. Blake,” Kane had said a few days into the investigation. “As one of the last people to see Dante Wallace alive, you have a unique insight into his state of mind and what happened that frightful night… Whaddya say?”

“Sounds like a dream come true, sir.” Bellamy had deadpanned, biting his cheeks to keep from smiling when he heard Clarke inelegantly, and completely ineffectively, attempt to cover her snort of laughter from somewhere in the background.

Kane had just grinned at him. “The game is afoot, eh Watson?” he’d joked in his comically slow, exaggerated southern drawl. That time he was pretty sure Clarke didn’t even try to choke back her snickering.

“Wait…” Clarke says glancing up at Kane. “Would I technically be Moriarty or Irene?”

“Well,” Kane ponders, stroking that goddamn beard again. “You were technically good even thought you were pretending to be bad, so wouldn’t that make you Irene?”

“Yeah… But I was still pretending to be something I wasn’t, so wouldn’t that just make me Moriarty either way?”

“Guys,” Miller interrupts their exchange.

“Right. Sorry,” Clarke says, like she’s just remembering where she is and what’s happening. Kane, on the other hand, looks like he’s still deeply considering the question and will continue to do so for the time being.

“It was actually the slit throat that tipped me off in the first place,” Clarke says with a little shake of her head and a half smile, half grimace. “If grandpa was really going to commit suicide he would never do it by slitting his throat,” she explains.

“He refused to use it as the cause of death in any of his novels because he considered them ‘offensively unimaginative’ and ‘inelegantly pedestrian’,” Clarke says, doing her best Dante impression which, Bellamy must admit, is pretty good. “But it was an effective way to blatantly show that his death was definitely self-induced. So that’s how I knew that something had gone wrong,” Clarke explains. “And when you told me about the accidental morphine overdose I knew it had to be the King of Try Hard’s plan put in motion and that it was Go Time…. No pun intended,” she adds quickly.

Bellamy runs his hand over his face thinking about the Go board, which is probably locked up in evidence right now, covered in Dante’s blood.

“Apparently,” she continues with a look in her eyes that could only be described as ‘murder mode’, “grandpa Dante was taking too long to die for Cage, so he decided to expedite the process. He knew that grandpa would never be able to say no to his birthday cake at the party.”

It was his favorite, German chocolate. Cage special ordered a huge one from Dante’s favorite bakery just for his birthday Bellamy remembers sourly. “I can’t believe you lived through World War II just to keel over and die from a German induced sugar high,” Bellamy had teased him while Dante dug into his second piece.

“Maybe so,” Dante had grinned at him. “But what a way to go eh?” Bellamy had just chuckled and walked away. He remembers reminding himself to make sure Dante got his insulin that night, and to make sure he got the higher dosage.

He can’t smile or laugh about that memory now though. All he can do is remember the horror and heartbreak that came just a few short hours later. He can feel himself starting to panic as he remembered looking down at the tiny glass bottles that held Dante’s insulin and morphine prescriptions. The terror that almost made his heart stop when he realized he’d given Dante more than 200 milligrams of morphine instead of insulin — more than enough to be a fatal dose.

“Hey, hey, Bellamy you gotta breathe,” he hadn’t even registered her moving, but somehow Clarke was kneeling right in front of him. Bellamy sucks in a deep breath through his mouth, but somehow the oxygen still doesn’t reach his lungs and he starts gasping for air.

He remembers the horror that washed over him as he realized: he’d switched the medication vials; the way it grew and started squeezing his lungs and clawing at his throat as he discovered that the emergency Naloxone was missing from his med kit. He remembers the feeling of urgency washing over him while he quickly told Dante what he did and picked up the phone to dial 911. The confusion when Dante pulled the phone cord out of the wall telling Bellamy they needed to “not be too hasty” and “to think this through” all the while Bellamy desperately trying to tell him that he only had ten minutes.

“Ten minutes until what?” he’d asked blandly.

“Ten minutes until you’re dead Dante! Like, stone cold dead. No do overs, no take backs.” Bellamy remembers trying to yell, but what came out was high pitched, hysterical panic. “We need to get you an ambulance NOW!” He’d lunged for the phone again, but Dante stopped him.

“Bellamy, son, listen to me right now,” Dante had said in his most serious I Am Dante Wallace and I Am Not Fucking Around voice. “If it’s only ten minutes, I’m already as good as gone. There is no way an ambulance could ever get here in ten minutes. We are too far from a main road, too far back on the property.”

“Dante, listen… There is no time, you have to listen! We have to get you help!” Bellamy had begged him, not even trying to maintain any of his composure at that point.

“Stop it! Stop this, Bellamy!” Dante had said, his voice even more serious and harsh. “Don’t you understand? If what you said is true, there is no saving me. If you call for help, the authorities will find you and a dead body and you will be in serious trouble for this. Trouble that you may never recover from.”

“I don’t care!” Bellamy had yelled. “I’ll deserve it!” I killed you, he’d wanted to scream. You’ll be dead and it will be all my fault.

“Think Bellamy, think about this. What about your sister? If you are tied up in, or even bankrupted by, lawsuits and legal proceedings and very possibly end up having to serve jail time, who will take care of Octavia? Who will be there for her? Who will protect her?”

Bellamy had glared over at Dante, he knew O is Bellamy’s kryptonite. He’s right though, Bellamy can’t just leave his baby sister alone in the world, not when he’s the only family she has left. Not when she’s relying on him, when he’s putting a roof over her head and making sure she eats and sleeps and does all those things young adults seem to constantly forget to do. Not when he’s paying for her health insurance and car insurance and putting her through college and planning on helping her with grad school. All with the money he made from this job. Fuck. He can’t just abandon her, can’t bring her whole life crashing down around her. He can’t do to her what was done to him when their mother died.

Dante must have noticed the change in Bellamy’s demeanor because he’d placed his hands on Bellamy’s shoulders and said, “We have to get you out of this. If you go down for this, your family will be broken again, but we aren’t going to let that happen are we? You need to listen to me very carefully and do exactly as I tell you… Will you do this Bellamy? This last thing. For me. For your family.”

He remembers trying to calm himself down and snap himself out of the overwhelming, panic-stricken haze that had overtaken his brain as he tried to pay attention to all of Dante’s instructions. He remembers the frenzied anxiety that he felt trying to remember what Dante had told him to do. Was it the drain pipe on the left or the right side of the house? Was he supposed to turn off the road before or after the tiered fountain?? What was the back-gate lock combination again??? Bellamy had known every single lock combination on the estate for years, but in that moment it had taken him at least six guesses. He remembers the frantic need to get as far away from the estate as quickly as he possibly could as he was driving home.

He remembers walking into his apartment and all the adrenaline that must have been keeping him upright completely disappearing. He remembers dragging himself into his room and lying in his bed all night, not sleeping a wink, just staring at his god awful beige colored bedroom ceiling, sobbing silent tears, a nifty little life hack he had picked up during childhood so as not to wake O who was usually sleeping in the room right next to his, if not in the actual bed right next to him. He remembers the freight train of emotions steamrolling over him as he realized that one of his best friends was dead. That he had killed one of the only true friends he’d ever had in this world.

The thing that he remembers most vividly of all though, was turning around to open the door to Dante’s study right after he’d stepped out to say “Fuck it. I’m calling you a goddamn ambulance, I don’t give a shit,” just in time to see Dante slitting his own throat.

“No, no, in through your nose and out through your mouth Bell,” Clarke says a little more urgently, jerking him back into the present moment. She grabs his hands and pushes her thumbs hard into the middle of his palms, trying to ground him. “Close your mouth and breathe through your nose and think about something else, like Kane’s stupid pipe. I know how much you hate that thing.”

Kane’s expression momentarily turns from concerned to offended. When he opens his mouth Bellamy just knows he’s about to launch into a diatribe about how pipes are traditional and sophisticated and all that shit. The thought makes Bellamy snort out a laugh which interrupts his breathing efforts and he starts gasping again.

Then Kane comes to kneel next to Clarke and looks at Bellamy with the first serious, sincere expression he thinks he’s seen from the man since he met him. “Bellamy, son,” he starts in that ridiculous drawl that Bellamy is sure must be greatly exaggerated, if not totally fake, but doesn’t really know enough about Southern dialect to call him out on it.

“Bellamy listen to me,” Kane goes on, making Bellamy meet his eyes and squeezing his shoulder. “You didn’t kill him, son. You did not kill Dante or do anything that led to or resulted in his death. You are an innocent man, Bellamy Blake.”

Bellamy tries to listen to what they are saying to him, but it sounds like they are talking under water and he feels like he’s drowning.

Miller rushes back into the room with a styrofoam cup that he gives to Clarke who then thrusts it into one of his hands while keeping hold of the other. “Here,” she says decisively, like somehow this cup is going to single handedly subdue the sheer panic tsunami that’s still building up inside him. Maybe they just think he needs something to throw up in. When Bellamy looks down at the cup though, he sees that it's full of ice cubes. “Now start crunching and breathe through your goddamn nose.” He does what he’s told and can’t believe she remembers such a small, insignificant detail like that this is his mental breakdown self-medication of choice.

They had been at the Dropship Diner for about an hour or two, and it was during one of the lulls in their anxiety inducing and more than a little depressing conversation about What the Actual Fuck Happened to Dante that he'd noticed her staring at him.

“What?” he’d asked. “Do I have something on my face?”

Clarke had blinked like someone just woken her up from a coma and then shaken her head a little ruefully. “No,” then she’d smiled slyly at him. “Well… At least not anything you can fix.”

He’d snorted. “So just thinking about who you’re going to hire to slowly and painfully kill me to avenge your grandfather’s death then?” He’d only been about half teasing, give or take. Clarke was very much her grandfather’s granddaughter in that she could be downright terrifyingly intimidating when she wanted to be.

She’d cackled at that. “Definitely not,” she’d laughed. “I mean, why outsource a job I could easily do myself?” Bellamy wouldn’t put it past her to be honest, but her grin while she said it had made the would be threat completely ineffective, and he could feel some of his nerves finally begin to settle a bit.

“I’m honestly just wondering how in the world you still have any teeth,” she'd said, shaking her head. “Did you make some kind of dental deal with the devil? Can he do something about my molars? I mean, I know I clench my jaw all the time, but them chipping so often feels a little dramatic.”

He’d barked out a laugh. “What?”

“Well I’ve watched you chew your way through cup after cup of ice water with the hyper focus of some kind of robot beaver on meth, but I don’t think you’ve actually drank a single drop of actual water.”

Bellamy looks around him and sees that yep, there are about eleven half empty water glasses in front of him that he had sucked the ice out of with the tenacity of a Roomba.

He runs a shaky hand through his hair. “Just a weird coping mechanism,” he’d told her. “I started doing it as a kid. We were too poor to get me on any actual anxiety medication or pay for me to do something constructive with all my nervous energy, like ice dance kickboxing or therapeutic underwater basket weaving or whatever it is you rich kids do.” She’d snorted at that but still nodded her head as if to say fair enough. “But between all my mom’s shitty, drug addict boyfriends and being my little sister’s primary caregiver while still trying to get good enough grades to not get kicked out of the charter school I was in, I had a lot of nervous energy. So yeah, ice chomping it was.”

“Wow,” she’d said. “That took a real hard left from cute childhood anecdote to tragic backstory really quickly. Never even saw the plot twist coming.”

“Yeah, I’ve got a few of those,” he'd told her, trying for a joking tone but completely missing it, if the way her expression had softened was any indication.

"I know you do.” She'd said quietly.

“You know you’d make a perfect broody detective with a tragic childhood in one of my grandpa’s books,” she’d said lightly, obviously trying to bring the levity back to the conversation. “You know, the dramatic ho, asshole with a heart of gold type who says shit like ‘they work outside of the law, but on the side of justice’ .”

He’d just shaken his head and smiled ruefully at her before putting his head in his heads, thinking about how much he was going to fucking miss Dante and willing himself not to start crying again. He’d cried more in those past few days than he had in a long time.

“SO!” she’d said loudly all perk and pep, clapping her hands like an annoyingly upbeat cheerleader and jolting him out of his reverie. “What are we gonna do about the whole ‘you potentially being caught propelling down a drain pipe with the stealth of a cat thrown into a swimming pool a few minutes after grandpa’s overdose’ thing? Because even I gotta say… That one is gonna be a toughie.”

Of course she remembers, he muses, she’s Clarke. And even though he’d never admit it, he’s pretty sure he remembers every single small, insignificant detail he’d ever learned about her too. She’s Clarke after all, his Clarke. The thought comes with such startling clarity and certainty that it’s what finally manages to snap him all the way out of the deep, dark panic hole he had been digging.

He opens his eyes and sees that Kane has moved away giving him some space. But Clarke is still there, holding his hand tightly in hers and stroking her thumb gently over his knuckles. She’s looking up at him from her place on the floor; all soft, concerned blue eyes and earnest, encouraging heartbreaker smile and yeah, he thinks, definitely His Clarke.

“Did you hear what Kane said, Bell?” she asks gently. “You’re innocent, you didn’t do it.”

Bellamy opens his mouth to contradict her, but Miller interrupts him before he can say anything, “It’s true Mr. Blake. Dante Wallace’s official cause of death is in fact blood loss from a self-inflicted stab wound.”

Bellamy opens his mouth again to point out that Dante never would have cut his own throat if Bellamy hadn’t fucked up and given him a huge overdose of morphine, but Miller also interrupts him again. “The toxicology screens and blood tests conducted as part of Mr. Wallace's autopsy also showed that there was no morphine in his system at all, just his normal dosage of insulin. In fact, the only abnormality found on Mr. Wallace's tox screens was an irregularly high level of radon in his system. Inexplicably high, even for someone who had been undergoing regular treatments of radiation or chemotherapy for some time. You didn’t give Dante Wallace an overdose of morphine or any other drug.”

Bellamy just sits there, totally speechless and completely dumbfounded.

“Now that Wallace’s deathly has been unequivocally ruled a suicide, neither you, nor anybody else, is under investigation for his murder,” Miller says firmly.

“But,” he goes on and Bellamy feels his gut clench again. There’s always a but. “In anticipation of the potential event that Dante Wallace’s death was not a suicide, we started considering potential motives. With a man like Dante and his considerable fortune and assets, as I’m sure you could imagine, money was obviously the first thing we came up with.”

“Dante’s oldest child, Abigail Caroline Griffin had no financial motive to want him dead that we could find.” Miller said nodding at Clarke. “Nor could we find any financial motive for his other daughter Antonia Elizabeth Kingcade. Like, none. Absolutely. Whatsoever.” And damn, Bellamy knew that was the god’s honest truth.

Not only was Nia still getting alimony and child support for Ontari from her ex-husband, who somehow managed to make more money than she did, he knew that Nia regularly made a killing in her own career. Figuratively that is; although it’s totally possible Nia actually kills people as part of her job, he wouldn’t be that surprised. Bellamy never knew what exactly it was that Nia did honestly; every time he’d try to ask someone, including her own son, they would open their mouths and start to answer him only to say something like “huh” and scratch their heads trying to figure out if they just couldn’t remember or ever even knew in the first place. Eventually they would start to look like they were thinking so hard they might hurt themselves, so Bellamy would just say “never mind” and eventually gave up trying to find out. All he really knew about what Nia did for a living was that she did a lot of it and that she did it very well. Well enough to land herself a spot on the high ends of all those “Fortune 500,” “50 Most Influential Under 50,” “Lifestyles of the Super Rich and Powerful,” "Have Never Paid Their Federal Income Taxes," "We Could Probably End First World Poverty But Just Choose Not To," lists that magazines like Forbes and Time made year after year.

“His oldest son Cage Bradford Wallace however,” Miller says with a pained look on his face like the name is so douchey it offends him to have to say it. Bellamy will hand it to him that it is an offensively douchey name. It's almost like his parents knew he was going to be an offensive douche bag and named him accordingly, “had more motivation than a Richard Simmons workout video. Turns out that Wallace Jr. has been running his ‘investment firm’ less as a business and more as a personal piggy bank. We think he figured out a long time ago that it was going to catch up with him and that he was going to have to somehow magically replace all the money he’d stolen from his investors. But apparently the scheme he came up with the get that money was less magical and more... attempted homicidal.”

“We have a forensics team sweeping his home, his car, and his office right now as well as digging through all his trash,” Miller says. “And I’m not a betting man… At least not during the week anyway… But I am more than willing to bet we are going to find radon residue all over Cage’s entire life from the past year or so.”

The door swings open, interrupting Miller’s monologue, which he looks vaguely put out by. “Not probably, definitely.” It’s Detective Reyes, Miller’s partner and head of the forensics team on the case, and who is the same brand of disconcertingly intelligent and unnervingly observant that Clarke is.

The first time he’d met her, she’d been taking his fingerprints and DNA sample and collecting fingernail scrapings and whatever else it is forensic people collect. He was having a hard time focusing at that point, the panic fog still hanging thick over his brain.

“Okay, you’re all set!” She’d declared when she was finished with whatever it was she was doing. “I’ll let you get back to your cat.”

“My…?” he’d started, staring dumbly at her.

“Your… cat…,” she’d said slowly, like she was trying to explain the rules of Candy Land to a four year-old. “Orange Calico, I’m pretty sure… Might be a Tabby though.”

“How did you…?”

She’d reached over to pluck off a tiny orange hair Sphinx must have left on his jacket that his heavy-duty lint roller didn’t catch. Then she’d just grinned like a wolf and left him with a cheery “have a nice day!” and blown out of the room in a whirlwind as quickly as she came in.

“We also strongly suspect that Carl Emerson Wallace is a co-conspirator in his father’s death,” Kane adds flipping his little coin thingy again. Bellamy decides that he really doesn’t need to work both the pipe and the coin at the same time. One would be enough for him to maintain whatever vibe he’s going for. Bellamy still isn’t completely sure what that vibe is exactly, but at this point he’s a little too afraid, and mostly too tired, to ask. 

“Not only did he also have a financial motive,” Reyes says letting a stack of file folders drop loudly onto the table and making everyone in the room jump, “being that he too was broke. But a search of his car turned up a small vial of Naloxone, which he has no business or reasonable explanation for having in the first place. And it will likely prove to be the emergency Naloxone missing from your kit.”

The emergency Naloxone Bellamy needed that night. The Naloxone that would have saved Emerson’s own father’s life. Bellamy can’t help but clench his jaw and tighten his hold on Clarke’s hand. Fucking Emerson, this would be the one time he manages to do something vaguely useful or slightly right.

“Okay. Ow. Bell,” Clarke interrupts his mental tirade by poking his leg. “I know I’m not your favorite person right now, but maybe we can negotiate about which of my appendages you get to rip off? Because I like my fingers, and I just got this manicure.”

Bellamy looks down to see that Clarkes fingers are literally turning white in his grip. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly letting go of her hand. He can’t help but chuckle, both at himself and over the fact that Clarke doesn’t know she’s basically his favorite person in any given room at any given time. Even, evidently, when she’s fake framing him for murder.

She just smiles ruefully at him and gives his hand one more warm, reassuring squeeze before making her way back to where she had been sitting on the other side of the table. He wants to drag her back over to him; to take her hand back in his and fold her under his arm and know she’s on his side again. But he doesn’t, he can maintain some level of chill. He can.

“We knew Cage would fuck up at some point,” Clarke says once she’s settled. “He might be a clever little douche canoe, but he’s not that smart. And his first major fuck up was thinking you would fuck up.”

"He switched are the vials in your med kit," Miller says when Bellamy looks at him questioningly, "or had someone switch them around for him, as the case may be."

Fucking Emerson.

"It was as simple as using the syringes in your kit to switch the liquids in the insulin and morphine medication vials, and then taking the emergency Naloxone as a precaution," Reyes explains. "So simple even an idiot like Emerson could apparently do it."

Bellamy might just end up in jail for murder after all before this is over, because he is going to fucking kill Emerson.

“Apparently, the one thing Cage didn’t count on was that, unlike him, you are actually competent at your job,” Kane says pulling several small vials out of his bag on the floor next to him and setting them on the table in front of Bellamy. "Not just competent; dedicated, skilled, exceptional, unerringly so it turns out. And for that reason, you did not give Dante an overdose, you did not use the incorrect medication. You switcherooed the switcheroo."

Bellamy can't even be annoyed at Kane's word choice, because he is genuinely to stunned to think straight.

“That’s impossible,” he manages to choke out. “I was there… I know what I… I know I gave him an overdose.”

“No, you didn’t,” Kane counters. “Here, I’ll show you… Hand me that vial of morphine.”

Without thinking Bellamy grabs the bottle of morphine from the table and hands it to Kane, who takes it from him grinning. “If you look Mr. Blake, you’ll see that I have taped over the labels of all these medication vials, and the vials themselves are identical… So how did you know this was the morphine?”

“I just knew,” Bellamy says shocked as hell and honestly surprised he can talk.

“Yes, you just knew. You knew because there are the slightest, almost imperceptible difference of tincture and viscosity between all these liquids. You knew because you had administered these exact same medications to Dante Wallace steadfastly and without fail every night for years. You knew because you'd done it hundreds, if not thousands, of times. You gave him the correct medication because you are a good care giver.”

“Then Dante was…?”

“I’m sorry Mr. Blake, but yes,” Kane says sadly. “Mr. Wallace was perfectly fine. His blood was normal. The cause of death was truly, solely suicide, and you are guilty of nothing but some slight property damage in the form of a broken drainpipe and a few amateur, albeit impressive, theatrics. In fact, if he had listened to you and called the ambulance, he would be alive today.”

Bellamy swears his heart actually breaks in that moment. He can feel the sharp, relentless pain starting in his chest and radiating through his entire body as he puts a hand over his mouth and chokes out a strangled sob.

“Yeah,” Clarke says sounding and looking absolutely miserable. “You would think he would have learned at some point to just listen to you,” she tries to tease, but it doesn’t quite land.

“Anyway,” she says curtly, quickly wiping a tear off her cheek like it’s personally offending her. “Once we found out that grandpa had left you literally everything, Cage was even more likely to start getting sloppy and desperate. But what we couldn’t have happen was for us to wait for Cage to dig his own grave and have you go down in the meantime. And I just so happened to be the perfect scapegoat,” a little bit of her grin coming back. “The greedy, self-obsessed granddaughter whose more than willing to hang ‘the help’ out to dry so she can get her perfectly moisturized hands on her share of granddaddy dead and dearest’s dough.”

It’s in that moment that Bellamy actually understands just how immeasurably huge of a gamble Clarke took in risking her ass for this. Sure, it was a calculated risk, with several elaborate fail safes and back up plans, but still. As he begins to truly appreciate what Clarke had done, what she had been willing to do, all for him, to keep him out of trouble. The guilt settles over him like a dark, heavy cloud. He’s spent days hating her. He has said some truly heinous things about her in anger. He had no second thoughts about believing the absolute worst of her. She’s supposed to be his friend. He should have known she would never truly do something like try to frame him for murder she committed. Hell, he should have known that she wasn’t even capable of committing any type of murder at all, much less the one of a person she loved. Clarke could never in any time, dimension, or universe do anything like that. Not his Clarke.

She must notice the heaviness settle over him because when he opens his mouth to start apologizing to her, he’s not above begging really, she puts her hand up and says “I know what you’re gonna say, and don’t… I also know exactly what you’re thinking, and stop.” Honestly he’s sure she really does know, she always knows somehow.

“Yeah sure it was risky,” she says with a shrug, like possibly going down for first degree murder is about as potentially risky as buying a lottery ticket. “But, given the fact that I didn’t actually kill grandpa Dante, they never would have been able to come up with much more than a pretty weak, completely circumstantial case against me… Again, no offense,” she says to Miller who just nods as if to say ‘well, it’s not untrue.’

“And besides, it’s not like I couldn’t afford adequate legal representation who could have totally gotten me out of it. I mean, we might have had to sell one of the summer homes, but it’s like they always say: victory stands on the back of sacrifice,” she says with a completely straight face.

That does startle a bark of a laugh out of him, but the guilt is still there. It’s pinched between his eyebrows and clenched in his fists and sitting heavy in his gut. He knows he won’t be free of it until he really gets to talk to her. Just the two of them. Together. But this clearly isn’t the time or the place to do it. There’s already way too much going on.

“Here’s what I don’t get,” Miller interrupts, startling Bellamy. He had genuinely forgotten Miller was there, or that they were in a police station, and pretty much everything else that was happening. Clarke tends to have that effect on people. Well, mostly him, that he knows of; but he’s sure there are others somewhere. “Why not just tell Bellamy all of this?”

“Kane wasn’t just being figurative or facetious when he said Bellamy was ‘too honest’ to be in on it,” Clarke says. “He is literally incapable of being a convincing enough liar for us to have told him anything about it. He has an unfortunately obvious tell when he tries to lie.”

Ah, so Dante told her about the stutter. Bellamy knows he shouldn’t be surprised really, especially now that he knows Clarke was Dante’s ghost writer. And Clarke was observant as hell, it was totally possible that she just picked up on it herself. He tried not to make it a habit to lie to his employers, but when you are working for the impossibly rich and impossible to please, sometimes it’s necessary. He could usually make it through a quick fib without his voice shaking too much, but he knew it was still noticeable if you were paying attention or looking for it.

“Yeah,” he says with a grimace. “It’s a little nervous habit I picked up during childhood.” He knows that’s putting it very, very lightly. He’s not sure exactly how much Dante would have told Clarke about how Bellamy developed the “stammers when he tries to lie” thing. Probably not much, considering the fact that it’s not a particularly fun or entertaining story to tell.

It had started with one of his mom’s shitty boyfriends, who happened to be O’s dad, which came with the unfortunate side effects of him not just being around for a while, but actually living with them for an extended period of time. While all of Aurora Blake’s boyfriends had been shitty humans in general, this one’s particular brand of shiftiness was a drug induced one. The guy, whose name Bellamy refuses to remember on principle, was a crazy, paranoid tweaker who had decided that 10 year-old Bellamy was somehow the root cause of all his problems and the bane of his entire existence.

When Aurora was at work he would yell and scream and threaten Bellamy for hours on end, sometimes keeping him up until the early hours of the morning when his mom had to work the night shift. He would sit Bellamy down at the kitchen table and pace around the kitchen, using the “bad cop” style of interrogation that Bellamy recognized from those crime shows he definitely didn’t secretly watch while his mom was at work or he was at a friend’s house. He would accuse Bellamy of lying to him, of stealing from him, of spying on him, having him followed, trying to take over his mind, trying to body snatch him. Of being everything from a Ded to a demon haunting the apartment to a rare alien species trying to take over the world and make humans their slaves.

Eventually he started throwing in threats about hurting his Mom and O, who was still just an infant at the time, and Bellamy got so terrified of the dude’s escalating behavior that he just started making things up and telling him what he wanted to hear. Typically, this would appease him and he would calm down for a while until he shot up again and the process started all over. Bellamy would admit to anything, confess anything, say literally anything just to make it stop.

He got so used making things up that he almost couldn’t tell what was the truth and what was lies anymore, except for one thing that kept them apart for him. Bellamy would try to come up with stories so quickly and talk faster than he could think and get so terrified and nervous that whenever he came up with a lie, he would stutter, desperately making things up as he went, just trying to get it out before the yelling and screaming started all over again. It started happening with other people and in normal, everyday conversations too. And before he knew it, he couldn’t even tell a simple fib without breaking out into cold sweats and stammering uncontrollably.

That had gone on for what was probably way too long, until it eventually escalated into the shitty boyfriend demanding Aurora kick Bellamy out because he was actually some kind of government drone sent to spy on them. For what reason the government would give enough of a fuck about this deadbeat, drug head to send a drone to spy on him, Bellamy could never figure out. And it was honestly kind of a moot point anyway because Aurora had ultimately refused, obviously. While she had horrible taste in men and difficulties holding down a job, she made for damn sure that no one fucked with her kids.

It was after that incident that Aurora sat Bellamy down and explained to him that while she counted on him to look after his sister, he also needed to look out for himself. That she wanted to look out for the both of them, so she needed to know when someone treated either of them badly, or he thought someone was treating her badly. That if anyone ever hurt or scared him or his sister, or gave him a bad feeling, he could tell her and they would be gone, no questions asked. And to Bellamy’s surprise she actually kept that promise for the remainder of her life. But unfortunately, “the rest of her life” would only be a few more short years. He lost a lot of things when his mom passed: he lost her, he lost his sister for a while, he lost his home, and he lost any small sense of stability and security he’d had in his life. But the stammer stubbornly refused to take a hike. Now it’s just a part of his everyday life, a quirky personality trait. At best, it’s a fun, if not kind of bizarre, party trick. And at worst, it’s some stubbornly residual PTSD resulting from a depressingly tragic back story that Bellamy probably should have gotten years of therapy for. And hey, now that he’s loaded, he can actually afford it.

Dante had found it absolutely fascinating. He even used an adaptation of it in one of his books. One of the main characters in the novel was a young woman who had a “regurgitative reaction to mistruthing” or, in other words, she blew chunks every time she even thought about telling a lie. Bellamy hadn’t particularly cared for that rather unflattering iteration of his condition. But apparently Dante’s publisher’s thought it was inspired and his readers went absolutely nuts for it, so he just got over himself.

“But grandpa Dante didn’t need to know any of that to be sure that you were the right person to trust to leave in charge of his estate,” Clarke says. “I still can’t believe how genuinely shocked some of them were that he would leave you something… Leave you everything even… I saw it coming honestly.”

“See my grandpa knew you Bellamy Blake. Even when he found out he couldn’t trust his own family, his own children, even we he thought he could no longer trust his own judgment, he knew he could trust you. He knew you wouldn’t sell his stories or his company off to whoever was the highest bidder like Nia wanted to, that you would make sure it went into the hands of someone who would respect his vision. He knew you would never do something as cruel as leave Maya in the lurch with her blood transfusions, but would be able to keep Emerson from seeing ‘one red dime’.”

Bellamy can’t help but smile at Clarke’s use of one of her grandfather’s favorite dramatic epitaphs; but at the same time, he feels his gut clench at the memory of the phone call he got from Maya the other day while he and Clarke were sitting in the Dropship Diner, staring at what had to have been at least their fourth pot of coffee.

“Hey Bellamy,” she had sounded nervous, her voice strained.

“Maya? Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“No… I was just wondering if you had decided what you were going to do yet? With grandpa’s estate? Are going to keep it or…?” she trailed off at the end.

“I don’t know yet Maya,” he’d told her. “I’m still in shock my head is spinning, I can’t even…”

“I think you need to give it back,” she interrupted him in a harsh tone she’d never used with him before. “I mean, it’s the right thing to do Bellamy. This family… We were always good to you. We’ve always been really good to you and your sister… It wouldn’t be right just taking everything from us like that… It was shitty of grandpa to put you in this position and I think you really just need to…”

She’s rambling, her voice is getting even more high pitched, it sounds like she’s panicking. Somethings not right, he can tell. “Maya, slow down okay. Just… Tell me what’s going on.”

He hears her choke back something like a hysterical sob.

“Shitgoddamnitfuck,” she sounds even worse. “I can’t do this. God, I’m sorry Bell! I’m so fucking sorry I’m…”

“It’s fine,” he tries to keep his voice level, nonchalant, reassuring. “Just tell me what’s up.”

“My dad can’t afford my treatment on his own.” Bellamy swears he can feel his balls drop and a cold dread settles over him. “My dad is… He’s broke Bell… He can’t pay for them, grandpa was paying for everything and now he’s not and I don’t know what will happen if I stop being able to get my treatment Bellamy, I don’t even know if I’ll…”

Bellamy knows: she’ll die. Maybe not right away, but eventually, her condition will turn from manageablely life threatening to undoubtedly fatal. Without the ridiculously expensive medication she has to take and her bi-weekly dialysis and transfusions, her blood will start clotting, her immune system will stop being able to fight off infection, her bone marrow will break down, and her body will collapse in on itself. He’s not a doctor or nurse, but he’s been around enough sick people to know what all the big words and scary jargon add up to.

He was there a few years back when the Wallaces called one of their rare Official Family Meetings and were told that Maya’s aplastic anemia had progressed to full blown paroxysmal nocturnal hemoglobinuria. He was there when Dante called in doctor after doctor and flew in experts and specialists from around the world to get 2nd and 3rd and eventually 12th and 13th opinions. He was there when Maya would stay over at the estate for days at a time, not wanting to be home alone while her step-dad went off on one of his “business trips,” (aka his week-long benders in Vegas or Miami or where ever there wasn't currently a warrant out for his arrest for some kind of misdemeanor). He was there when Maya would break down and crack under the depression and the fear of dying. And he was there when Dante would cry on his shoulder over the helplessness he felt that, even with all his fame and fortune and infinite resources, he couldn’t fix this for her.

God, it was just like Emerson to blow through all their money without giving a second thought to his 16 year-old step daughter and her life threatening condition for which she needed continuous care for the foreseeable future. Bellamy never got the chance to know Ada Vie, Maya’s mom, very well; but at least he knew she loved and took care of her daughter. He could never figure out why the fuck Emerson got married in the first place, especially to a woman who already had a kid. He had no interest in being a husband and even less interest in being a dad. Bellamy had always slightly suspected he married Ada for her own family money, and now that he knows Emerson has blown through it all, it’s not even a suspicion anymore. Ada had died suddenly a few years after they got married, and after the dust settled Emerson was left with a step-daughter and dependent whose share of her mother’s estate he controlled and had apparently plowed over like a goddamn 18-wheeler on the interstate.

“Hey listen to me Maya,” she’d been crying in earnest at that point, still apologizing for trying to guilt and manipulate him. “No matter what I decide, nothing bad is going to happen to you. I won’t let it, I would never do that,” he’d promised her. And he’d meant it. Dante was always more of a father figure to Maya than Emerson ever was, and Bellamy knew beyond all shadow of any possible doubt that Dante would have wanted Maya to be taken care of.

He hadn’t been able to figure out why Dante hadn’t left anything to Maya or any instructions about her care in his Will, but now it was clear. Maya was underage and would be for the next two years. Until she turned 18 her legal guardian would have control over the funds left to her as well as if and how they were used. And that legal guardian would have been Emerson. After finding out that Emerson had not only been scamming him, but also using Maya’s inheritance from her mother as his own personal piggy bank, there was no way Dante would have ever trusted his son with this.

“The only one of his kids Dante really worried about cutting out of the will was my mom. But in the end, he knew she would respect his decision like she always did, even when she didn’t understand it. Besides,” Clarke grins, “it’s not like she was left high and dry or anything. My dad left her with a pretty cushy set up when he died.”

Jacob Griffin, also known as Mr. Go-Green; the environmental engineer responsible for most of the prototypes used for the U.S.’s eco-friendly technology. The man who helped spearhead sustainable energy as the world knew it. Yeah, Bellamy could imagine his wife wouldn’t have much to worry about after he died, and his daughter too.

As if Clarke could tell what he’s thinking she adds, “I mean obviously he set me and Madi up nicely too. But honestly, I do pretty well for myself… Who knew that working as a research assistant and ghost writer for one of the most famous crime novelists in history would be so lucrative?!” There’s that smirk of hers again. This time he doesn’t even try to stop himself from smiling back as he feels the last bit of the knot that’s been in his stomach since Dante died finally begin to fade.

“We figured Roan wouldn’t be too much of a problem either since he hates this family’s money on principle and probably wouldn’t have even taken his part of Nia’s inheritance in the first place. Plus,” she goes on, “he would be on the opposite side of his mother and sister purely out of spite. Apparently he’s not hurting for cash either,” she adds. “Did you know that he owns the largest and most lucrative chain of non-medicinal marijuana dispensaries in the North Eastern U.S? Roan, an entrepreneur… Who knew right?!?”

Bellamy actually did know that; Roan told him once while they were commiserating over some of Dante’s good whiskey. What he didn’t know was that Roan was keeping it under wraps or not telling his family though, apparently the combination of top shelf liquor and good weed makes Roan chatty. Or maybe it was just Bellamy that made Roan chatty. Bellamy has that effect on people, as it turns out. Yet another one of his sparkling personality traits that seems to get him in predicaments like the one he is in now.

“I’m kinda jealous of how much he’s winning at life honestly,” Clarke groans. “God… How did the cousin who thought he could practice Santaria and unironically wore dreads and spent multiple summers following Black Sabbath around on their world tours end up being the one with a successful career and functional relationship?”

“According to E!News he’s dating that insanely hot, Icelandic supermodel with no last name. God what is her name?” Clarke starts tapping her head like she’s trying to poke her brain into submission. “Gecko…? Ghetto…? Techno…?”

“Echo.” Miller says in a patronizing tone implying that not only Clarke, but everyone on this planet, in this world should be aware of the information.

“Yes!” Clarke cries out, snapping her fingers at him and making Bellamy jump, “ECHO! Oh my god thank you, that was going to drive me nuts!”

Miller nods at her like he’s willing to let it go this time, but he won’t tolerate such an infraction again.

“Pft you would know that,” Reyes chimes in with a scoff. “I swear, for a dude who is strictly dickly, you are more knowledgeable about supermodels than anyone I’ve ever met. You’re like a walking Hot Chick Encyclopedia.”

“Don’t you have something to be analyzing with some super overpriced high techy-tech thing that we paid way too many hard working, taxpayer dollars for somewhere?” Miller asks her wryly.

“Roger that, chief.” She says with a mock salute.

“So nice to meet you by the way!” she says to Kane on her way out the door. “I’m a huge fan… You’re so much taller in person than I thought you’d be.”

Kane beams radiantly at her and places his hand over his heart like that was the most touchingly gratifying compliment he had ever received. And with that, Reyes breezes out of the room, flicking her perfect pony tail behind her.

“Anyway,” Clarke says, presumably finished with her lamenting and ready to get back to business. “Grandpa knew that those of us he actually wanted to leave money to didn’t actually need it or honestly didn’t give enough of a fuck to try to get our hands on it. My mom and I are set. We both have plenty of savings, we both work, and we’ll have no problem making sure Madi goes to good schools and can take up all the ridiculously expensive and completely useless hobbies she wants.” Bellamy snorts at that and Clarke grins again.

“Roan and his inhumanly hot girlfriend are off conquering the weed market, one pot lollipop at a time, and Maya’s medical care would be taken care of. You were the perfect choice.

“But unfortunately,” Kane says gravely, “that also made you even more of a target for Cage.”

“Idiot kept his cool for about a day and a half after you were released before he tried to hire a hitman,” Miller scoffs.

Bellamy startles at that, “He what?”

“Oh don’t worry,” Miller says waving him off, a scooch too nonchalant about Bellamy's life hanging in the balance for his liking. “We had his phone tapped and got a warrant for his arrest as soon as he made the call.”

“He also just so happened to call an undercover federal agency posing as some kind of hitman concierge service. It’s like he Googled ‘hitmen in my area’ and then just called the first number that showed up. Pleeb,” Miller scoffs again, like the murder for hire business should be easier to figure out than a single serve Kuerig.

“He was brought in about an hour after you were,” Miller says, looking down as gets a message on his phone. “And apparently Emerson is being brought in right now, so I need to go deal with that and you two,” he says pointing at Bellamy and Clarke, “are free to go.”

As Miller is walking out of the room he says over his shoulder, “if you have any questions or concerns, please don’t hesitate to call Detective Reyes... Or Lieutenant Pike… Or Sargeant Byrne… Or even Petty Officer Jordan if you’re feeling desperate... Basically anyone but me to be honest. After this amount of white people nonsense, I’m going on sabbatical.” And with that he’s gone, letting the door slam behind him.

Kane says something about needing to greet his “adoring public” and fixes his bowtie as he starts to strut, all pomp, circumstance, and perfectly coiffed hair, towards the doors at the front of the station, while Bellamy follows Clarke as she heads to more discreet back exit.

Standing in the back parking-lot, she puts on her big floppy hat and hilariously huge sunglasses and Bellamy can’t help but remember the first time he ever encountered Clarke Griffin. It was right after he’d started working for Dante; Clarke had pulled up to the house in her latest model Mercedes Benz looking like she’d traipsed straight out of a Lily Pulitzer catalog, all impeccably dressed, and flawlessly made up, and perfectly curled blonde beautifulness. She’d skipped up the front steps announcing that her spring break trip to Cabo was canceled so she was here to visit her grandfather.

“You’re new,” she’d said, looking at him over the lenses of her ridiculously, unnecessarily large sunglasses that she was still wearing inside.

“I usually go by Bellamy,” he’d responded flatly.

Clarke had grinned at him like she approved, even though he didn’t give a single shit about getting her approval. He swears, he did not.

Then she’d stuck out her hand and said “I’m Clarke Griffin, the prodigal, heathen granddaughter.”

“Heathen?” he’d asked her raising an inquisitive eyebrow and shaking her hand.

“Feminist, agnostic, bisexual, liberal Democrat takes way longer to say,” she’d said, still smiling widely. “Nice to meet you.”

He’d had to put an embarrassing amount of effort into keeping a straight face and not give into her grin. “Uh huh,” he’d said “your grandpa is in his study.”

After that he’d though she was just another dumb, ditzy, blonde, rich princess who had no idea how privileged she was and did things like blow wild amounts of money on fancy cars and trips to Cabo and whatever else it was that princesses spent their money on because she could.

While he’d figured out very quickly that he couldn’t have been more wrong about the dumb, ditzy, and ignorant parts (and about the spoiled princess thing too, admittedly. But he refused to give up the nickname on principle because it got such a rise out of her and riling her up was one of his favorite pastimes. He might have never gotten past the whole “pony tail pulling” stage of flirtation, but he’s working on it. Mostly), he was right about Clarke doing things just because she could.

She definitely did things like blow money on exorbitantly expensive shoes and even more expensive booze; and take last minute trips on jets and yachts to the Hamptons or the Virgin Islands or wherever it is rich people go when they need to “unwind” from their completely stress free lives; and eat caviar on crackers as an “afternoon snack;” and get the same kind diamond infused nail polish manicures that Beyoncé does; and always have the latest models of cars and computers and even a moped that one time. All because she could.

But she also did things like give thousands of dollars and hours of her time to countless charities; and maintain multiple scholarships for low income students interested in STEM and sustainable energy in her dad’s name; and spend her winter vacations working at places like a Sri Lankan elephant orphanage or a battered women’s shelter in El Salvador; and buy staggeringly over the top generous birthday and Christmas gifts for Bellamy and Octavia like all new stainless steel kitchen appliances for their apartment because the ones they had were “tragic,” and those stupidly expensive running shoes O had had her eye on along with a new iPod because “She can’t run without an iPod, Bell. She’s not an animal”, and the annotated first editions of The Iliad and The Odyssey that her book dealer managed to find (because of course she had a book dealer), all of which she apparently got “great deals on” and refused to return because they were all conveniently “final sale;” and pay for everyone’s meals and bar tabs and cover charges and Uber rides and movie tickets and concert seats and amusement park passes and, a few notable times, their hospital bills without even thinking twice or accepting a word of thanks or asking for a penny in return. Just because she could.

He’d asked her once, about the gifts. “Not that I don’t appreciate it,” he’d said quickly. “Obviously I do. A lot. Like, so much. I’m just kind of wondering… ya know… why?“

“Because you deserve them,” she’d answered immediately without looking up from whatever she was viciously typing on her phone in her latest Twitter fight with whichever woefully misguided, conservative, alt right, incel, neck-beard, dude bro had dared to take her on that week.

Then she’d tilted her head up at him with her little smirk he was a completely normal amount of obsessed with. “And because I can.”

Once he’d gotten to know the real Clarke, he still couldn’t help but laugh and heckle her about her over dramatic eye and head wear that made her look like a widow visiting her convict pen pal turned clandestine lover in prison where he was serving time for tax fraud. She is absolutely one of those ridiculously over the top rich people and she absolutely knows it. But her ridiculousness is far surpassed by her kind-hearted, earnest generosity. That was just Clarke.

His Clarke.

“Oh! Before I forget!” Clarke exclaims, reaching into her absurdly large purse, which he must say goes perfectly with her attire. She pulls out a thick manila envelope and hands it to him. “Grandpa Dante wanted me to make sure this got to you. I mean, it’s technically yours anyway since he quite literally left you everything,” she smirks at him again. “But he especially wanted to make sure this made it directly into your hands.”

Their fingers brush as she hands him the envelope and instead of pulling away she twists his fingers into his. “Look Bell,” she starts awkwardly. “I know this was all really fucked up, like beyond fucked up, Kardashian levels of fucked up even… But I just want you to know I am so sorry.”

“More sorry than words can say. For every thing... And I totally get it if you can’t trust me anymore or don’t want to be friends with me,” she starts rambling. “I mean I probably wouldn’t want to be friends with me either after this. Honestly if I could ghost myself right now…”

Bellamy just chuckles and tugs on her hand until she’s close enough for him to press his lips to hers. It’s a totally chaste, 8th grade style kiss. But still, she lets out this little sigh against his lips; and if they weren’t literally standing in the parking lot of a police station right at this moment, the situation definitely would have escalated from tolerable PDA to public indecency.

Instead he just pulls his lips away but keeps his forehead pressing against hers. He opens his eyes and finally feels relaxed for the first time in what feels like an eternity. He’d been wondering where his ability to breath normally had run off to. Figures it had been with her the whole time.

“I’m trying to come up with something really smooth to say right now,” he says, “but I’ve been dealing with a little stress lately so I’m kind of off my game.”

“It’s ok,” Clarke says, eyes still closed, more than a little breathless he thinks proudly. “You’ve never been smooth, I don’t know why you would start now.”

He starts to object that he is the smoothest, but she just pulls his mouth back down to hers and he figures there are much better things his lips can be doing at this current juncture. And when she throws both her arms around his neck to get him closer he finds himself yet again wishing the nearest building weren’t literally full of cops so that he could press her up against the side of it.

When they pull away for air he can’t help but think about how damn smug as shit Dante would be about being instrumental in pushing Bellamy and Clarke together. This probably wasn’t quite how he imagined it going down, but still.

Dante had never outright pressured them, or come out and said they should go on a date, or anything of the sort. No, Dante knew his granddaughter needed to go at her own pace, knew she need time and space to grieve and move on after girlfriends’ death, and, most importantly, knew she would vehemently resist being ordered or pushed into anything. Instead he would find small, yet absurdly unsubtle ways, to nudge them towards each other, to suggested how they would be good together.

Sometimes it was Dante all of the sudden “feeling a tired spell” or “losing his appetite” when he had arranged for his personal chef to make a nice lunch for the three of them, leaving Bellamy and Clarke alone out on the patio, rolling their eyes and chuckling awkwardly into their salmon club sandwiches and sweet iced teas. Other times he would request Bellamy go pick up Clarke when she would work for him during the summer do he wouldn’t have to “wait around for Lincoln or bother him with such a short trip when Bellamy could easily do it,” all while Lincoln, Dante’s own personal chauffeur, sat approximately 20 feet away on the patio where he had been all morning, snorting behind his newspaper. And then there were the times when Dante would have an oddly specific, and usually vaguely ridiculous and completely unnecessary, errand he needed Clarke to run at the exact same time Bellamy would be running his own errands for Dante, and “oh well wasn’t that convenient that they could just go together?!”

Typically, Dante’s antics were met with raised eyebrows, unimpressed expressions, and the occasional snort or sigh from both of them. They had only ever acknowledged it between them once while they were on their way to Saks one summer a few years ago. Dante had decided he needed Clarke to pick out some new swim trunks for him for the pool he literally never used because “she had the best taste in seasonal attire” and needed Bellamy to go with her to make sure the material of whatever she picked out “wasn’t too scratchy.”

“I can’t decide,” she’d said flatly, “if I’m more offended by him thinking he’s actually fooling us with this, or by his clear belief in my total and complete lack of game.”

Bellamy had snorted while desperately trying to come up with something to say about how he thought she had great game, the best game ever, like Shaq level game, without sounding like a total moron when Clarke’s phone had pinged with another text notification.

“He said he also needs flip flops,” she’d said raising an eyebrow. “But the ones without ‘the thingies that go between your toes’.”

“God, what does it say about me that I actually know exactly what he’s talking about?” Bellamy had groaned in response.

She’d looked over at him and they had both burst out laughing. The moment may have been ruined, but he had always been of the opinion that laughing with Clarke Griffin was a moment in and of itself. She didn’t really, truly, genuinely laugh all that often. She would usually cackle or snort, and there was the occasional chuckle, but the only person who seemed to have the innate talent for well and truly cracking Clarke up was her grandfather. Bellamy would hear them both losing it over something or other behind the closed doors of Dante’s study when she would come visit him or do whatever work it was she did for him over the summer. It seemed like someone had taught Clarke at some point in her life that she was only allowed a finite amount of happy and carefree moments, so he always felt a weird sense of accomplishment when he got to witness one; and being the cause of one was even better.

He opens his eyes and sees that right now she’s wearing the biggest, brightest, most beautiful, bonafide Clarke Griffin smile he’s ever witnessed, and he’s more than a little smug that he put it there. They stand there for a minute, just breathing each other in, until she pulls away slightly and beams up at him.

“Well,” she says giving him one last peck on the lips. “You’re about to have to answer an entire metric shit ton of questions from the media who will probably be here in about 3 minutes and 47 seconds, give or take. And while I usually love a good press conference, I haven’t showered in about 3 days and there is no amount of dry shampoo in the world that could tame the epic tragedy that is currently my hair.”

She steps out of his arms and starts digging around in her Mary Poppins bag for her keys. “Wait...” he says incredulously, “you’re leaving me? To face them all alone?! Clarke, how am I supposed to give a press conference?!? You know I can barely even talk on the phone!”

“Oh Bell,” she says patting his shoulder affectionately. “You’re rich now… Rich people can do anything!”

“You’re a dick!” Bellamy calls as she starts walking towards her car.

“You know you love me!” she yells back and yeah, he definitely does. He’s not gonna tell her right this second or anything, but he does.

She blows him an exaggeratedly loud kiss as she hops into the driver’s seat and revs her engine obnoxiously as she speeds away and God he’s totally gonna marry her, he thinks grinning like an idiot, he has no doubt. He’s going to be the shameless, boy toy, arm candy, trophy husband of one of the coolest chicks in the entire world and it’s going to be awesome.

It’s not until hours later when Bellamy gets home that night (gets to his new home holy fucking shit), after Cage and Emerson’s very public arrests, after the press conference clearing Bellamy and Clarke of all wrong doing, after posing with Kane for an endless number of photographs. and after answering what had to be a floppily trillion questions for the media, that Bellamy remembers the envelope. He pulls it out of his bag and slowly opens the seal. Inside is a thick stack of papers with a letter on top in Dante’s messy scrawl.

Dear Bellamy,

Thank you for being a kindred spirit, a loyal friend, a kind heart, and an excellent listener these past few years. And thank you, most recently, for being most inspiring muse yet.

It felt only fair and just for you to be the first to read the completed debut novel of my newest series. I think it has some real potential, but it’s up to you whether or not it will continue.

I trust that you will find someone with the perfect head for it and leave it in the right hands.
 


Best,
 Dante H. Wallace

Bellamy sets down the letter and looks at what he now realizes is the title page of a manuscript... The Casefiles of Odysseus Private Investigations & Detective Augustus B. Blake
                            Book 1: The Gold That Killed King Midas.


On the next page he finds a dedication: for C and B, the head and the heart. Bellamy settles back into his new arm chair in front of his new fireplace in his new study and gets comfortable.



Prologue: Augustus had a sister, her name was Octavia…