#ONLY to find out that the motherfucker who owned the jeep before me did the most dumbassery fucked up diy battery job at one point

[queercatboyrights]

pros of doing your own car work: saving money!! don't have to pay for a mechanic + u know your problem is actually getting fixed!!

cons of doing your own car stuff: Dealing with the (Mechanical) Horrors and Agonies

[komotionlessqueenmm]

One man's trash, is another man's treasure.

(3-4)

Short story # 6

2,216 - Words

Fandom - House of Wax (2005)

Pairing - Bo Sinclair X Reader

Summary - The reader finds herself & her 4 month old son stranded in Ambrose. While Bo finds himself enamored with the woman, wanting nothing more than to protect and provide for the two of them.

Warnings - Some dark topics, talk of abusive relationships, eventual blood & death, eventual smut. (I'm not sure what else tbh)

Notes - At this point both Bo and (Y/n) are really feeling that connection between them.

Pt. 1 ~ Pt. 2 ~ Pt. 3 ~ Pt. 4

----

By the end of the day (Y/n)'s jeep was all fixed up, but with as late in the evening as it was she decided to stay another night, with some encouragement from Bo of course. While (Y/n) and Von slept soundly in the guest bedroom, Bo met his brothers down at the garage, discussing what they should do, and if they should do anything in the first place. "I don't know Bo, her ex tried killing her because she was pregnant... She'll be running her whole life from a man like that." Lester sighed, not wanting anything to happen to (Y/n). "So we let her stay here, we can protect her from him easily." Bo shrugged. "What about when she realizes what happened to the people here? Or she finds out about Vincent's projects." Lester argued. "We'll explain it, make her understand." Bo countered. "How?" Lester asked feeling a little concerned. "I don't know yet." Bo admitted with a sigh. "I think we should start by introducing her to Vincent." He continued his thought, glancing to his twin, who made an almost concerned groan. "If she can accept him, I'm sure she'll accept the rest." Bo lit a new cigarette after finishing his statement. "And if she doesn't?" Lester asked. "That's not an option." Bo's smirk made worry spark in Lester's heart. Despite this however he chose to keep his mouth shut, and allowed his older brother to do whatever he had in mind.

When morning came, (Y/n) woke up early and cooked breakfast. "Morning." Bo murmured with a sleepy smile on his face, having been woken from the smell of bacon. "Morning Bo, I hope you don't mind." (Y/n) smiled sheepishly as she looked to what all she had cooked. "Not at all." Bo shook his head, happily accepting the cup of coffee she handed him. "Great." (Y/n) smiled brightly, the pair of them taking a seat beside eachother, eating their breakfast in a comfortable silence. Excluding the occasional hum of approval Bo gave when he bit into something new. And by the time they finished Von began crying from upstairs, cueing (Y/n) to fetch him to begin his morning routine.

"Hey I was going to do those." (Y/n) pouted playfully when she entered the kitchen, finding Bo working on the dishes. "Eh don't worry about it, you cooked I'll clean up." Bo winked making (Y/n) blush as she sat at the counter, adjusting herself to feed a fussy Von. "My brother wants to meet you before you leave." Bo stated casually. "Really?" (Y/n) smiled softly. "Mhm." Bo nodded his head with a hum. "I'd love to meet him." (Y/n)'s grin widened a little, feeling honored that he'd want to meet her. "We'll meet him up at the house of wax in an hour." Bo confirmed as he finished up the last dish. "Sounds fun, I've never been to a house of wax before." She hummed as she propped Von onto her shoulder, burping him. "I'm gonna go take a quick shower, let me know when you're ready." Bo insisted casually as he moved to wipe the spit up off of Von's chin. "Okay will do." (Y/n) smiled with appreciation, hopping up from her seat to get herself and Von dressed.

Once inside of the wax Museum (Y/n)'s attention was drawn to just about everything within sight, making Bo chuckle as he watched her ogle everything. "I take it you like it?" Bo mused with a grin. "I'm a little obsessed, is everything in here really made of wax?" She asked turning to look Bo in the eye. "Just about everything, most of its wax, but some of it isn't." Bo shrugged a little. "The vase?" (Y/n) asked as she pointed to the large decorative vase. "Wax." Bo nodded. "The couch?" She pointed to the couch two wax figures sat upon. "Wax." He chuckled. "How about the...." (Y/n) looked around before realization struck her. "The building?" She turned her attention to Bo, her eyes widening when he nodded his head yes. "Wow that's insane." (Y/n) chuckled with astonishment. "But you like it yeah?" Bo asked. "I love it! I can't imagine how long this must have taken to craft all of this, but it's very impressive." (Y/n) beamed making Bo chuckle softly. "Vincent will be happy to hear that you like his work." Bo mused. "Wait he did all of this?" (Y/n)'s eyes widened. "Not all of it, but a lot of it." Bo explained. "Wow I wish I had that kinda talent." (Y/n) chucked softly, jumping when a statue in the back moved. "Alright no need to scare her." Bo chuckled with a shake of his head, the once statue approaching the pair. "I was not expecting you to move, I really thought you were a statue." (Y/n) chuckled nervously.

"(Y/n) this is my brother Vincent." Bo introduced the two, the masked brother timidity offering (Y/n) his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you." (Y/n) smiled looking at his mask with curiosity. "Is your prosthetic made of wax?" She asked without thought, but he only tilted his head to the side. "Your mask." She clarified, smiling when he nodded his head yes. "That's very cool, did you make it yourself?" (Y/n) asked chuckling when he nodded his head again. "You don't talk much huh?" She tilted her own head a little. "He can't." Bo clarified unknowingly making (Y/n) suddenly feel guilty. "Oh I didn't know, I'm sorry." (Y/n) ducked her head down, feeling stupid for opening her mouth. "Vincent do you wanna show her?" Bo asked his brother, who hesitated for a moment before nodding his head in agreement. (Y/n) picked her head up, watching in amazement as Vincent removed his mask. "Wow." She muttered under her breath, taking in the sight of his face, frowning a little when he looked away from her. "What happened?" (Y/n) turned to Bo. "We were born as Siamese twins, and our daddy was an unorthodoxed doctor. He was able to separate us as infants." Bo explained suddenly feeling subconscious himself. "Wow... That's incredible." (Y/n) murmured softly. "You're both incredible." She chuckled softly looking back to Vincent, who smiled back at her before putting his mask back on.

--Later that day--

Having decided on stay one more day (Y/n) sat with Bo in his living room talking about this and that, and joking about nearly everything. "(Y/N)!" A voice yelled from outside, cutting off (Y/n)'s laughter, a look of terror filling her eyes in an instant. "(Y/N)!" The man yelled from outside for a second time. "It's him... It's Trent, he's come for me!" (Y/n) panicked, explaining to Bo why she suddenly got so fearful. "(Y/N) I KNOW YOU'RE HERE!" Trent yelled, sounding a bit closer to Bo's house now. "I'll keep you safe." Bo promised before he rose to his feet, grabbing the shotgun he kept near the front door. "Wait he's dangerous." (Y/n) rushed to follow Bo outside, leaving Von in his crib asleep. "COME OUT COME OUT COME OUT!" Trent taunted from the center of town, his attention turning to a pissed off Bo Sinclair. "Found yourself a gullible local huh?" Trent sneered at (Y/n) who ignored her fear and continued following Bo. "I suggest you get outta here and forget about (Y/n)." Bo warned, resting his shotgun on his shoulder, standing about eight feet from Trent, who only scoffed at his threat. "How about you go fuck your sister, and leave me to my business." Trent hissed, his words only fueling the hatred Bo felt for this man. "Your business best consist of you getting outta my town." Bo glared Trent down, who only chuckled. "Sure I'll get outta your town, once I have her." Trent pointed to (Y/n), but Bo only pushed (Y/n) to stand back a little.

"That ain't gonna happen." Bo shook his head with a mocking grin on his face. "How did you even find me!?" (Y/n) asked the question that had been plaguing her mind. "Remember my buddy Stan? I had him bug your car with a GPS tracker." Trent mocked as he flashed them the receiver of the tracker. "Now get over here." He growled as he pulled a pistol from the back of his belt. As Trent trained the pistol, Bo stepped in front of (Y/n) training his shotgun on Trent. "I'll only warn you one more time." Bo hissed, resisting the urge to just blow the motherfucker away. "Fuck you, you fucking redneck." Trent taunted before he pulled the trigger, but his gun jammed and Bo smirked. "Nah fuck you." Bo retorted before pulling the trigger, blowing open Trent's chest. (Y/n) screamed at the sound, her heart racing in her chest. Almost like everything was moving in slow motion, (Y/n) watched Trent's body hit the ground with a thud, dead as dead gets. Bo was quick to spin on his heel, gently setting the gun on the ground he scooped (Y/n)'s shaking form into his arms. "Sh darling it's alright, I've got you. You're safe now darling, I've got you." He murmured against the crown of her head, carrying her back into his house. "It's okay (Y/n), rest now. I'll take care of everything, I'll take care of you." Bo promised as he laid her down on the couch, lovingly stroking her hair, before he kissed her temple. The events suddenly flipping a highly protective and tender switch within Bo, not that (Y/n) was complaining in the slightest, taking great comfort in his words and actions.

A few hours passed and in that time, (Y/n) had calmed down, and thought about a lot of things. Bo had dealt with the body and come back to (Y/n)'s side within the first hour, allowing her to cuddle into his side and think. "Bo what is this place?" (Y/n) asked with worry laced in her voice. "What?" Bo frowned his brows, a confused smile on his face. "Please don't lie to me anymore, please tell me what this place is. This town its just not right, in all the time I've been here I've only seen you Lester and Vincent." (Y/n) explained, suddenly feeling concerned for her baby's well being. "I want to tell you, I've wanted to tell you for a while now... But I don't want to scare you away." Bo hung his head. "Not telling me is scaring me, Bo please tell me." She insisted. "You know I would never hurt you or Von right?" Bo asked, his eyes the tiniest bit glossy. "Of course I know that." (Y/n) licked her lips, ignoring the worry bubbling at the back of her mind. "The town been abandoned for a decade, me and my brothers took it over a few years ago." Bo began. "Brothers?" (Y/n) asked having caught the plural. "Lester is mine and Vincent's younger brother." Bo explained frowning a little when (Y/n)'s eyes filled with worry.

"Lester convinces people to come to Ambrose, and me and Vincent kill them." Bo revealed, his confession making (Y/n)'s breath hitch in her throat. "Lester called me after he dropped you off at the gas station, and he told me to help you out, he insisted that we spared you." Bo licked his lips nervously. "I wasn't going to listen to him, but when you didn't snoop around town like everyone else, I was curious about you... Then I seen you, and your baby, and any dark thought I had washed away in an instant. The more we talked, the more I was intrigued with you... The more I wanted to protect you, especially when you told me about your ex." Bo admitted, his words surprisingly soothing (Y/n). "I'm sorry..." Bo muttered under his breath. "I forgive you." (Y/n) smiled softly, sitting up she adjusted herself to straddle Bo's lap. "I forgive you." She repeated herself as she took his face between her hands. "You've been better to me than most people in my life, and while the knowledge of what you and Vincent do... Is almost heartbreaking... I forgive you. I know you won't harm me or Von, to proved yourself to me today when you saved me from Trent." (Y/n) leaned in and gently kissed Bo's lips, pulling away all to soon. "I don't want to leave, I want to stay here with you... To love you despite the things you do, to love you despite the monster you can be... I want you for who you are, darkness and all." (Y/n) confessed, making Bo's mind go hazy with adoration. "Please stay." He muttered subconsciously. "I am." (Y/n) rest her forehead against his, smiling when he wrapped his arms around her waist.

----

Part three is complete!!!!

Part four will hopefully be posted tomorrow evening.

（＾_＾）

[pascalpanic]

Picture Perfect (Marcus Pike x f!Reader)

Summary: You reflect on a perfect vacation with Marcus.

Warnings: language, talk of flying in planes, mentions of food, implied sexual content and sexual flirting

W/C: 3.6k

A/N: happy Easter loves!!! I really adore this fic and hope you guys do too! It’s part of the Beyond the Sea series I’m writing with the lovely @mandoalorian

Beyond The Sea Masterlist

You never thought you’d see the day when Agent Marcus Pike relaxed for more than a few hours at a time. Luckily, your hand holds three Polaroids, all of them proof of the wonderful week of rest and recharging the two of you just experienced. The plane is leaving now, the islands of Hawaii behind you and endless ocean outside of your plane window. Marcus is snoozing softly, head pressed to your shoulder, and you press a kiss to his beautiful temple. This is the man who holds all of your heart in his hands, and you’ve never been so sure that someone would protect it with their life.

He stirs at the sensation and you chuckle quietly. The roar of the airplane’s pressurized cabin makes everything quieter, and you smile as those brown eyes flutter open. “Just me. Love you. Go back to sleep, babe,” you murmur, and he complies, eyes slipping shut as he nuzzles closer. You look down at your hands again, at the three Polaroids.

The first photo makes you giggle. It was taken the first full day the two of you had in town. Marcus holds a tiny crab in his hands, a look of wonder on his sun-kissed face. He’s shirtless and crouched down, wet sand packed beneath him and patterned swim trunks bringing color to the photo.

The second photo melts your heart. Marcus lies in a hammock in the Polaroid, asleep in the shade. Stripes of light peek through palm fronds, illuminating bits of your boyfriend’s warm body. He wears board shorts and an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, his normally gelled hair forming soft waves. The sun you’ve spent your days in lightened it, leaving light brown and even blonde streaks in the top layer. A soft pink covers his nose and cheeks- a result of the sun as well. His ukulele is lying next to him in the hammock.

The third photo makes you tear up at the memory. Two dark silhouettes- one clearly yours and one clearly his- are just outlined against an orange, sunset-colored sky.

-

You and Marcus arrived at your condo late at night, tired after the long flights, both cross-country and then across the Pacific Ocean. You’d flown first-class, Marcus insisting he spoil you. It was comfortable, but the pressure of the cabin made your body ache and your joints swell. It was impossible to sleep, even with him to use as a pillow.

The first morning, Marcus rises late: it’s about 10 A.M. local time, and he sighs as he finds you still snoring next to him. You look so peaceful and sweet that he can’t bring himself to wake you.

For the next half hour, he sits on the condo’s porch, overlooking the water. He smiles softly as the occasional breeze passes through, noticing that the air slowly warms.

When you finally wake, you wander out to find Marcus on the balcony. You gasp in excitement as you see the rushing surf. “Oh my god,” you grin and wrap your arms around him from behind. “It’s so gorgeous.”

“Good morning to you too,” he teases as his hands rest on your arms. “Isn’t it though?” He leans back against you, watching the seagulls play in the splashing water. “How did you sleep?” He asks, still eyeing the sprawling ocean. There’s a small reef a few yards from the shore, shallow enough to walk in.

You notice it too. “Good. Can we make some coffee then go explore those little tidal pools?” You ask excitedly as you point at them, resting your chin atop Marcus’s chocolate-brown bed head.

“Of course,” he chuckles, turning to kiss the side of your face. “It’s the perfect time to get some sun, too. We’ll get our swim gear on.”

You press a soft kiss into the top of his head, smiling contentedly at the ocean and Marcus’s steady breathing beneath your arms.  “I love you,” you practically sing to him, overwhelmed by the happiness of the morning.

“I love you too, pretty girl,” he murmurs back and turns to kiss you softly.

Twenty minutes later, each of you finished with one cup of coffee and changed into your bathing suits, you head down to the water and wade in. You squeal as the cold water laps at your ankles, your pink Polaroid camera hanging around your neck. One hand clutches at the pink plastic, lifting it instinctually to keep it dry. Marcus laughs and takes your free hand, the two of you commenting on the water and the sun as you wander to the rocky shoals a few yards out.

The volcanic rock in front of you is filled with holes and crevices, and it’s teeming with life. Marcus’s eyes widen in excitement as he sees a tiny crab. “Oh my god,” he laughs. “Look at this little guy!”

Walking closer, the crab doesn’t scuttle away. “Oh, do you want to be friends?” Marcus coos, squatting down.

“Careful of the waves, babe,” you remind him, a hand on his spine, between those gorgeously thick shoulder blades. “Don’t wanna get a concussion.”

Marcus shakes his head, absolutely beaming as he scoops up the little crab. “Oh, aren’t you the sweetest thing,” he mumbles to it, admiring its brown shell and tiny claws. “You remind me of that guy from Moana.”

Of course your boyfriend would draw that connection. He mutters the lyrics to Shiny from the movie to the crab as he turns to face you, holding it up. “Look, this is our baby now.”

You laugh and shake your head. “Well, I suppose our child needs a name,” you chuckle, daring to stroke the back of the crab’s shell. It snaps its little claws in return, grabbing at nothing in the air.

“Well, how about the crab from Moana? The Tamatoa?” He asks. The little thing’s claws are clacking rhythmically to some inaudible beat.

“Hmm.” You think about it for a moment, lifting the camera and snapping a photo of Marcus holding the tiny crab. “It’s a snippy little thing. Maybe we should name it Teresa,” you snort, laughing to yourself at your own joke.

Marcus frowns. “No, I like it much more than her. You’re our little Tamatoa, aren’t you?” He coos, holding it up to give it a little kiss on the back of his shell.

Classic, typical Marcus. Giving all of his love with no regard for his own safety. You almost see it in slow motion as the tiny crab snips the tip of Marcus’s nose. “Motherfucker,” he cries at the feeling, setting the crab back down immediately.

It makes you laugh much harder than you should. Leaning onto your boyfriend’s tanning skin, you wheeze out laugh after laugh. He joins you too.

When you both finally settle down and catch your breath, you giggle up at Marcus. “Okay, so that little shit was definitely a Teresa.”

Marcus laughs this time, giving you a brief kiss. “You are the absolute love of my fucking life, baby,” he chuckles and the two of you continue your walk.

-

Marcus has always been an early riser, and you forgot to close the shades last night before you passed out in the ridiculously plush bed. The early sunrise warms Marcus’s face until he wakes. He rolls over with a yawn and a stretch before kissing the side of your face. You grunt. “Hi.”

“Good morning, angel,” Marcus’s soft voice coos to you, an arm snaking around your middle. “The sunrise looks beautiful. Want to see?”

“No,” you frown. “Wanna sleep more.”

Marcus pouts, kissing your forehead. “Baby.”

“Fine,” you groan, the sleep starting to wear off anyway. “Only because I love you so much. And because I love your dick and don’t want it withheld from me this week,” you tease, sitting up and kissing him softly.

“Yeah yeah,” he laughs and stands, wandering over to the large window in the bedroom.

Your eyes widen at the beauty as you see the gorgeous colors of the sky. The sunrise is behind you, but the horizon is still shifting in hue, pinks and purples and oranges with the dark blue slowly fading away. Marcus wraps his arms around you as you stand next to him. “See. This wasn’t so bad to get out of bed for.”

Nodding, you rest your head against his chest. “I suppose it wasn’t. I’ll go make us coffee,” you murmur and press a kiss to his bare pec, giving his ass a light squeeze as you walk past him.

The two of you make your plans for the day over the coffee, discussing your options and ultimately choosing that today would be the perfect day to find a secluded little beach and just relax in the sun. They wouldn’t be hard to find around here: unlike other places you’d been, it seemed like the shore was endlessly beach.

Parking in a free lot, locking your ragtop Jeep behind you, you and Marcus wander down the beach for a while until you find the perfect spot. How did you know? Marcus spotted the perfect marker: a hammock.

Tied between two palm trees, under the shade of the fronds, was a woven hammock. It had no pillows, blankets, no one around and no belongings. Marcus decided it was yours now- or at least for the day.

The white sand is warm beneath your feet, flying out as Marcus chases you. You’d stolen his sunglasses just moments ago and now you’re running. “Get back here!”

“Only if you fuck me right here and right now!” You teasingly call over your shoulder.

Marcus stops, as if he’s considering it. You do too. Then he picks up into a faster run. “There’s too much sand for that, you little shit!”

Giggling, you stop and let Marcus crash into you, his warm body slick from the tanning oil he’d slathered on. You naturally wrap your arms around his neck. Marcus plucks the sunglasses from your head and puts them back on. “Thank you.”

“Any time, Pikey,” you tease and kiss him softly as his arms wrap around your waist. That was the name you’d called him when you first met, when you were young, up-and-coming interns for the FBI.

The two of you wander back, lying on your beach towels for hours and absorbing the warm rays. You and Marcus snack on some packed food, staring out into the ocean and chatting. It’s absolutely perfect.

Marcus is ever the early riser. You’re usually the one to end up taking a nap if the last night of sleep didn’t satisfy you or Marcus woke you up for some godforsaken reason. As he lies next to you, though, you hear a yawn slip from his lips. “Sorry, what was that?” You clarify teasingly.

Marcus scowls. “I get tired too.”

“Bullshit,” you laugh. “Do you want to go cuddle in the hammock?” You ask, and he nods as he sits up.

Marcus is wearing just his board shorts, but there’s a cool breeze in the shade. He tosses on his Hawaiian shirt, leaving it unbuttoned. He looks so effortlessly cool, that brown hair starting to get slightly wavy from the salty air. His sunglasses sit just slightly lower on the bridge of his aquiline nose, and it makes you grin. You toss a t-shirt on as well, and you grin as you realize Marcus opens his ukulele case.

“I knew you’d use it,” you grin at him as he settles in the hammock. He’d debated bringing it along, contemplating the hassle, but you’d told him he practically had to- you’re in Hawaii, after all. You scoot in next to him and rest your head on his shoulder.

“Will you play me a song by Abba?” You ask him softly, the rush of the ocean and the wind filling your ears.

Marcus nods and kisses your forehead before giving the strings a strum to test some chords. He finally starts playing a soft version of Andante Andante, and your eyes slip shut. His voice is so beautiful and soothing, and you can’t help but quietly sing along.

“I’m your music… I’m your song…

Play me time and time again, make me strong…”

He’s everything you’ve ever wanted, ever prayed to whatever being up there that you’d meet the right person for you someday. He’s soft and warm and strong. He’s protective but gentle and the most caring man to ever walk the face of the earth.

Marcus starts noodling around on the ukulele, playing some random chords and notes. “I love you so much,” you sigh and snuggle in tighter against him.

He puts down the ukulele and wraps his arms around you, kissing your temple gently. “I love you too, baby. So much, endlessly.” He’s so perfectly cozy that you cuddle on top of him, and he welcomes the position. He wraps his arms around your body and kisses your neck.

The two of you stay cuddled up like that, tired from the long day in the sun, for quite a while. Before long, you recognize the different breathing pattern Marcus has slipped into- sleep. Smiling softly, you allow yourself to remain nuzzled into your boyfriend’s body for a while longer.

After some time, you sigh and realize you should probably wake him and return to the condo. The sun is starting to sink lower in the sky: not enough to be sunset, but enough to know what’s approaching. Careful not to wake him, you clamber out of the hammock and grin at the image. It’s too perfect.

You grab your Polaroid and snap the photo: Marcus is asleep, sunglasses fallen down his nose, Hawaiian shirt open, ukulele next to him. The hammock sways in the breeze, peeks of light from between palm leaves shining down on him. You giggle when the photo develops and it’s the sound of your laughter that wakes him. “Huh?” He groans, sitting up and losing his balance as he realizes his resting spot is moving.

You walk over on your knees, the sand moving with you and allowing you to do so. You kiss him gently for a moment before breaking away. “You fell asleep, love. It’s just about time to head back to the condo.”

“How long?” He asks groggily, pushing up his sunglasses and rubbing his eyes.

“You were only out for about half an hour,” you assure him and rub his arm.

His eyes are still closed but he smiles at that. “I heard you take that Polaroid,” he chuckles, and pulls you in for another kiss that muffles your noise of defeat.

-

Two days later, you can hear Marcus singing along to his music in the shower as you get ready for the evening. Sitting at the vanity in the suite’s luxurious bathroom, you apply your makeup, opting to keep things light. You wear a nice outfit and fidget with your appearance in the mirror, touching little things here and there.

A few minutes later, Marcus wanders out with a towel around his waist, his skin reddened from the hot shower. “Hey. You look… amazing,” he grins as he looks at you, taking in the sight. “I can’t compete.”

You grin and walk closer, putting a hand on his warm skin. “It’s a good thing it’s not a competition,” you tease, faces close together. “You’re going to look wonderful too.” You kiss him softly for a moment before he breaks away to get dressed.

The sun is above the horizon, just about to sink into sunset. Fuck, Marcus thinks to himself as he realizes he needs to move quickly. He puts on the nice outfit he’d picked earlier, messing with his hair in the mirror. Not more than few minutes later, he’s back at your side. “Ready?” He asks.

You nod with a smile. “You hurried.”

Marcus shrugs, pursing his lips and shaking his head. You know that look, you’ve known it since the very first time he did it. He’s terrible at bluffing. Something is hidden behind those eyes. “Just… don’t wanna miss sunset,” he murmurs and kisses you on the cheek, shoving his hands in his pockets.

You’d planned on dinner at a luxurious restaurant located within a fancy hotel, but Marcus insisted that you’d be at the beach for the sunset. When you finally reach the resort, you wander through the gorgeous surroundings until you find the white sand beach in front of you.

Marcus walks with one hand in yours, the other in his pocket. He’s quieter than normal, holding back his remarks about the wildlife and gorgeous architecture of the buildings.

There’s a small gazebo just off the sand, and Marcus walks you up. “Well… surprise,” he chuckles, showing you the little shelter. It’s strung with twinkling lights and white gauze, the ocean’s breeze rippling the fabric. There’s a table with a white cloth covering it, champagne glasses at the ready and flowers sat in the center.

“I thought you said we were eating at the restaurant,” you exclaim but laugh in surprise, setting your purse and Polaroid camera next to the chair.

His eyes twinkle with excitement. “Well, they offered this. How could I choose the restaurant when we could have dinner in our own little private gazebo?” He chuckles. “They won’t start the service for a little while. Want to go walk on the beach a little longer?”

“Marcus,” you coo and take his arm, wrapping both of your arms around it. “You’re the most romantic man on the face of the earth.”

He shakes his head and kisses your forehead. “Only for you. Come on, let’s walk.”

The two of you stroll along, the gorgeous sunset behind the dark and rolling ocean. The breeze rustles Marcus’s hair, and you grin as you see it happen. “This is… amazing.”

“You’re amazing,” he mumbles and nudges you with his shoulder, making you stumble to the side and laugh. “Can I ask you something?”

Looking up at him, you breathe out a small laugh. “When have you ever asked first?” You tease him, but you stop when he stops walking.

His hand squeezes yours a little tighter and he moves so you’re no longer standing side-to-side but facing each other. He takes both of your hands. “You know how much I love you. I really can’t imagine you wouldn’t, because I know you love me just the same.”

Your brain flies a mile a minute as he starts talking. It sounds too planned, not at all the spontaneous man your Marcus is and has always been. Wait-

“You are, without a doubt, the best thing in my life. I’ve been burned by love before, but you’re everything I’ve ever needed. You’re the only one who has ever reassured me and calmed me and silenced that endless buzzing of fear in my head. I know you’d never leave me, and I hope you know I’d never leave you.”

“Marcus,” you whisper, and your eyes well with tears as he falls to one knee in the soft sand, his own eyes shimmering with tears.

“And, if it’s alright with you, I want to promise you I’ll never leave you. I want to make it so official that nothing can ever separate us, not time or distance or anything. And I figured the best way to do that is, well… fuck, I messed it up,” he winces.  “I had all the words, I swear-“

“Just ask me the question, baby,” you laugh, the tears falling down your face. You know what’s coming now, as he reaches into his pocket and presents you with a velvet box.

He opens it and inside is the most gorgeous ring you’ve ever seen. It suits you. Of course it does: Marcus knows you better than you know yourself. You can tell when you look into his eyes that no one else ever would or could know you like he does.

He stutters for a moment before you fall to your knees in the sand in front of him. “It’s okay, you know what I’m gonna say,” you say quietly, cupping his face with both hands. “Just… say it. Please.”

He bites his lip then looks into your eyes. “Will you marry me?”

“Of course I will,” you laugh and wrap your arms around his neck, kissing him happily. “Yes, Marcus Pike. I will marry you. I love you so much,” you murmur in between kisses.

“I’m so pathetic,” he laughs as the happy tears trail down both of your faces, him sitting back on his heels and you following suit.

“Oh shut up,” you laugh and hold out your left hand. Marcus takes the ring from the small box and slides it onto your finger, grinning as he notices it fits just right.

Swallowing hard, you laugh at the fact that your makeup must be trailing down your face. Marcus wipes the tears with one large hand, his other cupping yours and admiring the way the ring looks against your skin. He kisses your knuckles and you giggle uncontrollably.

“I get to be Mrs. Pikey now,” you grin and he nods.

“Of course. I mean, if you want to take my name. You don’t have to,” he rushes, shaking his head and blowing a raspberry. “I didn’t even think about that really, just figured that you’d tell me what you wanted first.” His words are a blur of relief, the anxiety fading from his body.

“Marcus,” you laugh softly, your hands cupping his face once more. “It’s okay. Just… relax,” you laugh as one of his hands covers yours, his fingers slotting between yours.

He nods. “I think I finally can now,” he chuckles and kisses you one last time.

-

taglist:

@remmysbounty @mishasminion360 @blo0dangel @binarydanvvers  @sleep-tight1 @apascalrascal @randomness501 @spideysimpossiblegirl @notabotiswear @pedro-pastel @sanchosammy @lv7867 @greeneyedblondie44 @hunnambabe @astoryisaloveaffair @emesispo @pedritobalmando @magikfanatic @sugarontherims

[batsobey]

@possessyou

Eddie Munson doesn't get bullied.

Not anymore, anyway. Not since he moved to Hawkins. He arrived in this small town a big-city kid with big-city britches- nobody could try anything he hadn't lived through before, and it quickly became known that that Munson kid? Is fucking weird. Push him, and he'll tell you to do it harder. Call him names, and he won't just embrace them, he'll come to school the next day with a brand new button pinned to his chest with pride. Once somebody grabbed him and Eddie's eyes rolled back into his head like he were possessed, convulsing, and speaking in tongues.

So he doesn't get bullied.

But that doesn't mean he doesn't get his ass beat every now and again- it just means its harder for him to predict.

Gerry Vance, Patrick Hayes, and Dean Thompson were waiting for him after the conclusion of this weeks Hellfire meeting. Eddie was alone. He's almost alone after a session ends unless one of the guys want to hitch a ride, or smoke- today, nobody did. He wrote the session notes alone, he cleaned up alone, he left alone. He didn't realize he wasn't alone until he got in the empty parking lot and saw another car parked conspicuously close to his. Eddie stops. A Jeep Cherokee. Who the fuck does he know who owns a Jeep Cherokee?

He shouldn't have stopped.

"Where do you think you're going, faggot?" Eddie's stomach lurches as hands snatch the handle of backpack and yank it back with enough force to rip the zipper open. Eddie lets them take it. He drops his shoulder out of the strap and tears forward in a blind panic. He feels his manuals hit the back of his scrambling legs, hears them slap the ground. Somewhere, his dice-cup bursts open, sending a torrent of dice clattering across the ground in a chorus of clicks and clatters. It's no use. As soon as he's freed from his bag, Patrick snatches him by his hair.

"Can't slip out of that, can you? Huh Cuntson?" He reaches down and snatches the bandana from his back pocket, raising it where Eddie can see. Dean is still holding his bag, and Gerry gigglesnorts as he watches Eddie wince and bend to Patrick's every desire. "What's this?"

Eddie feigns ignorance. "My hankie? Gross, dude- I blow my nose into that thing." Gerry isn't laughing as he gives Eddie a good sock in the stomach. He would double over if Patrick didn't have a good handle on his hair, Instead, all he can do is jerk and cry out, stomping his foot as the pain crescendos and wanes. "motherfucker-" Patrick tightens his grip on Eddies hair, forcing him to look at the bandana again. "Feels pretty clean to me. Now I'm gonna ask you again. What is this?" Eddie grits his teeth into a false smile. "Why? You been hitting the clubs, Patty?"

Eddie hits the floor like a sack of meat. He has only just begun to scramble onto his hands and knees when the first boot finds him. Then suddenly, there's three. "Shut the fuck up!" There's six. "Freak!" There's twelve. "Fucking cocksucking freak!" There's a hundred and they hit everywhere, they kick everything. They hit his guts, his nose, his legs, his arms- blood spouts into a steady stream when somebody catches his lip and kicks him in the teeth. They kick him in the nose, and it becomes a faucet. Their voices have long distorted and blurred into the panic and the pain his body sings with. He doesn't hear what they're saying anymore, he only feels their intent. There is a pack of dogs around him and they're all barking with hatred, with disgust, with malice and spite and- He sees a blinding light.

suddenly, one of them stops kicking.

Is that a car?

[santipietroepaolo]

21 and/or 62? Spadeliano! Love your stories ❤️

I did my best to combine them! Thank you so much for the prompts 💕

[Read on Ao3]

21. "Who hurt you" + 62. Here, take my sweater"

“Who did this?”

That had been the third question out of Spadino’s mouth, in seeing Aureliano cross the threshold of the hotel with a deep frown on his brow and a bloody hand still cupping the side of his neck – right after an embarrassingly panicked “what happened” and an even shakier “you’re hurt.”

“Couple of small fry on a motorbike,” Aureliano gruffed, brushing by Spadino without stopping, making straight for the bar instead, “Flanked the car just as I was leaving Rome – must have been waiting for me.”

He slipped behind the counter and immediately turned the sink on to rinse his bloodied hands. Squinting at a piece of polished brass in front of him, Aureliano tried to catch his reflection in it, searching for a good angle to assess the situation on his neck.

He looked more pissed about his injury than he did bothered by pain of any kind – as often. Still, Spadino – who had all but jumped out of his bar stool to rush to him moments earlier – hurried back to join him and force him to turn around.

“Let me see that,” he said, grabbing Aureliano’s chin to get him to turn his head and show him the extent of the damage.

Aureliano scoffed, but didn’t evade the touch.

“Relax, it’s nothing. The bullet just grazed me. Kids these days can’t aim for shit.”

He was right: the gunshot had not penetrated the muscle, but it had still left a bad scrape on its way, starting right under Aureliano’s ear and ending just short of his Adam’s apple, nearly missing the top arch of his tattooed wing. He’d been shot almost point blank: there were traces of burns at the start of the still-bleeding cut, and some of the surrounding stubble was singed off. Spadino felt a scorching rage boil up in his insides.

“Take this off and stand under the light,” he instructed, a bit more gruffly than he meant to, tugging at the collar of Aureliano’s leather jacket and pointing him towards the best spot on the counter to lean against, “I’m going to clean you up.”

He half-expected Aureliano to dismiss him again, but the man just sighed and did as he was told, muttered curse on his lips. While Aureliano shrugged off the jacket, Spadino dampened the nearest clean rag under the faucet before turning to face him. Carefully, he started wiping off blood around the cut, and off Aureliano’s throat and neck, down to his clavicle, where it had dribbled over and stained the collar of his t-shirt. The man didn’t flinch once.

“Where do you keep the first aid kit?” Spadino asked.

“Second drawer – right behind you.”

Spadino pulled some gauze and rubbing alcohol from the kit and went back at his task with more precision. Once the wound was unobstructed, it was clearly nothing too serious. Instead of feeling calmed by that knowledge, Spadino realized the tightness in his chest had only squeezed in harder, and that his back was still stiff with anger. A close call. Way too close.

He had started to get antsy, earlier, when Aureliano hadn’t showed up on time for their meeting, despite having been the one to set it up. Drummed his fingers on the marble of the counter and spun around on his stool like an idiot, in the silence of the empty hotel, pondering whether he should send Aureliano a text asking where the hell he was, or just wait a little longer for him to show up before trying.

He could very well have waited for him forever. With his fingers brushing against the warm skin of Aureliano’s neck, watching blood ooze scarlet from that ugly cut, that realization was slowly sinking into Spadino – and it made him sick to his stomach. Aureliano was standing still and breathing steady – patient, for once, simply waiting for him to be done. So close to Spadino’s chest, right between his hands, his body gave off a steady heat and a faint smell of iron and gunpowder, mixed-in with his usual, familiar scent of leather and aftershave.

If Aureliano had been shot only an inch further to the right, or at a better angle, the bullet would have severed his carotid. Possibly blown his throat wide open, depending on the caliber. In both cases, he would have bled out in a matter of seconds – gasping and choking on mouthfuls of his own blood, with his head resting against the steering wheel of his faithful Jeep. Alone.

And Spadino would have been none the wiser.

“How’s your hearing?” he forced himself to ask, to keep his mouth busy and not focus on the taste of bile that had just coated his tongue.

It came out choppy, too flat in affect to sound natural. Aureliano didn’t seem to notice.

“My ear’s ringing like a motherfucker,” he simply answered, head still craned sideways to give Spadino better access to the wound, “But the drum’s not blown- I don’t think. Asshole didn’t get even a second shot in there - man, I’m gonna be so pissed if this fucks with my ink.”

Aureliano sighed, then, fingers tensing ever-so-slightly around the edge of the counter as Spadino patted the wound with an alcohol-soaked compress.

“I told you, it’s nothing,” Aureliano shrugged, “I’ve got some antibiotics somewhere. I’ll pop a couple of those if I need to and be more than fine.”

Spadino was glad his fingers were now busy cutting some gauze and tape down to a decent dressing to bandage the wound – or else Aureliano might have seen them shaking slightly.

“So you didn’t see who it was at all?” he asked, aware that he was failing miserably to match Aureliano’s unnervingly dismissive tone, “Samurai’s men, maybe someone from here? My family?”

Aureliano shrugged again. A sloppy kind of hit like that could have literally anyone behind it, including minor players they might not even be aware of.

It wasn’t exactly like Aureliano lacked enemies.

“No – like I said. They had helmets on, and besides, I was a little too busy driving off to avoid being turned into a pasta strainer to get a good look at them, you know? Get off my back about it.”

Spadino shook his head no. An attack like that on Aureliano, in broad daylight… Something like that could not go unpunished. Not on his watch. Because if it did, it meant that it could happen again. And that it could succeed, next time.

And that thought was unbearable.

“I’m going to get my feelers out first thing tonight,” Spadino said darkly, leaning back in to start bandaging the wound he was already promising himself to avenge, “Find whatever scum was dumb enough to try this.”

If he kept his focus on what he wanted to do to the people responsible, maybe he could avoid lingering on the primal fear he still felt choking his throat at the creeping thought that even someone like Aureliano – always alert, and with firepower to spare – could be snuffed out in less than a blink – without Spadino being able to do jack shit about it.

“The second I get my hands on those pieces of shit, I swear, I’m gonna make them-”

“Jesus, Spadì, I said back off!”

Aureliano had not raised his voice by a lot, but still enough to startle him. Spadino lifted his gaze, only to be met with pale blue eyes, staring at him cold and unkind.

“Drop the macho routine,” Aureliano said, icy, “I’m not your fucking girlfriend.”

Something like a dagger twisted cruel inside Spadino’s belly. Suddenly the skin of Aureliano’s neck singed the tips of his fingers, and he wanted to shove himself back – or lunge at the man fists forward, maybe – he wasn’t really sure which.

What Spadino did instead of any of that, however, was lean in, and smile – something ugly and contorted. That was what he always did, when cornered: raised his chin and never showed belly, rather letting that unhinged smirk be his shield instead – however flimsy and unsettling.

“You know what, Aurelià?” Spadino sneered, getting well into the taller man’s space and staring straight into his ocean eyes as if doing so didn’t make him want to crawl out of his own skin, “Fuck you. You can bandage your own damn self.”

And with that, he slapped the finished dressing at the center of Aureliano’s chest, before storming off – not waiting to see the man’s reaction, or check if he had been able to catch the gauze before it hit the floor.

Spadino wanted to get as far away from him as he possibly could, so he thought about leaving – but then he remembered the five or so men Aureliano had standing guard right outside the door. Veering off the corridor, he made straight for the balcony instead: he needed some air, urgently, but he didn’t want anyone seeing him like he was right then – short of breath, with his jaw wired shut and his hands balled into fists to keep them from shaking.

A bit of a breeze welcomed him, when he stepped outside. It somewhat helped soothe the burn of searing humiliation he felt prickling all over the skin of his face and neck.

Resting both hands on the metal railing of the balcony, Spadino dipped his head between his arms to pull in a long, needed breath of fresh Ostiense air – somehow smoggy, but with the faint smell of the nearby sea managing to power through and reach him. When he raised his gaze, he saw that one of his hands was stained with blood – a dark streak across his thumb and down to his wrist. Aureliano’s blood. He wiped at it as hard as he could with the hem of his sleeve.

He was such a fucking idiot. He’d been so overwhelmed with panic at the thought of Aureliano dying, at the sight of him injured, that he’d forgotten himself completely – forgotten he wasn’t meant to hover and coo over him that way –not in a million years. Forgotten that him being protective of Aureliano was both a ridiculous and unwelcome notion – as Aureliano had just made abundantly clear.

He saw right through him, in moments like these, didn’t he? Alberto was sure of it. Those unforgiving blue eyes were able to spy all the sad, pathetic thoughts Spadino’s mind conjured up, whenever Aureliano dropped his guard down enough to let him slither any kind of close. Anytime something like that happened, Spadino just had to make it weird, didn’t he? He had scrubbed the blood so hard off his hand that he’d irritated the skin underneath.

He was transparent and pathetic.

“Spadì.”

Spadino squeezed his eyes shut. Great, so Aureliano wasn’t even done, yet. Spadino didn’t want to turn around to find the man staring at him with that closed-off, hostile look on his face again. He had to find a way to get this over with fast, or else he knew his nerves were going to take over completely again.

However unwise for their alliance, it felt so much easier to pounce and fight with Aureliano than it did to stand there and let the man rub in his disgust with him.

But when Alberto whipped around, bitter words of dismissal gathered on his tongue and ready to be spat out, Aureliano didn’t look nauseated at all. He didn’t even look mad, really. He was just standing by the bay window with his gaze firmly pointed away from Spadino’s face – somewhere towards the line of roofs that hid the sea-line from their sight.

Aureliano sniffed, cleared his throat, then gestured vaguely at his neck with the bandage in his hand.

“I can’t see what the fuck I’m doing,” he admitted, “I can’t put it on on my own – you need to do it.”

He looked almost contrite, in that sullen way of his. Spadino breathed in deep. He should probably have stuck to his plan of making things worse, and tell Aureliano to fuck right off.

But he was weak, and he didn’t want to do that.

“Come here,” Spadino said instead, managing to sound at least a little annoyed, which he mentally congratulated himself for, “Give me that thing.”

He wasn’t as delicate with his hands as he had been earlier. Without meeting his eyes once, Spadino just short of slapped the dressing in place, making Aureliano flinch and hiss in surprise more than pain, for the first time that evening. It was a childish thing to do, and Spadino regretted it instantly – but did his best not to show it on his face.

“There,” he grumbled, turning away and going back to lean his elbows on top of the guardrail, “All patched up. Now you can leave me alone.”

With the corner of his eye, he saw Aureliano’s nostrils flare, and heard the angry puff of air he huffed out of his nose. Spadino should probably be more careful how he handled Aureliano: the man had his temper too – one famously easy to trigger.

Spadino knew that better than most.

“This is my place, in case you forgot,” Aureliano bit back, as if to prove the point, “I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

He slammed his hands on the balustrade too – right next to Spadino’s elbow – and stood firmly there.

Now who was childish?

“Fine,” Spadino scoffed, adjusting himself and staring stubbornly ahead, “Suit yourself.”

Aureliano said nothing back, and the silence lingered. Spadino found himself starting to fidget annoyingly fast. Maybe he still wanted to push Aureliano’s buttons, he realized. Make him really mad at him – mad enough to say something worse than what he’d said earlier – something unforgivable. The shouting match that would ensue seemed so much easier to deal with that whatever this awkwardness was. If he got into a bad enough fight with Aureliano, he’d feel justified walking away from there – maybe for good, this time. That way, he wouldn’t have to worry about him – about his stupid neck, his stupid life – about any of it, anymore.

As if that would work. It surely hadn’t the last time Spadino had tried something similar – with his knife to Aureliano’s throat, at around the same spot where the bandage now was.

It had rained during the day, and with that little breeze still blowing, the evening was surprisingly fresh for a roman June. It wasn’t enough for Spadino to feel cold at all, but much to his surprise, right next to him, Aureliano suddenly shivered. From fatigue more than anything, probably, or pain, or the down of the adrenaline rush he must have felt earlier during the attack.

Aureliano sniffed and pretended like nothing happened, standing there in just his blood-stained t-shirt, frowning and stiff and looking pale in that humid wind, with that fresh bandage on his neck and deep circles under his eyes. His head must have been killing him way more than the bullet graze, in that moment, Spadino knew. A gun discharging that close to one’s ear would give anyone a migraine to last for days.

Why was he still there? What the hell did he want, if it wasn’t berating Spadino some more?

Aureliano shivered again.

“Bloody hell,” Spadino cursed, pushing himself off the balcony, “Here, take my sweater.”

Aureliano frowned at him, then opened his mouth to say something.

“Shut up,” Spadino cut him off before he could even try, “Just take it. Or go back inside to get something of yours – I don’t give a fuck. Clearly you’re not done saying your piece yet, are you? Might as well not catch your death while you figure out what slur to call me this time.”

That was also a childish thing to say, but they were way past all that, now, weren’t they? Spadino had had plenty of time to unzip the hoodie and slip it off his back, during that tirade of his, so he chose to punctuate it by just shoving the sweater in Aureliano’s hands.

“If you don’t like being babied, maybe stop acting like such a toddler,” Spadino scoffed, going back to his position, “For fuck’s sake.”

This time, he was sure to have done it. Aureliano stood in total silence – Spadino could feel the burn of his stare drilling into the side of his face. But instead of exploding at him, and maybe replacing that look on his cheek with the crash of his knuckles, Aureliano just dipped his gaze. Tight-lipped and with his brow furrowed, he slipped the brightly-patterned hoodie on, in total silence. The golden baroque, sun-themed detailing clashed so hard with his expression and with his usual style of dress that it could have made Spadino laugh to see it on him, in other circumstances.

Instead all he could manage was to do his best not get caught staring. Aureliano adjusted the hoodie over his shoulders, with his nose a little scrunched.

“Why is this thing so… shiny,” he grumbled, seemingly to no one in particular.

Spadino scoffed out the weak parody of a chuckle.

“That thing’s Versace, you dick.”

Aureliano sighed, deep and tired, and then came back to rest against the balustrade - with his hip, that time. Facing him.

“Spadì, listen,” he started, “You went all – intense back there. That… fucks with me. You can’t be doing that, not with my men right next door. It’s dangerous.”

At that, Spadino had no choice but to turn and face him. That was a mistake, because meeting Aureliano’s serious eyes reminded him exactly why they were in that predicament, in the first place.

“You expect me to not give a fuck if you’re hurt?” Spadino asked, unable to mask his disbelief at that concept.

That was not what he had meant to ask: he had meant to bounce off the “dangerous” thing and bark at Aureliano to pray tell exactly what in God’s green Earth made him think he was in any position to tell him, of all people, what was dangerous and what wasn’t about caring for him the way he did. But instead, Spadino’s voice had gone quieter, and all he could feel where all of that anger used to be, was grief.

He was so bad at lying to Aureliano. When faced with those eyes Alberto often found he had no choice but to be honest – in a painfully powerless way.

Much to his surprise, Aureliano dipped his gaze again.

“No, that’s not-” he started, laboriously, “Not what I meant. Cause if it was you walking in hurt like that, I'd also-”

He closed his mouth, and swallowed hard. Spadino saw his jaw twitch as he did so, but he was almost too busy stifling the shiver running down his spine to notice it.

Luckily for him, Aureliano cleared his throat and went on before Spadino could even think of trying to tackle the impossible task of finding something to answer to that enormity.

“Look, I’m sorry about the girlfriend thing. I shouldn’t have said that.”

And I shouldn’t be in love with you like this, Spadino thought, but here we fucking are.

“Yeah, well.”

Turning away once more, Spadino resisted the urge to adjust the collar of his shirt around his neck. Why did he feel so clammy and suffocated, all of the sudden, when barely minutes earlier he was enjoying that fine fresh breeze?

Unable to act aloof, Spadino settled for just scratching the side of his nose, and fall back behind the trusted, well-worn defence of irony.

“You are wearing my clothes,” he quietly joked, raising his brow, and fishing up the guts to throw Aureliano a little sideways glance.

Whether Aureliano found that funny, or simply let it slide on account of what he’d said earlier, Spadino couldn’t really tell. All he could see was that instead of clicking his tongue or jumping out of that hoodie in disgust, Aureliano just dipped his head and cocked his own brow – with an ever-so-light smirk tugging at the corner of his lip.

“Right. Your Versace.”

Months down the line, Spadino would still wonder where he’d found the strength of will not to crash his mouth all over the smile on Aureliano lips, when the man raised it back at him.

“Lucky me.”

[javier-djarin]

Como Me Duele: Chapter 10

Ship: Javi x Reader

Rating: M

Word Count:  5,490 words

Warnings: Language, Mild Violence

Masterlist

Summary: Someone has taken Javi’s hermosa, and now he’s coming to get her. And he’s bringing hell with him.

A/N: Three more posts left. Which makes me so sad, because I loved writing this fic. Thank you again for all the love and support! Please, please, PLEASE let me know what you think. Please let me know if you want to be on my tag list! Chapter 11 coming soon! Also, there is a lot of Spanish in this one. Most of it is from the show. I apologize in advance. The translations are at the bottom.

His POV

He sat in a crumpled mess on the sidewalk looking at the suitcase that had been busted open. The blood that pooled around the suitcase had to have been her’s. He felt pain, misery, panic, and rage all at once. He wanted to scream and cry. She was gone, and the last image she had of him was Gabby’s arms around him as she kissed him. He balled his fists in his hair, hating himself even more for hurting her the same way Michael did; the same way Javi promised he’d never do. He had no one. Steve was gone tracking Escobar’s family to God knows where. He had absolutely not one person he could call for help. He gathered her things, gently folding her clothing before carrying the broken suitcase up to their apartment.

Javi set it on the dining table before taking a seat next to it. He could call Berna, unless that’s who took her. He knew Los Pepes were getting nervous the last time, since he was not as forthcoming with information like he was before. He could notify the Embassy, but they’d release it to the press, and then the kidnappers could get spooked and do something unimaginable to her. He banged his fists on the table in rage. The best thing he could do right now was use whatever resources he could find, and bring her home. He would burn Colombia to the ground if he had to, just to make sure she was safe, and he was prepared to do exactly that.

He jumped out of his seat and ran to his Jeep. He was losing precious time, so he sped to the Embassy. His tires squealed as he skid into a parking spot. “Javi,” one of the secretaries said as he blew by them. “Javi, you have a message!”

He stopped. “From who?” He spun to face her, his rage causing him to shake and tremble.

“I think you should go talk to the Ambassador,” she said softly.

Without missing a beat, he turned on his heel, bursting into the Ambassador’s office where Messina was already waiting. “Agent Peña,” Crosby said, “please, have a seat.”

“With all due respect, Ambassador, I need this to be as brief as possible.”

Messina looked at her agent and sighed. “We received a call about 20 minutes ago from Escobar.”

His face turned ghost white. “What did he want?”

“He threatened us. He wants us to pull strings to get his family into Germany. Agent Murphy is there now trying to prevent that.”

Already knowing the answer to his next question, he decided to ask anyway, “What-uh-what leverage does he have? Or did he just call and ask nicely?”

“It seems that he has a Ms. Y/N Y/L/N in his ‘protective custody’ saying when his family is safe, he will return her to us. Apparently she is an American Nurse who was down here volunteering-”

“I know who she is,” he said all too fast. “She’s,” his voice cracked, “she’s my…” the fastest way to get her back was if she was DEA. They protect their own. She may not want anything to do with him once he got her back, but right now her safety was all he cared about. “She’s my wife.”

“Agent Peña, I thought you weren’t married.”

“Recently married, Messina.” He cleared his throat and tried to calm down.

Crosby sat back in his chair and watched Peña. “Well, there’s only one problem. His family is already on a charter back to Colombia. They booked their flight late last night and will be landing here tonight.”

Javi felt his heart race. Escobar was going to kill her, and he knew it. They went after Pablo’s family, so naturally he retaliated. This was exactly why he wanted her in the states, instead of here. “Not to be crass, but how the fuck am I going to get her back?” he said through his teeth.

“We are working with Colonel Martinez to find her,” Crosby said.

“And we’re going to need you to stay here, Agent Peña,” Messina added.

His eyes immediately darted to hers. “No. Court Marshal me, send me home, but do all of that after I break that direct order. I’m going out there to find her.”

“You’re too close to this.”

“Damn right I’m too close to this, and I’m going to do whatever it takes to bring her back to me!” he exclaimed, “And if that motherfucker calls here again, I want to talk to him.”

Messina looked at Crosby for a cue. He was sitting silently, with no expression on his face as he waited for Javi to be done with his tirade. “Look, we don’t negotiate with terrorists. However, we aren’t going to abandon one of our own. Your wife is DEA. We are going to do everything in our power -”

“Please, Ambassador, cut the shit. I know this spiel. We give it to anyone who loses someone. I’m sure they gave this same talk to Mika Camarena when Kiki went missing. I’m going to go out there and find her, either on my own or with help. I’m not waiting for clearance or authorization. Her hours, no minutes are numbered.”

Messina stood up and approached Javi. “When Agent Murphy lands, we will send him in for backup. Whatever you need, let me know. You’ll have it.”

Your POV 

You took a deep breath as you stood outside your apartment complex, nervous about seeing Javi and telling him the news: you were pregnant. You ran various scenarios through your head from best to worst case. You reached out for the doorknob and pushed the door open and slowly climbed the flight of stairs that led to your apartment. You were halfway up the second flight when you saw it. Javi was kissing someone. Her arms were draped over his shoulders and she held onto him like she knew him intimately. It felt like a hot knife was ripping through your body. Memories of Michael's betrayal hit you. It was happening again and this time, you didn't know if you'd survive it. The pain was almost too unbearable. You let out a loud gasp as tears welled in your eyes. He pushed her away. "Shit," he said, eyes wide, "Y/N."

You turned and bolted down the stairs. Maybe if you ran fast enough you'd catch a taxi before he got to you. Tears were blurring your vision by the time you made it outside. You thought of your child, realizing now they would never know the happiness their parents felt; he or she would be raised in a broken home. You heard tires squeal in front of you and two men run at you. You tried backing away, but your legs were already weak from grief. You dropped your suitcase and it burst open. The last thing you remembered was intense pain on the side of your head as you hit the ground.

***

You woke up a few times with a bag over your head. You were groggy and couldn’t really understand what they were saying as you drifted in and out of consciousness. Your head throbbed, obviously from the butt of a gun or something blunt that struck you. “El está loco,” You heard one of them say. “Primero esa bomba, ¿y ahora la novia de un agente de la DEA?”

“Era amigo de Carrillo.  Ese hijo de puta vendrá por ella y traerá el infierno con él,” the other said. 

The first one laughed. “No mierda  Acabamos de firmar nuestras propias órdenes de muerte, Blackie.”

That brought you out of your grogginess. If Blackie was in the car, then the other one had to be La Quica. Or at the very least one of Pablo’s men. Your heart sank. They were going to use you as a bargaining chip. Little did they know, Javi wouldn’t come for her. Michael was right. He only sent her away so he could hook up with local… no, you thought to yourself, there has to be a reason she was there. There was no way he would do that to me. He is going to come for me. Months of living together and love making told you that he loved you too much to betray you. He would find you, even if it killed him. 

His POV

He walked into the usual seedy bar to meet Berna, but this time he didn’t feel dirty about it. He didn’t care if this move cost him his career; he was going to get her back. He pulled his chair out and lit a cigarette. “No tengo ninguna información para ti, pero necesito tu ayuda,” he said. 

Berna sat back and grinned. “¿Que vas a hacer por mi?”

Javi tried to hide his emotions, but his fear and anger were all over his face. “Te pagaré.”

“$50,000,” he replied.

“Trato.”

Berna shook his hand. “Escuché que Blackie y La Quica se la llevaron. Ella está en algún lugar de Bogotá.”

His heart raced. “¿Dónde?”

“Estoy...investigando.”

Javi growled and slammed the table. “En el segundo en que encuentres algo, llámame. Quiero estar ahí.”

He put out his cigarette and left the restaurant. Just as he stepped onto the sidewalk, the phone rang. “Javi,” Steve’s voice rang from the other end. “I just landed. Messina filled me in.”

“I’m on my way,” he said, hanging up the phone. Javi sat in his Jeep for a second, frustrated beyond belief. He spent the entire day looking for leads, clues, anything, but he was coming up short. No one was talking. She was sitting, God knows where, waiting. He couldn’t get the look on her face out of his head. It was pure shock and hurt when she saw Gabby kissing him. He felt a tear roll down his cheek as he started the car. “I’m on my way,” he whispered to himself. 

***

Steve hopped in the Jeep and turned to Javi. “What the fuck, man?” he said, “I’ve only been gone for a day!”

Javi couldn’t turn to look at Steve. He knew if he did, he’d lose it. “I’ve got to find her,” his voice cracked.

“We will,” Steve reassured.

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel and sped down the street. “Where are we going?”

Javi didn’t answer, because he didn’t know. He just felt like if he was driving, he was doing something.

“Javi,” Steve sternly said, “Javi, pull over.”

He pulled off to the side and slammed the gear shift into park. “What!” Javi exclaimed.

Steve held his hands up in surrender. “Let’s go back to the apartment, and we will start there.”

“I already tried that,” he said, still looking at the steering wheel.

“Let’s try again. You had to have missed someone,” Steve said, “someone who was in the area.”

Javi froze. He did miss someone. Gabriela. Deep down, he knew she was part of it. She had to have been. Who else would be able to give her his address? “Fuck!” he screamed. 

“What is it?”

He finally turned and looked at his partner...friend. Tears ready to spill over at the edge of his eyelids. “Gabriela,” he croaked. Steve waited patiently for Javi to explain to him who she was. “She’s a prostitute.”

“Jesus, Javi,” he said, running his hand down his face. “What did you do?”

Javi recounted how Gabriela was the one who told him about Martiza, how she’s the reason Carrillo was set up, and how she showed up at his apartment door early this morning. His voice broke so many times when he tried to tell Steve about the last time he saw Y/N’s face, just before she bolted down the stairs. “She has to hate me,” he said, “which is why I have to get her back. I have to save her if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Well, let’s start with this Gabriela. Do you know where to find her?”

He put the car in drive. “I do.”

***

They pulled in and parked on the opposite side of the street from the brothel. Javi’s phone rang before they got out of the car. “Peña,” he answered.

“Javi! I just got your message,” Connie said at the other end.

“You called my wife?” Steve said.

“I had no one else to talk to!” Javi defended, “Steve’s back. We think we’ve found a lead. I can call you back after.”

“Wait, Javi,” she said, “hand the phone to Steve.”

He did so and left the Jeep. He needed some fresh air before heading to interrogate Gabriela. He ran his hand through his hair and leaned against the vehicle, about ready to lose the rest of his mind. Every second he did nothing weighed on him. She had limited time left.

“Steve,” Connie said over the phone, crying. “You have to find her, and soon.”

“I know, Connie. What do you think we’re doing?” he sighed.

“No, you don’t understand. Steve, you can’t tell Javi. Especially now.”

“Tell him what?”

Connie took a deep breath. “Y/N is pregnant.”

“She’s what!” he exclaimed.

“Look, we were all surprised, but that’s why she went back. She came down there to tell Javi. She wanted to do it in person and to surprise him.”

“Oh, Jesus. Fuck! I can’t keep that from him,” he said.

“You have to, Steve. What good is this information going to do him now? Nothing, except drive him more insane. You get my pregnant best friend back. Be careful. I love you.” She hung up the phone, and Steve slammed his head lightly against the headrest. He climbed out of the Jeep and walked around to where Javi was standing. He stared at him with nothing but sorrow in his eyes, knowing what Javi should know.

“What?” Javi said. “What did she say?”

“How about I handle this interrogation?” Steve suggested. 

His hands trembled as he wiped his face. “Okay.” 

They walked into the whorehouse, instantly surrounded by girls promising a good time. Javi cornered one he knew, Vanessa. “¿Gabriela está aquí?”

“Sí, Javi. Ella esta arriba.”

“Gracias,” he added. 

Steve followed Javi through the hallways and up the stairs to Gabriela’s room. He knocked first, but when there wasn’t an answer, he burst in. Steve held back for a minute. She was in the middle of a job. “¡Vete, cabrone!”

The man grabbed his clothes and ran out of the room. Gabriela smiled and made her way over to Javi. “I knew you wouldn’t stay away for long,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck.

He grabbed her wrists, a little too hard. “Cut the shit, Gabby.”

“Javi…”

Steve stepped out of the shadows and grabbed her arm, forcing her to sit in the chair in her room. “Who gave you Javi’s address? No one knew he’d moved apartments.”

“I don’t…”

Javi stormed over to her, pressing her into the seat. “Who, Gabby!”

She started crying. “Lo siento, Javi. Lo siento mucho. Ellos iban a matarme.”

He felt a weight lift. He found his lead. His breathing began to shake as he sat down. “Where did they take her?” Steve asked, pressing the barrel of his gun to her chest.

“I-I don’t know.”

He cocked the gun. “You’re going to have to do better than that. They were going to kill you, but I will.”

“Please, I can find out.”

Javi’s head jerked up and looked at her. “Call them. Now.”

“I can’t just do that.” She started crying harder. “They’re watching you.”

Both Javi and Steve froze. “They have been since Pablo escaped prison. That’s how they knew where to hit you where it hurt.”

“Call them.” Steve pressed harder with the gun. “Now.”

She reached for the phone on the side table next to her. 

Your POV

You woke again, this time with duct tape and rope around your arms and legs. You were blindfolded and strapped to a chair with a terrible headache. You head feet shuffling as they neared you. “Ella tiene una herida en la cabeza desagradable,” the man’s voice said. 

“Limpiarla. Pablo quiere que enviemos un video a la embajada.,” La Quica’s voice said from across the room.

“Nosotros estamos jugando con fuego,” the voice said as he dabbed at her wound with a cloth.

You tried to move away, but he held your head in place. “Estas bien, señorita,” he said, trying to calm you.

You didn’t say anything, but instead let out a small sob. You felt another pair of hands on your face, lifting your chin up to expose your neck. “Tal vez podríamos divertirnos un poco con este después del video.”

“Por favor, no,” you begged.

“Sí. Quiero ver qué te hace tan especial para la DEA.”

“No, por favor. Estoy embarazada.”

La Quica laughed. “Limpiarla.”

His POV

Blackie. She was able to give them Blackie. She told them about Blackie’s girlfriend in Medellín. Javi and Steve walked into the Search Bloc offices to begin mapping out a plan of attack. Steve’s phone rang. “Murphy.”

“It’s Messina,” she said, “keep Peña away from the TV.”

“What happened?”

“She’s on the TV.”

Steve saw Trujillo and Peña talking, as they both rapidly walked into Martinez’s office. “You called about thirty seconds too late.”

Javi stood in shock as he watched the tape that was released this morning by the news. La Quica was laughing in the video, showing them her wounds she sustained. She cried the entire time, pleading for them to let her go. Her beautiful eyes swollen and red. One was bruised. In one final display of dominance, La Quica backhanded her to silence her. Blood dripped from her split cheek and swollen lips. Pablo’s usual reporter, Valeria Velez, was the one on TV with a screencap of his beautiful hermosa in the upper left corner. “Escobar tiene un mensaje para los responsables de mantener a su familia en peligro: Mientras mi familia esté en peligro, la tuya también. Mantener a mi familia seguro, o te enviaré su cabeza en una caja.”

Enraged, Javi grabbed the whiskey glass in front of him and threw it at the TV, shattering the glass and screen completely. Martinez and Trujillo stood back, fearing they would be the next targets. Steve came in and grabbed Javi before he destroyed anything else. “I’m going to kill those motherfuckers,” he said, “every last one of them.”

“I know,” Steve said, “starting with Blackie. Let’s catch this asshole.”

***

They walked out of Blackie’s Girlfriend’s apartment complex, defeated. They were dead. Everyone inside. Javi was almost sure that Blackie fled. He wouldn’t be coming back here, and their lead was a dead end. He punched the side of his Jeep out of frustration. He was growing restless and angry. It’d been three days since she’d been taken, and he hadn’t slept at all. How could he? She was out there, somewhere being tortured. He couldn’t afford to sleep. Steve approached him. “It looks like the work of Los Pepes.”

Javi cursed. Of course. He hadn’t given them that information, which means someone else was. “We have to find Blackie. Get him to talk.” He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“When was the last time you slept?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll drive,” Steve said, taking the keys from him. “Sleep, at least while I drive us back.”

“I can’t sleep. Not until she’s safe.”

Your POV

“Patrón, Los Pepes se están expandiendo. Los Galones están trabajando con ellos ahora. No podemos enfrentarnos a un enemigo tan grande,” you heard La Quica say into the phone. “Sí, sí. Ella está viva. ¿Dónde? Medellín. Sí, Patrón. Gracias. Hasta luego.”

Based on the one-sided conversation you heard, you put together that you were being moved to Medellín. You felt your heart drop. You wanted to scream and cry for Javi, but you knew that would result in Quica beating you. You had no idea how long you’d been trapped here, but you were grateful they hadn’t done anything to you to hurt your child. The worst La Quica did was slap you.

You were no longer worried about yourself, but instead your baby and Javi. You knew this had to be killing Javi. He sent you away for this reason. Tears ran down your cheeks as you silently cried. You should have just called him, but instead you were selfish and wanted to celebrate with him in person. Now, he was out there somewhere looking for you, risking his life to bring you home. 

His POV

They pulled into the Embassy lot as were instantly met by Messina. “We overheard some chatter,” she said.

Javi felt his heart race. “Who?”

“Quica and Escobar. They’re moving ‘precious cargo’ to Medellín tonight. We are stationing teams at the airfields. And setting up blockades at various intersections,” she added, “she won’t leave the city.”

“Messina, a word?” Steve asked.

She nodded and walked away with Steve so they were out of Javi’s earshot. “She’s pregnant.”

Messina crossed her arms. “I’ll communicate that with team leaders to make sure she walks away unharmed and stays out of the crossfire.”

Javi had already walked inside, only to be approached by Stechner, who hopped on the elevator with him. “You’re the last person I want to talk to right now,” he said, “can’t you take the stairs?”

“Remember my warning, Peña? You’re starting to make our new friends nervous. Why didn’t you tell them about Blackie?”

He turned to look at him, annoyed. “They found his family, didn’t they?”

“No thanks to you.”

Javi could feel his muscles tense up. He was already on edge and in desperate need to take his frustrations out on something. Instead, he tried to calm himself. “They go in after her, guns blazing, she could get hurt. Or worse.”

“This is bigger than your girlfriend problems.”

He grabbed him by the shirt collar and slammed him into the elevator wall. “Not for me. I will burn this fucking place to the ground to find her, and if you try to stop me, I’ll take you down with me.”

The elevator door opened and he released him. He walked to his desk. He held the picture of her he kept there, running his fingers over the glass. “Javi,” Steve said behind him, out of breath, “we got him. We fucking got him.”

He set the picture down and turned to him. “Who? Where is he?”

“Blackie.”

***

Javi and Steve were granted access to the interrogation room where they had Blackie. He was sitting there, scared. His hands were tied around his back as he sat in a metal chair looking between the two of them with wide eyes. “Ustedes no me pueden hacer una mierda,” Blackie said, ”De Greiff nos ofreció amnistía.”

“Cierto,” Javi said, leaning back on the table, “Pero tienes que hablar para conseguirlo.”

Blackie smiled. “¿Quieres negociar, gringo? Te voy a dar algo. Algo pequeño.”

Javi leaned forward, bringing his face closer to Blackie’s. “Encontraron residuos explosivos en tus manos. En tu chaqueta, en todas partes. Te culparán por esa bomba.”

His eyes grew wider, realizing he had no bargaining chips left. “No tuve nada que ver con eso.”

Javi rested his gun on his leg. “Lo sabemos. Sabemos que no fue idea tuya. Sabemos que no eres el jefe. No dejes que te culpen por esto. No dejes que te vean como el que mató a todos esos niños inocentes.” 

Steve folded his arms and said, “Ayúdanos y te ayudaremos. Danos a Pablo.”

Blackie shook his head. “No puedo darte Pablo.”

Javi fired a round into Blackie’s leg, and he screamed out in pain. “¡El siguiente es para tu cabeza! ¿Dónde la están reteniendo? ¡Habla, cabrone!”

Crying through the pain, he exclaimed, “¡Yo hablaré! ¡Yo hablaré!” He pushed his gun onto Blackie’s forehead, hard, leaving an imprint in his skin. “La Quica la tiene en una casa segura en Medellín. Sabían que estabas escuchando sus conversaciones, así que la trasladaron anoche.”

Javi grabbed him by the shirt collar and shook him. “¿Dónde in Medellín?”

“Pablo está declarando la guerra a Judy Moncada. Quiere que La Quica junte tanto dinero como pueda. Probablemente esté en movimiento con él.”

Javi looked at Steve. “We need to get to Medellín. Now.” He turned back to Blackie and cocked his gun. 

“Eso es todo lo que sé. Lo prometo.”

Javi put his gun back on safety and returned it to his back, tucking it safely into his belt. He looked down at the floor and saw blood pooling around Blackie’s leg. He felt nothing for the man. “¿La llevaste?”

Blackie breathed through the pain and looked up at Javier. “No tuve elección.”

He used his elbow to send a blow to Blackie’s head, knocking him out cold. Javi stormed out of the room. “Peña,” Steve said, running after him.

Javi didn’t stop.

“Dammit, Javi, wait!”

“I don’t have time to wait. Catch up,” he said over his shoulder.

Steve jogged through the corridor and caught up to him. “We gotta tell Messina. They’re sending their resources to the wrong area.”

“Fine. Go tell her. I’m heading to Medellín now.” 

He let out a loud sigh and followed his partner. “I’ll call her from the road.”

***

Javi and Steve walked into the Medellín office and headed straight for Martinez. “I just got off the phone with Messina,” he said, “I’m letting you take the lead on this, Agent Peña. What do you need?”

He looked around the room at the  map of Medellín on the table. “We are setting up blockades. That fucker isn’t getting out of this city. I want reinforcements here,” he pointed at 10th street, “and here,” he pointed at 32nd street. “Intel suggests these are where his largest stashes are held. If La Quica is gathering money, he’ll go to these.”

Martinez motioned to the map. “We will block intersections so he can only go certain routes out of there. He’ll drive right into our trap.”

His heart was beating so fast, he was sure that the whole room could hear him. “Do not shoot at the car,” he said, “she might,” Javi’s voice cracked, “she might be with him in the car.”

Martinez looked at him. “I cannot make promises, Peña. If he starts firing at my men, they’ve been instructed to take him out.”

“Well, instruct them to take the fight away from the car,” Javi growled, “she’s not going to die in the crossfire.”

Steve slapped Javi on the back. “We’ll get her out of there. She’s going home in one piece.”

Javi sighed. He tried to look at the bright side: they were closer to her than they had been over the last few days. However, he had this sinking feeling in his stomach that his fight to get her home was far from over.

Your POV

You’d been moved so many times over the last several hours that your sense of direction was completely thrown off, not to mention they’d blindfolded you again. This time, though, you’d been thrown into the trunk of the car, and you could hear muffled arguing coming from the cab. You felt the car jerk forward as you tried to wiggle your hands free of the zip ties they used to tie your hands together behind your back. You knew that if you could punch through the tail light, you’d be able to signal for help. You couldn’t even get your feet loose, as they were duct taped together. You did your best to remain calm as you struggled against your restraints, but you suddenly stopped when you heard the car go silent as their phone rang. “Aló. Meirda. ¿Quién es la mierda?” You heard Quica say, “Hijo de puta. ¿Quien es este?”

Your heart raced. Please be Javi, you thought to yourself. You wanted to scream so whoever was on the phone could hear you, but you feared for your life. You knew if you drew any attention to yourself, he’d kill you for certain. 

Quica slammed on the brakes, and you heard them get out. There was gunfire, and so you panicked. You started tugging on your restraints more, only causing your wrists to become raw. You felt the car move as he piled back into the car and hit the gas. You slid forward, narrowly missing another head injury. You heard the phone ring again, and Quica yell something. He took a sharp right turn, and you slid into the side of the trunk, hard. Suddenly everything went black.

His POV

Javi leaned against Trujillo’s Jeep with a phone in his hand. “Now?” Steve nodded. “They’re ready.” He dialed the number he had for La Quica. It rang twice before there was an answer. “Aló.”

“Quica,” Javi said, containing his rage.

 “Aló. Meirda. ¿Quién es la mierda?” He could hear his voice begin to panic.

“Hola, Quica ¿Cómo te va, amigo?” he calmly replied.

“Hijo de puta. ¿Quien es este?” Quica yelled into the receiver.

Javi took a breath before saying, “Cálmate, Quica. No te pongas nervioso. ¿Que pasa, Quica?”

“¿Quién la mierda crees que eres, perra?” Quica replied as he hung up the phone.

Javi looked over to Trujillo. “It wasn’t long enough. Call him again.” They were trying to track his cell signal to find his car from the sky.

He took a deep breath and redialed the number. “Aló,” Quica said into the phone, clearly agitated.

“Quica,” Javi said, “¿Que pasa, Quica?” Quica didn’t answer him. Javi could hear his breathing pick up. “Quica, Quica, Quica,” he added, drawing out Quica’s name to keep him on the phone longer. “¿Qué hora es, Quica? ¿Qué estás haciendo, Quica?”

There was still no answer. “Quica…”

“Bastardo,” Quica said before hanging up.

Javi glanced at Trujillo. “We got him,” he said.

Without missing a beat, Javi and Steve hopped in their Jeep. “Go right,” Javi said. Steve jerked the wheel right. “Perez, cerca de toda la 4ta calle,” he ordered over the radio. “Go straight.”

Steve obediently followed Javi’s directions. “We need to go this way to cut him off.”

A car flew by in front of them. “There! Follow him!” Steve turned right again and gassed the car. Javi could feel his heart racing. He couldn’t see anyone in the backseat of this car, but if they could get La Quica, he was one step closer to bringing her home. “Follow him!” he exclaimed again.

Trujillo came over the radio, “Todas las unidades, prepárate para la obra.”

Javi felt a few tears well in his eyes. He needed to keep a clear head, in case she wasn’t there. He was so close to finding her, and he couldn’t hold in the apprehension any more. “To the right!”

Search Bloc’s team cut off Quica, who slammed on the brakes. He took off running down the street. Javi and Steve did the same and chased after him, guns drawn. Javi fired a few times in the air, causing La Quica to hunker down and stumble a bit, but he kept running. Javi then aimed and hit him in the leg, causing him to go down and drag himself to the end of a ravine, where Search Bloc was waiting for him. Steve beat Javi to La Quica, and punched him several times. Javi pulled him off before landing a few himself. “Peña!” Trujillo exclaimed over the radio, “you better get your ass back up here.”

His heart raced to the point he thought it was going to burst out of his chest. He looked at Steve. “Don’t get your hopes up, Javi,” he said, trying to keep him level headed.

Javi knew he was right. She might not even be up there, but he ran like she was anyway. He ran as fast as he could, ready to scoop her into his arms and never let her go. He ran uphill to the cars that were blocking traffic, and immediately his heart dropped when he saw a group of Search Bloc gathered around the opened trunk. “Trujillo,” he roared.

Trujillo moved everyone out of the way as Javi ran up to the sight. His legs collapsed from under him when he saw her tied, blindfolded, and bleeding in the back of the car. She wasn’t moving, and if she was breathing, it was so faint, he couldn’t see it. He rested his head on the bumper and let out a small whimper. Steve calmly walked up behind him and rested a hand on his shoulder. He looked up at his partner before standing. Javi placed his hands under her shoulders and legs, lifting her out of the trunk, and into his lap as he sat on the curb, holding her against him. Finally, he was able to breath again.

Translations

El está loco. Primero esa bomba, ¿y ahora la novia de un agente de la DEA? - He’s crazy. First the bomb, and now a DEA agent’s girl?

Era amigo de Carrillo.  Ese hijo de puta vendrá por ella y traerá el infierno con él.  - He was friends with Carrillo. That motherfucker is going to come for her and bring hell with him.

No mierda  Acabamos de firmar nuestras propias órdenes de muerte, Blackie. - No shit. We just signed our own death warrants, Blackie.

No tengo ninguna información para ti, pero necesito tu ayuda. - I don’t have information, but I need your help.

¿Que vas a hacer por mi? - What are you going to do for me?

Te pagaré. - I’ll pay you.

Trato. - Deal.

Escuché que Blackie y La Quica se la llevaron. Ella está en algún lugar de Bogotá. - I heard that Blackie and La Quica took her. She is somewhere in Bogota.

¿Dónde? - Where?

Estoy...investigando. - I am investigating.

En el segundo en que encuentres algo, llámame. Quiero estar ahí. - The second you find something, call me. I want to be there.

¿Gabriela está aquí? - Is Gabriela here?

Sí, Javi. Ella esta arriba. - Yes, Javi. She’s upstairs.

Gracias. - Thank you.

¡Vete, cabrone! - Get out asshole!

Lo siento, Javi. Lo siento mucho. Ellos iban a matarme. - I’m sorry, Javi. I’m so sorry. They were going to kill me.

Ella tiene una herida en la cabeza desagradable. - She has a terrible head injury.

Limpiarla. Pablo quiere que enviemos un video a la embajada. - Clean her up. Pablo wants us to send a video to the embassy.

Nosotros estamos jugando con fuego. - We are playing with fire.

Estas bien, señorita. - Everything’s fine, ma’am.

Tal vez podríamos divertirnos un poco con este después del video. - Perhaps we could have a little fun with this one after the video.

Sí. Quiero ver qué te hace tan especial para la DEA. - Yes. I want to see what makes you so special to the DEA.

Estoy embarazada. - I’m pregnant.

Escobar tiene un mensaje para los responsables de mantener a su familia en peligro: Mientras mi familia esté en peligro, la tuya también. Mantener a mi familia seguro, o te enviaré su cabeza en una caja. - Escobar has a message for those responsible for keeping his family in danger: While my family is in danger, so is yours. Keep my family safe, or I will send you her head in a box.

Patrón, Los Pepes se están expandiendo. Los Galones están trabajando con ellos ahora. No podemos enfrentarnos a un enemigo tan grande. Sí, sí. Ella está viva. ¿Dónde? Medellín. Sí, Patrón. Gracias. Hasta luego. - Los Pepes are expanding. The Gallons are working with them now. We cannot take on an enemy this large. Yes, yes she is alive. Where? Medellín. Yes, boss. Thanks. See you later.

Ustedes no me pueden hacer una mierda. De Greiff nos ofreció amnistía. - You guys can't do shit to me. De Greiff offered us amnesty.

Cierto. Pero tienes que hablar para conseguirlo. - That's right. But you have to talk to get it.

¿Quieres negociar, gringo? Te voy a dar algo. Algo pequeño. - You want to negotiate, gringo? I’ll give you something. Something small.

Encontraron residuos explosivos en tus manos. En tu chaqueta, en todas partes. Te culparán por esa bomba. - They found explosive residue on your hands. On your jacket, everywhere. They're going to blame you for that bomb.

No tuve nada que ver con eso. - I had nothing to do with that.

Lo sabemos. Sabemos que no fue idea tuya. Sabemos que no eres el jefe. No dejes que te culpen por esto. No dejes que te vean como el que mató a todos esos niños inocentes. - We know that. We know it wasn't your idea. We know you're not the boss. Don't let them blame you for this. Don't let them see you as the one who killed all those innocent children.

Ayúdanos y te ayudaremos. Danos a Pablo. - Help us help you. Give us Pablo.

No puedo darte Pablo. - I can’t give you Pablo.

¡El siguiente es para tu cabeza! ¿Dónde la están reteniendo? ¡Habla, cabrone! - The next one is for your head. Where are they keeping her? Talk, Cabrone!

“¡Yo hablaré! ¡Yo hablaré! La Quica la tiene en una casa segura en Medellín. Sabían que estabas escuchando sus conversaciones, así que la trasladaron anoche. - I'll talk. I'll talk. La Quica has her in a safe house in Medellín. They knew you were listening to their conversations, so they moved her last night.

¿Dónde in Medellín? - Where in Medellín?

Pablo está declarando la guerra a Judy Moncada. Quiere que La Quica junte tanto dinero como pueda. Probablemente esté en movimiento con él. - Pablo is declaring war on Judy Moncada. He wants La Quica to gather as much money as he can. She's probably on the move with him.

Eso es todo lo que sé. Lo prometo. - That’s all I know. I swear!

¿La llevaste? - Did you take her?

No tuve elección. - I had no choice.

Aló. Meirda. ¿Quién es la mierda? - Hello? Shit. Who the fuck is this?

Hola, Quica ¿Cómo te va, amigo? - Hello, Quica. How’s it going, friend?

Hijo de puta. ¿Quien es este? - Motherfucker. Who is this?

Cálmate, Quica. No te pongas nervioso. ¿Que pasa, Quica? - Calm down, Quica. You don’t need to be nervous. What’s up, Quica?

¿Quién la mierda crees que eres, perra? - Who the fuck do you think you are, bitch?

¿Que pasa, Quica? ¿Qué hora es, Quica? ¿Qué estás haciendo, Quica? - What’s up, Quica? What time is it, Quica? What are you doing, Quica?

Bastardo. - Bastard

Tag List

@magneticbucky​ @larakasser​ @pedropascalownsmyheart​ @wander-lustbabe​ @frietiemeloen​

[prouvaireafterdark]

“I wish you would write a fic where...” Michael and Alex hook up at some point during the Lost Decade.

Sorry this took so long! I’d kind of told myself I wasn’t going to write a Lost Decade fic 'cause I figured it'd been done a lot before, but when I got this prompt I just knew I had to give it a try and if I was gonna do it I wanted to do it right. I hope it lives up!

Also, I should warn you that this is canon compliant, so expect a lot of hurt mixed in with the comfort here.

Also on AO3!

***

When Michael pulls up to the stretch of Foster’s Ranch his Airstream is parked on, he’s surprised to find someone waiting for him.

There’s an unfamiliar Jeep parked out front and a man with short dark hair standing beside it wearing dark-wash jeans and a green sweater. When the rumbling of his truck grows loud enough for him to hear, the stranger turns around to face him and Michael just about has a heart attack.

Standing in front of his trailer, looking just as achingly beautiful as he had the last time Michael saw him three years ago, is Alex fucking Manes.

Michael’s truck jerks to a stop an awkward distance away from his doorstep. He sits there, foot on the brake, car still in drive, his ears ringing to the tune of Alex, Alex, Alex.

He’s not sure how much time passes before Alex gives an awkward little wave, but it jolts Michael out of his own head. He parks the car hastily and climbs out, the desert floor crunching under his boots as he walks the rest of the way over.

“Alex,” he says once he’s close enough, eyes wide as he takes in every detail like Alex will disappear the moment he closes them. Alex’s nose ring is gone, and so is the eyeliner, but that little flash of teeth as he smiles—oh, that’s still very much the same and Michael’s heart aches.

“Guerin,” Alex greets back, sounding every bit as effected as Michael feels. Hearing his name from those lips again just about sends Michael to his knees.

Michael hangs onto his dignity by a thread and says, “I didn’t know you were back.”

Alex’s smile dims a little and Michael could kick himself.

“Yeah, about that…” Alex says, a strange, sad quality to his voice. “Can I… can I come in?”

Michael swallows the lump in his throat, nods, and heads toward his Airstream.

As he leads Alex inside, he’s suddenly thankful Isobel bullied him into cleaning up when she stopped by for one of their bitch sessions the other day. His bed’s not made, but his clothes are in his closet where they’re supposed to be and his research, which is usually scattered here and there, has been collected and stored in a bin under his bed.

“Nice place,” Alex comments, taking in his surroundings. Michael’s about to laugh when it occurs to him that Alex’s barracks might be even more Spartan than his tin can.

“Eh, it’s nothing special,” Michael shrugs.

Alex makes a face like he disagrees. “You’ve got a safe place you can go and do whatever you want in. You have a home now, Guerin,” Alex insists. “How’s that not special?”

It’s the mention of home more than anything else that shatters the dream he’s been living in these past few minutes. Because, yeah, he’s not roughing it in his truck anymore and this place is a decent upgrade with actual walls and a real bed, but the only home he’s ever had is standing right in front of him. And he left.

“Why are you here, Alex?” The question is out of his mouth before he gives his lips permission.

Alex lets out a breath, taking a hesitant step closer. “I wanted to see you.”

“Why?” Alex looks wounded the second he says it, but Michael needs to know.

“Do you really need to ask?” Alex reaches for him, but Michael takes a step back, needing to maintain a little distance to keep a clear head. He’ll give Alex his whole heart if he wants it, but first he has some explaining to do.

“A little bit, yeah,” Michael asks, his voice raising in pitch and Alex looks down at his feet, cowed by Michael’s rejection. “I mean, shit, Alex, I haven’t gotten so much as a postcard from you in years. You ignored every letter I sent you, how am I—“ Michael stops suddenly when Alex’s head snaps up.  

“You sent me letters?” Alex asks, eyes wide and surprised.

That makes Michael pause. “Yeah. You didn’t get them?”

Alex shakes his head. “Did you get mine?”

Michael’s mouth drops as he shakes his head. Alex wrote to him?

Silence hangs between them before Alex curses angrily, “That motherfucking son of a bitch,” and Michael connects the dots from there all on his own.

Michael stands there in shocked silence, though a voice inside his head tells him he shouldn’t be. Of course Alex being thousands of miles away, in the goddamn Air Force, wasn’t enough of a victory for him. Of course he just had to salt the wound and burn out every last piece of evidence that Michael and Alex had ever had something. Of course he had to make them both think they’d been forgotten, that they didn’t care about each other anymore, or maybe never did at all.

Michael’s no stranger to being hated by people, but the depth of Jesse Manes’ disdain for his youngest son stretches the bounds of comprehension.

“God,” Alex continues, “just when I think he can’t possibly fuck me over any more than he already has...” Alex’s voice drops off in disbelief.

“So…” Michael starts eventually, drawing Alex’s attention back to him, “you thought I ignored your letters and you still came all the way over here?”

“I had to,” Alex says softly but with conviction and, fuck, now Michael wants to fucking cry. This time when Alex reaches for his face to cradle his jaw, Michael lets him. “And all this time you thought I just left and that was it? That I just forgot about you?”

Michael shrugs and sniffles a little, the look on his face all the confirmation Alex needs. Alex makes a pained noise, bringing their foreheads together, and Michael’s entire world narrows to the scant few inches of space between them, to Alex’s palm warm against his cheek.

“I could never,” Alex whispers, and Michael closes the distance between them without another thought.

Michael has kissed a lot of people in his life, some more memorable than others, but not a single one has ever felt anything like this. Kissing Alex feels like a homecoming, his lips soft against his mouth, drawing him in deeper and deeper passed the point of no return. As Alex’s fingers twist their way into his wild curls, Michael yields to the sensation completely and inexorably, sinking into that place where he’s safe and loved and warm, a place he’s only ever reached in Alex’s arms. When Alex licks across the seam of his lips, Michael moans, powerless to resist, his mouth opening freely to Alex’s tongue.

They’re horizontal on Michael’s bed before he knows it, Alex straddling his lap and pushing his hands under Michael’s t-shirt, his sweatshirt and shoes already abandoned in a heap on the floor. Michael rolls them over as gracefully as he can, pulling back to take in the perfect image of Alex’s head resting on his pillow.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Michael says, leaning down to brush their noses together, overcome with happiness because Alex is here and kissing him like every dream he’s ever had.

“Me neither,“ Alex echoes, caressing his cheek before claiming Michael’s lips with his own once more.

“God, never fucking leave me again, Alex,” Michael gasps between fierce kisses, but instead of the affirmation Michael hopes for, Alex tenses under his fingers. A horrible feeling sinks into Michael’s gut. He pulls back to look at Alex and the second he sees the pain in his eyes he knows. “You’re not staying, are you?” he asks, voice hollow, feeling the ignorant bliss of a moment ago crashing down around his ears.

Alex shakes his head, and as soon as the words, “I’m sorry,” are out of his mouth, Michael pushes himself off of him and leans his back against the wall.

“Guerin, I’m sorry, don’t go,” Alex says, sitting up and reaching for him as if to pull him close again.

“I’m not the one who’s leaving, Alex,” Michael snaps, drawing his legs up to his chest. God, why can’t he ever catch a fucking break?

“I know,” Alex sighs and crosses his legs, placing his right elbow on his knee and running his fingers through his hair in frustration. “If it’s any consolation, I don’t have a choice.”

Michael doesn’t need to ask why.

“You know, your startling lack of autonomy isn’t really cheering me up right now, Alex.” Michael can feel another apology on the tip of Alex’s tongue, but before he can say anything else he sighs and asks, “When do you leave?”

Alex hangs his head when he says, “Tomorrow morning.”

A hysterical laugh bubbles out of Michael’s chest.

“So—So, what, after three years I get one night with you?” he asks, despising the tears that well in his eyes, the tremble in his voice.

It’s not enough. Michael’s not sure any amount of time would ever be enough, but if he’s going to tear open his heart for Alex Manes again he’d hoped he’d get more than a single night to enjoy it.

“I know, I’m—I’m sorry, okay? I only just got back a few days ago and he’s had me running around doing all kinds of shit for him to keep me busy—“

“You’re on leave, Alex, he can’t control you—“

Alex laughs harshly. “Are we talking about the same person? You know what he’s capable of,” Alex argues and Michael flinches just a little at the memory, his left hand twitching against his knee. Alex tracks the movement and, slow enough so Michael could stop him if he wants to, he reaches forward to wrap his fingers around Michael’s ankle, the only part of him that’s close enough to touch. His thumb starts rubbing gentle circles when Michael doesn’t pull away from him.

“I couldn’t give him a reason to hurt you again, Michael,” Alex says, a desperate look in his eye. “I can’t and I won’t.”

“So how’d you get out here then?” Michael asks, voice rough when he finds it again.

“Well, he’s got cameras all over the property now. I was in the middle of trying to hack them so I could sneak out to see you when he ambushed me with plane tickets earlier today. Wouldn’t tell me where we’re going or why, just that I won’t be back in Roswell before I have to report back to base. I was able to convince him to let me spend my last night here with Maria.”

“Does she know about us?” Michael asks.

“A little,” he answers. “She doesn’t know who you are, but she agreed to cover for me.”

When Michael doesn’t say anything right away, Alex continues, voice barely above a whisper, “Look, I… I know tonight’s not enough to make up for the last three years, but… it’s all I’ve got.” Alex’s eyes shine with tears and Michael’s heart twists painfully in his chest. “But, um, I can go if you want me to,” he adds, voice shaking as he releases Michael’s ankle and leans a little further away from him. “I don’t want you to feel obligated to let me stay or anything.”

Michael swallows thickly, afraid if he lets himself cry like he wants to he’ll never stop. This isn’t fair. Jesse Manes shouldn’t have this much power over them. Alex shouldn’t be able to just waltz back into his life for a single night after years of no contact and tear him apart like it’s the first time all over again. And maybe worst of all, Michael shouldn’t be so fucking willing to let him.

No, none of this is fair, but the thought of letting Alex walk out that door a second before he has to, of giving up what could be the last chance Michael ever has to be with him… Well. Maybe Alex isn’t the only one without much of a choice here.

Alex looks to be bracing for a blow when Michael shifts on the bed, but once Michael pushes him back against the headboard with a hand against his chest and settles on his lap, his eyes are wide and awestruck. Alex’s hands come up to hover at Michael’s sides, unsure if he’s allowed to touch, but when Michael guides his hands to his hips, Alex grips them hard and without hesitation, as if Michael will drift away if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. Michael relishes the pleasure-pain it brings him, secretly hoping he’ll bruise there in the shape of Alex’s fingers.

Michael leans down to brush a gentle kiss against Alex’s lips, deepening it when he tastes the salt of Alex’s tears finally spilling over. He pulls back a moment later, wiping the tear tracks from under Alex’s eyes as he looks at him, this beautiful, kind boy who owns his whole heart. Michael brings their foreheads together as he threads his fingers into Alex’s too-short hair, committing the way it feels to memory.

“If we’ve only got one night, we better make the most of it,” Michael says into the space between them.

Michael feels Alex nod. “Yeah,” he says, his breath ghosting over Michael’s mouth.

He cradles Michael’s jaw like something precious in his palm and Michael struggles to control the urge to sob into his shirt and beg him to stay with him forever. Instead, Michael leans in to kiss him again, pouring every emotion roiling through him into it until they’re both gasping and tearing at each others clothes.

They undress each other with unbridled urgency, skin seeking skin. Michael winds up with his back against the mattress as Alex gets his underwear off, pressing open-mouthed kisses against his stomach as he journeys farther south. Michael’s eyes roll up into his head as Alex gets his mouth on him, pulling whimper after whimper from him as he starts to suck.

It’s—fuck, it’s so good. Michael can’t tear his eyes away from where Alex works between his thighs, Alex’s mouth hot and wet around him, those pink lips stretched wide to accommodate his cock. His hips twitch upward in half-aborted thrusts as he tries not to fuck Alex’s throat. Alex presses down on his thighs to keep him still, making Michael feel open and on display in a way he never has before, and the intensity with which he wants that, to be entirely at Alex’s mercy, catches him completely off guard.

“Fuck me,” Michael begs, suddenly desperate for it.

Alex’s mouth stops working his cock and Michael doesn’t have to guess why. They’ve had sex dozens of times, but they’ve never done it that way before. He pulls off gently with a wet noise that makes Michael flush hotter.

“Are you sure?” Alex asks, pulling back to look him in the eye.

Michael nods.

“Have you—have you ever done that before?”

“Not really,” Michael confesses.

“Define ‘not really,’ please,” Alex asks.

Michael bites his bottom lip before he answers, “I’ve fingered myself before.”

“Yeah?” Alex asks, his voice rough with want at the mental picture. One of the hands he had anchoring Michael’s hips to the bed comes up to grip his cock again, thumb rubbing into that spot under the head that makes Michael see stars. “How many did you get in you?”

“Two,” Michael says, flushing high on his cheeks. He thinks about telling Alex about the dildo he bought but never worked up to using. He’s not sure why he’s feeling so vulnerable about it, but it feels like more than he’s willing to admit in this moment.

“Gonna need more than two tonight.”

“I know, I remember.” The few times Michael got inside him, he’d made Alex take at least three fingers before he even thought about fucking him. “Have you ever topped before?”

Alex shakes his head and blushes a little. “You’re still the only guy I’ve ever been with.”

Michael probably shouldn’t be happy about Alex’s lack of sexual intimacy for the last three years, especially when he himself has not been what one might call celibate, but he can’t help the little thrill that goes through him at the idea that he’s still the only one who’s ever made Alex come.

“So, you wanna?” Michael asks.

Alex laughs, “Of fucking course I want to.”

“Then get over here,” Michael whines.

“Do you even have lube?”

“Yeah, it’s—“ Michael rolls over, careful not to kick Alex as he feels around for something under the bed. He can’t reach it, so he feels out for it with his mind and suddenly there it is, sliding across the floor into his waiting palm. “Here,” he says, holding it out to Alex. He grabs the box of condoms under there as well and  puts it on the edge of the narrow bed.

Alex arranges Michael on his hands and knees. He wishes he could watch Alex while they do this, but he knows it’ll be more comfortable for him this way so he follows Alex’s lead. His cock hangs hard between his thighs as Alex settles behind him on his knees. There’s the soft snik of the lube being uncapped and then Michael feels Alex grip his cheeks and separate them and oh god if he felt exposed before this is really something else.

“Fuck,” he hears Alex whisper just before he feels that first touch against his hole as Alex spreads lube around it before dipping the tip of his finger inside.

Michael is tight, really tight, but Alex is patient as he slowly works him open with one finger, and then two, murmuring encouragements against Michael’s spine and stroking his cock to distract him from the stretch.

Just when Michael is getting used to the sensation of Alex moving steadily in and out of him, Alex hits a certain spot inside him that has Michael keening.

“Oh fuck!” Michael shouts, shocks of pleasure ripping through him.

“It’s good, huh,” Alex says, his smug smile audible as he passes over that spot again, making Michael moan and arch his back like a cat. “Remember the first time you found mine?”

“Y-yeah,” Michael pants. The memory of Alex mewling under him and clenching down on his fingers is something that’ll stick with him forever. “Fuck, don’t stop.”

Alex gets back to work. By the time he’s is twisting three inside him, Michael is an utter mess, gasping and moaning as he fucks himself back on his fingers, his thighs spread wide and straining with the effort. It’s so much, but not enough, he needs more, he needs—

“Fuck me, Alex, please, ‘m ready, ‘m so ready, Alex,” Michael begs, desperate tears clinging to his lashes.

“God, Michael,” Alex moans, and Michael nearly cries when Alex pulls his fingers free from his body, the sudden feeling of emptiness not at all what he wants right now. “Never knew you’d get like this. Should’ve started fucking you ages ago.”

Before Michael can scoop enough of his brain off the floor to think of a response,  he hears the tearing of a foil packet behind him. There’s a pause when Alex rolls the condom on before he nocks the thick head of his cock at Michael’s hole and pushes in and in and in.

“Oh my god, Michael,” Alex groans once he’s seated. “You’re so hot inside, Jesus Christ.”

Michael moans weakly, too overwhelmed by the stretch of Alex’s cock inside him to do much else. Alex waits until Michael’s adjusted to the fullness before he starts to move, driving his cock in and out of him with slow, measured thrusts. It’s good, really good, for a while, but soon Michael wants more.

“Harder,” he begs, rocking his hips back to fuck himself harder on Alex’s cock. Alex grabs his hips to stop him and Michael whines, “Alex.”

“Take it easy, I don’t want to hurt you,” Alex says, running his right hand up from his hip to stroke along his side.

“I can handle it, please,” Michael insists. He doesn’t want to think, doesn’t want to feel anything other than Alex, wants him to overwhelm the ever-present chaos swirling in his head, but more than anything… “Wanna feel you for days after you leave.”

Something in Alex’s willpower crumbles and he curses before he starts pounding into Michael’s body harder, faster, just like Michael wants, chasing every conscious thought that isn’t yes, fuck, right there, right out of his head. The sound of skin slapping on skin surrounds them as Michael reaches between his legs and starts jerking himself off in time with Alex’s thrusts, the combined stimulation on his prostate and his cock getting him closer and closer to coming.

Alex doesn’t last long after that, stilling suddenly behind him and then moaning loudly as he grinds his cock as deep as it’ll go. He rests his head against Michael’s back, his ragged breaths hitting his spine as Michael squirms under him, still hard and aching.

Alex pulls out and Michael whines at the empty feeling before Alex flips him over onto his back and slips three fingers inside him, seeking his prostate with brutal efficiency. He was already so close that Michael comes with a scream the second Alex seals his lips over the head of his cock and sucks, Michael’s body shaking as his release pulses down Alex’s throat.

Alex works him through it until Michael pushes him away, spent and overstimulated. Alex gently withdraws his fingers before he leans down over Michael to kiss him, but Michael’s too fucked out to do much more than lay there and let Alex lick into his mouth, the taste of his own come bitter on his tongue.

The kiss ends when Alex pulls back and lays down beside him, his right leg resting between Michael’s and his right arm hugging around his middle.

“Hey, you still with me?” Alex asks him, and Michael’s thoughts are still slow and thick as honey, but he nods all the same. “C’mon, use your words.”

“Just had my brain fucked out of me, gimme a minute,” he slurs, opening his eyes to see Alex smiling at him.

Alex laughs, a sound as sweet as it is smug. “So I did alright then?”

“You really have to ask?” Michael rolls over onto his side to face him. “Better than alright, Jesus, Alex, I don’t think I’ll be able to walk tomorrow.”

Alex smiles at the praise and Michael leans in to kiss him again, savoring every gasp, every press of Alex’s lips on his like they’ll be the last ones he ever gets.

They lie there in silence long after their kisses have slowed to a stop, comfortably wrapped up in one another until Alex touches his face and whispers into the dark, “I wish I could stay here forever.”

“Me too,” Michael whispers back.

When Alex starts to shake in his arms, Michael holds him tighter and buries his nose in his hair. He staves off his own tears as best he can while Alex cries, but it becomes a losing battle when Alex’s hitching little sobs reach his ears.

“One day…” Michael starts once Alex has settled down again, his voice wobbling a little, “one day, we’re gonna figure this out, Alex. One day, you’re gonna be free of him.”

“You really believe that?”

No. Yes. I don’t know.

“I have to.”

“‘One day’ could be years from now,” Alex says pathetically. “What do we do until then?”

Michael sniffles. “Well, we still have tonight, right?”

Alex nods. “Yeah.”

Michael captures Alex’s lips in a slow kiss that lasts until Michael rolls Alex onto his back and straddles his hips.

“What are you doing?” Alex asks as Michael grasps his cock. He’s not hard yet, but Michael can feel him twitch against his palm.

“Making the most of it,” Michael shrugs, and then there’s not much talking after that.

Michael wakes up alone, the only traces that Alex was ever there the ache between his thighs and the slip of paper resting on the other side of his pillow.

It’s a note, scrawled hastily on a piece of graph paper Michael must have had lying around.

Michael,

I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye. I just knew if I waited til you were awake, I’d never be able to make myself leave you again.

I wish things could be different. Maybe you’re right and one day they will be, but for now… I’m sorry.

And if this is my last chance to say it, I want you to know: I love you. He can keep us apart, but he can’t ever take that away from me.

Yours,

Alex

The letter tumbles from his fingers as Michael turns his face into his pillow, the fading scent of Alex’s shampoo his only comfort as his body is wracked with sobs.

That evening, Michael limps into the Wild Pony, feeling Alex in every step he takes. He winces a little as he settles on the wooden barstool and Maria serves him a glass of bottom shelf whiskey before he can order one.

“You get in a fight or something?” she asks, cocking her head to the side as she studies him.

“Huh?” he asks, glass halfway to his lips already.

“You walked in here looking like you just got your ass beat,” she explains.

Michael laughs, a bitter, broken sound. “You should see the other guy.”

[unpack-my-heart]

Sometimes I Have Everything (Yet I Wish I Felt Something)

Eddie Kaspbrak, pick-pocket turned international art thief and self-diagnosed lone wolf meets Richie Tozier, eager amateur, who just can't seem to catch a break

Read on AO3 HERE

@constantreaderfool @xandertheundead @eds-trashmouth @tinyarmedtrex @violetreddie @moonlightrichie @fuzzylogik

“You’ve got exactly four minutes before security will be able to get the camera back online, Eddie”

“Got it”

“Are you sure? Because it certainly doesn’t seem like you’ve got it. You should have been out of there five minutes –”

“I said I’ve fuckin’ got it, so I’ve fuckin’ got it, lay off”

The painting was heavier than he’d anticipated. He had done all the calculations, had sat up well into the night, eyelids drooping, plugging numbers into his dusty calculator, making sure that he would be able to wrench Ophelia from her golden frame without the need for anyone else to enter the gallery.

But he was wrong. The painting was at least two kilograms heavier than his calculations had suggested, and he knew that the excess weight would throw his balance off when Mike finally set the crankshaft off, and he and the painting would begin to ascend through the skylight attached to nothing but two snaking cables.

Not that he’d admit it to Stan, who was now gnashing his teeth in Eddie’s ear, hissing something about how four minutes had now become three minutes which was now two minutes, and Jesus Christ, Eddie, hurry the fuck up, but he had started to panic. His knife was too blunt to cut through the thick material of the canvas on the first try, and it whined and squeaked as he jabbed it into the matte material. A rookie mistake. He resorted to sawing instead of slicing, jerky aborted movements instead of one elegant flick of the wrist. His heart hammered against his ribcage, a brutal thumping that echoed in his ears, drowning out the suspicious silence of the gallery. Suddenly, half way through a particularly aggressive sawing motion, Eddie’s knife slipped, and instead of letting it gore a hole in the flesh of the painting, Eddie instinctively jammed his thumb in the way. The blade bit into the soft flesh, and blood immediately started oozing out of the neat gash.

"Motherfucker!"

He’d only ever sliced through one painting before. It was a Seurat. La Mer à Grandcamp, Bill had told him, The Sea at Grandcamp. Eddie remembers the tiny little sea-boats bobbing on the murky water, masts reaching out towards the sky, disappearing into the cloud, and he’d sliced right through the center of one of them when Stan had made him jump, voice static in his earpiece. In his panic, he’d wrenched the painting from its frame, turning the small slash into a gaping open wound, before he shoved the injured painting into his bag, crumpled and unsellable. Bill had yelled at him, and Eddie had stood and taken it, tail between his legs.

“Eddie, Eddie seriously, you gotta move, you really gotta move, Mike’s gonna start the winch in 30 seconds whether you’ve got the damn painting or not,” Stan demanded, voice cutting through the silence, dragging Eddie out of his introspection and back into the present.

One cautious tug later, and the canvas came away from the frame. Eddie screwed up his face in anticipation of the alarm that never rings but always could. It didn't ring. He held the painting at arm’s length, eyes dancing along the swooping lines, following the flow of the river, before finally landing on Ophelia’s face.

“She’s beautiful”

“Yeah, yeah, she’s a real peach. Mike’s gonna start the winch, are you ready?”

“Ready”

Silently, like a heron taking flight, Eddie’s feet floated up off the floor. The canvas sat leaden and heavy in the vice-grip of his arms, and, as predicted, Mike’s voice filtered through his ear-piece.

“There’s too much weight”

“That’s not a very nice thing to say, Mikey”

“The painting, I mean. It’s too heavy, your calculations must have been wrong. I don’t know if this configuration is gonna hold you”

“We’ll soon find out”

A metallic whining sound filtered down from the skylight, and Eddie braced himself for a fifty foot fall.

The fall never came. What came instead were strong arms, the tell-tale sound of the winch clicking off, and Eddie and the canvas were dragged onto the roof by a vaguely sweaty and very panicked looking Mike.

“I honestly thought I’d be scraping you off the gallery floor,” Mike laughed, but his voice was laced with something serious.

He’d only done a few runs with Mike. He normally worked with Bill, who took risks and was almost always on the receiving end of Stan’s wrath for something or other. Mike didn’t take risks. Mike was methodical, Mike was reliable. Mike never left Eddie stranded in the middle of a strangers house in Iceland, two paintings under each arm and unable to open the door to escape, whilst he pillaged the wine cellar for a particular vintage red he’d been hankering for. Eddie much preferred working with Mike.

“Bev’s already sent over the details of the next job. It’s in a small downtown gallery, and you’re going in through the door and not the ceiling so it should be an easier run than this one,” Mike said, busying himself with dismantling the winch.

Eddie sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face, before pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes hard enough that he saw constellations whirling in the dark behind his eyelids.

“When?”

“Tuesday”

“Today is Monday”

“… So tomorrow, then”

“For fucks sake!”

Everything Eddie Kaspbrak knew about art, he’d learnt from stealing it. He knew how to recognise where the layers of paint were the thinnest, how to cut into thick, chalky canvas, how he could slough the painting from its frame without damaging either, and how he should store a painting properly, so that it didn’t get marked by the sun or covered in a thin layer of dust. His own artistic talent extended to stick figures and no further, but he was now able to identify a Monet from a mile away, and he was able to pick a genuine Pollock from a pile of fakes.

He’d been head-hunted for this job. A petty thief from downtown New York, Eddie hadn’t expected to ascend to the lofty heights of international art thief before the age of thirty, but when he’d run into Stan on the corner of Canal Street, pocket bulging, full of stolen wallets, Stan had taken one look at him and dragged him into his jeep. Eddie had put up a fight, punching and kicking and swearing at the stern faced man he’d assumed was a cop, but Stan had locked the car doors and turned in his seat to face Eddie.

“You stole five wallets in less than ten minutes”

“No I didn’t”

“You did. I was watching you. You practically took that last one out of that man’s hand and he didn’t see you. You were right in front of his face, and he all but let you take it,” Stan had said, voice almost reverent, impressed.

“What can I say, I’m an artist,” Eddie had spat, hackles up and snarling.

“Do you just steal wallets, then?” Stan had said, voice light, light enough to almost be a laugh and it nurtured rage in Eddie’s stomach.

“Look, I haven’t got time for this cat and mouse shit. Either arrest me, charge me, take me downtown or whatever the fuck it is you need to do, or let me go. I’m not gonna suck your dick or anything”

“Feisty little street urchin aren’t we. I’m not a cop. Far from it, actually. I’m … I relieve art galleries and private collectors of their surplus inventory,” Stan had announced, smiling as if he’d told a joke that he expected Eddie to understand.

“So you’re an art thief?” Eddie supplied after a long pause. Stan nodded, raising his eyebrows at Eddie, almost impressed.

“Sort of. I don’t do the stealing. We have a guy for that, but he’s no good. He makes too many mistakes, and he’s not quick enough. We need someone else”

“… Me?”

“I hope so”

“So lemme get this straight, I’ve just been headhunted for a formidable career as an art thief?” Eddie said, incredulous.

“You could put it like that. We offer a great salary and some truly excellent perks”

“Do art thieves get a pension?” Eddie asked sardonically, but Stan didn’t take the bait.

“But of course!”

“This is fucking insane. I don’t even know your name and you’re asking me to steal art for you. How can I be sure you’re not a cop?”

“I’ve got a Picasso in the trunk of my car,” Stan said, grinning knowingly as if that’d explain everything. It explained nothing.

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

Stan sighed, and waved dismissively at Eddie, “it should mean something to you. It will mean something to you, soon. That is, if you take me up on my very lucrative offer. You’ve got thirty seconds before I turf you out of my car and send you back to your sad little life stealing pocket-change from people no richer than yourself”

Eddie stared at Stan, holding eye-contact for longer than necessary, challenging him to look away, to look towards the ceiling or the floor, but he didn’t. Stan held Eddie’s gaze steadily, and bared his teeth in a wolfish grin.

“Fine, but I know fuckin’ nothing about art”

The Tuesday job certainly seems easier than the Monday job, at least on paper. The gallery was small, much smaller than the ones they usually hit. It only had one entrance, which also doubled up as its only exit. There was a fire-escape, and several wall to ceiling windows, but other than that, the building was entirely secure with no other entry points. Ben composed a digital blueprint of the building, and managed to take control of the security system without much effort. He watched the security tapes of the night before every morning for a week, and plotted out the lone security guards monitoring route. The guard seemed follow the same route, like clock-work, each night, which made their job a whole lot easier. Bill reasoned that it shouldn’t be too hard to evade him, and began plotting their route through the gallery to the object of their desires.

The painting they’re going after was called Ignis. It’s a mass of orange and red, different hues and shades bleeding into each other, an abstract mess that gave Eddie a headache. Bev seemed to like it, though, and she told them all with a smug smile that the artist, a young German man, was anticipated to become one of the best-selling artists of the decade.

They made a plan. Stan, Ben and Bev were to stay behind, as usual. They were useless on the floor, and readily admit as much. Ben stayed behind to remotely monitor the security system, and Stan stayed behind to act as surveillance, to stay connected to Eddie constantly through his earpiece. Eddie, Bill and Mike set off in the blacked out van, arriving at the gallery at ten minutes past three in the morning. There was another van in the parking lot, white and unmarked. They all clambered out of the van, and wordlessly split up. Ben had remotely deactivated the security shutters on the fire escape, so Eddie managed to slip through the door silently and undetected. He went in alone, as he always did, having refused from day one to work with anyone else, despite Stan's initial protests. Bill stayed with the van, and Mike hovered around the exit, connected to Eddie via their earpieces. He’d be ready to rush in if he had to, if Eddie found himself in trouble, but thus far, he'd never had to.

The gallery was silent, and security lights flashed red and foreboding in the darkness. Pulling his balaclava over his face, Eddie began to tip-toe towards the rear exhibition suite.

He had taken three cautious steps into the room before he spotted the other person in the room.

There was a figure, clad in dark green camouflage, tugging hopelessly at the very painting that Eddie had come to liberate (Stan’s word). The figure didn't hear Eddie stalk into the room, didn't hear Eddie as he strafed along the wall, didn't hear Eddie sidle up next to him. It took a full forty-five seconds for the stranger to notice Eddie standing next to him, and when he did, he screamed.

“FUCK!”

Eddie slammed a palm over the mouth of the screaming stranger.

“Shut the fuck up or you’ll get us both caught,” Eddie hissed, hand still clamped over the strangers mouth.

The stranger looked up at him with eyes as wide as dinner plates from behind thick rimmed red glasses. Once Eddie’s sure that they won't make any more noise, he let the stranger go.

“Dude, that fuckin’ hurt,” The stranger moaned, and rubbed a hand over his chin. Eddie rolled his eyes.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Stealing the painting,” Eddie says, plainly.

“Not just a pretty face then,” the stranger drawled, and it takes every bit of Eddie’s self-control not to sock him in the arm.

Eddie sighed instead. “You can’t see my face”

“Naw, but I can see your eyes”

Stupidly, Eddie chokes on his tongue, caught off-guard. He splutters, just wordless noise, and the stranger laughs at him.

“Cat got your tongue?”

“Fuck off. Why are you stealing this painting?”

The stranger shrugged, “I was told to. Boss wants it, and what the boss wants the boss gets”

“Who’s your boss?” Eddie asked, as he pushed past the stranger before he stepped over the velvet rope cordoning off the painting from the rest of the room. The stranger followed, forcing himself between Eddie and the painting.

“No can do. That information’s classified. What are you doing here? You’re not a cop, are you?”

“Do I look like a cop?” Eddie deadpanned, gesturing to himself. He was wearing his black neoprene bodysuit, the very same bodysuit that Bev affectionately called his catsuit.

“No, you look like you’re going surfing, what is that? A wetsuit? It doesn’t leave much to the imagination, if you know what I’m saying”

“Fuck off, at least I blend into the darkness. Camouflage doesn’t work when you’re not in the jungle, moron”

The strangers face turned pink under Eddie’s scrutiny, and he turned around, and continued trying to wrench the painting off the wall without another word. Eddie tried to grab his bicep, but the stranger shrugged him off.

“Stop, fucking stop! You’re pulling at it too hard, you’re going to set off the –”

As if on cue, the alarm roared to life, screaming into the silence.

“… fucking SHIT!” Eddie yelled, not tempering his voice, before he scrambled straight towards the back window, the one that Ben had identified as his emergency escape route. He’d never had to use his pre-planned emergency escape route before, and he internally cursed this stranger for breaking his streak of good fortune.

Before he could throw himself through the window, glass be damned, Eddie glanced back over his shoulder. The stranger hadn’t moved. He was still standing with his hands on the painting, face white as a sheet of marble. He was shaking so violently that Eddie could see his knees knock together, a sight that would have been funny if Eddie hadn't have been sure that any second now the police would have charged through the door to arrest them both. He made the decision instantly, almost passively.

“YOU!”

The stranger looked up at him, wide eyed and terrified.

“Fucking follow me, MOVE!”

The stranger sprung into action instantly, abandoning the painting that was now hanging onto the wall by only one corner, and scrambled over to the window where Eddie was standing.

“Cover your face,” Eddie demanded, before he kicked the window with all of his might, sending shards of glass raining down on them like snowflakes, twinkling in the moonlight.

Eddie crawled through the window, wincing as a jagged piece of glass caught his hand, and briefly debated sprinting off in the direction of the van, before extending an arm back through the window.

“Take my hand!”

The stranger grabbed Eddie’s hand, pulling himself through the shallow tunnel of jagged glass. They both took off in a sprint, Eddie’s heart beating a brutal rhythm in his ear. Eddie lead them in the direction of the alleyway that they had previously agreed Bill would move the van to if any alarms sounded, and as soon as they had rounded the corner, Mike threw the backdoor open, and both Eddie and the stranger all but fell into the back of the van.

“DRIVE!” Mike yelled, and, with Bill at the wheel, the van skidded out of the alleyway, tires screeching violently.

For the first time in over an hour, Eddie closed his eyes, and let himself breathe. The illusion of calm only lasted for three seconds, however, because Mike almost immediately jabbed him in the shoulder.

“Eddie, who the fuck is this?!” Mike said, gesturing wildly at the stranger, who was sat hunched in the corner of the van, head between his hands. Eddie watched him, vaguely concerned that he was going to be sick everywhere. He nudged a discarded bucket closer with his foot, as discretely as he could manage.

“It’s a crazy fuckin’ story, Mikey, you ready?”

“Just tell me, Eddie, Jesus”

“He was trying to steal Ignis”

“… No way”

“Yes way. I walked in, stealthy as a fuckin’ cat, and there he was, all dressed up in camo like he’s off hunting or something, trying to haul the canvas out of the frame without having cut it first”

“Who does he work for?” Mike asked, sending the stranger a concerned look. The stranger either didn't notice or didn't care, head still between his hands, face still suspiciously pale.

“He won’t tell me. Says he’s got a boss, though, so we know it isn’t just him.”

Mike shifted in the van, clambering over the center console to sit shotgun next to Bill, who was practically red in the face. Eddie carefully decided not to engage him in conversation, and instead crawled across the van so he was sat next to the stranger.

“What’s your name? I’m Eddie, that’s Mike and Bill’s driving”

“Richie,” the stranger – Richie – supplied, in a voice that was much steadier and more even than Eddie had anticipated.

“So, Richie, where are we dropping you?”

“52 Portland Street. Do you know it?”

“I’m sure Bill can get us there, right Bill?”

“Sure,” Bill supplied in a curt, snippy tone but Eddie counted it as a win that he spoke at all.

“I can’t believe I almost got caught” Richie said, and Eddie laughed.

“Yeah, you were giving that frame a real good tug. Have you done this before?”

“Would you believe me if I said yes?”

“No”

Richie doesn’t say anything, but he looks up at Eddie and winks.

Now they’re not in the gallery, and Richie’s face is bathed in the soft glow of the torch they rigged up in the van to serve as a light source, Eddie felt something mimicking attraction stir in the pit of his stomach. Richie’s face was angular, sharp lines and pointed tips, and his hair was swept off his face with a bandana that should have looked absurd but somehow didn't. Eddie thought idly that he’d seen this face before, in a portrait perhaps, or painted in the sunset when the sun hung heavy and bloated just above the horizon.

Richie’s looked back at him, eyes softer than they’d been before, and maybe they were also a little damp, because they were shining in the torchlight, and Eddie forced himself to look away.

Richie huffed, an annoyed little noise that Eddie is sure he wasn’t supposed to hear, but he did. He realised three beats too late that his body was entirely angled towards Richie, toes to shoulders. He tried not to think about what that might mean.

Then they were pulling into Portland Street, and it was too soon, Eddie told himself that it’s because he wants to quiz Richie about his boss, but he knew it was a lie.

“I have actually done this before, you know. I’m just – that one threw me off. I’ve never done paintings before, I’ve always been on sculptures and small paraphernalia, you know. Jugs and vases and shit. The painting guy got … well, he quit. So that’s me now. The new painting guy”

“He quit?” Eddie parrots back, shooting Richie a sceptical look, but Richie just shrugs.

“S’what I was told. So are you guys a team or something?”

“Or something,” Bill said before Eddie can speak, and then he’s pulling the van into park, and switching off the engine. “Portland street”

“Thanks, Big Bill!” Richie beamed, earning a scowl from Bill for his trouble.

Swinging the door of the van open, Richie hopped out. “Care to walk me to my door, Eddie?”

“Naw, too comfy,” Eddie joked, but he hopped out of the van anyway.

They walked slowly up the path to Richie’s door, in a bizarrely comfortable silence.

“Are you really not going to tell me who your boss is?” Eddie asks, pushing his luck.

“Nope. I would, but I can’t. Don’t wanna wake up with a horse’s head in my bed or some shit”

“You are joking, right?”

“Honestly? I have no idea. Wouldn’t put it past him, I suppose”

“Richie … are you safe?” Eddie faltered, after several seconds of silence.

“Safe? Uh... How safe are any of us, Eds? You do realise that we break the law on a regular fuckin’ basis right?”

“You know what I mean, jack-ass. Serves me right for giving a damn about you, I suppose”

“You give a damn about me?”

“About as much as someone can give a damn about a dumbass stranger,” Eddie shot back, but he was smiling, and Richie was smiling too, a dorky sort of grin that reminded Eddie of the sun.

“I’m touched, Eddie, truly. I’m safe. I’m safe enough. I won’t be doing this forever, anyway. Not exactly a career with long-term progression goals,” Richie said, as he leant against his front door with one shoulder.

“I’m gonna head off, then," Eddie said, and gestured to the van over his shoulder with his thumb, "next time, use a damn knife and cut the canvas out of the frame”

“You got it, chief!”

“Eddie! Hurry the fuck up” Bill yelled from the van, and Eddie groaned.

“See you, Richie. Stay out of trouble!”

Eddie jogged back to the van, hopping inside the open back door.

“So who’s your new best friend?” Bill asked bluntly.

“It’s not like that, I was just trying to get information about his boss,” Eddie replied, defensively, “and anyway, I didn’t manage to convince him to tell me anything so it doesn’t matter now”

“You were looking awful chummy walking up to his house is all I’m saying”

“Well maybe your visions clouded with all the steam rising from your very red face”

“Stop being so fucking childish –”

“Look, we’re all pissed that tonight didn’t work out,” Mike interjected, “but shall we try and not bite each other’s heads off before we arrive back at base?”

Bill put the van in gear, and drove away from Richie’s house without another word.

[muselixer]

ask meme - things my friends said ! ( volume four )

from October 2019 - December 2019 warnings: language, ns/fw themes, alcohol mentions, drug mentions change pronouns as needed! under the cut for your dashboard convenience

“That man took geometry.” “Have a blast, Freddy Krueger.” “Face God and walk backwards into the saltiest circle of Hell.” “Jerrypicking: You only pick guys named Jerry.” “I dab. Would you like to see?” “WE HAVE TO WAIT FOR THE GRAPES TO COOL.” “It’s hard to find scholarly sources on memes.” “Oh, prison!” “I retract my blep for twenty dollars.” “Nebraska’s not real.” “Don’t lick me, you criminal.” “My relationships are like Jeeps: unstable and changing with the slightest wind current.” “Listen, I’m a dumb bitch, you have to understand.” “It’s too late to leave at 10:30, so you HAVE to leave at 11 now.” “Damn, Japanese medicine is hardcore.” “Yeah, you do tend to piss a lot.” “Every wall seems fine, and then a fuckin’ Kyle shows up.” “Man, you put a microwave beat behind this, it’ll be sick.” “I was gonna say you look like Hagrid but a midget with a drinking problem, then I remember he already has a drinking problem.” “My sister? Kidnapped. Now I’m an edgy bitch.” “I’m not gonna take away your virgin roll.” “I wanna steal all the grapes and put ‘em in my room.” “Right, cabbage is poor people lettuce.” “Cabbage is like... non-trendy kale.” “You are like seven grapes.” “A melanin-American called me the gamer word in a Cabela’s.” “Bold new taste: RAM truck.” “Don’t wanna pay your bill? Just submerge it in ranch!” “Oh, Facebook. You diseased mother fucker.” “Hot take, Hitler was a brainlet.” “The Hobbit was a war crime.” “I just let fate decide and let the cream hit the back of my throat. It’s a strange experience.” “Look at me like I’m gay, not like I’m crazy.” “That’s a hot take, thank you.” “He’s not a homie.” “It’s like playing Marco Polo but the person you’re playing with has been dead for four years.” “It’s time to clock out of life.” “It’s illegal language Pokemon cards.” “Don’t fucking ask me questions, I’m stupid.” “If my name isn’t changed to ‘cheese boy’ in your phone, I’m gonna fucking riot.” “I didn’t expect the pen to go in so easy.” “Who needs heroin when you can dab?” “I’d say opioids are stronger than dabbing.” “Did you bring enough tiddy for everyone?” “So you’ll get his extra skin.” “You can’t kick me out! I’m already banned from Mattress Firm!” “Okay, but if I wasn’t ace, I’d be a total ho.” “Now, the urinal is a much harder concept.” “IF THE HUMANS DON’T LEAVE, THEY’LL RELEASE THE VAMPIRES TO THE PUBLIC.” “We are NOT about to lose a goliath to a fucking toilet.” “Stalin will steal your girlfriend.” “I was gonna say, my life is like a lamp, but you know, it never attracts anything good.” “I’m really good at SITTING and REACHING.” “It feels like a rabbit.” “We are CRACKHEADS, not dumbasses.” “I feel like Bruce Wayne, if Bruce Wayne was a twat.” “YOU MOTHERFUCKERS, YOU’RE SHITBAGGING ME.” “Tight. What’s a million dollars feel like?” “I’m not gonna pay reparations for your fucking potatoes.” “I don’t know what it is but it’s not marinara sauce.” “Do I look like a fucking panini to you?” “Oh, sorry, I’ve never played the mined crafts.” “I feel like a dried up red gel pen. Don’t ask me what that means.” “No real giraffes were harmed in the making of this painting.” “So violent, and over a triangle.” “You either die a monster or live long enough to become the monster fucker.” “YOU CAN PUT A RACCOON IN YOUR ASS!” “We had a fight club in the bathroom.” “Goals. Oh, I’m talking about something else. I also want my kneecaps shot out.” “HE GAVE HER A FREE PREGNANCY, AND HER PUSSY DIDN’T EVEN STRETCH!” “I can’t stop not breathing.” “Well then he’s not a school shooter, is he?” “If we’re both fuckin’ manic, who’s gonna keep track of what time it is?!” “I’m gonna go eat a pinecone.” “The lights said sit the fuck down.” “Oh, I just dabbed really hard.” “I have jaundice!” “I have your corn.” “Self care is yelling about your spiral, man. That’s it, that’s self care.” “I’M the offensive boy! I’M the one who doesn’t get invited to Christmas!” “I like my coffee crunchy.” “If my jokes don’t land, my hands sure fuckin’ will.” “There’s a vibe up in this bitch and I don’t know what it is but I feel it.” “Are you a pretzel? ARE YOU A FUCKING PRETZEL?” “THERE WAS A HUMAN IN THE SENTIENT TRASH CAN?!” “Okay, time to learn about this multiverse strip club.” “On behalf of cool people, LEARN THE DIFFERENCE.” “I like having feet.” “I’m gonna boycott life.” “I’m in the ‘it’s complicated’ phase with sleeping.” “And what happened to that? Now you can’t count.” “They’re called helmets because you’re met with hell when you put one on.” “Hold the fuck up, I’m putting everyone in buckets. Go the fuck to sleep.” “Oh, I’m gonna commit. ...A FELONY.” “I am but a fucking shit lawyer.” “Damn, people be posting.” “You are not fish! You are boy!” “I feel like... the tacos I ate earlier... are singing opera in my stomach.” “I’m gonna go bankrupt and it’ll be my own fault.” “Piss like a normal bitch.” “I might have a death wish, but I don’t have a blood kink.” “Go pee your pants before your mother does it for you.” “Please don’t fuck the slime. Please. Do not. Fuck. The slime. Thank you.” “I’ll seek therapy for my cursed furby images.” “Oh my god, tequila tastes like THAT? Shit.” “Papa John’s a single daddy now.” “Being a person supersedes being a skeleton.” “Y’know, y’know, it’s fine, because being a part of a cult is better than being a part of this family.” “No, no, okay, listen. You go to Red Lobster, ALONE. You turn to the waitress. And you say, ‘I will have the macaroni and cheese’.” “You’ve heard of elf on a shelf, now get ready for bitch in a ditch. It’s a picture of me, in a ditch.” “Oh dear god, when cockatiels are next to printers.” “OH MY GOD... I’M NEW BOOT GOOFIN’.” “I’m going out the way I went in: STRAPPED.”

[antoallovertheplacex]

Spiked {G.D}

A/N: This was so intense to write.  I just wanna put out there that English it’s not my native language so I’m really sorry if there’re any mistakes. Hope you like it💖

Pairing: Grayson Dolan x Reader

Warnings: language, effects of drugs

Word count: 1,198

Requested: yes

Summary:  Omg girl YES ok so ive been thinking about writing this imagine myself but honesty i cant be bothered lmao.. but its one where Gray takes his girl with him and Ethan to a youtuber party and at some point, her drink gets spiked and he’s just super concerned and freaks the f*** out because shes basically passing out on him and he doesn’t know what to do or who did it (but he’s determined to find out who did because son is READY to throw hands)

"Y/N hurry up! We should be on our way by now!" Ethan yelled from downstairs. You rolled your eyes at your reflex in the mirror, adjusted your dress and checked yourself one more time before going with the boys. 

You were joining them to the party Youtube hosted after making the Rewind video. You decided to wear a long, red dress that left your back for everyone to see and tied up in the neck and had a gap at the side where your leg was seen. You styled your hair up, so your back would be even more noticeable. 

Once you made it downstairs, you were met by your two best friends mouth agape. 

"Damn girl, you look smoking hot" Ethan yelled, bringing his fist to cover his mouth. Grayson, who was beside him, hit him in the arm and gave him a look.

"Bro, behave" Gray shot a glance to his twin brother, "You look stunning, Y/N," he told you. 

You blushed a little and gave a little twirl, for your own personal pleasure, and gifted them with the biggest smile you could. 

"Thank you, you both look amazing as well" you complimented them, only for them to start making cocky faces. 

"Well, enough show off, let's get going, we're already late," Ethan said, and we followed him to his Jeep. Grayson took the passenger seat and you went in the back. 20 minutes later, you arrived at the place the party was hosted. 

Grayson helped you out of the back seat and smiled at you before whispering a "You look gorgeous tonight", to which you blushed. 

You've been friends with the twins ever since the womb, you grew up together so when the twins decided to move to Los Angeles they couldn't leave you behind and offered you to join them. Of course, you accepted. 

But as years passed by and you lived with the twins, the more you started to feel something towards Gray. Let's keep it real, you've always had this confidence with him that you've never had with anyone else, not even with Ethan. Though you weren't about to risk a 19-year friendship for something it might not work, you weren't even sure he felt something towards you. Sure, he complimented you, cuddled with you, and all that stuff but also did Ethan, so you weren't sure about anything. 

You entered the party, in between Ethan and Grayson, and let them guide you. 

You stopped by the bar and grabbed your favorite drink: Cosmopolitan.

"You already going in, huh?" Ethan said to your ear since the music and the people talking made it really difficult to hear. 

"Gotta survive this, I'm not like you guys" you answered, taking a sip of your drink. 

"Oh fuck," Grayson said looking behind you rolling his eyes, "Jake Paul is here, I thought he was canceled by now," Gray said to both you and his brother. You noticed how their demeanor changed from a cheerful one to almost anger. You grabbed Grayson's hand since Ethan was on his phone texting the squad.

"Hey" you called for his attention and he looked down at you, his features softening immediately, "Don't let that dick ruin your night" you said to him, now holding him by his torso, his hands placed on your naked back, holding back the urge to close your eyes due to the warmth of his hands. 

"You're right, let's just stay as far away as possible" and he kissed your forehead. You smiled at the gesture.  

"Hey, Emma and James are by the bathrooms, let's go with them," he said, letting Grayson go first. 

When Grayson was a little ahead of you, Ethan grabbed your arm softly to stop you. 

"What is it, E?" you asked, a little confused. 

"You know he's smitten with you, right? You're not that blind," you turned your head a little to the side, not understanding what he was talking about, "Gray, dumbass, you know he loves you, right'" he asked again as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

"What? Of course not. As a friend, sure, but love me as being in love with me? Hell no, E" you said more to yourself than to Ethan. 

"Hey guys, keep up, we're gonna get lost if we don't stay together," Grayson said, reaching for your hand and interlacing your fingers for you to walk with him.

 You reached James and Emma by the bathrooms as they said. 

You greeted them and stood there talking about everything, all of this while Grayson kept his hand on your lower back, giving you some kind of comfort.  

After a few long minutes, you decided it was time for another drink so you let the squad know, "Guys, I'm gonna get a drink, I'll be right back" and turned around in order to go to the bar. 

After 10 minutes of walking through the sea of people that was the party, you reached the bar and asked the bartender for a Cosmopolitan and a beer for Grayson. While you waited, you turned around to look at the party. It was insane how many people were there, 1,000? Maybe 2,000, who knew. 

You felt a tap on your shoulder and your drinks were ready. You took a sip of your drink first, figuring you could enjoy it sitting in the stool before delivering Gray his beer. 

You sat there for another 10 minutes and you felt your drink starting to do its job, but it was a little different. You didn't pay that much attention, assuming it was because you haven't eaten anything before coming. 

You stood up and started walking back to the squad. When you were getting there, you felt yourself getting dizzier and dizzier, and by the time you arrived, you were stumbling. 

"Hey kitty girl, how many drinks did you have?" James asked and laughed.

"I had two" you slurred and put 3 fingers up, he laughed again but Grayson looked at you worryingly.

"You sure you okay peach?" Gray asked you in your ear, his hot breath making you shiver.

"Mhm, I love it when you call me that" you answered and stumble a little. 

Grayson wanted to smile at that, but he knew something was up. He hit Ethan's arm softly to call his attention and pointed at you. Ethan furrowed his brows and Grayson answered shrugging his shoulders, meaning he didn't know what happened. They both looked at the bar at the same time, and oh boy. Jake Paul was looking at them, more specifically at you, with a twisted smile on his face. Then, Jake raised his glass towards them and turned around. 

"Gray?" you called him, and he instantly looked at you, signaling you to go on, "I don't feel so good" and then he paid even more attention to you, noticing how hard it was for you to keep your eyes open. 

And then it hit him like a truck.

"Ethan, that motherfucker spiked her drink," Grayson said loudly at Ethan, so Emma and James heard too, "Let's get him" Gray ended, with you hanging almost unconscious of his arm.

let me know what you think♥

part two? PART TWO IS UP >>>>> HERE

[andavs]

I wish you would write a fic where Derek is turning 40, and it's not like he really cares, but come on, someone from the pack would remember and send a text at least right? And maybe someone is planning a little something?

Sidenote: I played this song on repeat while writing this. Also that little sigh on “I can hardly catch my breath” does things to me. Just get past the corny “drip drops” at the beginning, and enjoy.

It was an unseasonably warm winter, so instead of festive and cozy Christmas snow flurries, it’d just been grey and drizzling all day. It matched Derek’s mood perfectly.

Stiles would mock him mercilessly if he could see him, puttering around town alone in his Camaro, glaring out at the Christmas decorations. It was sad, he could admit that to himself, but he’d already spent too much time moping alone in the house so he went outside for a bit. He’d thought that maybe walking through town and seeing the decorations would help lift his spirits. He and Stiles had done that before, it was worth a shot.

Nope. Doing things alone that he enjoyed with Stiles just made him more miserable.

The pack’s Christmas celebration had been the night before, as it was every year. That way they could celebrate together and with their individual families, which was perfect, because December 25th was Derek’s birthday. Christmas Eve was for the holiday, but once the clock struck midnight, carols stopped, gingerbread cookies got shoved in a cupboard, and the birthday party hats came out.

Stiles was adamant about having no overlap between the two whatsoever—militant, even. Kira wore reindeer antlers past the midnight alarm one year a decade ago, and she was almost banished from the house. No one had made that mistake again.

Derek always insisted it wasn’t necessary, told him to chill out, that he was overreacting, but he really did appreciate it. Growing up, he’d always hated getting the joint “for birthday and Christmas” presents while his siblings got two distinct gifts, and even as he got older, he couldn’t fully shake the annoyance that Christmas stole his thunder.

So normally it was a full day with Stiles giving him plenty of attention and cake and gifts, and making sure the flurry of the holiday didn’t penetrate their little bubble, but this year Stiles was gone. He was off on another continent spending the day with people Derek only knew through stories, and Derek was alone. Letting Christmas carols play on the radio as he drove through town with the windshield wipers going to keep the rain at bay.

He’d only lasted maybe half an hour before giving up and turning back towards their empty home to mope through an angsty book and go to bed early.

The rain had only picked up as he turned onto their winding driveway, and even the front porch winking through the trees was dulled through the weather.

The Jeep was the only car parked in front of the garage, exactly where Stiles left it a month before, but when Derek go out of the Camaro, he could smell that the rest of the pack had been there recently. There were tire tracks in the gravel, Lydia’s perfume in the cold, wet air. They were trying to be subtle and surprise him, but they weren’t doing a very good job. The wards hid the heartbeats inside from being heard, but everything else was broadcast loud and clear.

Derek rolled his eyes and headed towards the front door. Even after all these years, almost twenty, they were still about as subtle as…well, as they’d ever been. It wasn’t exactly a surprise when it came out that most of Beacon Hills more or less knew that the supernatural existed, to put it kindly. Redheaded banshees screaming into the night and teenage werewolves with rage issues streaking down main street didn’t go as unnoticed as the pack liked to believe.

The curtain on the front window rustled as Derek passed, a light turned off somewhere deeper in the house—but he stopped short when he noticed the sparkles on the front steps.

It was sparkly metallic confetti, glinting in the glow from the porch light. Leading towards their door.

It wasn’t a distinct trail, nothing intentional, but definitely a path of confetti, like a bag from a party store had been leaking. A few were shaped like 40th and were pink and gold, so it clearly wasn’t for Christmas.

He couldn’t be too annoyed. They’d clearly gone all out this year for forty, probably trying to compensate for the fact that Stiles was stuck in Warsaw on an assignment. The pool of FBI agents with extensive knowledge of the supernatural who also spoke Polish was pretty small, it turned out, and a spouse’s birthday wasn’t actually a good excuse to leave.

Derek wasn’t really bitter; it was impressive that at thirty-four, Stiles had become so indispensable to the FBI and was doing so well, but he was just…bummed. They’d planned to be together this year, Stiles had insisted that he’d be able to make it back in time, but then a vampire got a complex, and then there were six more vampires, and things escalated, and the ABW needed a few extra hands…

It was an honor that they’d asked Stiles to stay, but still. Derek was bummed, and as nice as the intentions were behind it, confetti wasn’t going to cut it. Right at that moment, all he could think of was the little 40th’s getting caught in the vacuum with all the wolf fur and blocking things.

A curtain moved again as he climbed the steps, and Derek briefly considered turning right back around and driving away again. He couldn’t deal with a birthday party, with people, not after the miserable, lonely day he’d had. He just wanted to have a quiet night and go to bed early. He did, actually, turn around for a couple steps before he realized he was being ridiculous.

It was his house, it was his pack, he could do this for a few minutes before asking for some privacy. They knew him, they wouldn’t be offended. They’d understand.

He braced himself, took a solid minute to put the key in the lock, but he finally convinced himself to enter his own home, to find…Stiles. Standing alone in the empty foyer, surrounded by more confetti and holding a pączek with a candle stabbed into the top. There were no other heartbeats in the house, no pack members hidden behind corners waiting for a cue to jump out…

It was just them.

Stiles smiled quietly, tiredly. “Surprise,” he shrugged, and lit the single candle on the pączek with a shitty, pink Bic lighter that took a few flicks to light.

Derek fought back a grin for a second, then let it come out in full, and Stiles’ smile widened to mirror it.

“You’re a dick,” Derek stated, pulling off his damp jacket and letting it drop to the floor. Stiles has done the confetti and curtain rustling on purpose.

“Yeah, well you’re the guy who almost ran from his own fake birthday party, so guess we’re meant to be after all.” He held out the dessert. “Make a wish, asshole.”

Derek stepped forward and blew out the candle immediately. Stiles frowned.

“That wasn’t a wish.”

“I don’t need a wish,” Derek countered, pulling him in by his hips. “You’re home.”

Stiles smiled again, and leaned in for the offered kiss. “You’re the corniest motherfucker on the planet, you know that?”

“You’re the one who brought me a pączek from Poland.” It was adorable, and thoughtful, and it smelled a little stale, but he was so happy to see his stupid husband, and relieved they didn’t have any guests…

“I got it at the airport, actually,” Stiles started to ramble, “because I didn’t know I was going to make it back until I got through security—oh, also if you were expecting birthday sex, we’ll have to delay it for a while, because it’s like five in the morning for me and I think I’m seeing two of you right now.”

“You can make it up to me in the morning,” Derek murmured, wrapping his arms around Stiles and holding him, breathing him in, filtering out the smells of airport and strangers and travel.

“Ehhh,” Stiles squeezed him back tightly, leaning on him heavily like standing took too much energy. “I’m not twenty anymore, we’ll see how it’s going around noon or so.”

[illumynare]

Red vs Blue Fic: First Name Agent, Last Name Washington

Summary: Five times Caboose called Wash “Church,” and one time he didn’t.

Parings: None.

Warnings: Canon-typical language.

Notes: Also available on AO3!

@redvsbluesecretsanta fic for @all-my-fandoms-are-killing-me, who requested Caboose + Wash. Huge, HUGE thanks to her for being so patient as I flailed my way through finishing this story. <3

1.

The first time that Caboose calls him “Church,” Wash just says, “Yeah?”

It’s 18 hours after Sidewinder. They’ve found an abandoned Sim Trooper base to hide at, and Wash is—

He’s tired, with a paralyzing weariness that he’s never felt before. The “looks like you aren’t going to prison” adrenaline has all worn off. Even with the healing unit running at full power, he still hurts almost everywhere from fighting the Meta.

(Meta. Maine. He can think the name, now that he’s dead—now that Wash doesn’t need to use him. Now that the Meta is not another obstacle between Wash and freedom, he can let himself wonder if his old friend was really all gone, or—)

He’s tired, but he can’t rest. The Reds and Blues gave him a suit of armor and helped him dodge the UNSC, they promised him a place on Blue Team, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t going to stab him in the back.

So he’s sitting at the kitchen table, head in his hands, trying not to sleep and trying not to panic and trying to understand what’s happened.

You helped us, Wash—sure, but he’d helped South. He’d given the Project his entire fucking life. He’d given Epsilon—

“Hey, Church!”

“Yeah?” says Wash, turning around, only a little twitchy, because he knows that voice. It’s Caboose—out of his armor for the first time that Wash has ever seen, dark curls damp from the shower.

Then his mind stutters, freezes. Rewinds.

Hey, Church.

That wasn’t his name.

It wasn’t his name, but he said yeah because he forgot. He forgot and answered to the wrong name and fuck fuck fuck they know they finally know—

He realizes that he’s on his feet, gun drawn.

“Oh!” says Caboose. “I did not know we were playing hide and seek.”

“What?” Wash demands, his voice cracking. “What the hell—what are you—”

“DROP IT, MOTHERFUCKER,” Tucker yells, charging in through the doorway with his sword drawn.

He’s not trained like a Freelancer. It should be laughably easy for Wash to drop him, despite the glowing energy sword, and without even firing a bullet from his gun. Wash aims a kick at Tucker’s leg, meaning to send him sprawling—

But the exhaustion and the injuries are too much. Wash’s own leg gives out, and he tumbles to the ground. His gun skids across the floor.

Tucker grabs it, shutting off his sword. “What the fuck were you doing?” he demands, his voice low and dangerous.

“Church and I were playing a game,” says Caboose, as cheerful as ever. “I won.”

“I’m not—” Wash starts, but then his mind roars with static and he can’t go on.

Not Church, not Epsilon, he’s not he’s not, but the name Wash feels heavy and foreign, and he is—he is—

He’s finished. That’s all he is, right now, same as on Sidewinder. Tired and finished, without the strength left to even pretend he knows his name.

“You tried to kill Caboose,” says Tucker.

“Yeah, uhhh, that is part of playing hide and seek,” Caboose says. “I find Church and then he tries to shoot me.”

Tucker glares at Caboose. “That isn’t Church, you idiot.”

Wash manages to find his voice and say, “He called me ‘Church.’”

In an instant, Tucker’s glare is turned on Wash. “So you decided to fucking shoot him?”

“I—”

Wash doesn’t know what he can say: there aren’t words for what it was like, waking up with two selves in his head, feeling that other self die, and then living with the memories. Knowing every moment of every day that if he ever let them know he remembered being Church/Alpha/Leonard/Epsilon, he would be killed.

“Give me one reason I shouldn’t call the UNSC and put your ass in jail,” says Tucker.

“Uhhh, because he is Church?” Caboose offers.

“I wasn’t asking you!”

“. . . I’m sorry,” Wash says helplessly. “I thought— Back in Freelancer, if I’d answered to that name, they would have killed me.”

Tucker snorts. “Yeah, right.” The he does a double-take, looking at Wash’s face. “Wait. Seriously?”

Wash’s nerves are buzzing with fear. It can’t be this easy—nobody ever believes anyone, not if they’re teammates, not if they’re friends—

“Yeah,” he says.

“Ugh,” says Tucker, and he relaxes, all the anger draining out of him. “You Freelancers are really fucked-up, you know that?”

“Yeah,” says Wash.

2.

The thing is, Wash’s job on Blue Team is just “pretend to be the Alpha AI,” and that’s . . . horrifyingly traumatic in a number of ways, but it’s also boring.

He already looked a member of the UNSC in the eye and answered to the name “Leonard Church.” He got away with it. Here at Blue Base? There’s nothing for him to do.

Wash can’t remember a single time in his life when he didn’t have a mission, a goal: get off that dirtball. Survive the war. Make it onto the Leaderboard. Burn down Freelancer.

Now? He’s lost.

So he’s pried open the microwave and he’s trying to fix it, because the only other possible project is teaching Lavernius Tucker to act like a soldier, and fuck if he’s going to waste his time on that kind of hopeless cause.

“Church,” Caboose says from behind him.

i am epsilonepsilonEPSILON i was leonard church we are BROKEN don’t say goodbye i hate goodbyes

Wash curls his fingers into fists, wait for the memory to pass. For his thoughts to sound like his own again.

“Don’t call me that,” he grits out, turning to face Caboose, who is in full armor this time.

“Yeah, I don’t know if you noticed, but you are wearing Church’s armor and replacing him on Blue Team, so that kind of makes you Church.”

“But I’m not—” Wash realizes his voice is rising and he chokes off the words. Tucker has the uncanny ability to appear any time he raises his voice to Caboose, and Wash is really not in the mood to be reminded again that if he screws up too much, they’ll throw him to the UNSC.

“Church went into the memory unit,” he says wearily. “Remember?”

Caboose nods. “Yeah, and you replaced him. It is not that complicated.”

Sometimes Caboose is clearly just babbling—How sad would it be to not have a brother and to lose a brother all in the same day?—but sometimes he talks slower, seems more aware of the world outside of his brain. This is one of those times.

“Have there been other Churches?” Wash asks.

“Yeah,” says Caboose. “There was Church, who was my best friend ever, but his body fell out of the jeep and I lost him. And then there was Church, who lived inside the memory unit and listened to my stories, and then he was a robot, and then he went back into the memory unit. And then there was you.”

I’m not Church, Wash wants to howl, but Caboose is staring at him like—like—

Like he has a place on Blue Team. One that means something.

“And now my helmet is stuck and it is your job to get it off,” Caboose goes on. “Because you are Church.”

“Wait,” says Wash. “Seriously?”

But as he wrestles Caboose’s helmet from off his armor, and deals with the chewing gum smeared inside the locking mechanism, he’s . . . grateful.

Pretending to be Leonard Church—Alpha or Epsilon—makes Wash’s skin crawl. Cleaning up after Caboose isn’t exactly fun. But it’s something. It’s a reason for them to keep him on Blue Team and out of prison, and Wash isn’t a bit less desperate than he was when he teamed up with his friend’s walking corpse and shot Donut.

He can stand being Church.

He will be Church.

3.

After Wash leads Blue Team to victory a three times in a row, he starts to relax. He knows, and he knows they all know, that the war games are pointless. But Sarge is just as dedicated to the complete and utter destruction of Blue Team as before, and Tucker enjoys making the Reds sing embarrassing songs to get their flag back, and Caboose is just happy to be on a mission with “Church.”

So it works for them.

Wash avoids thinking about how it can’t last, just like he avoids thinking about how he got here and why Simmons won’t talk to him. For once in his life, he’s not brooding about the past, and he’s not desperately crawling towards the future. He’s just—

Making coffee in the mornings. Watching Caboose tinker with the jeep. Putting out the fires Caboose starts in the kitchen and then feeding everyone MREs. Saying, “Yeah, buddy,” even when he doesn’t fully understand what Caboose is saying.

It’s . . . not exactly good.

But it’s the longest, most peaceful stretch of not bad that he can remember having in a very long time.

There’s only one thing wrong, really, and it’s Tucker. Not at first, when he just avoids Wash. But as time goes on—Tucker hangs around them a little more, but he’s always giving Wash these weird, resentful looks that send little sparks of adrenaline down Wash’s spine, because he could call the UNSC.

Wash tries. He leads them on another raid and they win, again. He cleans the base. He banishes Caboose from the kitchen and manages to cook their meager supplies into an actual dinner, complete with mashed potatoes.

But something’s still wrong, and it’s more than just Tucker’s initial wariness, his protectiveness for Caboose. Wash can see it getting worse as they eat dinner together, the way Tucker’s mouth slants down and his shoulders tense and he’s hardly even eating.

It’s getting worse, but Wash has no idea what to do.

“Well,” Caboose says cheerfully, “I think that maybe tomorrow, me and Church—”

“He’s WASH, you moron,” Tucker snaps suddenly, slamming his fork down on the table. “Get that fucking straight.”

Fuck, Wash thinks, hardly daring to breathe. This is it.

“Uh,” says Caboose, “I think you mean Church.”

“No, I mean Agent fucking Washington, the asshole who shoots people for no reason.”

There’s a buzzing in Wash’s ears. He can hear the memory of Simmons screeching, the sound of Donut’s body hitting the ground.

I had to, Wash thinks dizzily, I had to, he was in my way, I couldn’t go back to prison.

But—

He’d ended up headed for prison anyway, and it was only Caboose’s begging that saved him, and now he can’t miss the way Simmons is still scared around him, the way Grif always positions himself between them.

He can’t miss, either, the gaping hole on Blue Team where Alpha and then Epsilon used to be.

In that instant, Wash desperately wishes that he really was Church. That he wasn’t the kind of person who did those things.

“No, he is Church,” Caboose explains patiently, “because Church is Blue Team captain.”

Tucker starts to rise from his seat. “Call him that ONE MORE TIME—”

Wash starts to rise too, raising his hands placatingly, because he can’t let this turn into a fight. Not with Caboose in the middle. “Look, Tucker, I know it’s weird, but if it’s easier for Caboose—”

“I don’t give a fuck!” Tucker snaps. “Church was my best friend.”

“He left,” says Caboose, his voice soft and final.

There’s a moment of shocked, frigid silence. Tucker’s mouth is open, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Church is the one who stays and takes care of us,” Caboose goes on. “Epsilon left because he liked the mean lady better. It’s not us, it’s him. I realize this is hard for you to understand, Tucker, because you are kind of dumb. But it is time for us to move on.”

Wash looks at Tucker and—shit, are those tears in his eyes?

“Fuck you,” Tucker chokes out, and bolts.

With a sigh, Wash sinks back into his chair, and puts his head in his hands.

“I’m never making dinner again,” he mumbles.

“Well, I thought your mashed potatoes were delicious,” says Caboose, patting him on the shoulder.

4.

His fever has broken.

Wash knows this, because the floor isn’t rocking underneath him, and when he looks up, the ceiling doesn’t look like it’s bubbling and seething.

Yay.

He still feels awful: aching all over and exhausted in a way he hasn’t been since he was in the hospital recovering from South’s bullets. When the gunk in his lungs makes him convulse with coughing, he wishes bitterly that the healing unit could help with a virus.

But no. He’ll just have to lie in this bed and suffer for a few more days. Hopefully Caboose won’t burn down the base in the meantime.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CHURCH!”

Wash sits bolt upright in bed, scrabbling for the pistol he usually keeps under his pillow—it’s not there—before he realizes that he isn’t being attacked. It’s just Caboose and Tucker, carrying a cake.

A birthday cake, with candles burning. Wash wonders if he’s still hallucinating.

“See, Tucker?” says Caboose. “I told you he was well enough.”

“Do you mean too sick to run away?” Tucker asks. He puts his hand on Wash’s forehead. “Yeah, okay, I guess you won’t die.”

“What . . . is this?” Wash asks fuzzily.

“Look, I know,” says Tucker, and puts a cup of orange juice in his hands. Wash wraps his fingers around the cool glass. “But Caboose really wanted to do this on your actual birthday, so . . . just have a bite of cake and I’ll get you some chicken soup. I make the best chicken soup.”

“Um,” says Wash. The last thing he remembers Tucker saying him—before he got sick—was Fuck off, Washington.

“It’s not my birthday,” he says finally, because—because he’s Church now, and he knows (remembers) that Leonard Church was born on September 21st.

(Welcome to the world, Epsilon. Today is your birthday, and that was timestamp 3/12/2559 17:51:33 UTC.)

“Umm, I think you lost track of time while you were sick, Church,” says Caboose. “It is May 1st, and that is your birthday.”

“Yeah, Simmons hacked the Freelancer records,” says Tucker. “That’s how we know your birthday and that you used to—”

“OKAY TIME TO SING NOW,” Caboose interrupts.

They sing. They’re completely off-tune. They sing, Happy birthday to Church, but it’s on Wash’s real birthday, David’s real birthday, and he—

He doesn’t know what to think about that.

After they finish singing, Tucker cuts the cake, and hands Wash a slice. Wash stares at it, remembering the time that Caboose tried to use powdered sugar instead of flour.

“C’mon, man,” says Tucker, “it’s safe. I cooked it.”

So Wash takes a bite. It’s a chocolate cake, fluffy and rich and absolutely delicious, and he can hardly taste it because his brain keeps repeating Tucker’s words: It’s safe. I cooked it.

He’s pretty sure that a week ago, Tucker wouldn’t have so much as opened a package of crackers for him, and he certainly wouldn’t have tried to soothe Wash’s fears about Caboose’s cooking.

He slants a quizzical look up at Tucker.

And Tucker sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, so . . . you’re really pathetic when you’re sick, and I guess I felt sorry for you? Also, uh. You kinda talked a lot when you were delirious. And, uh . . .”

“He means that he realized you were Church,” says Caboose. “Took him long enough. Stupid Tucker.”

5.

Carolina’s alive.

Carolina’s alive.

Carolina is alive.

One part of Wash’s brain is still stuck on that fact, still gibbering over and over that she was dead she was dead I was the last—

—and one part of him is snarling why the FUCK didn’t she come back for me?—

—but he’s got that mostly locked away now, in the back part of his mind where he keeps the broken, jagged memories that aren’t his.

He knows how to put his insanity aside and deal with a crisis, and right now, Carolina is the crisis. Carolina, and what she’s asked of him. (What he’s not sure he could refuse even if he wanted to.)

“She wants to find the Director,” Wash says to Church and Tucker.

“The what now?” asks Caboose.

“The Director of Project Freelancer,” Tucker says, and Wash can’t read the look that he slants up. “Right?”

“Right,” said Wash. “The one who created the AIs and the Meta and the—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Tucker waves a hand. “We got the whole ‘killed my friends, prepare to die’ speech like five times already.”

I killed your friends, Wash thinks, and this time what he feels isn’t guilt but a sort of startled wonder, that they’ve put that aside as he never could.

“I owe Carolina,” he says. “She was my squad leader, and—”

—six years old, sitting on the lawn with daisies in her hair—

“She was a friend,” he says firmly, pushing the memories away. “I’m not asking you to help us. It’s not your problem. But she says that she knows where Epsilon is, and she can get him out of the memory unit. That’s how she’s planning to find the Director. If you want to come with us, you’d be, uh—”

He can’t quite bring himself to say, useful in a fight, because he’s seen how they fight. Last time Red Team attacked, Tucker tried to hold them off with his sick dance moves.

Then again, they brought down the Meta.

“You’d be welcome,” he finishes awkwardly. “Or if you don’t want to . . . I’ll come back. With Epsilon. I promise.”

He stops, and waits for Caboose’s disappointment, Tucker’s anger. Because he knows his promise isn’t enough, he’s going to lose the only place he can still belong—but he can’t refuse Carolina, he can’t—

“Okay,” says Tucker. “Let’s go.” He grins at Wash. “Like I’m gonna let you be the one who has frenzied pre-battle sex with Carolina.”

“What?” Wash’s voice cracks. He can feel his brain physically trying to eject the memory of Tucker’s words.

“Plus, the last time you went on a road trip with a Freelancer buddy, you ended up nearly dead,” says Tucker.

“Yeah,” says Caboose. “And we already agreed you could skip dying, even though it’s part of the job. So we are coming with you, Church.”

Wash stares at them, and he can’t believe this is happening, he can’t believe it’s so easy, nobody ever chooses him—

“Thanks, guys,” he mutters. “Thanks.”

1.

Everything’s so fucked-up.

Wash stands watch, staring into the sunset. He’s pretty sure the Reds and Blues won’t put up with Carolina for much longer—and they shouldn’t, it’s not like they owe her anything—

But Wash owes her so very much, and he doesn’t know how he can turn on her.

Even though he also owes the Reds and Blues everything.

“Sneaking . . . sneaking . . . sneaking . . .”

Wash sighs, and looks over his shoulder. “Hello, Caboose.”

“Hello, Agent Washington,” Caboose stage-whispers, and the name sends a pang through him. Because he’s not Church anymore. They have a Church, their Church, one who never shot or kidnapped any of them.

One who deserves to be with them.

“Caboose, you know you’re supposed to be in the temple with the rest of your squad,” Wash says.

Not his squad. Not anymore.

“Um, yes—well, um—but you see, um,” Caboose’s voice drops lower, “I am spying on you.”

Wash sighs again. It hurts, to be reminded that they don’t trust him anymore, that he’s not one of them anymore, that he was never one of them. But he chose this.

“Why are you spying on me, Caboose?” he asks wearily, turning to face Caboose.

“Well, yes, um, since everyone is kind of scared of you and Carolina, we figured we should try and get as much information on you guys as possible, so um . . . where do you guys see yourselves in the next five to ten years?”

You and Carolina.

Everyone is scared.

He’s lost it, all the fragile trust he built with the Reds and Blues when they were hiding together and they had no future. Wash knows that, and the knowledge is tearing him apart—but he also feels a tremendous rush of affection, because—well, Caboose.

“Caboose,” he says kindly, “you realize that when you spy on someone, no one's actually supposed to know that you're spying on them, right?”

“Oh, yeah, I know,” says Caboose. “I just figured you wouldn't tell anyone.”

“Wait,” says Wash. “What makes you think that?”

“Oh come on, Agent Washington—I mean I—you know, I'm pretty sure that we can trust you?” says Caboose. “I mean we are friends.”

He turns and ambles off as Wash stares at him in stunned amazement.

Wash hasn’t been “Church” since they pulled Epsilon out of the memory unit. He assumed that meant he was downgraded to being just another Freelancer, one of the interlopers that the Reds and Blues had to defend themselves against. But—

“Friends,” Wash mutters, and feels the center of his world start to shift.

[summerrrluvvv]

Chapter 7:

Day 6 in Miami

Tye:

 It’s been a day since Samar and I talked, he been dry as fuck with our conversation and I’m starting to get annoyed. I came down here for some fun, but I did not expect this bullshit. “It’s a nigga freeeee dayyyy” Melody sang as she came downstairs into the Kitchen. I was at the bar on the barstool just looking on Pinterest for Lingerie ideas for the party tomorrow. “What’s the move Tye Tye?” She asked smiling. She is normally this goofy, but sis is beaming, and super happy she been like this since her date with Isaac. “So, you not going to tell us why you so happy?” I asked. She shrugged. “What’s there to say, the date was nice that was it nothing happened, we might have kissed but that’s it” She said. I smirked “Mmmhm, well the move is to go to the mall to get fits for the party. Ari wanted to go” I told her. “Yess I did, let’s go!” Ari screamed coming downstairs with Zion. “Can we eat first” Zion groaned. “Girl eat at the mall” Melody said. “Red or Black Jeep today ladies?” I asked. “Black, for Black Power” Ari said. I started laughing. “Ok leh do it”. We got in the car, I made Zion drive cause her ass will try to finesse her way out of driving. “Ooh turn this up!” Melody said. Melody and Zion were in the front, Ariana and I were in the back. “Feelings soo deep in my feelings! No, this ain’t really like me boy you control my anxietyyyy” We all sang to “Boo’d up” By Ella Mai. “Ooooooh now I’ll never get over you until I find something new that gets me high like you do”. We pulled into the parking Garage, and Ari stayed in the car with me to smoke before we went in, while Z and Mel went ahead. “Bitch I’m geeking” Ari said laughing. She was a light weight. I started laughing. “Come on let’s go see some cute shit”. We walked all over the Mall damn near and Ari was being pick as hell. I had already got my fit from this hood boutique called Sicora, it was sexy as hell. “Ariana if you don’t hurry up, Mel and Z waiting in the food court” I stressed. We were back to Victoria secret when she finally decided on something. My phone buzzed “The fuck you doing nigga?” I read a text from Samir. I rolled my eyes. “Sup Tyeeee” I heard looking up, oh shit not this nigga, I thought. “All right Tye we good” Ari said before freezing.

 Ariana: 

 I was happy as fuck that I got my fit. “All right Tye we good” I said before almost dropping my shit. I instantly got angry. “Marlon what the fuck!” I stressed. I was finally free from this motherfucker. He smirked. “Damn you look good baby” He said. It has only been 6 days this nigga was hell. I rolled my eyes. “Nigga don’t get fucked up in this mall” I said ready to shove my foot up his ass. Tye grabbed me real quick. “Oh you going to the lingerie party tomorrow huh?” He asked smirking. “No were not” Tye said. I tried to move away from her. “Where your bitch nigga?” I asked. “Let’s go” Tye said. “Tye let her talk” He said. “I came here for you baby”. I flicked him off as she dragged me away. “Boy bye! I got a new nigga!” I yelled before turning around. We got to the food court and I was fuming. The audacity of this nigga. “What’s wrong?” Mel asked drinking a Starbucks frappe. “Marlon up in here saying he here for me, I knew I should have blocked him off my snapchat” I said. Mel shrugged, “is everybody ex in Miami” She said. Z came and sat down with her wings. “Okay whats up?” She asked. “Marlon is here” Mel said. Z shook her head. “We you got new bae so who cares” She said. I nodded. “You right fuck him” I said. Tye sighed. “I thought she was about to fight him” She said. I laughed. “I was if you aint drag me away, he might be at the party tomorrow” I said. “Well he will see you looking nice with Summer Bae” Tye said. Just the thought of even seeing Marlon on my nice ass vacation made me sick, but I was going to make him regret ever doing me dirty.

 Zion:

  “Ooh bitch that fireeee” Tye said to Mel. We were all showing off what we bought for tomorrow in the food court. “I’m sorry to bother you guys, but I just want to say you are fine as hell” Some light skin dude said coming up to our table looking at me. I blushed and smiled flirtatiously. “Thank you, I’m Zion” I said. He smiled; he was aight I guess. “Samuel” He said. I nodded. “Can I get your number?” He asked. “Yeah give me your phone” I put my number in his phone, he kept cheesing. “Aight bet, Ima call you baby girl” He said. I smirked. “You better” I turned back around to see my girls shaking they head. “What?” I asked. Melody just sipped her Frappe. “Yall what?” I said folding my arms. “Girl that nigga was not even cute what the fuck Z” Ari said to me. I rolled my eyes. “I need a new nigga mine is getting too attached for my liking” I said. Tye kissed her teeth, “At least he attached” She sipped her water. “I know yall don’t understand but when this whole trip is over we have to go back to Atlanta and these little feelings we having for these niggas will bite us in the ass unless we cut all that shit out real fast” I said. Tye nodded her head. “True but like it’s a fling that’s all don’t over think it Z” She told me. She was right I was over thinking.

 Melody:

 I laid out on the bed after we came home from the mall. I was exhausted and I felt like I am barely sleeping this trip. My phone buzzed. It was Isaac. “Thinking about you, I hope your day was good. I love you Melly Mel” I read. My heart fluttered. This nigga is hell. “Free?” Another text came in from Malachi. I was hesitant to respond. “Yes” I said. “😌 Good, meet me outside” I jumped up and looked out the window. I see he was standing there with a rose. “Give me a sec” I said. I hurried up and jumped in the shower and threw on something cute. Ari busted into my room, “Mel you got company”. She said smirking. I smiled back, “I know Ari” I said. She just kept looking at me. “You got two niggas sweating you” She said. I looked at her and smiled “You do too boo” She rolled her eyes and closed the door. I quickly went outside. He looked up at me and smiled, I smiled nervously at him. He was fine as hell “Sorry to pop up but I wanted to surprise you” He handed me the rose. I started blushing hard as hell. “Thank you” I said. “You want to ride around the city with me?” He asked. I nodded. I got in his car, and he sped off. “So, we just driving around the city?” I asked. He nodded. “Yeah, I want to get to know you is that bad?” He asked. I shook my head. “No, so what do you want to know?” I asked. “Mmm I don’t know a lot of things, your mysterious, ducking and dodging me” He said. I laughed at him because little does, he know. “I’m just cooling it with my girls in Miami, its supposed to be nigga free sir” I told him. He laughed. “Well I don’t know how long you here for, and I had to at least attempt to get you on one date” He said. I smiled. He turned on the radio and “Aston Martin Music” Started playing by Rick Ross. Which was perfect cause were riding around the city in an Aston Martin. “You just have this song on go when you get women in your car?” I asked. He bust out laughing. “No, it just so happens to be on” He said laughing hard. “Mmhm the beginning just starts” I said laughing. 

We drove around Miami and got some Icees and just sat on the rooftop by his car and talked. I learned he own a couple of business in Miami. I think he sells drugs but anyways. He grew up in Chicago but moved down here after college. He is the host of most of the parties we been going to. That is his thing. He knows that I am in school and that I just got out of a relationship and I am not looking for nothing too serious. “So can I ask you another question?” He asked. I smirked. “What I’m all 21 questioned out” I said smiling. “Can I kiss you?” He asked. I nodded slowly. He leaned into kiss me and we went from 0-100. I was damn near fucking him with my mouth. I had got a text from Isaac, which it was only his text tone that made me come back to my senses. “I’m sorry” He said. I shook my head. “No, your fine” I said. I started to feel weird. “You ready to go back?” He asked. I nodded. I read the text from Isaac. “I miss you like crazy”. I sunk into the seat as I got in. For a minute I had forgot all about Isaac but then when I did I started missing him too, and I felt like I was doing something behind his back.

[seenashwrite]

SNIPED (Part Four)

Status: Complete (Part 4 of 5) Word Count: 7.4K Rating: 18+/Mature/Explicit for Adult Themes including - Graphic sexual situations; Mild-to-moderate violence; Coarse language Categories: Drama; Action; Romance; Porn-with-Plot; Smut; On-the-hunt Character(s): Dean; Sam; Reader/O.C. Female; Jody; Crowley [briefly]; Alex & Claire [mentioned]; Castiel [mentioned] Pairings: Dean x Reader/OC Female [Pts. 2 & 5]; Sam x Reader/OC Female [Pt. 3] Warning(s): See “Rating” section above Author’s Note(s): See Part One  Overall Summary: The Winchesters receive assistance on their case from a sniper. Part Four & Five Summary: The sniper gets the answers she's been waiting - and almost dying - for, regarding both her past and, potentially, her future.

                     || SNIPED Master Post ||

I kept testing the strength of the chair I was in, but all in vain. The wood was too thick for me to boost up, slam it down to the floor, splinter it. The cuffs keeping my arms wrapped around the chair's back weren't terribly tight on my wrists; I was debating which thumb to attempt a dislocation on so I could have a free hand.

I sighed. How the fuck did I get here?

No. Denial wouldn't help anything at this point. I knew exactly how.

I started replaying the recent past in my mind. Starting with that morning. The morning after we'd rescued Dean. The morning after Sam and I had fucked each other nearly raw.

I'd been awakened early when I heard the Impala roar to life.

I had to get out of there, get back to the comfort of my own home, scrub myself even cleaner than I'd done in the long shower the night before. I'd stood in it til the water ran cold, though I still burnt inside when I'd laid down, falling asleep only via exhaustion. I could still feel Sam all over me, and not much of it made me feel badly. Enough of it did.

The knock on the door as I'd just finished getting dressed surprised me.

I opened it, and to my shock, there stood Dean. I assumed he and Sam had left together, headed back to Kansas. I felt that heat shoot back over me, but this time it was anger, that Sam had left Dean to wake up alone in that gross motel room.

"Hi," he said quietly. "I guess I didn't wake you up, did I?"

I shook my head.

"If it's not asking too much, could you take me over to Jody's?"

You could've knocked me over with a feather.

"I called her for a ride..."

He still hadn't made a move to come in. I still hadn't made a move to let him. Or look him in the eyes.

"...but she got called in early. Some sort of leftover drama from a bar brawl," he continued with a small chuckle. Then he winced, briefly grabbed his torso, coughed.

"Um, yeah. Let me just get my keys," I mumbled, turning, walking over and picking them up off the dresser.

Dean stepped in then, just inside the doorway. As I turned back, I noticed he was looking at the nightstand, to the empty tequila bottle, the stacked cups. I grabbed the trashcan from beside the dresser with my free hand, hustled over. Holding the keys by the fob in between my teeth, I tossed the cups and the bottle into the trashcan with a clang, then dropped it all unceremoniously to the floor. Moving away from it - and the bed, and the brief flash of a memory - quickly, I snatched the keys from my mouth, brushed by him and out the door, headed towards the stairs down to the parking lot.

"C'mon," I said over my shoulder as I passed.

I heard the door close, then his footsteps behind me.

I'd already gotten the engine cranked and my seat belt on by the time he'd slowly made it down the steps and over to me. Another little grimace as he climbed up into the passenger seat. A slow exhalation as he pulled the seat belt across his obviously sore chest and settled back.

Both sides of his unshaven jaw were bruised, one further along in healing than the other. His bottom lip was split and crusted with a touch of dried blood. One eye was still almost completely closed with swelling, a small gash where the skin had pulled apart over the browbone. He looked like hammered shit.

I wish I'd had my heels on when I found the last kidnapper. I'd have driven one into his skull. Maybe before I took him out, maybe after.

We drove to Jody's without a word.

I parked in her driveway, then cut the engine, pulled my keys out, unbuckled. Choosing Jody's key from the ring, I held it between my fingers as I opened my door, began to get out. Dean put his hand on my forearm.

"She told me where the spare's hidden," he said quietly.

I nodded, pulling my foot back inside and shutting the door, and Dean unbuckled his seat belt with his free hand - his other hadn't left my arm. I cleared my throat, kept my head straight, still not looking at him, though he'd shifted in his seat, turning toward me.

"Thank you," he said, still speaking in a quiet voice.

I nodded again. "I told you - anytime you guys needed me."

"I need you."

I stiffened; he noticed, took his hand away.

"Not what I meant," I replied, my gaze drifting down from the window to the steering wheel.

"I know." He paused, and several moments of complete silence passed before he spoke again. "You wouldn't reply to my texts. I'd heard you were out chasing demons--"

"You heard right," I cut him off harshly. No point in pretending.

"I don't want you to think I was texting just to... just because of... just because."

"Okay."

"I can help. If you're trying to go after--"

"I'm not. That one's long gone."

A sigh from those perfect, battered lips. "I know. And I'm pretty sure I also know who you are going after. He's bad news, Snipes."

Here we go with that fucking nickname again, I thought. Despite the usage of his chosen endearment for me, Dean's tone was now growing firmer, tougher. At least that was a positive sign. He was getting back to his old self.

I looked skyward for a moment, let loose my own sigh, brought my eyes around to his as my head came down. "I'm not going to apologize to you for... for this," I told him with an equally firm tone, gesturing up and down at his nearly-broken body. "You got yourself into my mess. I didn't ask you to. I'm not asking you to now."

Dean's eyes bore through me. "And I don't need you to ask."

I jerked my head away then, resuming my blank stare straight ahead.

More silence.

"That's a hell of a dress," Dean commented, switching tone again.

"Do you have a way back to Kansas?" I asked, ignoring his attempt at lightening the mood.

"Why? You offering to take me?"

"I'm asking because I don't want you this close to my home. To my life."

"To you?"

I looked back at him. "What is it you want from me, Dean?" I asked, completely exasperated. "To date me? Take me out to dinners and movies? Hold hands and walk through parks? Look at kids playing and imagine they were ours? Or maybe be a super-hero team, driving around in your Batmobile, fighting evil?"

He shrugged. "Maybe. I don't know. I just think we should find out what this is, what---"

"There is no 'this'," I practically shouted. "You have no concept of what a horrid person I am. The only reason you want me is because you think I don't want you, that I'm putting on some hard-to-get bullshit act. It's not an act. Take a hint."

That battered jaw twitched as it clamped, his good eye narrowing, and he responded through grit teeth. "You're lying. I'm not stupid."

"Then stop acting stupid," I hissed, adopting a glare of my own. Then I opted not to pull any punches. He needed to know. Dean needed to know I wasn't good enough. Not for him. That maybe I never was... and definitely not now. "Whenever that son of a bitch decides to show up, you ask him. You ask Sam what kind of person you're wasting your time on. Maybe then you'll stop this fucking dead-end mission you've got such a hard-on for."

I looked away again, jammed the key into the ignition, started the jeep up, hoping against all hope Dean would get out, walk away from me, and for good this time.

"You think I don't know?" Dean shot back, that strong, deep voice carrying above the engine.

I didn't acknowledge him, though a chill went down my aching spine, the prior night's thrashing having done it no favors.

"You think I could sleep at all last night, after I heard him leave, knew he was going to you?" Dean reached across me, shut off the car, took the keys before I could react. "Think that I couldn't smell you all over him when he came back?"

I just sat there, stiff, mute, shocked. My eyes closed. I felt tears build up behind my lids.

"That you can push me away by fucking around?"

"It wasn't just fucking around!" I said, astonishment painting my face as I turned wide, glassy eyes to his. "It was your br---"

Dean's jaw stiffened again, a flash of anger in his expression, eyes glinting with fire as he cut me off, not wanting brother to cross my lips. "I got sad, I'll admit it, I got real sad and moped around for weeks when you disappeared after that night. Then I got pissed, started bar-hopping, drinking everything I saw, fucking my way through every waitress or co-ed that would have me, for months---"

"That would have you," I repeated, making a scoffing sound and rolling my eyes. "Don't play humble, Dean, it doesn't suit you."

"---and every one of them, I pretended it was you."

I froze.

"And it didn't work. Just like I bet fucking Sam didn't work for you, and you best believe I'll have it out with him," Dean went on, absolutely fuming now. "But stop lying. You know what you felt when you were with me was different."

I turned from him, reached up and gripped the steering wheel like a lifeline, trying desperately to keep looking straight ahead. A tear ran down my cheek. Motherfucking... I hated that this was my tell when it came to him. It had been the same with my husband. It was how he was sure he had me, that he'd won, anytime we fought and I fully aware the cause of the argument was my fault. I could keep a great poker face, could outright lie to anyone. Just not to him. And not to Dean.

Dean moved his hand, but not to my cheek to wipe away the tear, instead placing it atop my thigh, softly stroking it. I glanced down. The knuckles were battered to hell. He had fought back hard. I watched his fingers tracing a path to my knee, back to the hem of the dress, not making a move to go any higher. And oh, god help me, his touch - it was the best comfort I'd ever known. I couldn't help briefly thinking of my husband's touch. Of Sam's touch.

And there was just no comparison. Not even the same ballpark. Same country. Same universe.

"You should forget about me, you should go back to your life," I whispered, my voice trembling, not meaning it at all. My eyes drifted closed again as I felt him lean in, his other hand sneaking to the back of my neck, fingers running up into my hair, thumb gently stroking behind my ear. Then his face next to mine. Then his breath on my neck.

"You know it. Just like you know you don't want me to go," he whispered softly, reading my mind. "I know, because it's what I'm feeling, too. In my gut. In my soul."

The poetic nature of that last part would've normally made me nauseated. Especially coming from a hard-living, hard-drinking, try-hard womanizer like Dean. Only this time, it made me shiver to my core.

A barely-there brush of his lips near my ear. A deep inhalation, lower, near my jaw. A shuddering exhalation against my neck. Back up to my ear.

"Come inside with me," Dean said in a resonating, thick voice of desire.

I was instantly wet.

"How can you want to touch me?" I practically whimpered, turning my now tear-soaked face to his.

The hand on my neck had slid over to rest against the side of my face. Dean brought his other hand from my leg to the opposite side. And with clear disbelief in his voice, in his creased brow, in his eyes, he answered.

"How can I not?"

And I kissed him.

He gasped, and I thought out of pain, due to the split lip. But when I pulled back, looked at him, I saw it hadn't been. It was surprise. Dean immediately brought his lips back to mine. I blissfully let myself get lost.

His lips were so soft and firm, all at the same time, and it was slow. Slow and meandering, no tongue at first, just focus on one lip, then the other, then both. Then delicate meetings of the tips of our tongues, no invading my mouth, my own not invading his, just touching, tasting, tiny bits of twirling, pulling back, starting again.

"Your lip," I whispered during one of the pull-aways.

Another kiss to my upper lip. Then a small head shake. “I don't care," he replied, his eyes remaining closed, and then as if to prove it, went in again, pressed harder against my mouth.

This was the second first kiss that jeep had been setting to. I'd let myself remember the first kiss I'd had with my husband, leaning against the very car I sat in now so many years later, and the memory briefly flew across my mind again. But it had flown out almost as immediately as it had entered.

Because this one, this first kiss with Dean, had blown it completely away.

It had just barely begun to deepen when a car pulled into the driveway beside us. We stopped, and I glanced over Dean's shoulder. A squad car.

Jody.

"Mom's home," I whispered, and he grinned.

Jody gave me a raised eyebrow behind Dean's back before she walked around to my side. Then she invited me in for breakfast, saying she planned on stuffing Dean to the gills with bacon and eggs, prompting him to immediately get out of the jeep with the most energy he'd had since his rescue. But I declined.

Dean stood behind Jody, looked at me sadly. I leaned down and undid the tiny zippers on my pumps. Handing them to Jody, I told her she deserved a reward for the prior night's work.

Her eyes widened and she took them immediately, saying, "I'm not going to tell you I couldn't possibly..."

I laughed. "Just make sure you hide 'em from the girls," I advised. Jody grinned, then looked to the pumps, zipping them back up, and I looked at Dean when I added, "And, ah... ragamuffin over there... you can dump him at my place if his piece of shit brother takes too long to come and get him."

A slow smile began to creep across Dean's face.

Jody stared at me. "You sure?" she asked.

I kept looking at Dean. "Positive."

And I meant it.

Then I looked back at Jody. "I... I need to do some... uh... re-strategizing. A few days off will do me good. Even if I have to haul his sorry ass back to Kansas."

A little grin came to Jody's face. "Uh-huh."

I narrowed my eyes. "Wasn't there a trick to getting back to Kansas, clicking heels three times or something? I may need those back," I said, reaching for my - well, Jody's - shoes.

"Hell, no," she announced, clutching the pumps to her chest before completely turning away and beginning to walk to her door. "Get off my property or I'm arresting you," she called over her shoulder.

"Copy that, sheriff," I called back, then looked to Dean, held out my palm. "Keys?"

Dean turned his head, glancing behind him and making sure Jody had gone - she had, leaving the front door ajar for him. When he got to me, passed me my keys, I grabbed his hand, stared at him with all the intensity I could muster.

"I don't expect your forgiveness---"

"Snipes---"

"---but I'll never stop trying to earn it."

Dean sighed, glanced away, thought for a few moments before looking to me again. "Or can we just never talk about it?"

I nodded, leaned in, kissed him chastely on the lips, let it linger for a moment before I leaned back. "Next time you call? I'll pick up."

One of those patented shit-eating Dean grins appeared. "You'd better," he stated, giving the jeep a pat before backing up, then turning and walking to the door.

I waited til he'd gotten safely inside, door closed, before I cranked up the jeep and headed home. Partly out of habit. Mostly to look at his ass.

And when I got home, there, on the garage door, an odd-looking, long-bladed silver knife pierced a piece of paper. There weren't many words on it. But they were all penned in a dark, reddish-brown hue that I knew wasn't really ink.

.

I believe we have arrived at the moment for meeting face to face. Please note the address and time below. And know your lover will have more than cuts and bruises visited upon him should you decline the invitation.

Looking forward to seeing you this evening.

Killer dress, by the way.

Yours - His Majesty, the King of Hell

.

I snatched the letter from the blade, then yanked the blade from the door.

And then I went blind.

I was seething, blind with rage. Blinded by arrogance. Blinded by what I felt for Dean. All I wanted was to have him naked in my bed, for hours, for days, so I could kiss every inch of him, kiss every bruise and cut, then start all over and do it again and again and again, til each one healed. Peel off my clothes, let him kiss me top to bottom, til my own wounds, the ones eating me from the inside, the ones causing me so much pain, began to ease. Maybe even disappear. I was beginning to think Dean had the power to do it.

I knew it was a trap. I knew. Just like I knew I might not have enough skill, enough weaponry to get out of it. Just like I knew the threat against Dean was not idle.

However.

Much as I had grown to dislike the pissant, Sam had turned me onto an idea. He'd never given explanation for the special rounds I'd been provided with on that initial hunt, and I hadn't cared enough to ask. Their target was not the one I'd been seeking.

Between Jody and my former investigators, I'd learned quite a lot about the world beneath the one I'd been ignorantly parading around in all my years on this earth. Jody in particular had educated me, drawn an entire notebook full of incantations, devil's traps, jotted down tricks of the trade, ever since I'd told her of my husband's possession. I'd pried up doorstops and window sills, coated the gaps in strong adhesive, caked them with salt, nailed the wood back in place. Gotten blood from the butcher's - in small amounts over time, of course - pulled up carpet and painted craziness on the subfloor, tacking the carpet smoothly atop it once more.

My home was a fortress, one perhaps comparable to the bunker, though I couldn’t know for sure. For all this King of Hell wanted me to believe he knew about me, I had no knowledge of his people - his constituents? his subjects? - ever being at my home. Til now. But the threat was left outside, not in. So maybe my little additions had worked, after all.

I was aware that what I held in my hand was what Jody and the others called an angel blade, apparently capable of taking out said angels, or their demon distant cousins. Looked plenty capable of taking out their human step-siblings, too. I suppose this King expected me to use it, a taunt of sorts, a bring it on implication.

Too bad. Though my hand-to-hand skills were decent, my knife work left much to be desired. When we trained, my husband's reach was always an obstacle, he was always able to dodge my thrust, snatch my arm, bend my wrist til it nearly snapped, make me drop the fake practice knife to the floor. 

Then I'd pout like a child, which never failed to make him laugh. Then we'd make out, and I'd get distracted and never learn. As if I needed a reminder that distractions are deadly. But my knife skill didn't matter. It wasn't arrogance, it was fact.

Nothing on hell or earth could trump me if I could get a shot off.

So I wouldn't be bringing along His Majesty's gift. Not so he or one of his cadre of irredeemable fucks could turn it on me. No, I would be bringing along gifts for them, crafted by my own two hands, down in my basement, designed to perfection over months and countless test fires through every single handgun and rifle I owned. They represented unending hours of studying ferrous metallurgy, learning how iron and lead and steel were related, how they could be manipulated, transformed, earning more than a few welts and tiny burns to my hands and arms.

All that remained of my husband's belongings were weaponry and worn-out cargos, but I confess to a bit of concern over having kept his ring, wearing it outside of my little fortress. Jody had mentioned a spirit's love of attachment to certain objects if they felt their earthly business was incomplete. I'd say a bullet through the head might've given my husband motivation to hang around. 

So when I was etching the bullets, I etched the inside of his ring, too. Better safe than sorry and all that bullshit. Still, for this mission, I left my trusty necklace at home. Didn't need the reminder; I was fully aware what was at stake.

I donned the cargos again. This time, nothing lived in the pockets, I wasn't going to have anything on me that I couldn't reach in less than a second. They were a little loose now, though - I'd lost weight since the hunting trip with the Winchesters, the stress from the uptick in my mission since then resulting in a lack of eating. And a lack of sleep. And a lack of a restful mind.

I almost put on kevlar under the black long-sleeved shirt I chose to wear, then thought better of it. Demons weren’t really firearm fans, and even so, they’d had plenty of opportunity to snipe me. That, and the fact that demons could hurt me in a million other ways than guns.

From what Jody said, there was supposedly only one gun that had ever existed that proved capable of killing them. Good. If they thought all others to be useless, it was an ignorance for me to exploit.

And I didn't see why they'd possess me. Another thing they certainly could've done by now. If I'd been spied upon, as the note basically told me, then logically I'd missed demons all around me. His Royal Fucktard probably wanted that to be intimidating. Maybe it should've been. Wasn't.

I was on the road, then parked about a half mile from my destination in a matter of hours. I wanted to take my time staking out the area. It was about an hour til the meet time when I felt my phone vibrate. I glanced, then ignored it. I'd selected a perch about a block from the appointed spot, high, with a good line of sight. It was the building where that fateful op had gone down - nice touch on my host's part. May as well pop a few if I could, I figured.

I waited til I'd settled in my perch before I listened to the voice mail Jody had left.

Jody said that Sam had finally shown up not too long before she'd called. Told me she wanted a full report later on what had gone down. Sam had barely gotten inside before Dean laid him out with one punch, then followed him down to the floor, kept beating the shit out of him.

When Jody saw Sam's nose had broken, she tried yelling at Dean. And by the time she realized that Sam wasn't fighting back, he was losing consciousness before she was able to pull Dean off. She'd put Sam in her guest room with a ton of ice, then given Dean my address. Said he'd taken off in the Impala, was on his way to me.

I immediately shoved it out of my mind. I was still running through my ammo situation in my mind, regretting not trying more experiments with iron instead of just going with steel. Thinking I should've tried harder on some theories I had for a supernatural-C4 combo.

I wish I could say the entirety of my encounters inside went as smoothly as if I were the female John Wick. Not to sell myself short - the first fifteen minutes or so, I was efficient and deadly.

Tap-tap chest.

Tap head.

Tap-tap chest.

Tap head.

I was even slightly edging out of Wick territory and dipping a toe into The Matrix. Bless you, patron saint Keanu, I thought with a grin as I took cover behind a square concrete pole. One big bastard surprised me - turned out he had been packing, the back of the pole I stood against getting peppered as he kept pumping and firing near my legs and feet.

In another bit of surprise, I had wound up at the scene of the crime. Not forty feet from me, at the other entrance to the warehouse-type area, was the door my husband and I had entered through. Not twelve feet in front of that was where he'd died. Maybe his highness had wanted it so. Rub it in, throw me off my game.

Fuck that.

I was out of smoke grenades. But I'd been counting. And big bubba was out of rounds. Pistol drawn, planning to use its next-to-last round on his head, I turned. He grinned, pumped his shotgun. His face fell.

"Aw," I said, sticking my bottom lip out in fake sympathy, and ----

I felt myself lose consciousness before I ever hit the floor.

And now here I was, in some random room, apparently an old office as I noted a desk off to the side. They'd removed my weapons and my shoulder harness. One of the handguns, as well as the shotgun I'd yet to use, laid next to each other on the desktop along with the harness. Near them were a few of the spent smoke grenade canisters.

I was curious as to where my other handgun was, when voices rose outside the closed door - they weren't arguing, just seemed to be in a heated discussion.

I'd hurt the crap out of myself yanking on my left thumb and only succeeding in dislocating it in the middle instead of at the base, when the door opened and two of the mealier-looking demons I'd seen came in.

"Hey, listen, we've gotta know," the first one said.

"Yeah, we need you to settle a bet," said the second.

I raised my eyebrows. I can only imagine the expression on my face. "What?" I asked sharply.

"Don't be a bitch," the first said, narrowing his already beady eyes. They flashed to all black.

"Just tell us," said the second, his eyes also flashing to black.

Just kill me.

We looked at each other in silence for a few moments.

"Tell you what?!" I finally shouted impatiently, and they actually startled.

"Oh. Yeah. These," one said, pointing to the wasted canisters.

Then they went quiet again; I raised my eyebrows again.

"What was in them?" the other clarified. "See, I think it was holy water."

"You think there was water in a powder-based incendiary-" I began, but was interrupted by the other.

"And I think it was some sort of, like, ground up nun's bone."

"Ground. Up. Nun. Bone," I repeated slowly.

"Could be priest bone, I guess."

"Or virgin, maybe?"

"It was Palo Santo."

That last bit came from a smooth, crisp British accent floating through the open door.

"Sir."

"Your Highness."

Both bowed slightly at the waist, stepped to the side.

The immaculately dressed demon entering the room was apparently my host for the evening. He brought along with him a chair identical to the one I was in. One of the demons made a move to take it from him, but he shook his head.

"Off you go," he told them.

I could see the big brute just outside the door, glaring in at me. There was a huge, almost tunneled gash running from below his cheekbone at an upward angle, still oozing blood. Most of his ear was gone.

I'd apparently pulled the trigger as I went down. Nice. I grinned. "How ya feeling, motherfucker?" I called out to him.

He shot me the bird as he closed the door.

The Brit - rather, His Majesty - chuckled.

"Charming minions you have here," I told him, and he smiled.

The chair positioned across from me now, the King taking to his makeshift throne, I got a good look at him.

"Not what you pictured?" he asked.

I opted to answer honestly. "I think you're quite handsome."

He blinked, the smile widening. "Well. Long time since anyone's said that, my, my, my."

"I mean, the whole demon thing's not my jam, so there's that."

Another chuckle. "Seems to follow you, though."

I accepted this. "Fair enough."

"I find you quite impressive, my dear." He gestured to the desk and the hardware atop it. "All of this is... remarkable, really. Nicely done."

"You couldn't have thought I'd have come into a trap without something."

"No, of course not! I'd have been disappointed if you didn't. Thought you'd go with your blow-out-the-brains shtick, though. Worked so well on hubby."

I glared.

"Which is why we had a pile of potential meatsuits waiting upstairs, just a hop-skip away. My guys and gals would've just come right back at you in a shiny new package."

"Had?"

He shrugged. "Have, had. Might not be useful once you hear what I have to say."

I didn't respond. He sighed, stood up, removed a small key from his pocket, and walked behind me. I felt him grab the wrist with the partially dislocated thumb.

"Oh, this doesn't look good," he commented, then wrenched it, doing for me what I couldn't manage before and completely dislocating the thumb from my hand, breaking it for good measure.

"Mmmmpphh," I grunted through tightly pressed lips as the pain shot up my arm.

He lingered a moment, leaning in close, breathing in, smelling me from the collar of my shirt up to the top of my head. Then he unlocked the handcuffs, let them drop to the floor. He came around to stand in front of me, hands in pockets, perhaps so he could make sure I noticed the bulge beginning to form.

I brought my hands to the front. I winced as I touched around my thumb. It was already plenty swollen and beginning to grow discolored.

"I'm Crowley, by the way," he said, removing a hand from his pocket and extending it. When I didn't take it, he shrugged once again, then went back to sitting in his chair. He started to cross his legs, then adjusted almost immediately. I snickered.

"Are we gearing up for something?" I asked, aware of how contemptuous my voice sounded. "That why you uncuffed me? Gotta warn you, I won't be at the top of my game with only one good hand."

Now he snickered, and his eyes flashed... red. That was new. Must go with his shtick. The eyes had returned to normal by the time he replied.

"My dear, if I wanted to have you, no part of you would be unbound. I'd have you trussed up like a spring chicken and waiting for me on a pile of silk bunting. Perhaps allow your new buddy out there to get you good and broken-in ahead of time."

I stared at him, expressionless. He blinked first. Good to know my poker face could still work with somebody.

"But, no. Not why you're here," he went on.

"I doubt you plan on telling me why I'm here."

"Oh, on the contrary!" Crowley exclaimed. "Don't you hate it when the big bad spills his plans, then walks away so the good guy - or, in this case, only mildly decent woman - can escape, live to fight another day?"

I stayed silent. I genuinely had no idea where this was going. Just wanted it to get there fast.

"See, I do love a good trope. I did intend on letting that scenario play out, thought it'd be a hoot to watch you try and get out of here alive, but, again - I'm impressed. Wanted to make you an offer."

He stood, clasped his hands behind his back, winding his way around the room like a serpent as he continued.

"I thought since your worth to me is rapidly nearing an end, I'd do something a little out of the ordinary for our kind. The option of running the gauntlet is still there, of course. Though you should give serious thought to my offer. You see, we don't have to ask permission to possess. But I find if the human is agreeable - as my current outerwear was - the longevity is extended to a remarkable degree. And I have just the demon in mind for you. Identifies as female, loves killing, loves fucking. Why - the two of you are practically a match made in heaven!" A pause. "Hell. Anyway, you get the drift."

"You want me to be a demon..." I said, trailing off.

A curt nod. "My own personal assassin. You'd report directly to me. You'd have more autonomy than anyone else in my kingdom. I've wanted a professional killer on the payroll for quite awhile. Focused and efficient, won't leave a messy trail. Serial killers are sloppy, and either too insane or too controlling; either way, they fight being possessed to the point we just toss them into the pits. It's just too much trouble to try and raise them right when they're already so tainted. But you're already just the right amount of bad. Already a lot of moral and ethical malleability. Won't take too long to break your will, I don't expect. So much self-loathing."

Crowley's eyes were sparkling and his grin was absolutely wicked. But he was in full word-vomit mode, clearly loved the sound of his own voice; so I thought on my response for a brief moment, then I went for it.

"I'll consider it. If you answer - honestly answer - a question I've had for five years."

"I take it to be about darling husband?"

I nodded. "It's clear I was the target. Why didn't the demon possessing him kill me?"

"He wasn't supposed to. He was supposed to make you do exactly what you did: force your hand into protecting either your team or yourself by killing your husband."

I felt my brow knit up. "I don't under--"

A sigh, and Crowley took his seat once more. "My sweet, sweet little murderous kitten. You are one of Jody Mills' best friends, are you not?"

I nodded again. He knew that. Get to the point.

"And she is tight with the Winchesters. And I have grown utterly tired of the Winchesters. We have a history, to say the least. Particularly Dean and I. It's possible I know him better than he knows himself."

"Holy shit," I muttered, making a realization. I leaned forward a bit. "Did you have something to do with Dean being a demon?"

"Dean didn't have far to go. Not that you do, either. But his soul's conversion was the proverbial piece of cake."

"His soul," I repeated.

"Lovie! You didn't think he was merely possessed?!"

I don't know what expression crossed my face, but now a hearty series of laughs erupted from Crowley, so much so he shook.

"He didn't tell you?! Oh! Oh, that's just... Oh, I just adore this, it's too good!"

I leaned back, processing.

"But to finish answering your question - we knew enough about you to know you'd be hell on wheels after 86'ing your man. We also knew that delectable sheriff would likely spill the beans about a hunter's life, and we knew if we were patient enough, you'd end up somehow entangled with the Winchesters." Crowley looked me up and down, slowly, lasciviously. Ran a tongue over his lips. Then he met my eye. "The creator himself could not have designed a more perfectly appealing creature to capture Dean from tips to toes. Given your nature along with his, though, I'd have only expected the two of you to be fuck buddies. But now..." Crowley took a moment to run his eyes over my breasts one last time before looking back up and completing his thought. "Well, now I know he's a sure thing."

"Sure thing? That right? What are you so sure about?"

"That he’ll come for you," Crowley replied simply, rising from his chair and scooting it aside. "See, darling, I'm done. I've joined in on their little gang's shenanigans more times than I can count, risked - and lost - my standing in the demon world on one too many occasions. Been one of the browncoats, stormed castles, fought Satan himself, all that goddamned bullshit, and for nothing. The entire lot of them are a boil on my ass, and your Adonis in particular."

His voice had risen, becoming increasingly strained with every word. The eyes flashed red again. I didn't think he'd even realized it.

"You love him," I said softly, the statement sneaking out before I could stop it.

A steely glare was leveled at me, and the eyes went and stayed red now.

"I don't mean... I mean to say... No one gets this angry over someone they don't care about."

Crowley was suddenly in front of me, delivered a punch so hard I saw stars, came clean out of the chair and hit the floor. I tasted blood in my mouth from my teeth nipping the side of my tongue when they slammed together. Concussion number two of the day.

Sam, wherever you are, you're in good company.

"Let me tell you something, little girl," Crowley hissed in my ear, having taken a knee next to me and slipped his fingers under the bun I'd wound my hair into, gripping against my skull and pulling out more than a few hairs as he yanked my head back. "The next time you presume to know anything about me, it will be the last thought through this pretty head of yours." A bit closer now, whispering in my ear. "You look delicious on your knees."

He ran his tongue up the side of my face. I shuddered in disgust. He released me then, walked to the door, but before he left, he turned, waited til I looked up and over. His eyes were normal. His demeanor was perfectly calm. He stood as polished and together as he'd been upon first sight.

"The offer I made will be on the table until you step out of this room. My people have been instructed to do you no harm until we've spoken again, and you tell me your answer. And if that answer is a decline, well, then they've been instructed to do whatever they'd like with you, for however long they'd like." A slimy smile, and he moved to leave, then turned again. "Oh, one last thing - someone, possibly me, has made certain that Dean knows exactly where we are." A glance at his wristwatch. "Should be arriving any time now. So don't take too long to decide, kitten. Hell, I'll throw in a bonus: let my demon take you for a test drive, and you can kill Dean yourself."

“And why would I want him dead?”

The smile widened. “Rotten soul’s a pretty big lie by omission.”

At that, Crowley left for good this time.

I went to the table, hoping the handgun they'd left me with wasn't the one with only one round left. I checked - good. It was the one with a third of the mag left to go, and then there was the one on my shoulder.

The shotgun held plenty - I'd only meant for it to be a method of stunning anyway, in the event I'd gotten surrounded, but it would have to do. Especially if I got close enough - the breaching rounds with the steel bearings would shred 'em. If Crowley had a backup plan of a pile of potential hosts - and I had no reason to doubt him at this point - well... I'd have to jump off that bridge when I got to it.

"Report directly to you, my fat ass," I muttered to myself. I got my shoulder harness back on. Time to start counting them down.

I remember emptying the gun into whatever was near me.

I remember hearing Dean's voice calling my name from somewhere behind me.

I remember letting the empty magazine case fall to the floor when I released it, not dropping my pace as I pulled the new mag and jammed it in, bellowing at a group of demons cowering in front of me.

"Where is he?!"

"I don't---"

BANG

Next demon - "Where IS he?!"

"You---"

BANG

"WHERE IS HE?!"

I remember going down the line like that until suddenly I was slammed against the wall. Not too far, not too high, not hard enough to hurt me. But hard enough to jar me, whip my hand back to the brick, my gun flying away.

As I slid down the wall, I saw him. He spoke, saying something like he was right there, come and get me, called me killer, or kitten, I can't be sure. I'm sure he was holding my missing pistol, the one that had just a single round left to go.

I remember that distinct feeling of slow motion again. That I'd had before, in this very room. The feeling that preceded the death of my love.

And I remember for sure that as I came down, I made certain only one boot hit the floor so I could come off of it already moving, walking, pressing forward. Pulled the shotgun around from where it was in a custom break-away holster on the back of the harness, saw that Crowley had disappeared. Hedged my bets on where he was headed, pumped and fired directly in front of me.

Good guess.

A uniform gasp rose up from the room as Crowley had reappeared with a surprised look on his face. A lot of the shot sailed away, but enough of it caught him so that one side of his upper body got pelted, shredding through his clothes, drops of blood beginning to prick through the fabric.

His face began to draw into a little smirk.

I was going to blow it off.

I remember pumping and walking him backwards with shot after shot. He seemed to twitch a bit - maybe a failed-escape glitch? - but no red smoke appeared, he wasn’t trying to make a run for it, maybe he couldn’t. I was counting rounds off aloud now, because I could still hear Dean and Sam - and was that Jody? - yelling at me over the blasts. I wanted to push their voices from my mind.

I remember thinking - I might not be able to kill this dick, but I'm sure as shit going to wreck his body, make sure he stays down. Make sure Dean gets out of here safe.

I remember emptying the gun, letting it fall from my shoulder to hanging from my hand at my side, my shoulders dropping in exhaustion, glancing around and thinking it looked like a massacre, wondering how much of it was my doing.

I felt a firm grasp at my throat, something solid behind me, something sharp, pointed just under and behind my chin.

Hearing the clomps of boots rapidly pounding towards me.

"Just do it, shitbird." I'd heard my own voice practically growl out the order, waiting to feel my throat get sliced, instead feeling the burn as the sharpness shot forward and away, slicing open my chin.

Now I felt hot breath, a raspy, accented voice hissing into my ear.

"Nice knowing you."

The hand around my neck had disappeared. It didn't need to be there. Because the barrel of my own gun was crushed against my ribcage.

"Fuck you."

BANG

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[my-dear-hammy]

Basking in Firelight-Jamilton Sequel-Part Twenty Four

Masterpost

Part Twenty-Four: Mind and Memories

AN

Don't kill me...Not that it's happened yet, but don't kill me

----

Warnings below

----

When Jefferson returned he looked more drained and Haggard than when he had left. The front door clicked softly shut behind him as he entered, collapsing on the couch, his head in his hands. Hamilton immediately moved to rub his shoulders, trying to help him relax. "What is it, Thomas? Did something happen?"

Jefferson took a deep breath. "I can't keep any of it straight. In my head. It's all jumbled around in knots and everything is clashing into each other. I just can't make sense of it."

"Your memories?"

"I don't think the mind is meant to be able to remember growing up, living, dying, and doing it all over again."

"Just give it time, I'm sure it'll sort itself out. I can remember just fine, just give it some time." Hamilton worked at a knot in Jefferson's back.

"You're right," Jefferson sighed. "It's only been two days since everything came back. I just need to let it settle. Oooh, that feels good. Keep doing that."

Hamilton smiled slightly and kneaded with a little more pressure. Jefferson slowly relaxed beneath his fingertips. He lightly pressed a kiss to Jefferson's neck, slipping his arms around his waist. Jefferson's breathing was deep and rhythmed. He had fallen asleep. Hamilton pulled Jefferson further into the couch, pulling him down so that he lay comfortably tucked into Hamilton's arms. "Sleep well, mon coeur," Hamilton whispered.

***

"Thomas, I'm going to make a trip to town to pick up some supplies. We're running low on food," Hamilton announced, pulling on his armored layers and tucking his knives into their proper places.

"Give me a moment and I'll go with you," Jefferson said, getting up to grab his own set of armored clothes.

"No, no," Hamilton said hurriedly, stuffing his wallet in a pocket, "I got it."

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm going with you. What if you someone recognizes you and you get in trouble with a mob again? You'll need me to rescue your ass again."

"Now you're being ridiculous. You're by far more recognizable than me. And the two of two together will no doubt be noticed. It's better if I go by myself," Hamilton explained, heading for the door.

Jefferson crossed his arms, "Alright, fine. Go by yourself then. I'll just go take a long, hot bath all by myself. Maybe, see if I can find any of that shampoo you loved so much," Jefferson said, making his way upstairs, leaving Hamilton in the doorway.

That motherfucker. Hamilton set his jaw, "Okay, have fun with that, I'll be home in a few hours." He left, closing the door behind him with a click. Jefferson sighed from the top of the stairs, he was hoping Hamilton would take the bait.

He took his bath, which took a lot more work than he thought to set up, considering he had to bring in all the water bucket by bucket and heat it up in the fireplace. He even did manage to find some of that shampoo, and after a bit of rehydration treatment, it was still as good as he remembered.

After he finished, he didn't have much else to do. Hamilton still wasn't home and wouldn't be for a long time yet. Town was pretty far away. He didn't really have any idea about what to do. He supposed he could play his violin or read a book. He had plenty in the library he hadn't gotten a chance to read before he died, but it felt like that's all he did anymore. Read and play. Nothing else that had any real meaning. As happy as he would be to spend the rest of his life in domestic bliss, he needed a new hobby. He usually has so much to do, but now...

He used to run a plantation, ride horseback all the time, he invented new things, hunted for fossils, design new buildings, including the Virginia state capital. He used to be an avid astronomer, he was fond of mathematics, and he even used to keep mockingbirds. He missed his mockingbird, he used to let it perch on his shoulder during presidential meetings. And his gardens, oh his gardens used to be magnificent. He put so much work into them.

Now it was all gone. At least he still had his cooking. He was a master cook after all. Hamilton loved his cooking. Maybe not his Mac and cheese, but he loved everything else.

That's what Jefferson could do, he could start some of his old passions again. The garden first. He could get his hands in the soil, he needed some real work to do right now.

He located some tools and found where his garden used to be. What was once covered in the most beautiful flowers and collections of plants from all over the world was now just a mess of weeds and bushes. He used to have so many rare and strange plants growing here and to see it all gone broke his heart.

Well, all he could do was get to work. He started pulling up weeds left and right, sweat dripping down his face as he worked under the hot afternoon sun. After an hour or two of backbreaking work, he stood and admired the large section of land that was now weed free. Now he needed to till up the soil. Of course, he couldn't use a plow, he didn't have a horse. The shovel then. One shovel full of dirt at a time. He could do this. It felt good to be at work again.

***

Jefferson had to take another bath. By the time the sun had set, he'd been covered in soil and sweat. Now he sat leisurely in the library, reading another book on governmental theory. He'd been halfway through when Hamilton finally burst through the front door, carrying several bags of food. Jefferson shut his book and made his way over, "Do you need any help?"

"Sure, there's more in the car."

"The car? We have a- oh right! I forgot about the car." Well, it was more of a military Jeep, but they were so accustomed to it, it was just a car to them. They had driven it from the rebel camp to Monticello and parked it a mile down the road and walked the rest of the way in so they wouldn't be noticed. Hamilton went a retrieved it apparently. Jefferson helped Hamilton bring in the rest of the food, nothing that needed to be refrigerated because they didn't have one and didn't have the old freeze box set up. Once everything was inside, Jefferson immediately set about making dinner like he did every other night. He never Hamilton anywhere near food anymore, he always had a way of causing something to go wrong just by standing there. Jefferson ushered him out and threw some wood in the wood stove along with some charcoal so he could cook some meat.

After dinner, Jefferson went back to reading his book, he'd been at a very interesting part when Hamilton had finally come home. Hamilton, however, had some very different ideas, he curled right up next to Jefferson a laid his head on his shoulder.

"Mmm, so you did find that shampoo," Hamilton murmured.

"Yep," Jefferson said, turning a page.

"Have a nice bath?"

"Extremely relaxing. Nice and hot and steamy," Jefferson teased.

Hamilton wrapped one of Jefferson's curls around his fingers, twirling it and untwirling it again, "I think I need a bath too," he said, his voice sultry.

"There's a bucket upstairs for the water," Jefferson informed, turning another page.

"Care to join me?" Hamilton asked, kissing Jefferson's jaw.

"Darling, I think you need hot water first."

Hamilton leaped to his feet and went to fetch water for a bath. He went through the steps that Jefferson had already gone through twice that day. Jefferson smirked to himself, hearing Hamilton's footsteps hurry about.

Hamilton finally returned, "Okay, the bath's ready."

"Alright darling, I'll be here when you're done," Jefferson said, not looking up from his book.

"Aren't you going to join me?" Hamilton asked.

"I already bathed today, twice. I don't need another one."

"Is this because I didn't stay earlier?"

"Nope. I'm already clean. And you smell, so go take a bath and then you can come cuddle up against me all you want," Jefferson said. Hamilton huffed and left to go take his bath.

When he returned, Hamilton plopped down on the couch right next to Jefferson and looked over his shoulder to see the book he was holding. "What're you reading?"

"A book on governmental theory."

"Another one? How many of those do you have?" Hamilton asked.

"An entire section. I expect we'll be needing it soon so I figured I'd get a head start. You should pick one up to."

"I've already read half of them, I think I'll take tonight off," Hamilton said. "Why don't you take tonight off too?"

"I took yesterday off."

Hamilton pressed more kisses to Jefferson's skin, "So?" he hummed.

"Darling, I'm trying to read."

Hamilton pulled away and got to his feet, extending a hand to Jefferson, "At least play with me."

Jefferson looked up and smiled. Closing his book, he took Hamilton's hand and stood up only to be swept into a deep kiss. He immediately wrapped his arms around Hamilton, pulling his closer, unable to resist.

"This is not playing," Jefferson said in-between kisses.

"In a moment."

Jefferson pulled away against Hamilton's protests. "Come on darling, I want to see those fingers of yours dance across those strings."

"I'd rather see them dance across something else," Hamilton mumbled under his breath as he let Jefferson pull them over to their instruments.

***

The next morning, Hamilton was up before Jefferson for once, who was usually up to make breakfast. He ripped the covers off the bed, "Rise and shine! The birds are singing! It's a beautiful day! Up you get!"

"Alexander?" Jefferson mumbled sleepily, curling into a ball. "Give me my blankets backs, it's cold," Jefferson complained.

"Nope! It's time to get up!"

"No, it's not, I've got another hour. Why are you up so early?"

"No reason just felt like it. Now come on! Let's go take an early morning walk."

"Let me sleeep."

"I will drag you out of bed by your ankles."

Jefferson groaned, "Fine, just let me get dressed."

As soon as he was, Hamilton practically dragged him out the door, grinning all the while.

"You're up to something," Jefferson stated. Hamilton didn't bother responding as they rounded the corner of the house and came to a halt. Hamilton stared straight ahead before looking at Jefferson expectantly.

Jefferson looked where Hamilton was looking and gasped. "You didn't-"

"I did," Hamilton said happily, shifting from foot to foot. Before he knew it, Jefferson grabbed him and pulled him into a passionate kiss, Jefferson embracing him tightly their bodies flush against each other. Hamilton's hands snaked their way into Jefferson's hair, softly tugging the soft curls he loved so much. Jefferson gasped slightly against his mouth, pressing tighter and moving more desperately, Hamilton chuckled at Jefferson's response, loving it every time, gently yanking on his hair again.

Jefferson pushed him against the wall of the house, pinning Hamilton's hands above his head, breaking the kiss, "You drive me crazy," he breathed.

"If I had known this would be your reaction, I would've gotten you one much sooner," Hamilton smiled mischievously up at him. Jefferson pressed his body against Hamilton's, letting him feel just how happy he was. Hamilton hissed but was cut off by another intense kiss from Jefferson. If Hamilton could move his arms and get his hands back in Jefferson's hair, he knew exactly how this would end, but his hands were pinned above him by one Jefferson's arms and the other braced tilting Hamilton's head up, allowing Jefferson better access.

When Jefferson finally broke away and let Hamilton's arms drop back to his sides, Hamilton was breathless and needed a minute before he could trust himself to walk straight. Luckily, Jefferson didn't seem ready to move either, he was still tightly pressed Hamilton, his head resting on Hamilton's shoulder, breathing in his scent, hands entwined in Hamilton's.

"Dear, the sun has fully risen now, I think it's time we moved," Hamilton said, wanting to have his cup of coffee that he forgot about in his excitement. "Why don't you go take your ride and we can have breakfast when you get back?"

Jefferson hummed happily as he finally pulled completely away, hands lingering for just a moment. "Why don't you come with me?" he asked, staring at the pair of beautiful horses standing before him.

"Maybe later, I know you like your morning rides to be solitary."

Jefferson nodded, "One travels more usefully when alone, because he reflects more." (Actual quote, boom) "Later then, you and I are going to ride deep into that forest and not return for a long long time," Jefferson promised.

"I look forward to it," Hamilton hummed, "Now go! Before I decide to make breakfast myself and burn the house down."

"Don't do that," Jefferson said, mounting the horse, "As much as I would love to remodel, I don't think it's the right time."

"Go! Shoo! Go away!" Hamilton waved him off like a fly.

Jefferson smiled and took off at a full gallop, riding like a knight off to battle for king and country. His body matched the beating of the horse's hooves as they pounded away, elegance and grace and pure muscle.

Oh, Hamilton was definitely riding that beautiful man tonight.

----

Warnings: Lots of sexual innuendos

[mentcrmoved]

I’ve been meaning to do this since the Assassins Creed movie came out on DVD, but I kinda didn’t think to do it until I was watching it last night. So, at long last, I’m giving my Official critic of the movie, while also discussing some points of interest.

Thus, I give you, Murphy’s Official Assassins Creed Movie Critic. (part one)

This is gonna be quite the post (including pictures!) so it’s obviously under a read more. It will probably take me a few hours to write & maybe an hour to read. Ya’ll been warned. It will also, obviously, contain spoilers so if you don’t want that shit then I suggest not reading this. Overall, these are my thoughts, as an Assassins Creed fan, on the movie & if you don’t agree, think I’m crazy, etc. I really do not give a care. 

Anyway, here we are, enjoy if you can, & of course I’d dig some feedback/discussion.

Okay so first I want to start off by saying that, as a movie in itself, Assassins Creed was pretty great. It wasn’t revolutionary or anything super special, but the effects & the production was pretty good, in my opinion. From the perspective of a person not familiar with the games it’s easy to follow & not overly complicated. It was, as a movie, decent.

As a movie representing a 10-year-old franchise that has 10 years of established canon and development and complexities the movie was an utter fucking mess. In my opinion. Also, a personal bias, I really do not like Michael Fassbender so that was an immediate -10 in my book. But, because I’m such a wonderful person, I’ll look past that & say that Michael Fassbender was okay & as the movie progressed my desire to punch him in the face lessened.

So, here we go, from the top, first scene in the movie was awful.

As a huge fan (ya’ll know this) of Altair this really made me angry. First of all I’d like to make the point that Altair died in 1257, & that the historical parts of the movie take place in 1492. Secondly, & I don’t think I have to remind anyone of this, Altair, using the Apple of Eden, wrote the Codex... during his time (despite the continuity issues in the first game) the ring finger was cut off to enable the use of the hidden blade, but with the Apple he devised a new design that made this morbid little ritual unnecessary, as we learn in the second game.

Now, they could just be doing it as a ritual of tradition, but I don’t see why, considering that about 3 years earlier Ezio was inducted into the Order in Italy & their ritual involved branding the finger not cutting it off. It could just be a communication issue, but considering the amount of time that passed & the proximity of Spain to Italy I find that unlikely.

Thus this is kind of... stupid, & before someone says it’s because they wanted continuity for non-gamers lemme just say that this little piece of information isn’t important in the grand scheme of understanding the assassins creed world. They could just as easily branded the finger or done nothing at all, & since this blatantly ignores canon what was the point of adding it anyway?

So far, not impressed.

Next order of business, this scene:

Jesus, when I first saw the movie I was like ??? what is going on here why did he kill her? Then he was like ‘they found us’ & I kinda understood & then I was just... appalled by how they portray the assassins from the getgo. Firstly, when I saw this scene the second time all I could think of was how sad Rebecca would have been hearing about this. Two perfectly good assassins, one of them dead at the hand of her partner to avoid capture, & the other captured, orphaning a son.

& knowing all that we do about how small the brotherhood’s numbers are this makes zero sense. Why kill her (death before dishonor maybe?) when you could just as easily get your son & run? This isn’t the assassin way! This isn’t what assassins do! Assassins don’t just lay down & take what’s coming, they don’t sit complacent to a world that needs to be saved. They don’t just accept death! This isn’t the assassin brotherhood! This isn’t right!

Now, a reasonable explanation might be (& I have theories about this) that where they were living is like where Desmond grew up: it was a ‘safe’ community made up of assassins trying to live on the down low. I think this is reasonable because of this concept art:

In the background, behind Cal on his bike, are hooded figures that look a lot like the guy who we can assume is his dad. I don’t think they’re Templars because if you look past his dad there’s the jeeps & you can already see a guy standing out with a gun like in the movie. So maybe this was a community, though if that’s true that still raises a bunch of questions, like why didn’t they all run, & if only Cal’s dad knew about it why didn’t he say anything to the others?

& if it was a death before dishonor sort of thing why didn’t he slit his own throat when the Templars found him? Why not kill Cal too? Of course, I guess it’s implied that Cal’s mom wasn’t aware when she died, that his dad took her by surprise by stabbing her in the back. But still that raises the question, why? Why kill her then allow yourself to be captured? Why kill her then tell your son to run if you intended to be captured? & if they really were living among assassins why wasn’t there more to this? Why wasn’t anyone fighting?

Watching this scene I just want to scream why repeatedly at the screen, because I just do not understand any of it. & when I try to explain what’s going on to myself it just makes things worse, introducing new questions. So, as far as I’m concerned, this is just a tragic backstory made specifically to build the type of character they wanted Cal to be, which I think is shitty mostly because I think Cal is a shitty character in general.

My only comment about the next scene is that Cal is seriously fucked in the head.

Also, why are literally all assassins decent artists? Is it a genetic thing?

Next, the ever classic “I woke up in a strange place with a needle in my arm so don’t mind me while I rip that little shit right out & make a beeline for the door” scene. &, of course, I wonder why he runs? There is literally no threat? What does he think this is, an episode of the Twilight Zone? You’re a paranoid fucker, aren’t you Cal?

My next thing is, if Aguilar had his finger cutoff how can Cal wear his blades?

Like I understand it is very likely Abstergo modified them, but I still feel like they should have explained that? Because I’m pretty sure there was some perceptive non-gamer in the theater wondering how the fuck Cal could wear them without cutting his own finger off? & why the fuck, if Aguilar had two blades, did they only cut off the finger on one hand? I smell so many continuity issues here it’s not even funny. But I can hear your thoughts: oh Murphy now you’re just nitpicking at the small details shut up. As an aspiring director & screenwriter, as a lover of film, I’m nitpicking at this because there’s someone in the crowd who did too. This sort of thing shouldn’t be left unsaid, even if it is “obvious”.

Now, my thoughts on the Animus: cool af, like legit. I imagine Rebecca looking at it & yelling “what did you do to baby??” with either utter horror or excited surprise. It’s an amusing image, you should try picturing it in your head. I’m not gonna complain about continuity here because its 2016 in the movie & Desmond died in 2012 so Abstergo has probably upgraded a lot. Also, this makes the historic scenes a lot more exciting.

Plus, look at the lighting! This is literally so aesthetically pleasing.

The next historic scene is pretty epic, though I was yelling at the assassins for dying in the fight because guys ??? what are you stormtroopers? I don’t really have any critics about the fight scene because the choreography was amazing, I mean the scene during the chase where Maria fucking backflips off the rock to get behind the Templar? Hot as hell.

Plus, can we just appreciate that they fulfilled the ONE thing that all games share? That one fucking mission where you’re chasing someone in a carriage/cart/on horesback & it takes you five tries to do without dying! I was really happy about this.

Now, the next thing I’m about to share is something I was literally screaming about after I saw the movie. When this scene played out, as short as it was, I was excited af. I knew immediately what I was seeing & that made me very happy. Of course, this was all theory until I got the DVD & watched it... which confirmed my wildest hopes.

Do you see this book? The one Sophie is reading? Do you see how it’s written in Arabic? Do you see how thick it is, the drawing, the little notes scrawled in the corners? DO YOU SEE? Because THIS is Altair’s motherfucking codex. They put his fucking codex in the movie! Sure, it’s a tiny easter egg that you can’t be sure of on the big screen but... I knew it. They put it in. Altair exists! This literally made me so happy last night when I paused the movie I was screaming, like not even in my head I was physically screaming & my mom came upstairs to make sure I was okay.

Plus, even if this ISN’T what I think it is, among the pages Sophie has put up around the apples figures there seems to be at least two written in Arabic. So I have high hopes.

Well, I think I should end on that good note. As I said, I’m open to feedback & discussion! &, as for the rest of the movie, I’ll get into that in a different post so it’s not all jam-packed in one long ass post. Either way, here we have it!