#Sinking of the Langley

[luveline]

𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥 | 𝐚𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫

when internet trolls poke fun at your appearance while working on a case, hotch is there to make you feel better. fem!reader, 3k

tw cyberbullying, poor eating habits, criminal minds typical violence

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

You're not a media liaison or anything close, but with JJ off for maternity leave and Penelope in Quantico, there's a face needed for the press announcement on TV, and you offer to step in. 

You aren't particularly eager to do it, but Hotch doesn't have the time or wherewithal and such a high intensity case, not while Spencer is at half-mast, migraines rendering him ineffective and stubborn. You're trying to keep the ship sailing smoothly, doing your part of the profiling while juggling media and supporting the police sergeant that's heading the tip line.

You're not expecting to become a joke. After a red-eye, three sleepless nights trying to find a missing woman in Oklahoma —the domestic violence capital— and a full day without something to eat, you're aware you don't look your best, but you aren't sure what that has to do with your missing person. 

The FBI — fugly bitches International. #FindDanaLangley

Damn, are they not letting those agents sleep or what? She looks terrible ! 

she should be less worried about Dana Langley and more concerned with the dead woman in the mirror, ew 

hope theu find her just so they stop putting this creature on TV #FindDanaLangley

"Well," you murmur, wondering if it would be inappropriate to burst into tears, "these aren't especially helpful." 

Derek looks at you, his gaze measured, and you know he's not sure how to react to you or what's happening. He settles on his usual loving encouragement, because he's a very good friend. 

"Don't listen to all that," he says, throwing his arm around your shoulder, "those trolls wouldn't know beautiful if it hit them in the face. But we could always try it?" 

You sink into his hold, needing the reassurance even if you wish you didn't. "No hitting," you say, covering your mouth to hide a large and possibly fugly yawn. Your head is racing with regurgitated insults. "It doesn't matter, Derek. Promise. We have bigger stuff to deal with." 

The door opens and Hotch and Emily step inside, Rossi just behind them. You're thinking Hotch is going to agree with your sentiment, no time for comfort when a woman's life is at stake, so you move away from Morgan to sit in front of your laptop again. 

"Is something wrong?" Hotch asks. 

You meet his eyes just long enough to smile at him. "Nothing. What did Amandla have to say?" 

Emily retells the alibi of Dana's ex-girlfriend and is clearly suspicious but without proof, you're forced as a team to move on to the next lead. Spencer returns shortly afterward and you try to brainstorm your next step. 

It's Penelope that pulls through. "You asked me to cross reference the neighbours at Dana's previous address with people crossing state lines, right, after that one guy ended up being kinda icky? Well I did that, and nothing came up, which was–" 

"Garcia," Hotch interrupts. 

"Right. Long story short, one of the neighbours recently had an extreme falling out with Icky Guy after a years long friendship, his name is Justin Mantova, he has extreme PTSD with documented episodes of confused aggression, and he's been seen coming in and out of a storage unit in Paseo Storage Solutions for the past four days." 

"Address?" Hotch asks. 

"Already sent to your phones." 

"Thank you, Pen," you say. 

"Just go catch the bad guy, pretty girl," she says. 

Ah, so she's seen the tweets too. You frown rather than smile, reminded again of what's been said and wishing you could be anywhere else. 

You get your wish and forget all about personal grievances for a while, concerned with the safe location and extraction of Dana Langley. The operation is clean, and she's hurt but has a great chance at a full recovery. It's quick, it's professional. 

You're falling asleep in the SUV on the way back. Hotch at the wheel, Spencer in the backseat, you rub your eyes from the passenger side and try not to look suspiciously morose, but it's impossible. Hotch is too good at his job. 

"Are you sure everything's okay?" he asks. With Spencer's window open and the wind whipping, it's hard to hear him. 

"Hm?" 

"Is everything okay?" 

"I'm just tired." You don't look at him. It's rude of you, but if what they've said is true —you'd seen the photographs, and you looked tired, sure, but you still looked like you. "Just tired," you say again. You snap your mouth closed when your voice wobbles. 

Hotch is regularly too sweet on you. Most of the team say it's a crush. Emily calls it 'character development. Whatever it is, he's nice to you. He warmed up to you near immediately when you first joined the team, and he's been as welcoming months later as he was in your first week. 

Maybe he feels sorry for me, you think, submerging yourself inch by inch into self pity. 

The three of you regroup with the others at the police station to pen immediate recounts of what happened before you can forget, tying up loose ends. 

Finally you're able to go back to the hotel. Another half an hour and you're in the lobby.

"We'll go home in the morning. Nine AM flight, meet in the lobby at eight thirty," Hotch says. "Get some rest." 

You disband. They've squeezed you in all over the place, and you're lucky enough to be next to the elevator on the second floor. Hotch is the third floor, and everyone else the sixth, so you say goodbye to your colleagues and exit the elevator, stepping onto the second floor with a parting smile.

You can't know it, but Hotch notices the way your smile falls before the doors have well and truly closed. Your shoulders slump in defeat. 

You trudge into your room and don't bother turning on the lights. The door closes behind you and the mask you'd been holding up starts to crack. You put your laptop in the closet despite temptation to boot it up, knowing no good can come of looking at the tip hashtag again. 

You head into the bathroom to pee, and you're confronted with your appearance as you wash your hands. 

You stare at yourself. 

You look tired. 

Tears well as you look at yourself. You're not those things those people said. You're pretty, and when you smile everyone knows it. There's nothing so beautiful as a smile. You can't summon one, but you know it's the truth. 

Or, it should be. 

A single tear falls down your cheek, quickly followed by a second, and a third from the other eye. You ignore them, tracing the line of your bottom lip, the texture of your skin on your cheeks, the slight sunken effect of your under eyes. 

A knock makes you flinch. "Fuck," you say, wiping your cheek with the back of a hand, twisting on the spot like looking into your room might reveal whoever it is at the door. Probably one of your team. "Hello?" you call. 

"It's me. It's Hotch. I know it's after hours, but I wanted to speak with you."

Whatever reassurance he has to give might actually make this all much worse. You don't want any pity from anybody, you just want today to be over. Still, you wiggle your toes into the plush hotel carpeting, debating only for a moment about the pros and cons of pretending to be asleep. 

"Hey," you say, opening the door. You wipe your eyes and hope he takes it for a tired gesture rather than a method of hiding the glassy sheen at your waterline. "Hi, Hotch, how are you feeling?" 

"Fine. Tired. Thank you for asking." 

"Do you want to come in?" you ask. 

"Please." 

Hotch follows you into your room. There's an armchair across from the bed next to a desk and an old TV sitting atop it. Your suitcase is still open on your bed, your pyjamas crumpled in the shell. You close it before Hotch can see. That's another thing to add to your list: being a slob. 

"It's very clean in here," he says. 

You startle. "What?" 

"It's clean, considering how long we've been here. Have you ever seen Spencer's room at the end of a case?" he asks. 

"No, is it bad?" 

"It's like a paper hurricane."

You look down at your knees, hyper aware of his gaze on your face, tired of feeling uneasy in your skin. 

"I wanted to say thank you for doing the press release yesterday. You did an amazing job. It's something to be proud of." 

Of course he's talking about the press release, the one thing you need to not think about. 

"Did Derek tell you?" you ask. 

"Tell me what?" he asks, voice sharpening.

You look up. Hotch is a picture of concern, professionalism slightly off centre. 

"Nothing." 

"Something's been bothering you. Something Derek should've told me, I'm guessing." 

You chew over your words. "Uh. Hotch, it's really nothing, it's a hiccup. The press release, I…" You really don't want to have to say it. The words get stuck at the back of your throat.

He leans forward. "What?" 

"I looked sick. On TV. I looked really unwell, and it– it actually–" Why are you stammering? What's wrong with you? You laugh and it's not your laugh but it's better than your nonsense stuttering. "Sorry. On the press release, I didn't look my best, and it was a hot topic. That's what I thought Derek told you about. But I don't need anyone feeling sorry for me, Hotch." 

"I don't feel sorry for you." 

You wince, "No, of course not." 

"Two seconds," he says, putting his hand forward in the air between you. "A hot topic? I don't understand." He looks genuinely apologetic. 

"The tip line got clogged up with comments about my appearance," you say. You phrase it as a professional error rather than the embarrassing event it represents in your personal life.

His lips curl downward. "Saying you looked tired." 

"Saying I looked unagreeable." 

"As a friend," he says, tone softening, "could you tell me what they said?" 

Heat blooms in your cheeks and behind your eyes, your throat aching as you scratch at a nonexistent itch in the crook of your elbow. "Um. Well, there was a lot of them, and they weren't all about me, but the ones I saw, they seemed to think I needed more sleep. That I–" 

Hitch rarely interrupts, but something in your voice must impel him. "What did they say?" he asks again. 

"That I looked like a creature. That they hoped Miss Langley would be found, so that they didn't have to see my face on TV again. Hotch," you say, your throat sounding as tight as it feels, "it was pretty bad, but it really doesn't matter." 

"I think it matters if it's upset you," he says. 

He has the warmest voice when he wants it to be, so dulcet, almost melodic. You'd think it was a practised phrase, but he speaks freely. 

"It didn't," you lie. 

Pointless in your line of work and automatic anyways. Hotch doesn't deny you the safety of your untruth, but he doesn't entertain it, either. 

"You're beautiful when you're tired," he says. 

You don't mean to, but you hold your breath. The silence that follows his remark is deafening. 

"You're beautiful," he says, again, as though you could've missed it the first time. "Regrettably, you're very tired, but you don't look any less pretty. Don't think what was sent in to the tip line has any merit." 

"Are you saying that as my friend or my boss?" you ask. It's meant to be a joke that lightens the mood. 

"Neither," Hotch says.

You gawp, and then falter. "Why…" 

Hotch is close enough to offer a hand, and you're feeling stupid enough to take it. He squeezes tenderly, looking you straight in the eye. "I'm sorry about what's being said. I had no idea. We can pull the video, and the tipline should stop now Dana's been found, but it doesn't erase what's already happened. I'm so sorry. It's not right, and it's not fair." 

"It's a hard job, right?" you ask.

His hand is so so big, and not as soft as you'd pictured. It doesn't make a difference, not when he's touching you like you might shatter. 

"That's not the job," he says.

"It's silly to care, though. About what other people think." 

"I hope you care about what I think. The merit of an opinion comes from the person, and the relationship you have with them. Anyone who knew you would know that you're beautiful." 

"Inside that counts," you say, not fully comforted, but trying to give him an out. 

"You're beautiful on the outside," he says, giving your hand a small shake. "You're an amazing woman, of course. But I, for one, enjoyed seeing your face on TV."

You try not to smile too hard, directing your gaze at your joined hands lest he get a read on you.

Hotch must know how you feel about him. He'd be an awful profiler if he didn't. You fawn when you're around him even now, months down the line from your very first meeting when you were sure your heart would ricochet from your chest, the intensity of your instant crush like nothing you'd felt, not even as a schoolgirl. He'd been tall, striking, classically handsome and completely unaware of the fact. Now he's sitting across from you and he doesn't seem so tall, nor so striking. His caring side shines like a gem. It's blinding, and it really does make you feel better. 

"I cried in the bathroom," you confess, rubbing your thumb against his in minute, near imperceptible circles. "I wish it didn't matter to me, how I looked. I know I was doing something important, and there wasn't time to freshen up. Maybe I should've just asked somebody else." 

"You did it perfectly. You were perfect. No one else could have delivered the profile to the public that professionally, and that astutely." 

Hotch stands up, and you don't know what to do. You decide to look up at him just as he takes your face into his hands. 

"No crying in bathrooms, okay? It would… it breaks my heart thinking about it. You come to me."  

Such a dramatic statement, yet Hoch lays it out like it's an unquestionable truth. No bravado, only a sincerity that makes your throat hurt. His frown slides back into place as his palms warm your cheeks. 

"You're so busy, I could never," you say, shaking your head. 

"Time and place, sure, but. I will always try to make time for you. I hope you know that by now." 

You nod dazedly. Hotch's hands drag with a pressure down to your neck, your shoulders, leaving tingling skin in their wake. He looks at you and time stretches, a few seconds pulled out of order. It's his closeness, and his affectionate, empathetic smile. 

You nod again. 

He relaxes. 

"Try and get some rest, okay? You need to take care of yourself. I know it's hard to ignore how you feel, I know today was hard, but you're one of the strongest people I've ever met. I have faith in you." He gives your shoulder a final squeeze. "Are you alright?" 

"Yeah," you say. It comes out much more quietly than intended.

"Rest, honey. Call me if you're upset again. I mean it." 

He smooths your cheek with the back of his forefinger and you wonder if this is some weird fantasy. Hotch makes for the door, and you know for sure it's real when he says, "And no more caffeine tonight." 

"No more caffeine," you agree. 

He doesn't realise he's twice as bad as a coffee. Your heart races all by itself, his phantom touch on your cheek. 

—

"Hi, beautiful," Derek says. 

"There's the girl of the hour," Rossi says. 

You roll your arm in a bow, eyes stinging from the bright lobby lights but otherwise quite happy. Hotch called you beautiful last night. Hotch called you honey. People on the Internet who have nothing better to do thought you looked gross, but Hotch thinks you're pretty. It's hard to focus on the negative with a positive that good. 

"Good morning, my favourite boys," you say sweetly. 

Spencer looks up from his book. "Hey." 

"You didn't say hello," you say, "you excluded yourself." 

Spencer frowns and goes back to his book. You offer him a mini cookie from your pocket and he perks up, better when you whisper, "You know you're my favourite, Reid." 

"We all know that's a lie," Emily says, rolling her small suitcase to your left and nearly trampling your foot. 

"Unfortunately so," Rossi agrees. 

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about." 

"Hotch looks chipper this morning, doesn't he?" Derek asks, nodding. You follow his nod too quickly and give yourself away, earning a scattered round of laughter from your tired team. "Got you."

"Laugh it up," you say. You're on a high that can't be killed, even with their collective teasing. 

"Why are we laughing?" Hotch asks from behind you. 

You jump half out of your skin. 

"We were laughing at Y/N's swift observational skills, but we spoke too soon," Emily says.

Hotch takes a moment to smile at you. "Hey, you look a little more rested. Feeling better?" 

A flush rises to your cheeks. "Much," you say, sounding foreign to your own ears. 

Hotch gives a pleased nod and clasps your shoulder gently before manoeuvring around you. "Let me go see where JJ is." 

He walks around the lobby corner and into the hotel restaurant. You have your face in your hands before he's gone, harassed by quiet whistles and giggling. 

"She's so embarrassed!" Rossi cheers, like a proud dad. "How hopeless, young love." 

"Someone please shut him up," you beg, rubbing your aching eyes. It's an excuse to hide your smile a moment longer. 

"Are you still tired?" Spencer asks. "You look tired."

"She does not," Derek says severely. 

You raise your head with a smile. Tired or not, Hotch thinks you're beautiful. He liked seeing you on TV. You lavish the memory.

"I'm genuinely exhausted," you say eventually, a smile stretching from cheek to cheek as you stand tall again.

"I want whatever kind of tired you're feeling," JJ says as she arrives, Hotch a step behind her. 

You meet his eyes. You think he might not acknowledge what's been said between you —it wasn't strictly professional to have held your face in his hands like that, after all— and the beginnings of disappointment creep in, until he stands at your side, his fingertips brushing yours. It cannot be accidental. 

"She wears it well, doesn't she?" he asks the group. He gives no time for an answer. "Everyone ready?" 

You practically vibrate your way to the SUV. Not a bad case, as they go. 

 ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading, so much! I hope you enjoyed! if you did and you have the time, please consider reblogging cos it makes me happy <3

[prisoner-of-sin]

A Night of Passion [18+]

Langley x female!reader

Warnings: Langley has a dick, teasing, rough sex, minor interruption, power dynamics, female!reader, overstimulation, punishment, brief masturbation, orgasm denial. NSFW!

This is a pure thirst fic. I originally posted this on Ao3! I hope you all enjoy. Please stay safe out there.

Requests: OPEN

"Why are you being slow?" You whine as your head is shoved against the pillows. Langley chuckles, gripping your hips making crescent shapes in your skin–slowly moving you against her cock. Your impatience was adorable yet so punishable, defiance never settled well with her. She glides through your wet folds, teasing your entrance and settling against you. She grabs your hair, forcing you against her front–lips dancing on your damp neck.

"Why? I can be. You need to have more patience, Rookie. Here I am, making sure you are prepared and ready; yet you wish you were taken." Her hot breath feels scolding against your ear, she tightens her hold against your hair and hip–warning you to not wiggle around. "You think I wish to be slow? This restraint for you, comes like second nature but it's difficult to fight the urges. Your pussy leaks for me, begging to be fucked." She bites your neck, proving how she easily melts you into a puddle. You cry out from her words and action, trying your damnedest to not grind against her.

You get no words out when your front meets the bed again. Langley said this meeting would be quick, there was an 'appointment' coming to her apartment soon. Yet, here she was being slow and taking her sweet time. Time ticked by agonizingly as she lined up her cock, pushing it in briefly before pulling out and humming at your whines. You could slam yourself back against her, shaking both of you to core but unknowing of what she would do–makes you excited.

She was too slow, way too slow. Your thoughts jumbled together as she sinks her length entirely into you–one solid motion without hesitation. Every movement you tried was stilled by her, the way her fingers slid down your back; leaving the faintest lines as she settled both hands on your hips.

"Do you feel that? You're taking me so well," Langley questions, one hand moving to press into your womb. Your whines are a delicious nectar to her, she always craves more. "You can't keep yourself together, hanging on by a thread and ruining my sheets. I've only just started!" She chuckles, pushing against your womb to silence your building protest. It was until she slowly pulled out and pushed back in at a torturous pace. She won't crack under the pressure; you, on the other hand, will break easily. The burn felt amazing, she stretched you perfectly and hit all the spots inside of you perfectly.

"P-please!" You beg, trying to buck against her. She quirks an eyebrow before her hand slaps against your ass, having the flesh ripple as you gasp. Her hands hold you firmly as her hips snap against you, hitting one of the sweet spot within you; she was trying to end every ounce of you.

Langley seemed to have too much fun torturing you, uncaring about her own pleasure as her leisurely pace made you yearn for more. "Listen to yourself, whining like a pathetic little girl." She coos, mocking your every action with striking precision. She deliberately pulls out of your oozing cunt and fixates how your essence coats her pulsing cock. She bites her lip as you try to grind back against nothing, you are dripping and making a mess–uncaring of your own actions as your sanity slowly breaks. This game she was playing was nearly unbearable: you just wanted to feel her, to fuck you until you forgot everything but her name.

She was going to ensure your mind was nothing but broken, then finally caving in and giving what you desire. Your hips move instinctively, trying hard to seek her out but Langley's grip only tightens–nearly breaking the very skin as she imprints crescent indents. She effectively kept you in place; she will move when she is ready to, not you. You try not to whine, your fists ball into the silky sheets as your teeth nearly ripped open the soft flesh of your lip. Her hold loosens as her hands trail up your back, just to rake back down. She enjoys watching you squirm, begging to be fuck.

Langley's hips unexpectedly snap forward, cock buried as you gasp and hold onto the sheets. She wastes no time to pull back and set a bruising pace, one that has you speechless–moaning out as your brain slowly scrambles. One hand moves up your back and grabs the back of your neck, forcing you face down into the mattress, nearly cutting off your air supply as she uses you like a toy. The only noise echoing throughout the room are wet slaps and muffled moans.

Langley groans as your walls squeeze around her, pulling her even further inside if it was possible. The pleasure blinds them, each slap of pelvis meeting ass only spurs them along and begs for the sweet symphony of release. She gazes over your back, finally settling on your ass jiggling after every thrust; the way her cock disappeared and shines from your arousal–it was breathtaking.

"Rookie, you're mine. Do you understand me?" A rush vertigo hits as Langley yanks you back, resting her chin against your shoulder; ultimately halting all movement. "You were close, no? You gripped me so tightly, just as a whore should." Her whispers were venomous, but it left you whimpering–grinding against her desperately to get the orgasm you desired. She kisses your shoulder and leads them to your neck, a rare display of affection from the woman.

An unanticipated knock interrupts the passion between you two, warranting a sigh from Langley and a whine from you as she pulls out. "Fun is always interrupted, is it not? Don't touch yourself." She warns, gently pushing you down to rest against the bed as she walks away to fetch a robe. You roll over, squeezing your thighs together as you fight the urge to tip yourself into bliss.

You stare at the ceiling, imagining countless ways Langley could ruin you during the time she's absent. The way her finger spread open your puffy lips, circling the sensitive clit before slowly leaning down to engulf the same part into her lips. Or, how her cock could be slamming into you–ascending you to the heavens and refusing to let you have a moment of respite. Your hand slowly slides down to your folds, grazing over them as you debate to touch yourself.

"I hope you're thinking about me," Langley climbs on the bed and opens your legs, revealing everything to her. Her gaze leisurely locks onto yours before giving a brief smile. "Nearly touching yourself without my consent. I believe that deserves punishment." She moves to lay on the bed, head resting against your thigh. Her green eyes seem to glow as she starts her plan. You whimper as her tongue agonizingly laps over your outer folds, it needed to be more; the orgasm was being wished away from you as you were being toyed with.

You attempt to tangle your hands in Langley's hair but she swats them away, scolding you with a nibble to your clit. She incases your thighs with her hands, racking her nails down the flesh–goosebumps erupt over the same spot and spread further. Her index finger brushes over your clit–making you mewl and shift in the sheets. This was torture, her being so slow that everything was replaced with need and annoyance. You gasp as her tongue messily licks a stripe from the entrance to your clit, rubbing it as her tongue reaches its destination. She low-key moans as the essence coats her tongue. It takes all her might to not dive in more, like a pussy drunk fool.

"Hold it." Langley warns, latching her lips to your clit. You dig your hands back into the sheets, moaning loudly as your back arches; there was no way you could prevent your orgasm. There was a smile before she hollowed her cheeks and moved away with a soft lick. She gazes at the mess you've made before plunging two fingers deep inside of you. No noise leaves your lips, she curls them–assaulting the spongy patch to have tears rolling down your flustered cheeks. "Don't slip, you won't like it if you do." Your eyes were squeezed shut as you pant like a dog in heat; the temptation to bite your bottom lip was high, it would only warrant disapproval.

Langley shifts to undo her loose robe, her hand making way to her pulsing cock to relieve herself minorly. The wetness from your arousal earlier was present, but she found herself mixing the leaking precum into it. She hoped you slipped, the punishment in mind would benefit you both–only you would lose yourself completely, devoted to only her. It's what she craved.

You wanted Langley to stop moving her fingers, the squelch is followed by soft fap sounds echoed throughout the room. You were unbelievably soaked and you knew it, she always had this effect on you–at work or within the safety of her apartment. You wanted to wrap your lips around her cock, watch how she tried to keep a straight face but the grip on your hair gave it away. The small gasps that never went unnoticed. You could convince her later after being such a good girl for her.

"I…I won't..won't!" You manage to spill out. Langley chuckles and quickens her fingers, waiting patiently for you to crack. She hammers her fingers into you, spelling out how much you need to crack. Your knuckles are nearly white as you fought against your impending doom. The fast and brutal treatment lasted not as long as you wished for, she was pulling away entirely.

"N-no!" You beg, shivering slightly at Langley's breath on your thigh. She offered no words, her tongue slips from her lips and prods at your entrance. Your hands clutch her disheveled locks, rolling your hips against her mouth–trying to get the scale to tip despite the warning. She groans as you pull her hair, the vibrations unintentionally reverberating through you earning choked sobs alongside her new onslaught.

Langley's sheer willpower is strong enough to prevent herself from falling for self pleasure. You could beg her to indulge but bite back the very words, the moans and sobs were overpowering every other noise you could produce. Her tongue slips inside of you, savoring every ounce of slick pouring out. Your peak is quick to hit like lightning, vision blurring as the moans are heightened in pitch and volume. "L..Lan- ah!!" You failed to finish your sentence as she feverishly ate you out, the vigorous pace not once stopping despite you disobeying her demand and peaking into nirvana.

Your back arches as everything snapped and sweet bliss washed over you, your nails dog into her scalp making Langley groan. You slump back against the bed, exhausted and out of breath. You felt heavy, any movement made you twitch and her overstimulation only made it worse.

"I told you not to cum, poor thing.. You know punishment is coming?" Langley slowly moves back from your pussy, lips slick with your essence–her piercing gaze watching you. "Am I the only one who can make you feel this way? You're mine." She settles between your legs, hand gripping your chin as a smirk forms on them delicious lips; the possessive tone shooting straight through you. You look over her disheveled appearance, the blond locks messy from all your needy pulling.

"Mine.." Langley growls, rutting against you as she bends down and kissing the sweaty column of your neck. She bites down earning a deep moan from you, moving your hips to seek her. She licks over the mark, reaching down and holding your hips still. You tilt your head, giving her more access to produce multiple marks all over. She hums in approval, sucking and biting the revealed skin; purposely sliding her cock against your soaked slit.

"Yours, A-all yours.." You stutter as your breathing escalates, you want more but you have no willpower to admit such a demand. Your thoughts stop as Langley ruts against you, teasingly having her tip nudge against your clit. She pulls away enough to circle one arm around your waist, taking advantage of the fact you arched into her. Her eyes look over your neck before settling on your fucked out face. She leans down, capturing your lips in a breathtaking embrace, purposely sliding her cock against you.

"What should your punishment be?" Langley's hot breath remains on your lips. Your answer was immediate.

"Fuck me."

Langley chuckles, pausing her movements and kissing your cheek. "You've wanted that all along, didn't you?" You shudder at her breath tickling your skin, her lips never seem to touch you again. She refuses to give you want you wanted, instead she was implementing her own way to torture you. She loves to hear you whine and be compliant, seeing you slowly delve into the sea of frustration as she remains strong willed. She would not admit how much she wanted to see you sob as you struggled to keep awake, her thrusting so deep and brutal that you'd feel the ghost movements tomorrow.

"I hope you're ready to receive what I have planned." Langley kisses you one last time, sitting up before digging into her desires. You shudder at her tone dropping in octave, spreading your legs further apart to urge her to hasten.

This was going to be a long, tiring night. One of which you'll likely lose your voice and have to call out of work the next morning. It will be worth it, spending a night with Langley always is.

[hope-to-hell]

When the dam breaks (carry what you can). John Wick x August Walker, aka the crossover that nobody asked for but is happening anyway. Two bedraggled men meet in a bar. They’re cold. Wet. Miserable. It’s a good time to find a warm willing body. Smut, oral, handjobs, angst (dammit this was not supposed to happen), over abundance of water metaphors.

———

John and August are unlikely companions, if you can even call this companionship. It’s the natural outgrowth of a chance meeting, two souls brushing against each other in a bar that’s seen better days. It’s silence, save for the soft thump of glass on wood after each sip. It’s the faraway drone of rain and the droplets sliding down John’s cheeks before he pushes his hair back with a sigh and folds himself down onto a barstool. You look like shit, he says, with a sideways glance that cuts to the bone and spreads out warm beneath August’s skin.

Says the drowned rat. August isn’t exactly fresh as a daisy either; he’s been drifting, friendless, washing his socks in one motel sink after another for weeks. Can’t go home to Langley, can’t go crawling back to the Apostles and beg to be accepted into the fold. Either way he’s a traitor; either way he can expect a long imprisonment somewhere far from the light, followed by an unmarked grave and an eternity of rotting into worm food. He rubs thumb and middle finger together and considers his next words. Buy you a drink?

Yeah.

Of the two of them, August is the talker, all bravado and schemes within schemes within schemes. He can weave a tale so riveting that he’s long gone before you notice there’s nothing at the center of it but empty air— or at least that’s how things used to be. Poor fucker doesn’t have a soul loyal to August the man anymore; he’s been written off, 86’d, thrown to the dogs. John Lark the myth is another story. There’s probably someone already stepping into those shoes, shedding their old name and taking up the mantle of Lark the Apostle, Lark the world-ender, Lark the killer of innocents. He’s got revolutionaries lining up around the block to suck him off while he reads from his beloved manifesto.

You really believe that shit?

Yeah. No. I mean. What he means is that he wants— wanted— to excise the rotten core of the world, to cauterize the wound and find a new way forward. What he wanted was the impossible. What he got was— what? Chucked off a cliff, crushed and incinerated in a lonely valley? Nah. If he’d done that, then he wouldn’t be here, bottle dangling from his hand, doing his damnedest not to let his leer slip into a grimace. Fuck it. If I wanted to spend the night feeling sorry for myself I’d just sit here until I float away. Nevermind the chorus of coward coward coward that stands behind his every thought. Nevermind the moment he lost his nerve and bailed on the last leg of the mission.

Was it cowardice, though? To stand on the precipice of the world’s undoing and feel that gnawing sense of wrongness? August says it is, but he’s a liar even to himself. Easier to tell himself he was too shit-scared to go through with it than to face the years he’s spent doing it all wrong. Come on. August leaves the bottle and makes his way upstairs. John follows a half step behind, shedding pieces of his suit until he’s no longer bulletproof, heart hammering away with only a sweat-stained shirt to keep it contained. And soon enough that, too, is gone.

Everything in this room is tinted red from the neon sign that blinks and fizzes outside the window; its light pulses in time to the need that ratchets their breath higher and faster; the slow steady exhale-inhale-exhale that leads up to the kill shot has no place here. This isn’t a dance; the burn of stubble is artless, honest, cutting swaths of mine across their skin. There’s a scar below John’s clavicle that still carries that strange sensation that vibrates between numb and burning; August fills its shining red hollow with tongue and teeth, biting down and working his jaw to make John buck his hips and growl.

(What’s the last thing you want to see? To hear? To feel? What sensations are you going to carry with you when you leave this world?)

Fucking and fighting are much the same at their core. There’s the sweat and straining limbs, the tight-knotted elation of movement, the rough raw physicality of it all. And there’s blood smeared on the sheets, scabs torn off from the friction of bodies sliding across the bed; John looks down at August and there isn’t a sneer or a smirk or any kind of twisted lip to mark his conquest but it’s clear all the same. And so they stare at each other, wild-haired and panting, until August speaks because of course he’s the first to break the silence.

We gonna fuck or what? There’s no waver in his voice, of course not. Probably not. Aw hell. He hears it plainly and maybe it’s just been too long. Maybe he’s still burning from the inside. But it’s strange: there’s no shameful heat across his cheeks, no ache from grinding his teeth in the aftermath of cracking himself open like this. Maybe it’s the way John watches quietly, somewhere between assessing and patient, free from judgment. But he is thinking all the same, lips parted around words that have yet to take form. He speaks like he moves: thoughtful, purposeful, much like the sea in the moments before nascent islands break its surface.

It’s…been a while. Seems there’s always gravel lodged in John’s throat these days. The pad of his thumb is rough and callused; he draws it over August’s mustache and down, arousal sparking through him at the feel of August’s teeth as he bites onto John’s thumb and grins. It’s easy enough to shove his way further, pressing down hard on August’s tongue; need glazes those pretty ocean blues and maybe it’s a risk but he’s going to spit right onto August’s tongue, blood and bourbon leaving their sting.

The thing about taking a risk, about actions that could have repercussions beyond your wildest dreams, about taking a bat to a beehive for that sweet sticky honey, is this: you have to ask yourself, is it worth it?

(That’s the problem with you, John. You know what the fallout is going to be and you do it anyway. You’re a damned fool.)

Yeah, it sure as hell is worth it, if only for the unh that rips loose from somewhere deep in August’s gut. And maybe it’s been a while for John, but he’s not the only one. August’s hand reaches out and it’s shaking, maybe mildly enough that in any other situation it would go unnoticed, just like the gnarl of breaks set and reset, the fingernails that never grew back quite right, the deep white line across his palm. But it does shake. John sees it all, and folds it into his understanding.

John rests his forehead against August’s belly; he breathes and thinks only of this moment, savoring the twitch and jump of muscle beneath him, shoving away thoughts of anyone or anywhere other than this. Easy, he mouths, clever fingers reaching down to grasp August at the root. Gotta want it bad enough.

Didn’t. Ah. Didn’t realize you knew how to be patient.

I got a little perspective. It’s a hell of an understatement, coming from the guy who wakes still wrapped in dreams of the world beyond the world: not white clouds and angels, not burning agony, but merely quiet— until the waking world filters in with its noise and chaos pulsing bloody at the edges of his thoughts. But still, somehow, he walks back into the world. Better days may never come again but he shrugs back into his suit and finds his way from one day to the next.

(Don’t rush it. Time means nothing except the long stretch between stab and scar.)

It’s— oh, fuck. It’s been a while for me, too. Laced between August’s words are the hitched breaths of too much, too soon but he is sweating from ears to asshole and when he says I want it’s the wrecking ball before a failing dam; when he says I need it’s the shiver and groan of cracking concrete; he closes his hand tight over John’s and his fourth finger slots into the gap between John’s third and fifth. Their grip skips and stutters; it’s rough with calluses and scars, the marks of lives hard-lived. But their hands are strong, steadying and falling into rhythm; the susurrus of skin-on-skin is the sound of river stones tumbling as the current carries them along.

It’s a dry burn, and this time when John spits it’s to ease the way, to give brief respite— and perhaps, a bit, to admire the way it slides down August’s shaft— mingling with precum, foamed white with friction.

Orgasm isn’t even the point of all this, although it’s good— better than good, with August’s eyes first screwed shut and then opening muzzy and unfocused— and though John pulses hard and wanting, he holds back; he drinks deep from the well of a mind devoid of thought and for a moment he, too, finds himself purely empty and still. Their hands are still joined, sticky with seed, til August disentangles and reaches out. His hand is almost steady when he says now let me get at you.

And now their places change; the coverlet crumples beneath them as John rolls to his back and hooks one arm behind his head; neon light pools in his navel and in the hollows of his many scars. Words unspoken hang about his lips, caught against sharp fangs. Easy there, he mouths. There’s nothing to prove and nowhere to hide here; their lives are written in tightly shining ink across their skin, and the sum of all those scars is this: we’re here. We survive no matter how we feel about it. He strokes a hand over the back of August’s head, not pressing down but weaving through soft hair. And there— just there, right at the base of August’s skull where every nerve seems to converge— his hand settles in a weightless grip.

August laps up salt and musk, letting the taste burn its way onto his tongue. If his eyes are wet it’s from the effort of swallowing John inch by inch. The red streaked across his cheeks and throat is just from the strain of cataloging every twitch, every rolling groan. It can’t be more than physical, it can’t. It can’t. Absolutely not. Aw, fuck.

Alright? John’s voice is level despite the hitch of his hips, chasing after warmth and that slick clever tongue.

Yeah. It’s just. Just what? It’s like I said. Just been a while. August’s lips are spit-slick and shiny and when he speaks the words are roughly prickled. Now zip it. Gonna give you something you won’t forget. He descends again and keeps his word: he is artless, messy, and above all unforgiving. There is no room to breathe, no finessing John to the edge and back; he swallows hard and with a press of his tongue he ends it. His mouth is filled with bitter come that drips pearlescent from his ruddy open lips; he glances up and he is caught— they are caught— bound and drowning in this moment. He is seen, and in turn he understands.

(Nothing is permanent. How can you stand it?

You don’t. You hold on to what you can and grieve the rest.)

There is time, tonight, to take it slow; the room is paid through the night and anyhow it’s lousy weather. Here beneath the burning shower spray, draped over the back of a chair, tangled in the pile of their own discarded clothes, stillness waits for them. And rain is falling on the river somewhere far away.

[em-prentiss]

intertwined, sewn together

----

Chapter 1

A series of unconnected fluff blurbs inspired by prompts from this prompt list <3

Prompt: Little stolen kisses, playful and unexpected, but always leaving the other smiling.

Word count: 1.8k

----

Emily

The blinds are drawn. That usually means he’s more scowly than usual. He once told her he gets tired of being profiled through his office window; Emily gets it, but she still doesn’t like it, especially given that she knows what it means.

So she swivels out of her chair and leaves her half-written report behind as she walks up the stairs. Reaching the door, she raps her knuckles in the pattern she and Aaron use at home. His voice carries seconds later, a low come in filtering through the wood.

Emily hears the tension to it before she walks in.

“Hi.” She says, giving him a small smile as she closes the door behind her. Her instincts were right; while his brows loosen when she walks in, his shoulders remain stiff beneath the fabric of his jacket.

“Hi.” Aaron replies.

He must recognize the determination to her step, because just as she rounds the corner of his desk, he says, “I have to work.”

Emily slides into his lap. “Do you?” She asks, her words almost escaping in a sigh as she wraps her arms around his neck. The scent of his cologne is heavy on her tongue as she nuzzles under his jaw and breathes in, relaxing just as much as he does. She feels it—the slump of his shoulders under her palms, the downward slope of his chest as he breathes out.

Aaron’s hands are gentle on her hips. “You have to work. Where’s the Langley report?” His tone is faintly chiding.

“Mmm, on my desk.”

“It should be on mine.”

“I should be on your desk,” Emily teases, a glint in her eyes as she bites her lip between her teeth. She tugs on Aaron’s tie as his brows shoot up, the corner of his mouth curving slightly. “And I could be, but you won’t let me, so I guess this will have to do.” Her words are lost in a kiss to his jaw. It’s quick; she gets a hint of his aftershave before moving upward to the thin line of his dimple. Her lips press there, leaving behind a faint trace of her lipstick.

“Emily.” He sighs, almost succeeding in being firm. But it falls short; she can hear the smile in his voice. Really, it’s a valiant effort. Her own lips turn up. 

Emily shifts on his lap, gently cupping his jaw to tilt his face down. The brown of his eyes makes her lean forward and kiss the delicate skin just above his cheekbone, her lips feeling the flutter of his lashes.

“I missed you.” 

Aaron exhales slowly. “I’m right here.” He rubs circles on her hips, his thumbs slow over the material of her slacks. He’s more pliant now, sinking back into his chair and taking her with him, but it’s not enough.

Emily kisses between his brows. 

Aaron finally cracks a smile. Two dimples curve in his cheeks and a thrill goes through her, small sparks igniting in her heart as she skims her thumb over the crevice on his left cheek.

There it is.

Emily returns his smile, the hand on the back of his neck bringing him closer until their lips meet. She kisses him chastely, taking a second to refamiliarize herself with the unusual plushness of his mouth.

“We could go for lunch.” She says, her other hand falling from his dimple and curling around his neck. Her fingers slide into the short hair above his collar. “Could we?”

Aaron looks down at his watch, his nose bumping against hers. “Half the time’s gone,” he murmurs. The relaxed line of his mouth doesn’t go unnoticed by her.

Emily relaxes in turn. “The boss can be late,” she shrugs.

“Not this boss.”

She makes a face. “You’re no fun.”

The line of Aaron’s dimple deepens as he places his hand on her cheek, gently thumbing the underside of her jaw. “We could order in. Bring your stuff, stay here with me, and if it takes longer than expected, well,” he shrugs, “we’re in the office anyway. Sound good?”

Emily taps the tip of his nose. Her lips follow after, as does the smile that softens Aaron’s face. “I guess.”

She doesn’t know how to tell him that she never really wanted the food anyway, just his company.

“You guess,” he huffs out a laugh, soft and secret; just for her, “well, okay. I’ll make it up to you later, hon. What do you want to eat?” He reaches for the overgrown bangs that fall against her cheek, tucking them back behind her ear.

Emily’s heart does something. Something that makes her hide under his jaw, fitting herself in the safe haven she’s come to find between his warm skin and steady pulse.

“You choose.”

His hand travels up her back, seeping warmth through her shirt as he absently skims his thumb back and forth. Aaron’s voice rumbles through his chest and into hers as he starts listing off some of their usual restaurants. Emily isn’t listening; she curls her fingers under the snug collar of his shirt, feeling his heart under her knuckles.

“—okay?”

“Mmm,” she hums, closing her eyes as he hitches her knees more securely over his, his arm banding around her waist to keep her steady. “Okay.” 

Aaron

It’s no surprise she’s tense.

Her shoulders are tight beneath the thin straps of her dress, her mouth pressed into a straight line as she looks at herself critically in the mirror. Her cosmetics are strewn across her vanity, a chaotic mess that doesn’t reflect the flawless makeup on her face. 

The wrinkle between her brows could rival his own, and Aaron is tired of seeing it.

“Emily,” he finally says, his voice gentle as he places his hand on her bare shoulder. “You’ve been sitting here for over an hour. You look perfect, sweetheart.”

His words don’t have any effect. 

Emily frowns at him in the mirror, a sardonic arch to her brows that he doesn’t miss. “You think that, I’m sure, but Mother won’t. She always finds something.” She mutters, her nose scrunching in distaste.

Though her voice is firm, he hears the underlying doubt sticking to her words. As if there’s any chance her mother could be right in her nitpicking. It makes him swallow his anger down with a sigh, hating to see his usually confident wife reduced to her deeply buried insecurities that only flourished as much as they did because of her mother.

Aaron’s knees settle against the carpet at her feet. He’s level with her chest now; Emily’s eyes follow his, tracking lower as she shifts a little to face him. It’s probably the first time she’s looked away from the mirror since they started to get ready.

Aaron forces his tone to be even as he takes her hand, absently skimming his thumb over her ring. “Your mother was never known for having right opinions. Just loud ones.”

“Yeah, well, I’m tired of hearing them.” Emily says, her tone clipped. Dinner with her mother always brought her claws out, as if she’s getting used to defending herself before she reaches the ambassador’s doorstep, easing herself back into the role she’s played for half her life. “At least my makeup I can help.”

Her fingers are tight around his hand now. Emily blows out a breath, her eyes dark as she shakes her head. “Sorry,” her tongue darts across her lip, “it’s just—”

Aaron kisses her chin. 

Emily abruptly stops talking, her jaw snapping shut in surprise. Before she can spiral further, Aaron lets go of her hand and cups her cheek, his lips finding the place where her dimple usually lays. It’s nowhere to be found now, but he can almost see it anyway, an invisible curve engraved into her pale skin. His words are useless now, he knows, so he relishes in the small sigh she lets out, her hand finding the nape of his neck as he kisses more of her face.

“If it helps,” Aaron murmurs, carefully stamping his lips above the shimmer on her cheekbone, “I think your makeup is flawless.” He reaches her brow and sees the slow smile that starts to spread on her painted lips. The familiar dimple finally surfaces in her cheek, exactly where he placed his lips.

“You don’t exactly have an artist’s eye,” Emily whispers, but the curve of her lips is unmistakable. Her fingers sift through the hair above the collar of his button down as Aaron finds her temple. This spot gets two kisses, just because.

“I have an eye,” he counters. “Two, in fact, and they both say you look gorgeous.”

Emily hums, pressing her lips together. “I say you’re a charmer. And trying to distract me.” 

Aaron kisses the tip of her nose and the smile breaks free, a small laugh escaping with it and into the miniscule space between their bodies. His heart warms at the sound, at the way her other arm wraps around his neck and joins her first one.

“Is it working?” He asks. The glint in her eyes confirms it, but still he gently kisses the corner of her mouth. Emily shakes her head, fisting his hair and catching his lips with hers.

“Unfortunately.” 

His knees start to ache from kneeling, but her kiss soothes it over. He can taste her lingering anxiety as she gently scrapes her nails over his scalp and leans into him, their chests pressing together.

When they break free, Emily leans her forehead against his. “Thank you.” She says quietly. Her thumb presses against the corner of his mouth.

“I love you,” Aaron says, taking her hand and gently kissing her knuckles. Emily’s lips lift up again, resigned; he knew the effect would be momentary, but he couldn’t help but try. Just like he can’t stop himself from trying now, though he fully knows her answer. “And if your mother says anything, I’ll—”

“You’ll nothing,” Emily says, her tone firm but her eyes soft. “I’ll deal with her, I always have, just…” She draws her bottom lip into her mouth, her voice lowering, “Just hold me after if she hurts me too bad.” Her shoulder raises in a small, nonchalant shrug, as if it’s something normal for someone to say about their mother.

It makes the breath catch in Aaron’s chest. His ribs ache and it’s in times like these when he wishes he could give Elizabeth a piece of his mind, could somehow do something to undo all of Emily’s hurt. 

But this is more important. Holding her in his arms, being there to love her after.

“Always,” Aaron whispers. His lips find her forehead, then the tip of her nose. Emily smiles again, and it’s like he’s found his purpose. “Always, Em.”

taglist: @kllingdaddy @luhwithah @cheetobreath07 @dontemilyyyyme

[pathtonowhereimagine]

Chief and Chelsea are married but not many of the Sinners know. The flirty wife is trying to bug her very busy wife to entertain her and almost blow their secret. (I love Chelsea so much why can't she be real) (Also thank you for all the fluff you write)

⊱ ────────────── {.⋅ M ⋅.} ───────────── ⊰

Married!Countess Chelsea x Married!Fem!Chief

TW; Married but kept secret, Chief is AFAB but use they/she

Notes; I can totally see this happening

Edit; I goofed up on what class Chelsea is

⊱ ────────────── {.⋅ M ⋅.} ───────────── ⊰

"Hey, Chief!~"

The Chief looked up from her paper with Nightingale in her office as Chelsea barges in with several bags in hand, tossing some of them on the couch a single blue bag in her hands with a very fancy logo on.

"Look what I got you!~"

Pulling out a very elegant two piece suit in the Chief's signature colors; gray and black.

"So, what do you think darling?"

Standing up from their desk over the countess as she held the suit inspecting the fine clothing.

"It's wonderful, Chelsea."

"Oh! I knew you'd like it!"

Chelsea went in for a kiss but Chief stopped her half way much to the confusion of the Countess, Chief jesters with her eyes to Nightingale looking through files and paperwork - she pouts at the inconvenience but never the less understood the situation. Giving them a wink handing them the suit before leaving the office space, sitting back down at her desk as Nightingale continues to look through the files.

"Chelsea seems very fond of you."

Later on during dispatch Chief assigned Langley, Zoya and Chelsea to investigate a rumor going around about mania trading nearby. But all the while Chelsea has to keep herself inline as the Legion and 9th leaders continuously talk to Chief, even though she's a A-Class Sinner she knows she can take on them - even holding herself back when they start to get touchy with Chief. During the time EMP and Hella noticed Chelsea's envious attitude when Chief talks with Langley or Zoya.

"Geez, what's gotten you worked up Countess?"

Hella poked her shoulder with her pipe pushing it away from her expensive jacket.

"None of your business, little bear."

"Oooh! Come on Chelsea you can tell us."

EMP tries her puppy eyes but to no avail as the Countess walks past them as she watches on. After the dispatch the Chief immediately head to her office space to fill out more paperwork for the day, until her door was slammed opened by none other then Chelsea with a envious stare at her - shrinking in her seat as the sinner walked towards her desk until she stood in front of them.

"Hey, honey."

She stared them in the eyes as they nervously pick at their armrest.

"Is something wrong?"

Chelsea then placed one of her knees on their chair then grabbing the top of their seat caging them, so they won't try to escape now as she stare them down.

"Something wrong? I don't know, dear."

She then sinks down to their neck kissing and nibbling along their skin as they hold onto her waist, Chelsea's hands wonder to their chest as she unbuttons their shirt.

"Seeing my baby being touched by such filthy hands."

Their breath hitched as Chelsea bites their collarbone as their hands slid down from her hips pulling her thighs onto their chair, now straddling their lap as she continues her assault on their skin - the room became heated with hushed moans and the sounds of sloppy kisses. Until the tension was interrupted by the knocks at the doors.

"Chief, you in there?"

Nightingale called from the otherside twisting the doorknob as she looks over the report on her tablet, looking up at Chief confessed at their dishevel form along with Chelsea as she fixes her jewels - ignoring the scene as she reports on today's event to Chief having them sign a few paperwork here and there. When she finally leaves the room the Chief sighs a breath of relief as Chelsea checks her nails.

"God that was too close."

"I could say the same, dear."

Chuckling at the comeback turning their chair to her guiding her by her hand until she's sitting on their lap, removing the velvet glove on her left hand showing the golden band around her ring finger. Kissing the back of her hand as Chelsea giggled as their kisses travel up her arm, lifting their head up to kiss her on lips which she happily returned - Chelsea played with the similar ring on Chief's ring finger as well.

[politemagic]

The Haunting of Sleep Manor: Chapter IV

The vessels receive an important warning.

Masterlist

2.7k words | ao3

a/n: she's finally here!! thank you everyone for your patience as I've spent the past two months tinkering with this chapter, but I wanted to do justice to the ghosts' official introduction. every kind word said about this series means the absolute world to me, thank you from the bottom of my heart 🖤

The kitchen was indeed abuzz with chatter that morning, even if II’s ears hadn’t quite been able to detect it. Max, Joseph, and Mickey were gathered around the kitchen table, chatting as they did most mornings.

“I’m telling you, something about them seems different.” Max sighed.

“Charlotte doesn’t seem particularly pleased with them, still.” Joseph retorted, crossing his arms over his chest and looking pointedly at Max.

“She’s hardly pleased with anything these days. Besides, I think she might be… scared of them.” he explained.

“Why in the world would Lady Charlotte be scared of them?” Mickey asked, furrowing his brow.

“I could feel the house, when they got here yesterday, I could feel that… thing. And it felt happy.”

“I’ll tell you that thing’s never been happy, just going near that door makes me want to die all over again,” Mickey said. “And besides, why would that scare her? I feel like that would be a good thing.”

“You would think so-” Joseph began, but he was interrupted by the heavy panting of Trish bursting into the kitchen.

“They’re going upstairs! I tried to stop them but they wouldn’t listen, they’re going up!” Trish cried, panic in her eyes as she looked between the three of them.

“Hold on, slow down, what?” Mickey asked. He approached Trish and resting a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“They want to find out what’s up there. I tried to warn them. But he wouldn’t listen.”

“They were supposed to leave!” Max exclaimed, moving towards the door.

“I tried to tell them that!” Trish said, trailing behind Max as they quickly exited from the kitchen, Mickey and Joseph tight on their tails. Mickey caught a glimpse of the four guys ascending the stairs, and he felt a familiar pang in his chest, a sinking feeling in his stomach as he looked at the remains of the failed chandelier incident. 

I’m sorry. Mickey sent his condolences to the four men unknowingly ascending to their doom. He’d done his best, he was convinced the chandelier trick would work. It worked in the movies, didn’t it?

“Stop!” Max called up after them. Vessel paused, glancing down at the frantic gaggle of ghosts rushing towards the stairs.

“Please, you have to listen to us!” Trish cried, once again pleading with the Vessels to heed her warnings. Vessel noted the genuine terror in her eyes, in all of their eyes. II tried to follow Vessel’s sight line, glancing down to the floor below before looking back to Vessel.

“III,” Vessel called out calmly, causing him to stop in his tracks, IV colliding straight into his back, gently grabbing III’s sides to stop him from toppling over.

“What?” III asked incredulously, looking up the second flight of stairs, ready to begin his own investigation. Vessel just nodded his head back towards the first floor, signaling for III and IV to follow as he descended the stairs, carefully skirting around the shattered crystal to stand before the small crowd of ghosts. “Okay, I’ll listen.” he said, his voice low and almost reluctant, as if every fiber of his being was fighting against hearing the ghosts’ case. He disappeared into the living room without another word. III stood, dumbfounded, by the stairs looking between IV and II. II just shrugged, slowly descending the stairs behind Vessel, IV following suit. With a sigh, III reluctantly followed, glancing over his shoulder towards the mysterious door, a silent promise that he’ll figure this out one way or another.

The image of Langley Manor’s living room was something plucked from a sitcom. Vessel leaned against the windowsill, the grounds sprawling out in lush greens beyond the paned glass. He found the warmth of the sun through the window erased the goosebumps from his skin, yet the sun’s rays did little to ease the unshakable chill in his bones that he’d felt since his experience with Sleep. The other three vessels sat shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch, unsure of where to direct their attention as Vessel surveyed the other occupants of the room.

“Who are you?” Vessel asked calmly, closely inspecting the mismatched group of specters standing before him. The tall one, Max, extended a hand to Vessel in greeting before thinking better of it and tucking it back into his pocket. “Max Edwards. Journalist, paranormal investigator, head liaison for all ghostly matters.” he said professionally, causing Vessel to quirk his eyebrow beneath his mask.

“You deal with a lot of… ghostly matters?” he asked, to which Max laughed.

“Not a lot, no. But it’s good to be prepared, and so we decided a long time ago I would handle any of our business should we ever need to interact with-”

“He wants to fulfill some stupid ghost hunter dream of communication between the living and the dead,” Mickey cut Max’s rambling off, crossing his arms over his chest. “I think there are more important matters at hand, don’t you, Max?” 

“Right, sorry,” Max mumbled, looking back to Vessel. “Like I said. Max Edwards. That fine fellow there is Mickey Smith, and over there we have Mr. Joseph Lyons. I believe you’ve already met Trish, that lovely munchkin over there is her daughter Samantha. Then, last and of course not least, we have-” “Lady Langley.” Vessel finished Max’s sentence, shifting his gaze to the matriarch looming by the door, scowling across the room at them. “Uh, yes. Lady Charlotte Langley. Patient Zero, if you will, original owner of this fine home.”

“Why do you want us to leave so badly?” Vessel asked, and though it was a question for any of the ghosts, he kept his eyes trained on Charlotte.

“Oh, it’s nothing personal, trust me-” Max began before being interrupted.

“He’s called you here to consume you. He’ll consume you the way He consumed all of us. He will grow more powerful, as He always does. You will feed Him, and He will be strong enough to break free.” Charlotte stated bluntly. Vessel squinted at her through the slits in his mask.

“What do you mean, break free?” At these words II, III, and IV glanced between each other in confusion, wondering what the other side of this conversation could sound like.

“That’s the part you’re concerned with?” Mickey asked incredulously, but Trish narrowed her eyes at him, surveying his reaction closely.

“There’s not much left to consume… Is there?” Trish asked softly, causing the other ghosts to turn and look at her in shock. She held Vessel’s gaze, and he could feel the weight of the other ghosts’ eyes on his face, as if they could see through the material of his mask, and he felt panic rising in his chest. 

He couldn’t admit that, could he?

“It’s what I signed up for,” was the response he opted for, adding a shrug in hopes of coming off as nonchalant and not terrified of the reality of his bargain with this ancient deity. Trish pressed her hand to her lips, and while she could no longer cry she felt the familiar sting in her eyes. 

“What do you mean?” Max asked curiously.

“You’re the Vessel. Aren’t you?” Charlotte asked, dread on her tongue. Vessel just nodded.

“What are you talking about?” Max asked again, more confused this time.

“The Vessel. The one to channel His power and release Him back into the world,” Charlotte explained. “It’s why he has the sight. He can see the creations of his master.”

“He’s been leading me here, I’ve seen this place in my dreams for years. I thought…” Vessel felt bile rising in his throat as he rapidly clenched and unclenched his fists. II was on his feet in an instant, reaching his hands out to wrap around Vessel’s fists, holding them gently as he looked up into his face.

“Hey, what’s going on?” II whispered worriedly. Vessel’s heart rate was rapidly increasing, tremors rattling through his arms as he stared at Charlotte.

“This… it’s…” Vessel heaved, feeling his heart sink to the floor as he cast his eyes downward to look into II’s wide blue irises. II slid his hands from Vessel’s fists up to his shoulders as he squeezed gently.

“Ves?” II asked, glancing over his shoulder between the empty space where he imagined the ghosts stood and the couch. III shook his head, standing from his seat on the couch.

“Hey! Listen, I thought it might be cool to live in a haunted house, but you aren’t doing shit but fucking with my friend.” III said in the direction of no one in particular.

“III-” Vessel croaked, tears welling in his eyes.

“No! No! They had their fucking chance, they don’t get to make our lives a living hell just because they can’t get there themselves!” 

“III, hey,” IV said softly, placing a hand on his arm which he shrugged off.

“No!” he yelled forcefully. “I’m tired. I’m tired of following Sleep to this place and the next, hoping that maybe this time it’ll work. I’m tired of the ridicule, I’m tired of the threats, I’m tired of it all. He’s been leading you to this place for years, and what? Now we’re not welcome here either? Because of some fucking ghosts?”

“It’s more than that,” Vessel tried to explain, but he felt as if his physical body was caving in on itself. He’d failed after all.

“Well I’m all fucking ears!” III yelled into the seemingly empty living room. 

Just then, a deafening silence fell over the room, an unfamiliar feeling muffling even the sound of their own thoughts as a voice echoed through their skulls.

You speak of what you do not understand.

III’s eyes widened as he looked down at IV, the startled expression on his face indicating that he was hearing the disembodied voice as well. II’s head was on a swivel, looking around for the source of the disembodied voice, but Vessel remained unmoving as he watched Charlotte’s lips, perfectly still, despite the sound of her voice in their heads.

He has been lying to you. There is no safe place for you, in fact this might be the most dangerous place for you to be. This deity you worship, Sleep as you call Him, does not care for you the way you think He does. All He will do is consume you, all He cares about is re-entering the mortal realm.

“How do you know that?” II asked hesitantly, his mind flashing with memories of the black sludge’s icy grip in his dream, pulling him into its cold, murky depths.

It is what he’s done to all of us.

Vessel’s eyes looked between all of the ghosts carefully, and he could feel a faint tug from the back of his mind that he’d felt the first time he’d seen Langley Manor in his dreams. When he focused on it, he could see the connection materialize between them all, a faint black line running from his chest and fracturing into different trails that led to each ghost. He looked to his friends, finding himself similarly tethered to them, a gold line connecting him to III and IV, the one between him and II a muddled mix of both black and gold, intertwined with the vein leading to the ghosts.  

“W-What are we supposed to do?” IV asked, his voice quivering.

Leave.

“And what, wait for Him to feed off of us some other way?” III asked.

No, you must not let Him take you. You must reclaim your soul, but how, I do not know.

“Great. Very helpful,” he sighed.

None of us dedicated ourselves to Him as you have. He sought us, claimed us in our final moments of weakness. There were three before you, three young witches searching for power who dedicated themselves to Him long ago.

Vessel’s heart sank further. He hadn’t even been the first.

It was these women who taught me about His true intentions. Though they could not speak to us the way you can, we learned from their rituals that they were trying to bring back this ancient deity they believed could heal the world of its suffering, in their own words. They disappeared into the fourth floor, and we’ve never seen them again.

Charlotte’s eyes bore into Vessel, watching his reactions carefully. She was surprised to find that the man she believed to be here to sacrifice himself to Sleep seemed shocked, almost hurt, by her revelations. 

“So there’s a bunch of old witches in the attic?” III felt ridiculous talking into the empty space before them.

Joseph rolled his eyes at III’s question, his long acquaintanceship with the existence of supernatural forces made these questions seem trivial. Max not-so-gently jabbed his elbow into his stomach, even though III couldn’t see them, Max knew they wouldn’t get anywhere if the vessels could sense his attitude.

“I don’t think they’re still in the attic, III…” II trailed off, glancing nervously up at Vessel. The whole ordeal from their first day in the house had been jarring enough, but the thought that Vessel could have been that close to being consumed, if what this ghost was saying was true, made him feel sick. 

While we don’t know for certain, after their disappearance I began to sense another presence in the house with us. Not in the same way as before, before it was nothing more than a chill in the air, but afterwards… I could feel His eyes. Things have only gotten worse with each death in the home.

Charlotte looked mournfully at the younger ghosts, remembering their deaths as if they’d happened yesterday.

I fear that the power you four could offer to him could be… catastrophic.

“It’s a little late for that,” III mumbled, plopping back onto the couch and dropping his head in his hands. He hadn’t expected this move to be so difficult, he thought it would bring them the sense of peace they’d been chasing. They spent so much time on tour, leading crowds in worship to Sleep, channeling the praise and energy being offered from the hearts of worshippers through their connection with Sleep. Absorbing that kind of energy was taxing, yet they felt they could never truly rest under the judgemental eye of the public. No matter how celebrated they were, the sneers and taunts they received for their appearances never seemed to diminish. Every night for the past year III had fallen asleep dreaming of the way Vessel described the life Sleep has shown him, a restful, peaceful life for them at last. Yet it had all been an elaborate trick.

Not yet, not if you leave. Charlotte’s voice was fading from their minds, Vessel could see her translucent figure fading before his eyes, a deep crease formed between her brows. This communication was draining her, Vessel realized. It was draining her in the same way it drained him when he used his own powers. The other ghosts reacted in alarm, Joseph rushed to her, grabbing her elbows as he stood before her.

“Charlotte!” He cried worriedly. “Charlotte let go!”

At his words, the ambient sounds of the house flooded into their ears once again, the muffled silence gone as Charlotte’s power released its grip on their minds. Charlotte slumped forward into Joseph’s arms, her form still wavering slightly. Vessel slid around II and crossed the room to stand beside the two ghosts and hesitantly extended a comforting hand; he was surprised to find that his hand met the cold, solid flesh of her shoulder, and didn’t pass right through her the way he expected. When they made contact, Vessel and Joseph both leaped back in surprise as Charlotte’s translucent form solidified before their eyes. A chorus of gasps erupted around the room, ghosts and vessels alike as the three guys saw Charlotte Langley materialize in front of them for the first time. 

She looked down at herself in shock, seeing herself looking almost… alive for the first time in centuries. She couldn’t believe it when she felt real tears rolling down her cheeks, the hot, salty sting against her skin an alien feeling to her at this point. She looked up to see Vessel and Joseph staring at her with their jaws hanging open, but her attention was drawn to the three men behind them, their eyes pointed directly at her.

“What just happened?” She asked, and her voice was almost unrecognizable from the one they’d heard in their heads moments before. It was raspy, like a car that hadn’t been started in a few years.

“I have no idea.” Vessel whispered, his eyes on the skin of his palm that had touched Charlotte, triggering this whole… transformation.

[nonadhesiveness]

Tag Game — First 10 Lines Challenge

Thanks for the tag @elephant-in-the-pride-parade !

The game is to share the first lines of the last 10 stories you wrote. Here are mine, from most recent to least.

1. Cambridge Rules

Elizabeth Adams had thought it would be safe to assume she wouldn’t run into her ex at Langley, let alone find herself married to him by the end of the working day, but that wasn’t the first time she’d been wrong when it came to matters relating to Henry McCord.

2. turning saints into the sea

The first time Henry meets Conrad Dalton, they’re at a dive bar not far from Langley, for birthday drinks for one of Elizabeth’s colleagues. Jon or Jim or Tom or something. Who cares?

3. What If…(We’re Soulmates)?

“In other news, President McCord is due to appear in court this afternoon as she seeks to finalise her divorce from her husband of over thirty years…”

4. stalemate

They don’t talk on the flight back from Finland, nor on the drive from Andrews. It’s only when they reach the quiet of their bedroom, dusk’s shadows pressing in from the fringes, held at bay by the bedside lamp’s golden glow, that Elizabeth breaks their silence.

5. play on

The Foxhole ~ Piano Inside Elizabeth halts.

6. for better, for worse

June, 1990. Almost one and a half years since Elizabeth Adams broke up with Henry McCord. Well, okay. Maybe that’s a bit misleading. She didn’t break up with him, exactly.

7. falling

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Elizabeth says, as they lie on their backs in his bed, chests still pounding, the air around them heavy and humming, the sheet deliciously cool against sweaty skin.

8. in the stars

A bitter gust whips across the roof of the State Department. Elizabeth Adams shivers, and sinks her hands deeper into her coat pockets.

9. Blast Fragments

“Why a legislative internship?” Senator Bell says. Her features are sharp—all ridges and angles, like cut glass—but they’re nothing compared to the mind that lies beneath. It’s why Jason chose her, applied for this internship when he could have breezed into any number of others. Senator Bell gets shit done. Senator Bell takes no prisoners.

10. Spectrum

The blood was no surprise.

//—//

Thoughts: It’s important to grab the reader’s attention from the very beginning and to give them a reason to keep reading, so I try to start with intrigue. I don’t always manage to get it into the first line, but hopefully within the first few lines. The first lines are also important to me for finding the voice of the story. All these beginnings make me ask a question (so hopefully make the reader ask a question) or they have a voice that I find interesting.

//—//

I’m tagging @her-majesty-wears-jeans @holy-ships-x-red-lips @morethanwords229 if you’d like to take part. And anyone else who’d like to be tagged, too!

[averagejoesolomon]

We made it, friends. Welcome to the final installment of Full Circle: 1986. It has been an absolute delight sharing this one with you. It is a downright gift to finally be able to commit this all to paper, after having been in my head for probably close to a decade now. This will probably be the last Full Circle chapter until ~November/December. I know this is longer than usual, but I've finally finished an original manuscript, and I'm going to take an honest shot at publishing it this fall. I so appreciate your patience while I follow that dream. I'll be back as soon as I can with more of Full Circle. There may be some surprises in the meantime (ahem—Listen Series 10-year anniversary), but as always, I can't wait to share what comes next. Those of you doing some math may have already realized we have a very familiar face coming in 1988 👀🍼 Until then, please enjoy. If you're new here, you can read all of Full Circle on Ao3.

Chapter Fourteen

“You’ve got to be goddamn kidding me.”

Joe Solomon can find a way to hide in just about every environment on earth. Anywhere he goes, he’s the figure at the back of the bar, the shadow at the end of the street, the ghost sitting in a blind spot security swears they don’t have. His face is never caught on camera. His name is never on any lists. If there’s darkness around, you can bet Joe’s managed to sink into it. Maybe it’s his New York roots, or old foster kid habits, or Blackthorne training he can’t quite shake, but one thing’s for sure—if Joe don’t want to be found, there’s not a soul on earth who can find him.

But something about the gray-speckled walls of Langley’s third floor draws him out, as though this place was designed to expose all the secrets it collects, starting with men like him. Of course, the hollering doesn’t help either. “Look at yourself.”

Matt turns just in time to see Joe barrel scowl-first down the hall. “Joe,” Matt says, smile wide and welcoming. “Nice to see you up and walking again.”

“Don’t start,” he barks. “You made me stay home, meanwhile you looked like this?”

Joe’s still got a slight limp to his gait, but that’s not much compared to the laundry list of fresh injuries Matt’s working with. He’s officially lost all leverage in this argument. “To be fair,” he says, trying his luck anyway, “I’ve only looked like this for the last 48 hours.”

Joe closes the distance between them, but his voice still stays at that same outraged level. “What the hell happened to you?”

This particular question can’t be answered in the lobby of Director Smith’s main office, which is almost certainly monitored by folks outside of their extremely limited task force—if not bugged by less friendly players. With one look, Matt’s able to tap into their shared shorthand and convey caution. “Details later.”

Joe catches the hint, even if he doesn’t look happy about it. He scans Matt up and down in that even, no-nonsense sort of way Joe scans everything. His voice drops to Matt’s level when he grumbles, “You just get to have all the fun, I guess.”

“If it helps,” Matt says, “I don’t remember most of it.”

“Jesus,” Joe sympathizes. “Would you at least sit down, already? It hurts just looking at you.”

The two of them usually share the same stick-straight posture, a habit leftover from their Army days that proves impossible to break. Joe’s wearing it now, softened over the years, but still there. The subtle draw of his shoulders. The top-to-bottom stacking of his spine. When Matt tries to mimic it, he comes up against the strain in his ribs and curls right back up. He hasn’t been able to pull himself upright since his third helicopter across the Alps, and Joe’s presence ain’t gonna change that, even if Joe’s always made him feel just a little bit invincible. “If I sit down,” says Matt, “I’m not gonna be able to stand back up.”

Joe’s jaw grinds. “I told you I’d get on a flight—”

Matt says, nice and easy, “And I told you I had it handled.”

“You’re never going solo on one of these things again.”

“I didn’t go solo. I had Rachel, and Rachel had a whole team.”

This ain’t much of a comfort in Joe’s book, and it shows. This is the same look Joe gives him anytime Rachel gets mentioned—and as it so happens, it’s also the same look Rachel gives him anytime Joe gets mentioned. Matt’s got no clue how the two most observant people he knows can be this blind to their own similarities. 

No doubt Joe’s got plenty to say when it comes to Rachel Cameron and her team, but he bites his tongue because good guys don’t bad-talk ladies when they’re not around to defend themselves. Instead, he keeps his frustrations broad. “It never should’ve gotten this close.”

“We’ve made some powerful enemies,” Matt says with a shrug. The movement aches, but no more than sitting, or standing, or breathing already does. “They were bound to get a couple hits on us one of these days.”

Joe gives him another surveying glance. “This is more than a couple.”

“It’s worse than it looks.”

“And they didn’t get hits on us. They got hits on you.”

Of all his hiding spots, Joe’s favorite is his own guilt. He retreats into it every chance he gets. Lingers in its shadow, sometimes for days at a time. Guilt is the thing that keeps Joe up at night and when he does finally fall asleep, guilt is the thing that brings him back to his feet, wandering down empty hotel halls well into the witching hour. Joe keeps a running list of sins in his head at all times, some small part of him always repenting for the orders he’s followed, the lies he’s told, the lives he’s taken, and a moment of weakness one Christmas Eve night when his own secrets finally became too heavy to hold all on his own. 

It’s constant, and Joe’s an old pro at finding new things to take the blame for. He’s doing it right now. Guilt that he wasn’t there to take his own beating. Guilt that Matt was.

This is all a load of hooey, according to Matt. A bunch of shame and remorse put there by the Circle of Cavan, because shame and remorse is exactly what turns Circle recruits into Circle agents. He’s said as much to Joe, but it’s never received well—doesn’t seem to help, anyway, so Matt focuses on something that will. “It’s worse than it looks,” he says again, and he meets Joe’s eyes this time. Lets the words settle how they need to for Joe to really believe it.  “Honest.”

Joe squints, assessing Matt with that sharp and attentive look he has. “Chrissake,” he finally sighs. “You lie to Soviet dignitaries with that mouth? Honestly Morgan, you’ve got a godawful tell.”

“Alright, so I’m gonna head down to the docs when we’re done here,” Matt admits. “But Joe, look at me. I’m fine. And if I’m not fine, then I’ll be fine.” Joe looks like he wants to protest and takes in a breath to do exactly that. But Matt’s in no shape for a fight right now, so he interrupts this one before it can even start. “Did you get to my safety deposit box while I was gone?”

This is a lot like asking if Joe got around to sleeping or eating while he was gone, which might be why Joe rolls his eyes. “You asked me to go,” he says, “so I went.”

“And?” Matt prompts.

Joe spots the change in subject, but Matt must look pitiful enough to let it slide. “Nothing,” he says. “No sign of a break-in—passport right where it was supposed to be.”

Matt’s heart drops into his battered gut, landing among the dread that’s been churning there for days. It takes every ounce of training he’s got to keep his face neutral, composed, when he lets out a matter-of-fact, “Huh.”

“Huh?” Joe presses. “What, huh?”

“One of my passports was in Moscow. Saw it with my own two eyes.” 

The lobby is empty around them, lined with unoccupied seats and filled with unread magazines. There’s no one to hide from. There’s not a sound to be heard. Not even the plant in the corner is alive, faded plastic leaves feeding off the fluorescents above. Even so, neither one of them risks a scene for fear that someone, somewhere is watching.

Joe’s words are quiet. Barely there. “If it wasn’t from your deposit box…”

“Someone at Langley is selling the passports they have on file,” Matt says. “And if we track them down…”

They don’t dare finish the thought aloud. They don’t have to. This has always been the endgame. The sole objective Director Smith gave them years ago, back when Joe still had an allegiance to the Circle and Matt didn’t know the name Ioseph Cavan. Find the moles, protect the agency, and save Joe’s reputation in the process. All these years, they’ve been tracking Circle agents from the outside in, working with any informant they could to get back to a source at Langley. This may be their one and only shot at an internal investigation.

But Matt’s ribs twinge against his breath, and the timing reeks of a trap. After all these years of looking, they finally reach a breakthrough on this op days after he takes a beating designed to intimidate. Maybe it’s working, because Matt’s not so sure they should follow this one.  “Conversation for another time,” he hints. “We’ll talk when we get back to the apartment.”

And Joe doesn’t miss a trick. “There’s more?”

When it comes to the Circle, there’s always more. No one knows that better than Joe Solomon. “There’s no such thing as coincidence, right?” 

Joe nods. “Right.”

“Let’s just say,” Matt cautions, “I don’t think it’s a coincidence I was there.”

Matt keeps this theory vague on purpose, trusting Joe to decode the rest.  There’s a glint in his eyes as he runs the numbers and plays out every hypothetical. Joe may not have been in Moscow, but that doesn’t mean he can’t piece together what happened. “Jesus,” he spits, realization playing out in his features. “You think Rachel set you up?”

Well. That sure ain’t the conclusion Matt expected him to make. “What? No. God, no,” Matt sputters. They don’t have time to walk back the math on this particular miscalculation, so Matt cuts to the chase before Joe can go any further down that path. “But Joe, listen. I think Catherine might have.”

This has Joe running a whole new set of numbers through his head, pulling the corners of his mouth into a hard, stoic frown. “No,” he says, definite. “Not a chance. You’re sure it wasn’t Rachel—?”

“Morning, Joe.”

With timing too perfect to be accidental, Rachel chooses this moment to round the corner and join their conversation. She has a cup of vending machine coffee in each hand, steam still rising from the slim notches in each plastic cap. As she sips from one, she holds the other out to Matt, and he’s been awake for too many consecutive hours to decline. It ain’t Joe’s coffee, but it’ll do.

“Glad to see you’re feeling better,” she says, and Matt has to hand it to her—she’s got this way of making something perfectly pleasant sound like utter devastation. “I heard you’ve been indisposed as of late.”

Joe’s answering glance is aimed directly at Matt, a scathing pout from someone who ain't above using his highly specialized skill set on a girl, just as long as his best friend gives him permission first.

Matt replies with his own warning look and a placating, “Play nice.” To keep the game fair, he turns to Rachel too. “Both of you.”

“What the hell is she doing here?” Joe asks.

Matt throws a thumb in her direction. “Talk to Rachel, when you’re talking to Rachel.”

“Alright.” His eyes flash to her. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Rachel takes another sip of her coffee, entirely unruffled. “A pleasure, as always, Joe.”

Joe crosses his arms over his chest. Settles into a wider stance. “You’ll have to excuse me if I’m not at my friendliest,” he says. “It’s just that I gave Matt to you in pretty good shape, and you didn’t exactly return him in pristine condition.”

“All things considered, I’d say he’s in pretty excellent condition, actually.” She’s the cool and collected counter to Joe’s stinging emotion. “Despite your best efforts to put him in the ground.”

Joe huffs, a bull seeing red. “Excuse me?”

Matt physically steps between the two of them. “Alright,” he says. “A little civility, please. I’ll remind you both that there are plenty of things I need your help with, but getting myself into trouble ain’t one of them. If you wanna be mad at someone, you can be mad at me.”

They both look ready to follow through on that offer, so Matt holds out his hands in either direction. Before they can speak he says, “But you can’t be mad at me yet—I’m injured, remember? So, so very injured.”

Joe rolls his eyes and spits out a, “Chrissake,” at the same time Rachel says, “Oh honestly, Matthew.” The two of them seem to find some tentative common ground in their shared annoyance, temporarily refraining from any further bickering. That’s fine. Matt can be a common enemy for now. Maybe it’ll remind them that what they’ve actually got is a common friend. There may be hope for them yet.

He lowers his hands slowly, trying not to disturb the peace. “Rachel’s here on orders from the Director,” he explains, “on account of how she’s recently learned some new information.”

Joe deciphers this in a matter of seconds. “You told her?”

“What I could,” Matt confirms. “It was the only way to get her out of Moscow.”

For all his grumbling, Joe knows the same thing every spy knows—that Moscow is a desperate place in a desperate time, always calling for desperate measures. He won’t begrudge any decisions made within the city’s borders, because he knows firsthand how Moscow can wring a fella out and force him to find alliances in the damnedest places. 

So rather than holler any more than he already has, he turns to Rachel. Looks at her with a deadly serious intensity. “Then he must have told you that you’ve raised some flags?”

Rachel matches his gaze. “He did.”

“That these are dangerous people?”

“He said that too.”

Joe glaces at Matt, then lands back on Rachel one more time. He looks like he wants to hide, but instead he holds strong. “He told you that if you keep looking for them, they’re going to find you first?”

Guilt for pulling Matt into all this. Guilt for pulling in Rachel by proxy.

Rachel’s chin is in its usual place, high and strong. “I’m not afraid of making a few more enemies.”

“I’m not saying it to scare you,” Joe insists. “I’m saying it because it’s the truth, and because you’re smart enough to walk away while you still can.”

Joe Solomon can hide anywhere in the world, but there are some people not even he can hide from, even if he’s spent most of his adult life trying to do exactly that. His words lack all the signs of their usual squabbles, replaced by a man who has been running for as long as he can remember, and wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemy.

Rachel Cameron is not his worst enemy, but she knows their rivalry well enough to understand this must be important, if Joe’s decided to put it aside for now. She surrenders her own fight, just temporarily, and grants him a nod. “I’ll do what the agency asks of me,” she says. Then, with some consideration.  “What’s best for Matt. And I suppose, by association, that means I’ll do what’s best for you, too.”

Sometimes Matt forgets that Joe is older than Rachel, by just under two years. In damn near every aspect of espionage and beyond, the two are evenly matched. But right then, Joe’s experience weighs down his every feature and makes him look horribly, achingly old. When it comes to understanding the toll the Circle can take on a person’s soul, few people know more than Joe.

“Do whatever you want,” he says, letting his head fall into a shameful shake. “But just know, as soon as you walk in those doors, you aren’t making decisions for yourself. You’re making them for Abby and your dad. For any friends you have back in Baltimore. For any future family you might want to have someday. Because once these people find out you’re onto them, they won't just stop at you.”

The best way to send Rachel into an uneasy spiral is to dig up her sense of helplessness. It’s something Matt’s only just started to learn, but something Joe seems to have known for a while now, given how easily he leverages her own fears against her. There’s some irony to the idea that a manipulation technique Joe learned in the Circle is the only thing keeping Rachel out of it.

She glances at Matt, but it’s quick. Like she can’t quite help herself. It’s gone before Matt can decide what it means, hidden behind another sip of coffee. “Fine,” she says, bored as she wipes the corner of her lip with her thumb. “Anything else?”

Joe starts to answer one way or the other, but he doesn’t get the chance. They’re interrupted by a petite woman in a pencil skirt, emerging from the office at their backs. She peers over horn-rimmed glasses as she says, “The Director will see you now.”

Best not to keep the boss waiting.

Rachel straightens her shoulders and starts to turn, leading the pack. “Ladies first,” she reminds them both, looking distinctly Abby-like as she shoots a carefree smile over her shoulder.

Matt starts to follow, the way he always follows her lead, but Joe hooks a hand around his arm instead, keeping Matt planted in place. He waits until Rachel is out of earshot and then, in the most covert voice Matt’s ever heard from him, asks, “Are you sleeping with Rachel Cameron?”

Spy training or not, Matt feels a flush crawl up his neck, as fresh flashes catch along his breath. Rachel’s cool hand on his hot chest. Rachel’s moan in his mouth. “Am I—?” he sputters. “Am I sleeping with—?”

But Joe’s just got this look on his face. Cover blown. 

So Matt drops the act. They’ve talked about matters of national security with less urgency when he asks, “How did you know?”

Joe points to the coffee cup in Matt’s hand. “You hate vending machine coffee,” he says. “Which I know, because every time you drink it, you bitch and moan about how my coffee is better.”

“Your coffee is better,” Matt contests.

“And yet, you’re drinking hers,” Joe says. “And the only way you’d ever drink that shit is if you were—”

“Yeah.”

“So you are.”

“Yeah.”

“About time.”

This is so wildly off-base from the response Matt expects that he has to do a double-take. Make sure he heard right. “Wait,” he says. “What’s that supposed to—?”

“Are you boys coming, or what?”

Rachel pops her head around the doorway and Matt resists the completely unspylike urge to throw both hands over Joe’s mouth. “Yep,” he says. “Be right there.”

She retreats back to the office, and Matt turns back toward Joe. “Not a word.”

Joe holds up both hands in faux innocence. “My lips are sealed,” he says, but he’s biting back a grin, and Matt knows he hasn’t heard the last of this. “Now let’s get this over with. The sooner we get out of here, the sooner we can watch the Royals game.”

Matt really is having a hard time deciding how to feel about Joe, right this moment. “You taped the Royals game for me?”

Joe shrugs. “‘Course I taped the Royals game for you.”

But Matt forgives easy, and Joe’s easy to forgive anyway. “Joe Solomon,” he says, with a grin of his own. “Did you miss me?”

“Alright,” Joe drones. “Get in there, or I’m gonna tell you the scores.”

Matt does as he’s told, because it’s Joe telling him to do it. Plus, the woman with the glasses is tapping her heel in their direction. Even though Matt regularly squares up against arms dealers and armed guards, he's still not willing to tick off the Langley secretaries.

They file into the familiar beige and black office, ready to give their usual debrief and sort out which details should be committed to paper and which should be left to rot in the wind. This process is routine enough that it’s practically scripted, and Matt feels a certain sense of comfort in the repetition, even with Rachel’s presence. In fact, some part of him is relieved for her to finally see all this. To finally understand a part of his life that’s been kept from her for so long.

But the moment he enters the room, he realizes that Rachel ain’t the office’s only new addition.

Director Smith is tucked behind his desk, just like always, shuffling through a stack of paper that never seems to get any smaller, no matter how many times they visit. Like always, his black jacket hangs on the back of his chair and his tie is loose at the collar. He’s filled out the mustache he started growing a few years back, in an attempt to look more like Tom Selleck. He looks mostly the same as he always has, except where age and stress make him look a little more weary.

The man across from him is unfamiliar—at least, Matt thinks he is. But a second glance triggers some deep down certainty that they’ve met before, somewhere, sometime, when Matt was least expecting him. 

The Director looks up at them all. Smiles. “Ah, welcome home, boys,” he says, in his easy Virginian accent. “And Ms. Cameron. I’ve heard wonderful things.”

“Likewise, sir,” Rachel replies, always the perfect lady.

“How is your sister?” he wonders. “Bored to tears, I suppose.”

“And healing up just fine,” she says. “Which, I keep reminding her, is the important part.”

“Yes, well, as soon as she’s ready to go again, we’ll be happy to have her,” he says. “Send my best to her—and to your father, while you’re at it.”

“Will do, sir.”

The mystery man turns to face them head-on, and Matt gets that feeling again. It’s the eyes that strike him first, dark in a way that makes them look endless. Something about the cut of his jaw, the angle of his nose, the furrow of his brow. It all sends a surge of hot familiarity through Matt’s veins, landing like metal in his mouth.

“I’m eager to hear about your latest findings,” Smith goes on. “But first, I suppose you’ve all noticed we’re not alone.”

It’s the start of an introduction and the mystery man stands to meet it, buttoning the front of his jacket as he goes. His movements strike more familiarity into Matt, resonating at a single frequency in his bones.

“Trusting that you’re all able to keep a secret until the news is made official,” says Smith, with some humor, “I’d like to introduce you to the new Director of Operations for the CIA—Mr. Max Edwards.”

Max Edwards’ dark eyes settle onto Matt, holding a hand out to shake. Matt takes it with a flinch, hand still sore from fighting off memories he can’t remember. “Nice to meet you,” says Max, in low southern drawl just barely above a whisper. “Alexander has told me great things about this task force.”

Max moves on to the next hand, and it’s Joe who has the wherewithal to ask, “New, sir?”

Director Smith stands to join the rest of the room, rounding his desk and leaning against its front. “I’ve been called up the ranks, Mr. Solomon,” he says, arms crossing casually across his chest. “Come autumn, I will be serving as the Deputy Director of the CIA.”

“Congratulations,” says Rachel, sincerely.

“That’s great,” Matt mutters, distracted.

Leave it to Joe to ask, “What does that mean for—?”

Director Smith holds up a hand, already well ahead of Joe and not afraid to show it. “We will, of course, have some details to work out. Rest assured we will have time to do so, though I’d prefer not to speak in great detail with Ms. Cameron present.” He turns to Rachel. “No offense intended.”

“None taken,” Rachel replies. Her gaze meets Joe’s, one final debate between the two of them. She must let him win, because she turns back to Smith and says, “As I understand it, my involvement is better left at need-to-know.”

Matt should be relieved. He should be thankful that something Joe said got through to her. That she isn't pushing for more. That she won’t be the Circle’s next target, and that she won’t have to spend a lifetime in this fight. But he’s just too caught up in the way Max walks. In the way he speaks, and moves, and looks.

Smith nods in her direction. “Unfortunately, I believe that’s a wise decision,” he says. “While your skills would be more than welcome, I’m certain I don’t have to share that the consequences could be quite dire.”

“No sir,” Rachel agrees. “That’s been made clear.”

“Then we will save our discussion for another time,” he concludes.  “Until then, the only thing you three need to know is that I will no longer serve as your primary contact on this case. I simply won’t have the time. But I do still hope to stay involved, which is why I wanted to ensure I had someone I trusted in this position.”

All three of them turn to study Max, the man to be trusted. He stands tall. Confident. Certain that he is exactly where he is supposed to be.

“Mr. Edwards will train at my side in the coming months, learning the ins-and-outs of our objectives here,” says Director Smith. “Boys, you’ll be asked to pursue new leads as they come in—no different than before. Ms. Cameron, we’ll work closely with you on your upcoming reports to ensure we commit the correct details to paper. This is among my top priorities as I transition, and Max has expressed similar dedication.”

This all feels so critical and immediate. Matt wishes he could focus, but his brain is caught on repeat, trying to fill the Max Edwards sized hole in his head.

Max clears his throat. “Everything alright, son?” he asks Matt. “You look shaken.”

The set of his shoulders. The crease in his forehead. “I’m sorry sir, it’s just—” he starts, but he hesitates, worried he’ll sound foolish. The whole room watches him, waiting for an answer he ain’t sure about. “I can’t shake the feeling we’ve met before.”

A small sigh rises and falls in Max’s broad chest, something close to a laugh, although Matt can’t imagine this man ever laughing. Max glances toward Director Smith, who grants a permissive node, and Max holds his hands out, putting himself on full display. “You caught me,” he says, simply.  “You have seen me before. At the Bolshoi Theatre.”

With the Bolshoi as a background, Matt’s brain handily fills in the rest of the memory. A bag of passports in his hands, Townsend’s voice at his back, and a mysterious man looking up at him from the ground floor. That must be it. “You spotted us,” Matt remembers. “In the balcony. Before we ran.”

To Matt’s credit, Max didn’t look at all like himself in Moscow, done up in a disguise that relied on dark facial hair and heavy Russian garb. That must be why Matt couldn’t identify him on sight. “You were not too hard to spot, I’m afraid.”

This sounds like it could be a joke, but Matt’s not sure, so he replies in earnest, just in case. “Yes, well,” he says. “Moscow has a way of bringing out unexpected circumstances.”

“I’d like to hear more, when we have time,” says Max. “Learn how we can do better in the future.”

“Yessir.”

When Max Edwards smiles, a chill runs down Matt’s spine, and it must be left over from Moscow. From that feeling of having eyes on his back, and not trusting a single step he takes. It always takes a few days to shake off the Soviet Union and this is no exception. 

Matt meets Max’s eyes once more, and he's got this strange urge to hide. Slip into a crowd, the way he always does. Let the world dissolve at his back, then come up for air once its safe again.

But Max already found him once, back on a balcony in the the Bolshoi. Who's to say it couldn't happen again? Matt may be a natural Pavement Artist, but Max seems like the type who can see straight through anything. “Gentlemen,” Max says, clasping his hands together. “I think this is the start of a beautiful partnership.”

[tojisun]

HEINEN OUR LANGLEY BOYYY SINKS IN ANOTHER ONE

[pinkchwrryyy]

If you accept for Evangelion : Asuka X Photography Enthusiast! Male reader

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫! 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝, 𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐥𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭!🩷

✦𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦: Neon Genesis Evangelion

✦ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Asuka Soryou Langley x Male! Photography enthusiast! reader

✦𝐏𝐥𝐨𝐭: you are simply trying to relax while doing what you love the most, photography. You’re about to take the perfect shot of some pretty flowers when a certain red haired girl interrupts you…

✦ 𝐓𝐲𝐩𝐞: scenario, one-shot, request

✦𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: fluff

✦ 𝐓𝐖: none

✦ 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: none

⚠️𝐑𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫: 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧, 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤 𝐦𝐲 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭⚠️

Perfect shot

You’re crouched low in the grass, your camera steady in your hands as you frame the perfect shot. The sun is dipping lower on the horizon, casting a soft golden glow over the field of wildflowers in front of you. You’ve been out here for hours, capturing the delicate details of each petal, the vibrant colors, and the way the light hits just right. Photography is your escape, your way of freezing a moment in time. You line up another shot, focusing on a patch of bright red poppies that sway gently in the breeze. It’s perfect. Until—

Crunch.

You freeze, eyes narrowing as a pair of shoes stomp right through your carefully chosen shot. Your heart sinks. You slowly lift your gaze from the ruined flowers to the culprit, and of course, it’s her.

“Asuka,” you mutter under your breath, pushing yourself to your feet.

Asuka Langley Soryou stands there, hands on her hips, looking down at you with a smirk that’s halfway to a sneer. She’s in her school uniform, but her fiery red hair is untamed, catching the sunlight in a way that almost makes her look as wild as the field around you.

“What?” she snaps, noticing the glare you’re sending her way. “Got something to say, photography freak?”

You take a deep breath, trying to calm yourself. “You just stepped on my shot.”

Her brow furrows, and she glances down at the trampled flowers. Then she shrugs, completely unapologetic. “So? They’re just flowers. You can find more.”

You bite back your frustration, knowing that arguing with her is like trying to reason with a storm. “It’s not about just finding more. I’ve been working on this for hours, trying to capture something specific, and you just ruined it.”

Asuka crosses her arms over her chest, looking bored. “Not my problem.”

Of course she wouldn’t care. She never does, not when it comes to anyone else’s interests. You grit your teeth, debating whether it’s worth the effort to press the issue. But then an idea hits you, and a mischievous smirk tugs at your lips.

“Fine,” you say, shrugging as you bring your camera up to your chest, checking the settings casually. “You want to make it up to me? Let me take your picture.”

Her eyes widen, and she recoils slightly, as if you’ve just suggested something outrageous. “What? No way. Why would I let you do that?”

“Because you ruined my shot,” you say, keeping your tone light but firm. “And because you owe me.”

Asuka scoffs, tossing her hair over her shoulder in that dramatic way she always does. “I don’t owe you anything.”

You arch a brow, not backing down. “Come on. You’re always going on about how great you are. What’s the harm in letting me take a few pictures? Or are you scared I’ll capture something you don’t like?”

That does it. Asuka’s pride flares up instantly, her blue eyes narrowing as she glares at you. “Scared? Of you? Don’t make me laugh!”

You shrug again, nonchalant. “Then prove it. Let me take the pictures.”

There’s a tense moment where you think she’s going to flat-out refuse. But then, with a huff, she rolls her eyes and crosses her arms tighter over her chest. “Fine. But make it quick. I don’t have time to waste on your stupid hobbies.”

You hide a grin as you raise your camera and adjust the settings. “Stand over there,” you say, pointing to a spot where the light filters through the trees behind her, casting a warm glow over the scene. She moves to where you indicate, her posture stiff and uncomfortable.

She looks annoyed, her lips pressed into a tight line, but you know Asuka well enough to see that she’s secretly intrigued. She likes being the center of attention, even if she’d never admit it. You snap a few shots, focusing on her face, the way the light highlights the sharp angles of her cheekbones and the intensity in her eyes.

“Relax a bit,” you suggest, lowering the camera slightly. “You look like you’re about to kill someone.”

She glares at you. “I’m not a model, you know.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you mutter, half to yourself. But she hears it, and a faint blush creeps up her cheeks.

“Just hurry up,” she snaps, turning slightly, her hair catching the light again. You take a few more shots, capturing the way her fiery personality shines through in every expression she makes, from annoyance to something softer, almost curious.

“Why do you even care about this stuff?” she asks suddenly, breaking the silence. “Photography. It seems… pointless.”

You lower the camera and look at her, surprised by the question. Asuka rarely shows interest in anything that isn’t directly related to her. “It’s not pointless to me,” you say simply. “It’s about capturing moments, seeing things from a different perspective. Sometimes, it’s the small things that matter.”

She frowns, looking like she’s trying to understand but can’t quite grasp it. “You’re weird.”

You chuckle. “Maybe. But you’re still letting me take your picture.”

She snorts, crossing her arms again. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.”

You finish the last few shots, taking in the rare sight of Asuka, not in battle or throwing insults, but just… being. She’s still herself, still sharp-tongued and fierce, but there’s something about seeing her through the lens that makes her feel more real, more human. When you lower the camera for the final time, she’s watching you with a curious expression.

“Well?” she asks. “Was it worth it?”

You nod, offering a small smile. “Yeah. It was.”

She scoffs, clearly not used to being praised in a context so unusual to her, and starts to walk away, but not before tossing a glance over her shoulder. “Next time, don’t waste your time on flowers. They’re boring.”

You laugh as you watch her go, knowing that Asuka will always be Asuka, but there’s something about this moment that feels different—like you’ve captured a part of her that no one else ever sees.

[hauntedjpegcollection]

benny

wc: 6907 au: college au ch: benny, nomi, maran, bunny

The loud crack wakes him up. His whole body flinches in the lecture hall seat, hands grasping the edges of the plastic desk as though clinging to it. When he comes into consciousness, Ben sucks in a gasp that gets stuck in his chest. The room is blurred together, a haunting mess of colors for a moment that resembles something from a Carpenter movie. Then it swirls together, dissolves into clarity.

His classmates—his professor.

“Sleeping again?” Dr. Langley stares down at him from behind her oversized, turquoise frames. Her pinched turtle mouth goes more thin when he doesn’t immediately respond. Ben can’t find his voice, though. His hand slips over the textbook (it’s cool and smooth, a sensation he’d always loved)—he envisions her plucking it from his desk and then letting it drop next to his sleeping head. The sound rings slightly.

The Air Force had not left him with the best ears.

Benny’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, dry and numb. His lips feel equally as dehydrated, chapped and raw. He hadn’t noticed himself nodding off; and he shouldn’t have anyway. The thermos on his desk (plastered in little stickers of video game characters he couldn’t name) is nearly empty of the acidic black coffee he’d poured into it that morning. He blinks a few times, his cheeks warming as his peers continue to stare—he prepares something to say—

“Jonathan,” the professor drawls out. Whatever he had dies in the firing synapses of his brain as the older woman tosses her shawl around her shoulders. Ben’s shoulders raise like instinct, curl up near his ears. She raises a brow ever so slightly higher on her wrinkled forehead. “Perhaps stop sleeping in the closet you do your work in and get a proper bed?”

A few snickers whisper through the lecture hall. Benny sinks further down the plastic seat, knees knocking against the underside of the desk. His hand slides the textbook toward himself, which feels oddly similar in that moment to a small child finding comfort in a teddy bear. The insult isn’t necessarily a bad one—he’s heard worse. Benny’s said worse to people. Graduate students often come equipped with nasty remarks and thick skin to withstand the volley of them back.

And yet, his eyes stay down for the remainder of the lecture. Open and awake, but still down.

—

When the room clears, Dr. Langley seems unsurprised that he’s still there.

She doesn’t give him attention right away, of course, but her pinched look says disappointed, not surprised. Benny stands in front of her desk as she flits about. Pretending perhaps to clean, to look at the white board, to examine her watch and then finally approach and sit down. She can’t weigh more than ninety pounds and yet she settles herself into the chair with the airs of someone who must rearrange to get comfortable. She crosses a leg and then uncrosses it and then tidies up the stray hairs of her bun and then she leans across the desk and corrects a photo of an ugly white dog on her desk.

“I f-filled out that section for a reason,” Ben says thinly. There is a headache forming behind his left eye. Something piercing and particularly cruel, something with teeth and claws. Something that threatens the rest of his day, when he has so much fucking work to get done.

“Elaborate,” Dr. Langley requests, looking at him from over her those oversized frames. Benny thinks they’re fake. They have that dangling, obnoxious chain so she can take them off and leave them hanging around her neck. He’s never been able to put a pattern together of when she goes without them—to read small print or look somewhere in the distance? He doesn’t like that it feels nebulous. That she just sort of wears glasses when she feels like it.

“Before the st-start of semester. I f-fi-f—” He pauses. She waits. “I filled out—I put down th-that I prefer Ben. You sent out that email—”

“Well,” Dr. Langley draws the word out, severing his sentence before he can finish it. She folds her thin, pale hands in her lap. Makes a triangle shape with them, like a mediation technique. “I ignored that, Jonathan.”

He’d prefer it if she just stood and fucking slapped him. It would be easier to handle. It would be less embarrassing. It would hurt less. He grinds his teeth together so hard he thinks he hears them creaking together. Benny slowly exhales through his nose and then holds up a hand. He makes a flat gesture with it.

“Are you asking me why?” When he nods, she laughs. It’s sharp and condescending, a quick burst of air. A little bit of haughty arrogance, as though he’s challenging her on something. Her ground, in her lecture hall (it’s shared, actually, he knows that, another professor gets this hall in an hour and maybe she has to put the fucking dog photo away when he does).

“I ignored it because it wasn’t for you.” She leans forward on the desk, putting elbows to it. Her shawl slips a bit across her bird like shoulders. She’s wearing a mostly beige ensemble today, something expensively soft looking. “When I ask my students their preferred pronouns, their preferred names, I’m not asking cis white men what their nicknames are.”

For a brief moment, he entertains the thought of leaning on her desk as well. He thinks of spreading his hands over the thin, pale wood, he thinks of how that might make her reconsider. Benny knows what the slightest shift of his heavy weight forward can do, what the reveal of tattooed hands can do, what his awful, sneering smile can do. What he looks like when he’s angry. What his eyes can do to people if they look at them too long. He imagines her shrinking back in fear, imagines her ugly dull brown eyes widening with it.

He imagines his father.

“Please,” Benny snaps out. His hands curl and uncurl by his sides. “It’s n-not a nickname. It’s what I go by.”

“As gender defiant as you seem to be—” her gaze flicks to his hands.

He’d forgotten that Nomi had painted his nails recently, some little swirling design because she was trying to get good enough that neither she or Matilda would have to pay to have them done. Hot embarrassment flashes across him for some reason, even though he’d been happy to let her. Had enjoyed watching her concentrate, had been pleased with the way it looked, had loved her leaning in and giving his knuckles small appreciative kisses. He isn’t embarrassed by any of that and he isn’t sure why Dr. Langley instills such a shame in him anyway.

“It stands. That section of the email was not for you.” Benny tries to remember to breathe. His face feels burned away, flesh peeled, vulnerable bone revealed. He blinks at her owlish expression. There is a hint of condescending pride underneath it all. What an ally. What a good person. What a win for the Transgenders (capital T) of their university, to have this woman on their side.

He thinks of his father again and in that moment of shame and humiliation, he lets himself take one trait from the tree as a vile little treat—Benny slams the door shut when he leaves, just like his father used to, all the time.

—

“You have to tell someone.”

“Nomi,” Ben moans the word out, head falling back like a cords been cut. He slips further in the office chair he’d stolen from the science department. One knee bounces in anxious rhythm as he flicks a page in one of his many notebooks. His messy handwriting, only legible to him, suddenly seems very illegible. Nomi lays on his bed, tantalizingly mostly nude, and not even remotely indulging him (she had, actually, an hour prior, when they’d fallen into that bed and she’d been yanking his jeans open with an excited laugh).

Only, Benny, post sex and in that wildly strangely raw emotion that sometimes came with good sex (and sex with someone who mattered, who cared, who made it good) had opened up about Langley. Had spilled the entire scene to her, word for word. Had imitated the womans delicate, purposeful gestures and her shrunken facial expressions. He sits there now, in the chair he’d stolen with just briefs and socks on and Nomi, there, in a stolen tank top that doesn’t fit laying in his bed.

“No, like, I’m bein’ serious, though? Don’t you have someone you can report her to? That’s heinous of her, Ben. Real heinous.”

He loves the way she clips her words out. Posh accent so cute, especially when she’s annoyed. He wants to think about that, instead of what she’s pressing in on. The wound. The insufferable, never healing gash in his side. The festering, infected, impacted wisdom tooth he’ll never have removed. Benny flicks another page in his notebook, not really looking at it. Fear crawls over his skin, like insects pricking their way through his body hair. He swallows a thick feeling in his throat.

When silence sits between them, Nomi realizes too quickly that something is actually wrong. Not that he was venting about a fucked up teacher or school. He did that plenty, he complained about classes to her constantly. Nomi was subject to non stop discussion of how academia was evil, soul sucking, miserable, for fucking idiots that were too smart. She stands from the bed and crosses to him.

Benny wants to look up at her and feel—like he feels so often—absolutely stunned that she was at all, ever, interested in him. He wants to feel awed and in love and happy and excited and horny and all the other feelings that she manages to make tumble out of his big, blond fucking head. Instead, a prickling sensation in his eyes makes his entire face fall. Instead, he sort of just feels pathetic and exhausted.

“Oh, baby,” she murmurs, brushing a hand through his hair. She pulls him in with arms around his shoulders. Benny’s head tucks into the softness of her stomach. She runs fingers through his stringy hair. “Baby, baby, baby,” she mumbles in mock imitation of him. It makes him shudder, and then Benny does what he probably really needed to do.

He cries for a while and she holds him and lets him.

—

“Nomi told me.” Maran’s voice is a little warbled over the poor connection.

“That fucking snitch,” Benny mumbles, around the string on his hoodie. It’s properly gross and wet with spit, chewed nearly flat between the meanness of his molars. The laptop screen is the only light on in his room, making his already sensitive eyes hurt. It’s bright outside where Maran is—eight in the morning. Benny had set his alarm, because for some reason Maran was an early riser. Liked to swing over to Benji’s mom’s for breakfast like the sneak he was. Benny rarely missed a morning call, even though eight was three his time.

And three am was either precious studying time, or a cat nap.

“Hey!” Maran reprimands. The screen goes briefly dark and then lights up again, with the short adjustment of outside to indoors. His heart flutters a bit to realize he’s started memorizing these places Maran’s at, over there. Kay’s house, a park he likes, his own room. “Don’t call her that.”

“Well she is a sn-snitch,” Benny argues, spitting the string out.

“I’ll break up with you,” Maran threatens. The display shifts around some more, because he simply can’t sit still and his phone isn’t always the best for these sort of long distance video calls. But Benny had needed to see Maran, not just hear him. He had needed to see him smile, to watch the way his freckles wrinkled in his cheeks. He wanted to see the new hair color, he wanted to reach through his laptop and pull Maran back to the US and kiss him.

Benny missed him so much it felt like an ever present migraine. A never ending when will you come back, I miss you, come back that just kept repeating inside the throb of that headache.

“Neither of you are ever br-breaking up with me. I know how t-to make nail bombs.”

“He is so kiddin’ Mr. CIA agent inside the laptop.”

“Fuck the CIA. Fuck the feds too, in case th-they’re also listening. And fuck—”

“Ben,” Maran interrupts with a loud laugh. He’s back outside, the dull, gray light of England spilling around him. It’s nice here, Benny thinks. Come back, where it’s sunny. Please.

“She’s right, you know,” Maran continues. He’s paused, leaned against a brick wall, to look at his phone. Benny can see a visage of himself in the corner and it’s none too flattering. He’s washed out even more pale than he usually is because of the computer light. The hood of his sweatshirt is up, but his blond hair peeks out around his face. He hasn’t been sleeping well—he hasn’t been sleeping—so his eyes are sunk in the sockets. Benny gets nervous looking at himself like that, knowing that’s what Maran is seeing. He scrubs a hand over his face.

“If we h-had a dollar for every time Nomi was fucking right, we’d b-be billionaires.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“You’re needling,” Benny snips back, with narrowed eyes.

“I’m worried,” Maran replies, with just as much edge to his voice. It makes Benny feel guilty, immediately. This wasn’t how he wanted the call to go. He wants to rewind, to go back to when Maran had picked up and said his name in that breathy excited way. He wanted to tell a funny story about Lark to make him laugh. He wanted to ask about how Maran’s mom was—who made him endlessly nervous, because she knew about him now and he wasn’t sure what to do with that info.

Benny’s eyes stray away from the laptop for the first time since Maran’s face had appeared on screen.

“Mar,” he starts. He has to clear his throat suddenly, because it feels tight and wet. “If I tr-tried to talk about it to someone—they’d ju-just ask—I don’t want to have to ta-talk about it.”

“But it’s—”

“Drop it,” he seethes between tight teeth. “I’m n-not explaining to s-some fucking admin that I don’t go by m-my first name because of my dad.” It feels strangely juvenile to refer to him that way. Sometimes, to Benny, his father was Jonathan. He was Jonathan Lee Benson, who went by both names professionally because he liked the way it sounded. They take a man seriously when he’s got a good name, that’s why I gave you mine, Jonathan Lee Benson Jr. has a ring to it and they’ll respect you for that.

His father was Jonathan, which was why he couldn’t be Jonathan.

Maran’s eyes look soft and unhurt. Benny’s bite had not broken skin, but his stomach still felt sour with it. He rubs palms across his eyes again, sinks further into the bed. He shifts the laptop so it’s closer. Benny wedges himself against the corner, so he can stay seated, without really putting in effort.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says.

“I love you, Ben,” Maran replies in such an honest way that it makes Benny feel golden all over. Worthy of that sentence, even when he’d been so nasty just moments before. He’s briefly reminded of laying in bed with Nomi, her hair messy and him feeling like he could say anything and she’d still feel the exact same about him. Benny sniffs and rubs his knuckles underneath his nose.

He repeats it back, even when it’s odd on his tongue and he can’t imagine it has that same effect for Maran. It can’t feel the same, like warm honey poured all over. But Maran still smiles at him, that blinding beautiful boyish smile that makes the world feel a little less dirty. England doesn’t seem so fucking gray with him there.

“Do you wanna come skateboarding?” Maran asks, in a gently fond voice. It makes Benny huff with something resembling a laugh. He nods and watches the image of the audio call go wonky. He feels disorientated for a moment as the view swings to the ground. Maran puts a foot on the board—and then shoves himself off. And then Benny hears the electronic crackle of wind against the mic. The rumble of the skateboard on sidewalk.

Maran brings the phone closer to himself. He must tuck it into a shirt pocket, because Benny can hear him breathing as well.

And Benny also doesn’t realize that at some point he falls dead asleep. That he’s pulled swiftly and blissfully entirely under, into REM sleep that is thankfully free of any dreams that he’ll remember. Because he’s asleep, he also doesn’t realize that Maran stays on the line, for as long as he can, sitting and watching Ben sleep. He has no idea that Maran has skated all the way to his favorite area. That he sits on a brick bridge, feet dangling pleasantly over bubbling water.

He has no idea that Maran is holding that whispered I love you inside himself and feeling that exact same warm honeyed feeling.

Maran only ends the call because Nomi’s face appears.

“I know who I can talk to,” she says when he picks up.

***

Dr. Sullivan stares at Nomi with the flat, unflinching gaze of someone entirely practiced in telling others to fuck off and die. She sits, with legs kicked up onto her desk, chair leaned back. One hand rests on her desk, while the other toys a lighter. Thumb smoothing over it and over it and over it. In contrast, Nomi stands there, in front of the professors desk with all the aura of someone who might crumble if pressed into too hard. That tears are definitely somewhere hiding behind her big, milk tea colored eyes. She tries to angle her chin to be slightly more imposing, since Dr. Sullivan is sitting and she is standing.

The effect does not work, and one of the professors black brows raises.

“Is campus security stuck on a child’s level crossword puzzle again—who the fuck are you?”

“I didn’t know this campus had security,” Nomi replies.

“Well you’re not a student, then.”

“Oh,” she blinks rapidly. Nomi glances down at herself. She’d tried very hard to wear something university appropriate. So she’d thrown on a skirt and tights and a large cardigan—she’d looked at herself in the mirror and felt like she was in a Halloween costume of a girl who maintained her Pinterest with an iron fist and had three study Intagrams. Nomi smooths her hands down the front of the cardigan. It has stars printed on it. “How can you tell?”

“Well, usually students are smart. Emphasis on usually. Do you need me to repeat the question slower?”

“Could I ask you,” Nomi’s words run right up along after Dr. Sullivan’s. “Why do they call you Bunny when you are deeply unpleasant?”

Bunnies make her think of Benny actually. His affection for rabbits was one of the first things about him that had stood out in her mind. People met Benny and knew him for many things; the dark scorpion tattooed on his neck, his double major in school, the parties he liked throwing at his apartment, that he was a little unnerving and sort of scary and very mean.

Nomi had equated Ben and rabbits before any of that. She had noticed the tattoo of one on his ankle by accident. She noticed that he had a baseball hat with a silhouette of one. The rare occasions people caught Ben in a photograph, he would make ears with his fingers above his head, stick his tongue out in a nasty smile.

“Where’d you heart that?” Dr. Sullivan doesn’t look fazed hearing the name at all. The lighter moves in her fingers smoothly. One of her feet shift on the desk. Nomi tilts her head and points over her shoulder. Her eyes are innocent, magnified by those giant round glasses that sit low on her nose. She has a messenger bag with a big fluffy rabbit keychain on it, slung over her shoulder that she softly adjusts.

“I heard someone say, Bunny Sullivan, that cunt—and I was like, oh, spiffy. That’s the Dr. Sullivan I’m looking for.”

The professor continues to stare at her. She taps her finger a few times on her desk. Dr. Sullivan has rather manicured hands, Nomi thinks. They look neither masculine nor feminine—not the way men sometimes have blocky, stubby fingers, or the way women will possess long, trim ones. Not necessarily the same way Lark can have those pretty, thin fingers and Mouse can have those square tipped ones either. It feels odd to focus on Dr. Sullivan’s genderless hand so much, but her eyes make Nomi nervous. The aura of being impossible to pin makes her vastly more intimidating than she’d ever imagined possible.

Nomi thinks she’d like to find a way to take that energy for herself.

“I don’t think I like you.”

“That doesn’t sound right,” Nomi snorts. “You seem like a person to make a decision very quickly.” She steps forward and lowers herself down into the chair opposite Dr. Sullivan’s desk. The office smells like coffee and cologne and books, which is a smell Nomi finds comforting. It has a home like sense to it. Bunny, who does not live up to her name—or maybe she does, because bunnies are nasty, they bite—simply continues to stare.

“I’m Nomi.”

“Okay.”

“You know my boyfriend.”

“I can fucking assure you, I do not.”

Nomi leans forward, her hands curling over her knees. She doesn’t like having to say Benny’s full name out loud—isn’t that the point of it all? Isn’t that why she’s here? But who knows how many Benny’s exist out there in the world, on this very campus? To her, the name would forever be his and anyone else out there would have to find a new one. But to the professor? So instead, Nomi clears her throat and says the full name awkwardly, eyes flickering around the ephemera on Dr. Sullivan’s desk.

“If that’s your boyfriend, firstly my fucking condolences. And secondly, when the fuck was his name anything other than Benson?”

It makes Nomi lean back in the chair. She lifts her hands, as if grasping the very concept that Dr. Sullivan has accidentally landed upon.

“That’s where I need your help.”

—

The conversation is relatively short because Nomi is to the point and Dr. Sullivan doesn’t ask questions. She shifts here and there, rolls her eyes to the ceiling. Pockets the lighter and then yanks open a drawer to look inside it briefly. Once it’s closed, she makes a gesture with her hand. Nomi gathers that means they’re done.

As she stands, however, Nomi cannot help but say, “I know you and Ben slept together.”

She isn’t exactly sure where that statement comes from and why.

She had been thinking about it the entire time, which felt a little voyeuristic and weird. But thinking of the professor and Benny together was not the same as when they’d be at a party and he’d shift awkwardly and look at someone and she’d know that very someone was once a someone that Ben slept with. It was not the same as a pretty girl with artfully disheveled hair or even a handsome man with pretty eyelashes and it wasn’t really the gender either that mattered at the end of the day, especially to Nomi—it was simply that Ben had told her about Dr. Sullivan in a way that made it more like an enjoyable story.

Kind of the craziest encounter of my life, he’d said. No awkward guilty twist to his mouth, or big expressive regret on his features. Bunny is insane, I didn’t think I’d walk straight again.

Dr. Sullivan had been fairly nonchalant the entire encounter. The fidgeting had felt more prompted by boredom than anything else. Her button up was silky looking, open at her throat. She had a blazer on the back of the chair that looked comfortably expensive but worn, like it was a favorite. Her hair was streaked with the sort of gray that made someone look dignified and handsome.

Nomi’s statement made her twitch so minuscule that perhaps anyone else might not even have noticed. Whether it was embarrassment, amusement or respect, Nomi could not say.

“How the fuck did you get into this building?” Dr. Sullivan replies instead. It makes Nomi fish out the lanyard from her bag. She dangles it proudly. A badge swings back and forth.

“RFID is ridiculously easy to copy. I bought a reader from a hotel night auditor who was selling it cheap; we’d been friends online for a while, actually so it was fine. I took Ben’s badge and made my own—the photo is my passport photo.” She steps closer, in case Dr. Sullivan wants to look. She makes it evident that she does not by continue staring at Nomi. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to go into the secret labs that he has access too. I just didn’t feel like being held up in getting to your office. And also,” Nomi loops the lanyard around her neck. She steps back and raises her arms in a sweet little tada! pose.

“I just love these things. Don’t they make you feel so, like, official, yeah?”

For the first time, Bunny smiles. It is just a simple lift of the corner of her mouth, but it is a smile.

***

Josie is having a bad day.

From the chai latte that had been prepared wrong at the local cafe she frequented regularly (and what was the point in going to a family owned business instead of a corporation, if they couldn’t get a chai latte correct? Which was what she’d said to the manager as they remade it, and she felt vindicated with that statement still) to the email she’d not opened yet, glaring at her from her phone.

The subject line had been simply “Ad hoc meeting” and the little preview line had been her name and “I believe this is a discussion best had in person”. It made her sweat under her arms immediately, which was awful for the cotton sweater that she’d selected that morning. Truman had kissed her on the cheek goodbye as he left for work, careful of the soft cream blush she used to make her sallow skin look a little more alive. He was truly the only good part of her day and she’d still been sad when he’d turned and she saw that little balding spot. Hair growth for men was a frequent Google search of hers these days.

She hip checks the door to her lecture hall open, foot steps a frantic pace as she starts for the desk.

That is occupied. That is occupied with none other than the long legged, cold eyed Bunny Sullivan.

“Oh,” she says in a voice far too surprised. That moment of unintentional weakness feels like an immediate target; and Bunny has the nose of a shark. Josie thinks of her that way. Like a giant hammerhead that keeps circling above them all, too much sway and too much ego. Josie’s steps slow as she gets to her desk. She notices a box on it. All of her things are inside. Her stomach starts to turn cold. Her fingers feel numb at the tips. Truman had so much hair when we’d first met, is an odd intrusive thought as she stares at Bunny.

“Dr. Sullivan. What a pleasant surprise.”

“You’re a bad liar,” Bunny replies, a fist tucked under her chin. She spins a stapler on the desk. “I’m taking this, by the way. I didn’t see anything else I wanted in your junk—but I owe Happy a new one. Broke the last, slapped it shut so hard it cracked. You know he parked in my spot for a solid month after I did that? He is such a cocky bastard, don’t you think?”

“Diondre is—”

“Oh, so it’s not just your students?”

“Pardon?”

Josie remembers accidentally finding herself in conversation with Bunny at a holiday party once before. Prior to that exact moment, she’d always thought people were lying when it came to Dr. Sullivan. Oh, not that she was an enormous, painfully rude bitch. Josie believed that—but she thought that people had to be exaggerating her wit. She thought a verbal spar with someone could be fun, because Josie was used to sniffing her way through them with her nose tilted up. She was usually the one winning.

And that holiday party had proved her so instantly, miserably wrong. Bunny spoke like she had daggers instead of words. She feinted in and quickly stab, stab, stabbed at things people said. She kicked the corpse of the conversation aside and started a new one. She made Josie feel small and wilting.

Bunny stands from the desk. Her hand closes around the edge of the box with all of Josie’s little things. It gets shoved to the edge. Josie has to reach out, to stop it from tipping over.

“When you’re back from your leave,” Bunny starts, straightening to a height that is far too willowy. She bends so easily over Josie, who is in ballet flats, who has always been shorter than everyone else and never found that a detriment until this precise moment. “You’re never fucking with one of mine again. And you’ll know which ones are my mine—you know which one is my mine, in your awful, boring, underfunded excuse of a course—”

“Dr. Sullivan, I’m sure—”

“You can call me Bunny,” she says, her smile like a threat. “And you call him Ben.” There is a long, stale silence that falls between the two professors. Bunny looks inside the box and then tilts her head, with raised surprised brows. “Actually, I’m taking this too.” She plucks a notebook free. CATS, COFFEE AND CURRICULUM is printed across the front.

Then Bunny walks away from Josie, the sound of her shoes clipped and loud on the lecture hall floor.

***

Nomi is panting into Maran’s mouth, their faces close as their bodies slide like puzzle pieces fitting together. Not yet kissing, the lingering taste of it on her tongue still. The concentration on his brow is so endearing it makes her heart twinge. His hands roam endlessly, like he cannot find one place to put them on her when he wants all of her. His body between her thighs feels solid and warm and good in a way that is making her dizzy. She breaks the nearly there contact of their mouths to tilt her head back and moan his name in the way she knows encourages him for harder.

“I missed you so much,” is how he groans, head tucked into her neck. Her hands draw up his back, the weight of him pressing into her, down on her, suddenly getting her right fucking there.

And when they’re done, messy with the blankets all sorts of tangled around them, she spends the same amount of time pressing kisses across his face. Maran’s deep, magenta blush only makes her continue. She kisses each brow and then his nose and pulls back simply to grin down at him. His hand nestles to her lower back, fingers soothing. She doesn’t usually like the tacky sensation of sweaty bodies like this, but she had missed him like a physical part of her had been pulled out from her ribs when he’d boarded that fucking plane.

She lays across his chest, both their hearts slowly calming down together.

“I missed you too,” she tells him. Maran’s hand cups her cheek. She leans against it. The eight hour plane ride had been worth it. Not just for the sex—but Jesus, did she realize how much she had missed sex with Maran, because it was a different breed than with Benny, it was this hungry romantic thing that made her feel like a paperback heroine in a romance novel, the kind of protagonist that always cums first. But for this, to be on him, to be close to him and seeing him.

And their moms meeting tomorrow, which felt awkward and funny at the same time. It had been a good excuse to take a holiday to the UK.

“Will you dye my hair for me tomorrow?” Maran asks, sleepily, his eyes shuttered for a moment. She leans in, breasts pressed against his chest so sensually that it makes his eyes snap open.

“Maran,” she says, mouth in a wide grin. Her lipstick has smudged in a way that is erotic. She’s left evidence of herself all over him. “I love you.”

She makes a soft squeaking sound when she is bundled into powerful arms and rolled onto her back and then the kisses are returned, all over her.

—

Sounds wake her up. Nomi is usually a heavy sleeper; Benny often was able to put music on in the background while he studied and she slept in his bed, curled around his pillows like they were him. He had an odd laundry-scent about him, like he was habitual about keeping things clean, and she liked that. But it’s not Benny’s bed she’s in, nor his pillow she has crushed to her chest.

She blinks a few times. Her hair is messy, in her face. She swats at it, groans and lifts herself up a bit. Sunlight pours across the floor from a window, but Maran smartly has his bed pushed against a wall so that light hasn’t touched them just yet. The sound of traffic outside is light.

“Sorry,” Maran whispers, fingers brushing hair back from her face and gently tucking dark blue strands into place behind her ear. Nomi blinks more, makes a sound again, because she hasn’t found words just yet. She looks at the phone in his hand, a call waiting screen there. Nomi forfeits the pillow to scoot closer and lean her head on Maran’s chest.

“Who?” she mutters. Sleep is just a moment away, she can feel it. Not really conscious, entirely. Her body feels bone deep tired from the travel and the sex they’d had…more than once her first night there. She yawns and scrubs her cheek against his soft skin. Nomi’s hand sneaks across his abdomen and finds a comfortable spot to rest, right underneath his belly button. His body hair is a little coarse, and it’s texture feels oddly soothing.

“Benny,” he answers softly. She makes a noise to prompt him further. “He always calls me at eight.”

“Why are you up at eight?”

“Because he calls me at eight.”

Nomi braces herself up a bit more to look at Maran. He’s bright when he’s awake. A morning person, for some reason. He looks unbelievably handsome in the dull wash of the phone light. Only he would be able to pull that off. She leans in and presses a kiss to his jaw. Moves it to his lips. They are as sweet tasting as they were before, when he’d kissed her in the airport. When he’d kissed her on the train, and in his bedroom. When he’d kissed her, their hips rolling together.

The call connects at that very moment.

“Wow, keep going.” His voice sounds wavy and distant. Nomi tilts her head, lips still pressed to Maran to catch a glimpse of the tiny version of their boyfriend on the screen. She briefly covers it with her palm, making exaggerated kissing sounds. “Fuck you, p-put Maran on.”

“Someone is in a bad mood,” Nomi sings, falling back into the comfortable spot she’s nestled into Maran’s chest.

“I’m h-having a good day actually.”

“What happened?”

“I bl-blew something up in th-the living room and made Xavier almost p-piss.”

Nomi doesn’t contribute to the early morning conversation. In fact, she falls asleep quickly again. Comforted that Benny, alone as he is without them, is having a good day because he blew something up. Comforted, really, deep down, by the thought that Benny without them is still Benny and okay. She falls asleep with her hand tucked onto the softest vulnerable part of Maran’s stomach and both of them talking.

***

“You look like shit, Benson.”

“I showered,” Benny explains, gesturing toward the abnormally fluffy hair on his head. It’s light and airy like downy duck feathers, maybe because he’d stolen Lark’s fancy hair products. It made him smell like cold, spring water which must drive hot art students crazy, or something. He jerks his hand back and forth over the top of his head in an attempt to make it the greasy mess it usually is. Bunny watches with flat eyes.

“Do that regularly and you might get a third significant other. Bit fucking greedy don’t you think? Have to start saving some of the cute ones for your other pathetic STEM peers.”

“Two is enough,” Benny replies languidly, throwing his legs out in front of him and getting comfortable. “She’s visiting him in the UK. I’m sle-sleeping better, believe it or not.”

“I didn’t ask, and I don’t care.”

“That reminds me.” He suddenly heaves himself up and out of the chair. Benny pats himself down, like he’s looking for something, when he knows exactly where it is. He holds up a finger. Bunny looks horribly unamused, in a way that actually means he should hurry. So he does. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls a card from it. Benny leans forward and slowly puts it on her desk. He uses one finger to slide it toward her.

“Does this look like a trash bin?”

“Sometimes. When yo-you’re really busy.”

Bunny leans over to look at the baseball card. It’s worn thin at the edges, the print on it dull and old. It’s yellowing here and there, because he’d never bothered to put it in a plastic sleeve. Benny feels suddenly like snatching it back and shoving it into his pocket. Nevermind, he thinks. Half out of embarrassment and half because…

“That was the f-first baseball card I bought with my own money,” he explains. Benny shoves the chair behind him so he can start for the door. “It’s Antonio Reyes. Yo-You don’t fuck with baseball, do you?”

“I reiterate, Benson. Does this look like the fucking trash bin?”

“Reyes wa-was my favorite when I was a kid. Batted so bad it was nearly fucking negative. He g-got caught with his head between a Brazilian models legs at a club.” Benny’s grin goes lopsided and amused. It doesn’t have his usual sneak to it, not the glint of meanness that he carries like a barrier. “The Brazilian model was a man—and the c-club was a gay club. His team had a p-press conference saying he wasn’t a faggot—well.” Benny tilts his hand back and forth.

“They didn’t u-use the word, Reyes did. He stood up and said, actually, I love sucking cock. And he got dumped p-pretty quick after that.”

Bunny stares at the card. He doesn’t tell her that it has survived nearly a decade in his wallet.

“Anyway,” Benny turns toward the door to her office. He yanks it open. “Thanks, Dr. Sullivan.” Then he closes it too quickly for her to reply, no matter what sort of reply it would have been.

—

The card goes into the trash next to Bunny’s desk.

She replies to a few emails. None of them get a nice response.

She sips her cooling, sludge like black coffee. She thinks about the cigarettes in her desk. Bunny looks out the window to the side, where fat, pink clouds slide across a dying horizon. She replies to another email, deletes a few more that aren’t worth even reading.

Then she leans over and quickly finds the card in the trash. She places it on the desk and stares down at Antonio Reyes. There is a thumb print in the corner. She can imagine a smaller version of the man who had just left her office—not thoroughly, mind, because she doesn’t have the mental fucking energy to truly imagine and nor would she really want to imagine Benson at fourteen, in a bodega, using whatever shit allowance he got as a kid to buy this card— but she can imagine.

The importance of a stolen piece of queerness, to someone like Benny. She can imagine, but she doesn’t because something in her heart feels maladjusted and thumping wrong, what that sudden filthy evocative, proudly loud statement had done for someone like Benny as a kid. The loss of an entire professional career, because Antonio Reyes had simply refused to deny what it meant to be himself. Even if himself was a fucking weirdo that sucked off models at gay clubs in the seventies. To each their own, or whatever.

She tucks the baseball card next to a stack of books.

Bunny keeps the card safe inside a hardcover copy of one of her favorites.

[zorkaya-moved]

" i understand the art of dying now!" the chief of minos loses her composure, " you have made your point! everything of mine is yours. " ( chief crina to oak for unhinged oak needs thank u )

@sortilegii

But does Crina understand it? Does she truly understand now what it means to die and witness the helplessness that come from finally crossing that final threshold? There is All of these reckless and self-sabotaging heroes or self-indulgent warriors, they all will sink deep into the abyss of death. The sinking sensation of how life seeps out of you, how your body turns cold, and how you no longer can turn back? It makes Oak Casket wonder, watching the woman in front of her scream, agonize the previous experience and showcase how much she does not wish to experience it again.

This fear, this emotion, this breaking of character and this honest and earnest scream. She will be reckless, she will continue to live dangerously, she will bring her the death she wants and yearns for. The reason for Syndicates' chaos stands before the Chief of Minos, the MBCC's shackle and the person who is seen as a little monster. A monster, a savior, a tool, a presence that is both a blessing and a curse. The holder of Shackles is a woman of such good nature yet such stubborn mind that it makes the Listener smiles in satisfaction.

The usually frigid yet soft smile that appears on Oak Casket's face is one of chill, a showcase that the one who stands before Chief is having a good time. The time in the MBCC remains quite boring when she was not out in the battlefield, the sound of screams and bullets and fight and the abyssal whispers returns her 'home' in the depths of Syndicate's core.

But does Crina understand that she really is hers? Or is it said to make her step away and not reach her hands out to cup the Chief's face. Her gloved hands reach out, the outburst not making her twitch or react at all. The voice of Crina is beautiful when she lets her emotions ring through the empty room. The 9th Agency cannot scare her with their tactics, Langley has tried and it was worthless but Oak promised to answer to Chief's questions and words. Thus, she keeps the woman's face cupped in her hands, proud and indulged for this one time.

"Mhmm, is that so?" Ignoring the previous loss of composure, Oak studies Crina's face closely and hums in appreciation. Eyes of two colors, despite being contact lenses, shine with cold light despite her seemingly soft and elegant appearance, behavior, visage. There is no warmth in her being, no reaction and an emotionless gaze but her lips are still curled into that small appreciative smile. Her hands are cold even through gloves, she is the vessel for death and the whispers from the abyss. Someday, Mania will eat her alive and there will be nothing left, no one to listen to those pitiful and lost cries. "Are you saying that because you're afraid of me, Chief? There is no need to be. I simply remind you not to be reckless."

[nelliemelba95]

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[politemagic]

The Haunting of Sleep Manor: Chapter III

II has a strange dream. A priceless chandelier is destroyed. Vessel knows he needs to tell the others about what he's experienced, but there are still things left to uncover at Langley Manor.

Masterlist

2.2k words | ao3

a/n: this story is turning into a much bigger beast than I initially intended, so I thank you all for your patience & support as I've been writing! your kind words have meant the absolute world to me, I hope you continue to enjoy the spooky adventures.

II was trudging down a path in the woods, the ground slowly turning from coarse dirt to a thick black sludge that clung to his bare feet, reluctant to let go with each step he took. But II had to keep going. He always had to keep going.

Vessel’s voice bounced off the tree trunks, his shrieks stabbed themself into II’s ears and blood began to trickle down the column of his throat. It was unlike any sound he’d ever heard from Vessel’s mouth: it was a soul-crushing, heart-wrenching wail filled with a pain that was so palpable it made it difficult for II to breathe. When he tried to call out to him, he found only silence in the space where his voice should have been. 

The woods grew dark around him, a kind of unnatural darkness you’d imagine comes to you on your deathbed. II could feel tears streaming down his cheeks, blood oozing from his ears, he continued to fight against the seemingly sentient ground beneath his feet. The black sludge beneath his feet grew thicker, tearing the skin from his soles, gripping his ankles like a demon determined to drag him down to Hell.  He tried again to call out to Vessel, determined to find him in this horrific place, but once again his voice box was empty, no sound passing his lips. He wrenched his foot from the sludge, yet this time it did not let go. Instead, it snapped II’s foot right back beneath its opaque surface, sending him toppling backwards.

The sludge welcomed his fall with open arms. The mysterious substance quickly engulfed him, and II watched in horror as his body disappeared before his own eyes, sinking lower and lower into the void of darkness until only his face remained above the surface. Vessel’s wailing cries grew louder as he was submerged. He tried to wriggle free, desperate to free himself and find his friend. But he knew he didn’t have much time as he felt the pressure of the sludge around his chest mounting quickly. It began to creep into his ears, teasing the seam of his lips as it consumed him, dragging him away from Vessel. The only consolation was that the sludge managed to muffle the sound of his screams, the sound of his failure, though it seemed to have a voice of its own that flooded into II’s mind as he lost himself in the darkness.

“You have finally come home to me, II.”

The sound of the familiar voice nearly stopped II’s heart. Without thinking he parted his lips to reply, and the sludge wasted no time in claiming his insides as it had claimed his limbs. It rushed down his throat, flooded his veins and began to devour everything that he was, everything he knew.

II’s eyes shot open, his breath coming out in short gasps as his body thrashed against the couch cushions, believing them to be the same darkness from his dream. It took him a moment to collect himself and regain full control of his limbs, the cold sensation of the sludge still receding from his body. Finally he swung his legs over the side of the couch and the sensation of the cold floor against his feet snapped him into reality. He glanced around the empty living room which was faintly illuminated by the warm morning sun leaking in through the curtains. He assumed everyone else had already woken up and tried to push himself to his feet but felt a sharp pain shoot up his legs from the bottoms of his feet, causing him to drop back down onto the couch in surprise. He carefully lifted his foot to examine it, and found the sole stained completely black, with small pieces of skin peeling away to reveal the raw, red flesh beneath. He found the other to be in identical condition. 

He had to find the others.

II carefully raised himself from his seat, wincing as he felt the sting of the broken skin against the cold floor. He padded out into the hallway, where he could just barely make out a set of voices coming from the kitchen. He poked his head around the door frame, expecting to find the others sitting around the kitchen table chatting like normal, but he found the room empty. He furrowed his brow and began to turn to walk back towards the foyer when he heard a loud crash. He walked as fast as his aching feet could carry him towards the source of the sound, a slight panic blooming in his chest.

II emerged from the hallway to see III careening down the stairs, IV close on his heels. They all stopped dead in their tracks at the sight of the remains of the chandelier that once hung from the ceiling scattered across the floor of the foyer. Vessel was in the doorway to the library, eyes wide in fear as he stared at the broken light fixture, only feet from where he now stood.

“What the hell happened?” II asked, looking between the shards of shattered crystal and Vessel.

“Are you alright?” IV asked, skirting around the broken shards to stand before Vessel, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I was just coming out of the library when…” He trailed off, gesturing from the ceiling to the floor with his hand.

“It’s probably just an old chandelier,” IV said reassuringly. Though something in II’s gut told him that the chandelier didn’t fall from the ceiling at random.

“Oh sure. Yeah, that was just an old chandelier and those were just rats that I heard upstairs yesterday, right?” III replied sarcastically, crossing his arms over his chest. II looked pointedly at Vessel, who was already looking at him when he spoke again.

“There’s some things I need to tell you about.” Vessel said seriously, looking between the three of them before walking into the living room, nodding his head for them to follow.

“What’s going on, Ves?” IV asked softly as he, II, and III sat shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch in front of Vessel, who took a seat on the floor. 

“There’s more. About the house.” Vessel started, taking a deep breath.

“What? Not structurally sound after all?” III said in an attempt to lighten the mood, but the look in Vessel’s eyes had him clamping his mouth shut.

“The house is haunted.” Vessel said simply, and the others looked between each other with concern.

“So, The chandelier…” III began, trailing off when Vessel nodded.

Vessel began to explain what he had seen in the kitchen the day before. The others listened intently, nodding along as Vessel described the ghosts he had seen, the way the one had spoken to him so coldly. 

“I felt unwelcome the second I stepped inside, but she made it abundantly clear herself, too.” Vessel said, rubbing his hand over his chest where he could still feel the unease clenching his chest.

“Well they’re going to have to get over that.” III scoffed.

“She said something about ‘our kind’ making things worse.”

“Fuck’s that supposed to mean?” III asked, feeling anger bubbling in his chest at the thought of being unwelcome in their own home. “She doesn’t know shit about us.”

“Perhaps we’re not the first that Sleep has brought here?” II offered, and Vessel shrugged.

“Whoever came before us, I don’t think Sleep guided them here in the same way… But there is something strangely powerful about this house. I just know it.”

“What do you mean?” IV asked, and Vessel glanced over to II, who nodded his head encouragingly.

Vessel began to tell them the story he’d told II the night before of his encounter with Sleep. III sat perfectly still for a change, only moving to rest his elbows against his knees as he listened to Vessel describe the realization that he was no longer in his physical body. As II listened he felt that same cold from his dream begin to lap at the lesions on his feet, sending a shiver up his spine. When Vessel finished his recollection, II spoke softly.

“He came to me, too.” Vessel’s eyes widened at II’s admission. 

As II told his own tale of his interaction with Sleep, he felt that dreamy cold crawling up his legs, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Is Sleep listening to us? He thought to himself, and a faint voice in his head told him that He was always listening.

“And when I woke up, I noticed this.” II said, looking between them hesitantly before he lifted his foot from the floor. IV and III leaned closer so they could inspect the raw flesh coated in black. IV glanced up at II with a hint of fear in his eyes.

“How could He have done that to you? I’ve never even felt His physical form…” IV trailed off.

“I think something about being in this house makes our connection to Him stronger,” Vessel started, and they could see the gears turning in his mind. “He was able to induce a dream state and He’s never done that before, so I don’t see why He wouldn’t also be able to physically touch us.”

“Maybe that’s why we were led here, if He’s more powerful here.” IV offered.

“I think I know the first step to figuring this whole thing out,” III said, the others turning to look at him. “I think we need to get up to the fourth floor. See if what you saw in your dream was real.”

“It seemed like His living quarters,” Vessel said. “It felt almost like He was inviting me into His bedroom.” 

Vessel heard a gasp, and his eyes snapped to the doorway, where he saw a female ghost he hadn’t seen the day before, and surely he would have remembered her. In contrast to the air of authority surrounding the woman he’d seen in the kitchen, she had an aura of love about her. She was beautiful, the kind of beautiful that would have dropped jaws and turned heads in her lifetime. Her hand was pressed against her chest where he imagined her heart once beat, and she shook her head furiously at him.

“Whether your dream was real or not, I think we can all agree that there’s something up there.” IV said, oblivious to their new listener.

“Oh, so we don’t think they were rats anymore then?” III said with a slight smirk on his lips, earning him a thwack! on the chest from IV.

“We won’t know until we look, will we?” II added with a shrug, turning to see Vessel’s eyes transfixed on the doorway.

“You must stop them!” The ghost cried, breezing into the room to kneel on the floor beside II’s legs. “Please, you will only make things worse.” 

“What do you mean?” Vessel asked her, scrunching his brow.

“I mean, I think the only way to-” II began explaining, only to be quickly shushed by Vessel. II furrowed his brow in confusion, following Vessel’s fixed gaze to the empty space beside the couch, his face melting in understanding.

“You will not learn anything. He will only use you to become more powerful.” The woman replied. 

“What do you know about Sleep?” Vessel asked, his eyes not leaving hers. The others sat in silence as they watched Vessel converse with the invisible woman.

“Is that what you call Him?” She asked softly, almost thoughtfully. “I’ve heard Him called many names over the years.”

“What do you know of Him?” He pressed.

“I think the question here is not what I know, but rather what you know. He has never been so forthcoming before, never shown Himself to anyone. You four seem to be… different from the others.” She conceded, letting her eyes drift over the other three beside her. 

“Different how?” He asked, but she only shook her head.

“The chandelier was supposed to be a warning. You should get far, far away from this place, it is not your home.”

“We were brought here with divine purpose,” Vessel said pointedly to the ghost. “We were brought here in service to Sleep, and we have every intention of staying.”

“Vessel?” III said hesitantly, wanting to understand the context of the one-sided conversation. The ghost’s eyes snapped back to Vessel.

“You’ve given him your name, haven’t you?” She whispered, her eyes widening. She shook her head vigorously, making a cross over her chest as she stood. She cast a pitying glance over the four of them before she disappeared from Vessel’s sight. Vessel felt a sinking feeling in his chest at her reaction and he fully turned his attention back to the other vessels.

“Ghost?” II asked, to which Vessel nodded.

“She seemed afraid of something. She said it was a warning, the chandelier.” Vessel answered. 

“Some fucking warning.” II muttered, shaking his head.

“They’re going to have to do a lot worse than that if they want to get rid of us.” III said loudly, turning his head just in case there was another eavesdropping ghost.

“What are we going to do?” IV asked worriedly, and Vessel just shrugged.

“We’re going to find out what the hell is going on, is what we’re gonna do.” III said with determination, standing from the couch and walking out of the living room.

as always, any comments/feedback are greatly treasured and appreciated <3

taglist: @bucchiarati (if you would like to be tagged in future updates, just let me know🖤)

[nsfwhiphop]

(Second Draft Version) Incoming Text for @priyankachopra & @deepikapadukone :

Hey, Priyanka and Deepika!

Make sure to ask this question:

“Have you ever met Crown Prince Angelo and have you ever seen him face to face?”

And here's what my French lawyers will ask:

“Can you say that again? Just the way you said it? Just the same way.” (Think: Wolf of Wall Street scene).

If they can’t answer these questions, it’s a clear sign they’ve ignored royal protocols, and they’re too scared to face me in front of my lawyers, who will be recording every single word that comes out of their mouths.

Do Americans really think they can get away with their crimes? No, they won’t.

Do British citizens believe they can escape justice? Absolutely not.

Never forget, I’m a French citizen, and I have an army of French lawyers protecting me. No one will get away with their crimes.

I’m surrounded by cops, lawyers, and journalists who guard my Palace. I’m the Black King of an African nation—do they really think they’ll get away with their disrespect? I don’t think so.

Do they think they’ll get away with their theft? Not a chance.

Remember, I have many angry European politicians and police on my side. If anyone from America or the UK tries to disrespect me or tricks me into signing a bogus contract, you better believe my lawyers will catch it.

Why do you think I live in Alsace? I’m here because I have a powerful European army ready to fight corruption and stand with me.

No one will get away with their disrespect. Not one of them.

Anyone from America or the UK who thinks they can walk away from their crimes or disrespect will go home humiliated.

They have no idea how angry we are. We’re ready to launch World War III, because that’s the only way we’ll break free from their debt slavery. We want this war to begin.

The bombs that will rain down on the UK and America will erase them from the world map once and for all.

No one will accept their disrespect any longer. The world is at war, and they’ll either show us respect, or face the annihilation of their countries.

We won’t tolerate their arrogance anymore. They should fear us now. We want World War III to begin because it will collapse their entire economic system, and that will be the end of their rule.

Do you remember the fall of the Roman Empire?

Well, something similar is happening as we speak—the fall of the USA and the UK.

You have no idea how many countries are plotting nuclear attacks on them. They pushed too far with their abusive foreign policies, and now the whole world is furious.

The USA and the UK are walking on a tightrope. One wrong move, and it’s ARMAGEDDON.

No one fears them or their threats. Langley’s CIA team is full of millennials in their twenties and early thirties—they’re just kids, clueless about how to handle the real problems of the USA.

Trust me, I’ve met them—they’re dumb, and you have no idea how dumb they are.

The American nation is sinking. Have you seen the migrant crisis? The shootings? Their politics have become a circus—it’s not the America of the 80s or 90s anymore.

Look at the old American politicians of the 80s and 90s, they would all confirm it: Washington D.C. has become a clown show, full of puppets of the Anti-Christ.

This is the apocalypse. Americans will either fight for their faith or perish.

All that patriotic talk about the 'home of the brave' is out the window now because they’re heading into a CIVIL WAR, and not one of their media outlets is acknowledging it. Can you believe that?

America is home to the mentally insane. They act like their country will last forever. Newsflash: NO, IT WON’T.

They’ve angered so many countries. They’ve disrespected so many people worldwide. It’s only a matter of time before they’re annihilated by a nuclear bomb.

How can they claim America will last forever? Look at how it was built. Go back to the Cowboys era in the 1700s. Remember the Cowboys? No roads, no cars, and they lived just like people in Africa.

Then, from the 1850s to the 1950s, they started building skyscrapers and roads for cars. And since then, they’ve been stealing from other countries to build luxurious cities like NYC, L.A., and Vegas.

But how long can you steal from defenseless countries and get away with it? Do they think that’s sustainable? How long can they keep this up? No one asks these questions, they just keep enjoying the perks of being American citizens.

They have no idea that there are 6 billion people on Earth plotting the end of America and the UK.

If the Roman Emperors were alive today, they’d ask:

“So, tell me, you’ve built all these luxurious cities in the USA and UK by stealing from 6 billion people worldwide? And how long do you think they’ll let you get away with your war crimes and corruption before they snap and go kamikaze on your two nations? We Romans were never that stupid. We had some decency and common sense.”

The dumbest politicians in the world are from America and the UK. They have no clue about the global anger brewing against them.

The rest of the planet is plotting their downfall.

Have you seen the British economy lately?

Okay, I think you get my point now. I’ll end the convo here.

The days of the USA and UK dictating global policies are over.

The European Union wants World War III because they want to conquer America, just like in the old days. Remember when America was divided—Mexicans fought in the south, the British in the north, and Europeans fought in other states? Oh, yeah. It’s happening again.

The end.

Angelo (Crown Prince) (Yeah, I said it. Tell ‘em I said that)

P.S.:

Synopsis of the dialogue between Crown Prince Angelo and @priyankachopra and @deepikapadukone :

The dialogue is a powerful and confrontational message from Crown Prince Angelo addressing the disrespect and crimes committed by American and British citizens. Angelo emphasizes his position as a French citizen protected by a formidable legal team, police, and political allies in Europe, especially in Alsace. He accuses America and the U.K. of corruption, theft, and global disrespect, warning that these nations will face severe consequences for their actions.

Angelo references potential nuclear attacks and the fall of both the U.S. and U.K., likening their downfall to the fall of the Roman Empire. He criticizes the current state of American and British politics, calling their politicians ignorant and incompetent. He expresses frustration with their foreign policies and suggests that global anger is brewing, with many nations plotting their collapse.

The dialogue calls for a reckoning, with Angelo warning that World War III is inevitable and necessary to liberate nations from debt slavery and end the dominance of America and the U.K. He believes that the collapse of these nations is imminent due to the global rage against their corrupt practices.

In conclusion, Angelo asserts that no one will get away with their disrespect or crimes, and that the world is on the verge of drastic change, where the powerful nations of the past will be brought down by a united global opposition.

[averagejoesolomon]

Surprise! Here's a little bit of an early drop for y'all, because this is a weird time of year and I never know how much time I actually have. Please enjoy the kids, doing what they do best. If you're new here, you can read Full Circle from the start on Ao3. Enjoy!

Chapter Four

In total, Matt has seventeen passports. His first was acquired honestly in his senior year of high school, in preparation for a baseball invitational in Winnipeg. Since then, he’s collected eleven from the Office of Technical Services, four from a US-sympathizing forger out east, and two from one of Joe’s old contacts, about whom Matt doesn’t ask too many questions. 

Only two passports actually show Matthew Morgan printed as first and last name, and while he’d like to say he can account for both, the truth is he ain’t seen either in years. One is locked in a safe deposit box at the National Bank of Washington and the other is on file at Langley, ready to be duplicated and altered at a moment’s notice. They ought to be secure, but there’s no telling for sure. Not with the kind of enemies Matt’s made. Not with the kind of year he’s had.

There’s a moment, isolated against the cold white porcelain, when Matt thinks he ought to off himself quick before the Soviets get the chance to draw it out. But then he spits, and literally flushes that thought down the drain.

By the time he staggers back into the main room, he’s lost all of his breakfast. His mouth is coated with the bitter taste of coffee sent the wrong way over, and he suspects a sour egg yolk has taken up residence in his throat. His heart races. His nerves fray. He needs to call Joe, but the phone is still in pieces.

“Matthew.”

Amid the spiral of chaotic thoughts, her voice acts as the pole that draws his compass northward. The panic subsides just long enough to spot her beside the sink, a half-empty glass of water held out to him with her usual expectant expression. He obligingly crosses the room and takes a healthy swig. Swishes away the lingering tang. Swallows. With a sheepish, sideways glance at Rachel, he says, “I reckon this is the part of the mission where you ask how I could have let this happen.”

He can feel her eyes on him, heavy. “No,” she says, hip leaning into the countertop. She tries to look him in the eye, but Matt keeps his attention locked on the cool silver shine of the sink. His stomach still turns, and he ain’t confident in his ability to keep anything down. “This is the part where I tell you how we get it back.”

Rachel is a lot of things—strong, stubborn, loyal, fierce. Divinely smart and a viciously good spy. Beautiful, lovely, and passionate. But she is not an optimist, and she never has been. She usually leaves that sort of thing to Matt, letting him run his mouth about bright sides and silver linings while she focuses on the infinitely more critical work of seeing the world as it truly is, ugliness and all. He doesn’t want to think about how dire things must be if the two of them have switched roles. “Rachel,” he says, spitting once more into the sink. “It’s Moscow.”

In Matt’s head, this is an ironclad argument, but it’s shut down the moment Rachel reaches out to him. Two fingers pull at the far side of his face, right where his jaw meets his chin, as she turns his gaze toward her. All of his scattered, aimless nerves gravitate toward the single point of her touch, settling in unison against the resolve in her voice. “We’re going to get it back.”

And Rachel’s not an optimist, so maybe this ain’t a pleasantry. Maybe it’s just a fact.

There’s something especially striking about her, in the early morning glow of Moscow. Something about how the kitchen’s low, golden light settles against her skin, or catches in her tired eyes, or leaves feathered shadows along the soft curves of her brow, her nose, her lips. He can’t pull away from the feel of her, doesn’t want to anyway—and ain’t it something, that for all her might, she can pin him to a single spot with just two fingers?

“You weren’t afraid of this mission before your name was involved, and you shouldn’t be now,” she goes on. “You have to trust me.”

And he wants to. And he tries. But there are bugs in the wall, and curtains over the windows, and an ache in Matt’s gut that won’t go away, no matter how tender her touch. “No,” he says. “You have to trust me. The rules are different here.”

“I know.”

“You can’t always plan for every little thing that happens in the Soviet Union.”

“I know.”

When her hand falls, his jaw aches with a want that radiates down to the marrow in his bones. He has half a mind to reach out and hold her in place, hold her close, hold her steady. But the other, saner half remembers that Rachel could throw him straight over her shoulder if given a reason, so he reels his thoughts back into place. “I don’t see a way out of this,” he confesses. “Not one where we all walk out of the country alive.”

“You don’t have to,” she tells him. “That’s what you have me for.”

She says this with another one of her casual touches, leaving two dismissive pats at the center of his chest. His heart rate spikes in response, and maybe it’s more of that wanting, but maybe it’s more of that anger—that righteous and argumentative fury that always seems to spark between the two of them. It’s hard to tell the difference, when it comes to Rachel, and before he can identify one or the other, she’s already calling out to the room. “Grace, Abe,” she says, and the newlyweds round the kitchen cabinets, as though they haven’t been eavesdropping on every word. “Let’s talk logistics.”

Matt hangs his head, and tries again to get through. “Rachel.”

“Abe,” she starts instead. “You’ll be responsible for getting us where we need to be. I’ve secured entry into our perimeter, but we’ll need some of your charm to get us beyond the velvet ropes—basements, restricted hallways, dressing rooms, the works.”

“Roger,” Abe replies.

Matt tries again. “Rachel.”

“Grace,” she goes on. “It’s on you to get us out. You’ll need to think on your feet, so the only thing I want you focused on is the number of exits, and how close they are to each agent—including theirs.”

“Understood,” says Grace.

And tries again. “What am I, chopped liver? Rachel, listen—”

“Have a seat, Matthew,” she says, and there ain’t no mistaking the tone. Frigid, and callus, and professional, same as she’s always been. “If you’re going to pick apart every detail of the plan I’ve spent months developing, it might help to know what they are first.”

Abe glances at Grace. Grace glances back at Abe. And Matt does his damnedest to remember it’s rude to fight in front of company. 

To her credit, Rachel reads the room and shifts to a softer approach. “You’re too close to this one,” she insists. “You need a big picture view.”

Matt has been doing this long enough to know she’s right. The moment his name got involved was the moment he became an asset, rather than an agent, and he ought to be awfully grateful to have Langley’s best and brightest agent on his case. Maybe he ain’t in his right mind, and Rachel’s always had a better mind than him to begin with. Maybe she’s got clarity tucked away in her back pocket, and she just needs a chance to unfold all the questions and flatten all the creases. “Alright,” he cautions, taking his seat at Rachel’s table. “Walk me through it. Start at the beginning—where’s the trade happening?”

“The Bolshoi Theatre.”

Or maybe he’s surrounded by fools. “Christ almighty.”

This last part is supposed to stay in his head, but it slips through the cracks of a bad night’s sleep and lands in the shattered remains of a two-year-old fight. Just like that, they’re back in Baltimore, finishing what they started. “Problem?”

“It’s just that for a minute there, I thought you said the Bolshoi.”

“I did say the Bolshoi.”

“The Bolshoi Theatre,” he reiterates. “The same Bolshoi Theatre regularly visited by the Kremlin? The same Bolshoi Theatre used to bribe members of the KGB? Famously one of the most contentious venues in one of the most contentious cities in the world—that Bolshoi?”

Finally, he spots that familiar set in her jaw. “It’s not like I chose the place. That’s where the drop is scheduled.”

Righteous fury. “We’re not infiltrating the Bolshoi.”

A woman, scorned. “By all means, let’s call up our targets and let them know.”

“We can intercept before they get to the venue.”

“I don’t know where they’re going to be, before.”

“After, then.”

“Are you not hearing me?” She raises her voice, as if he needs the help. “I don’t know where they’re going to be before, or after, or two weeks from this Tuesday. I know when and where the drop is. That’s it.”

In this business, there are always words that go unsaid. Stories that go untold. It’s part of the gig. Matt lives and breathes the horrors of the Bolshoi, with its political undercurrent that swells with increasing power each passing day. Tickets exchanged for unthinkable deeds against mankind. Diplomats beaten in the shadowed corners of the cavernous backstage. Dancers with their legs snapped in two, at the hands of hired muscle. Matt’s informants have disappeared on the Bolshoi’s front steps, and he’s found men bleeding in the Bolshoi’s back alleys, but he can’t say any of that. Not without exposing the extent of his work. So instead, he settles on, “The Bolshoi is bad news,” and hopes that she hears all of the stories beneath it. “I mean it, Rachel. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

She holds out a hand to the kitchen, emphasizing the crowded countertops, the covered cabinets, the mission notes stuck to the fridge. “Look around you,” she says. “Five months of planning, drafted and cleared by some of the best minds in the CIA. I’ve run through every possible scenario, I’ve weighed every possible risk. We’re not throwing that all away based on the gut reaction of a compromised agent.”

“I ain’t compromised.”

“You just hurled this morning’s breakfast into the toilet.”

“You need to listen to me on this.”

“It’s a good plan.”

“It ain’t about how good your plan is.”

“Then what is it about?”

That’s a damn good question. One that’s been inside his head for so long that it feels strange to hear it aloud, and out of Rachel's mouth to boot. It’s like their arguments never seem to land in the right spot, perpetually off-center from whatever fight they’re actually aiming for. The words are never right. The jabs are never straightforward. They always get caught up in these sideways tangents that never seem to loop around to things they’re actually angry about. 

So Matt tries to get to the heart of it. “I need you to trust that I know what I’m doing.” He’s not sure when he started standing again. Not sure when he closed the distance between his anger and hers. Something about their fights pulls him closer, closer, closer, until he’s certain she can hear him. She needs to hear him. “I need you to trust that I can take care of you, the same way you take care of me.”

And she wants to. And she tries. The effort of it twists into her features, truly nervous for the first time since he’s known her. She squirms against her stoic stance, fingers fidgeting in and out of fists while her face grows long. But her eyes—her eyes stay fixed on him. “I don’t need taking care of,” she says, but it’s another one of those off-center tangents. “I just need to get your passport back. And this is how we do it.”

Matt’s answering laugh ain’t born of humor, but of disbelief. It’s dry, and cold, and comes with the shake of his head. “Okay, look. Either I’m your go-to guy, or I’m not. Either I’m your Soviet expert, or I’m not.” He waits for her input, one way or another, but it doesn’t come. “You brought me here to advise, so let me advise. I need you to listen to me, please. Just listen to me, even if it’s only this one time. The Bolshoi is a bad move.”

When her eyes finally fall, she collects her nerves and centers herself once more. No more fidgets. No more squirming. Her voice is solid when she says, “I don’t have any other moves.”

“Of course you do. You’re Rachel Cameron.”

“I’m not a miracle worker. I don’t have any other moves.”

“Joe always says—”

“I don’t give a damn,” she snaps, “what Joe Solomon says.”

And it sure doesn’t get any more straightforward than that.

The usual defenses line up in Matt’s mind as easy as state capitals, ready to be rattled off in alphabetical order. Joe is a force for good. Joe is his friend. Joe is the key to bringing down bad people. Joe is worth all of the second chances he gets. But Matt doesn’t get any of them out before Rachel turns heel toward their shared bedroom. She slams the door with the strength of an agent and the practice of a spoiled heiress, and if there are any Soviets listening in on missed bugs, they surely flinch with the sheer force of the sound. Matt certainly does.

His head is spinning for entirely different reasons now, which is why he slumps back into a dining chair and buries his face in his hands. In Rachel’s absence, Matt’s waning irritation gives way to regret until it fills him from the bottom up, escaping in a long and languishing groan.

The Baxters look on, taking their single seat once more and wearing something like sympathy in their meager smiles. “Well,” Abe chirps, sipping his tea. “That could have gone better.”

Grace pushes some conciliatory bacon across the table toward Matt and, while the gesture is appreciated, the smell of it sends his stomach flipping. “To be fair,” she allows, “it could have gone much worse.”

Matt runs his hand through his hair until he finally looks as crazy as he feels. “I’m sorry about that,” he says. “We don’t—I mean. I’m just not sure how the two of us keep ending up here.”

Grace grants him a forgiving shrug. “Don’t beat yourself up too badly,” she tells him. “I left my ex in a Chevvron 2-32 without a parachute after we broke up. He had to convince the pilot to land in the Irish countryside, then had to fight off a field of goats and steal a tractor to reach our rendezvous point. The two of you are really quite civil, in comparison.”

While most partners might be concerned about a story like this, Abe doesn’t seem phased by it. In fact, Abe only seems to adore her more. “Don’t talk about your exes, darling,” he pleads, leaving a kiss atop her shoulder. “Makes me absolutely crazy.”

Grace turns to catch his lips in a kiss, before he can go too far. “Of course, love,” she reassures him. “It’s all about you from here on out.”

Afraid he might get pulled into another honeymoon moment against his will, Matt makes quick work of cutting in. “Exes?” he says. “Rachel and I aren’t exes.”

This grabs Grace’s attention, even as Abe continues to leave a trail of casual kisses down her arm. “What do you mean?” she says, on the edge of a laugh. “Of course you are.”

Matt just shakes his head. “Not even a little.”

Her smile drops. “I’m sorry.” Her words are filled with the kind of shock that doesn’t belong to spies. “I suppose I assumed… only that she was so hesitant to call, and the two of you really do fight like lovers.”

Matt’s not sure what that means—fight like lovers. His mama and pops never fought, at least not as far as he could tell. Moreover, Matt’s had girlfriends before, and most of those fights revolved around bonfires at Danny Fisher’s house, or attending the same college, or whatever else had felt important at seventeen. Matt and Rachel don’t fight like lovers. They fight like fire, in bright, blazing flashes that take up all the air in the room.

“Not any lovers I know,” he says. “She’s a tough nut to crack—I’m just not sure how I keep messing things up with her.”

The two of them exchange a look that says, in not so many words, that Matt is an idiot.

“But it seems like you do,” he prompts. “So maybe you could let a fella in on it?”

Matt hasn’t known the Baxters long, but the next ten seconds give him more insight into their relationship than any brief or case file ever could. Their conversation is wordless, as Grace turns to Abe with an imploring look. There’s some protest in his answering glance, but they flash through a silent argument in the time it takes Matt to blink, and finally, Abe relents. “Look, Matt,” he starts. “Rachel trusts you, so we trust you, but you’ve got no earthly idea how this looks on paper, do you?”

Matt’s a pretty smart guy, but he’s got a blind spot here, and he can feel it creeping along the edge of his vision. “Looks on paper?”

With a nod of encouragement from Grace, Abe approaches the subject from another angle. “We haven’t known one another for more than a few hours, and already I’ve gathered that you’re a US agent who spends a suspicious amount of time on Soviet soil, you know the ins-and-outs of the language, the culture, the spycraft, and you’ve got some allies that Rachel doesn’t much care for,” he says. “And with all the agents going missing, identities being sold, and now your name has shown up in the middle of a trade…”

Matt ain’t too fond of the direction this conversation is taking. “You don’t think that I—?”

“No,” Abe says firmly. “I don’t. But in this day and age, with the global environment we have, it’s not unheard of for western agents to shift their allegiance to the east. And you can bet if we noticed your red flags, then other people have, too. People with real power, on both sides of this war. And Rachel knows that.”

“So,” Matt offers, “she’s testing me?”

“So she’s saving your ass, darling.” Grace is more blunt than her husband, words falling out of her as though she can’t keep them back anymore. “She didn’t bring you on this op to advise on the Soviet Union. I’ve never met anyone less in need of advisement. She brought you on so that when Langley, or MI6, or the KGB drag you in for questioning, you can point to this op as proof of where your allegiances lie. So that you can prove, on the record, that you’re working against the Soviets.”

“And frankly, if I were you,” Abe adds, his tone gentler, “I might spend less time arguing about mission semantics, and more time doing whatever it is Rachel Cameron says, whenever she says to do it.”

This op seems to unravel more and more by the minute, and it is a testament to Rachel’s mind that she can keep track of each moving part when Matt can’t even spot them all. His thoughts drift back to the sight of her the night before, frazzled and small. Exhausted. It’s no wonder, with the way she’s gone and layered her life with his. She’s out of patience. She’s out of composure. He can hardly blame her.

So maybe he ought to be easier on her. Maybe he ought to be the easiest thing in her life.

An hour later, when Rachel cools off enough to rejoin them, Matt doesn't put up a fight about the Bolshoi, or the bugs, or anything else Rachel has surely thought of. He just sits, and listens, and listens, and listens.