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activatebutterflyshield · 1 year ago

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I went and did it again! Sorry folks. WIP late day 6, part two of the one I posted two days ago.

Debt (Part 2)

Magpie had already memorized the Lion Queen’s ‘stalking grounds’, a small section of Hawthorn, far away from the conflict-heavy grounds of the Garden Pests and the Ringleaders, but not too far from LAX.

“Probably pick-pocketing the new arrivals and/or getting them hooked on Syrup,” Lily muttered when the techie announced his findings.

“From an objective business standpoint,” Magpie answered, “It’s a sound strategy.”

Harpy rolled his eyes at both of them. “Never mind their business acumen. We need to know what sorts of powers they’ve got.”

Lily huffed at the cloud-haired man. Pouring over dull police reports and sensationalized news articles wasn’t her idea of ‘research’. Cat’s Paw had always teased that she didn’t understand Bureaucrat-ese.

Many more minutes passed, as the wall clock ticked and Swallowtail mindlessly tossed an arrow up and down with its rhythm. Magpie would occasionally call up a crosshairs, preserving a tidbit of information before inevitably flicking it away. Harpy started puffing a thin mist from his nostrils, absentmindedly molding it into various shapes before inhaling it again. Even Lily ended up with a long dead acorn dancing between her fingers as she read report after report about drug dealers and muggers.

In contrast to their restless crew members, Albatross and Midnight Raven both were completely engrossed in the research, only pausing to take notes in pencil on a pad or in the air with a quill, respectively. Lily found herself thinking of the pair as she tried to push past the haze of paranoia the Syrup had given her, struggling to recall their past fights and negotiations.

Raven had always been businesslike and cold in both theaters, fighting for advantage and nothing else. He didn’t hesitate to take an injury if it meant gaining the upper hand, or sacrificing a small holding for a grander prize. Unless it concerned an innocent. She’d seen the Shadowpinner sacrifice a crew member to tip the scales, but never a bystander. There were rumors that he’d stabbed a high lieutenant of the Sawsharks in the chest with a feather for bowling over a construction worker during a scuffle, breaking the civilian’s nose. The man had supposedly turned himself in the day he was able to breathe without a respirator.

Albatross, in almost every way, seemed Raven’s exact opposite, and not just in their color choices. Lily remembered him as talkative in combat, dancing about like the wind despite his size. Red Herring often said that he was the only one that could match them in being ‘hard to catch’ and ‘loud as hell’ both. He’d tried to strike up a conversation with her when the rest of the Murder had left to print the police reports, and though Lily had pushed him away, he still sat next to her by the table. For some reason, behind the paranoia, she knew why he was trying to comfort her. But the Syrup clouded her mind, slowing her thoughts like an ant in tree sap.

Suddenly, Swallowtail leaped up, her hair fanning as arrows manifested in excitement. “JACKPOT!”

She hurried over, quickly tearing the staples holding a packet of paper together. “These are newspaper print outs from around when the Lion Queens first became active. See here, in the classified ads? This one—” an arrow jabbed at small advertisement “—is for ‘Leo Regina Spa‘, and Leo Regina means Lion Queen in Latin! Plus, the address is in the middle of their territory, so it must be their headquarters. It even lists their services as ‘hot stone steaming, deep muscle massages, and herbal treatments’!”

Despite Lily drawing a thorough blank, the rest of the Murder was nodding along as if the ad meant something to them. Swallowtail must’ve caught sight of her face, and she scrambled to explain.

“Oh, right! You don’t know the classifieds code! It’s a gray/black hat thing, but the gangs have adopted parts too. Basically, any crew can take out a classified and put in certain words to send messages to other crews or gangs. In this case, ‘hot stone steaming’ means loansharking, ‘deep muscle massages’ means thugs for hire, and ‘herbal treatments’ mean drugs!”

Evelyn thought she might have overdone it when she saw Lily’s horrified expression. The heroine’s mouth hung open, and one hand twitched towards a nonexistent pocket where, she knew from experience, poison oak seeds usually sat. She’d only seen that look on Lily’s face a few times before, all of them when a villain gang had stepped over the line. Every time, the heroine responded violently.

Without warning, Lily lunged over the table, sending papers flying. Evelyn hit the ground immediately, her chair clattering back, and Lily slid across the piles of print-outs and copies of newspapers. She only made it halfway across when Zachary’s arms caught her in a chokehold.

He dragged her off the tabletop, enduring her kicks and shouts with a grimace. “Let me go, *Shadowpinner*! Let me go! LET ME GO!”

”William!” Raven shouted, dodging her flailing arms, “Help!”

The taller man jumped to his feet, wasting no time grabbing her legs. Victor joined in as well, trying to grasp her arms while avoiding Lily’s injuries. Eventually, she stopped fighting.

“Well then? You’ve got me, *birds*,” Lily huffed, “what’re you gonna do?”

Victor sighed as he spun a cloud to hold her wrists together. “Miss Of the Valley, what do you think we’re gonna do? Sure ain’t gonna leave you in an alley. I spent too much time on those bandages.”

William looked at Lily worriedly. “This must be the Syrup. You wouldn’t normally do this, Lily.”

“Logan?” Zachary asked, trying to ignore Lily’s elbows, “Do you mind keeping a crosshair on her while we go deal with the Lion Queens?”

The techie nodded. Evelyn wouldn’t be surprised if he’d not noticed any of the scuffle, he was so calm. “Sure. Can’t be in my room, though. Too much, uh, y’know. Everything.”

“Where do we put her, then?” William asked, paying no heed to Lily’s squawk at being ignored. “We’ve gotta wait for the Syrup to wear off proper. The garage? The attic?”

Zachary shook his head. “No. Logan, could you get out a map and find 6493 Stanford Avenue? I’m guessing you have no objection to that location, Lily.”

The heroine vehemently shook her head. “Of course not!”

He nodded. “Good. Evelyn, get the station wagon ready. I have to thank you, Lily. Otherwise, I’d never had thought of paying a visit to my old roommate.”

The Murder rolled up to the plain brick building at 6493 Stanford Avenue, sandwiched between an auto repair shop and a truck lot. Lily sat sullenly in the back seat, one of Logan’s crosshairs staring her down, as Zachary walked to the door, pulling up his mask as he went.

A rumpled and bleary-eyed Jamie Jett answered the door, with a far more put-together Oliver O’Connor at her back. “Wha— *Raven*? The hell you doing here at—“ she checked the clock on the wall “—six twenty-nine on a Saturday?!”

Oliver chuckled, not even bothering to hide his face with his mask. “Jamie, anyone else would be awake at this hour. No-one but you goes to bed and five and wakes up at three.”

She grumbled, half heartedly swatting at him with a hand. “Never mind my sleep schedule. I’ll ask you again. What the *hell* are you doin— is that *Lily*?!?”

Zachary sighed. “Yes, that’s Lily London. Yes, she’s in our station wagon. No, we did not kidnap her. No, we don’t want a ransom. She came to us yesterday—“

He didn’t have a chance to finish speaking, as Jamie bolted out the door and started wrenching at the car’s handle. “Let me in, Albatross! Let me in you *birds*!”

Now it was Oliver’s turn to sigh. “She still thinks that’s an insult. I take it that this is serious business?” He gestured at Zachary’s mask.

“Yes, but it will be much easier to explain with everyone together and Ken here to calm down Crescent.”

Both glanced back at Jamie, who was now shouting at Evelyn through the window. The latter was desperately trying to ignore the former, while William struggled to contain his laughter.

Both men sighed in unison. “You’re right. Come on in; we’ve gotta get this all in Jamie’s head before she goes to sleep again.”

Ken was rather surprised to see the Murder in the Wild and Free’s planning room without their masks on, but it was a pleasant surprise. He hadn’t seen Zachary in months.

Lily recounted her story, and besides her trying to play down her lunge at Swallowtail (and Raven’s subsequent dry response), she told everything straight. Jumped by the Lion Queens, let in by Albatross, bandaged by Harpy, and now to be watched over by Magpie as the Murder got even with the gang. But the villains wouldn’t be alone.

“Are we agreed, then?” Zach asked. He looked odd without the beaked mask hiding his mouth and wide black wings framing his face. All of the Murder looked odd without their faces half-hidden, going by first names instead of titles or aliases.

Ken looked to his own crew. Jamie had long stopped sputtering, and was now hugging Lily very protectively, while suspiciously eying Logan’s crosshair. Robin was hugging Lily too, their eyes changing color with every blink. Oliver stood off to one side, and he nodded when Ken met his eyes, ears and tail at rest for once. Ken turned back to his old friend.

“Yes. But we’re still short a few supers, since Lily and Magpie— sorry, Logan, are staying behind. You got any ideas?”

Zach looked puzzled at the question, tapping a finger against his leg. Suddenly, Evie bounced from her spot against the wall, arrows spinning into existence with excitement. “I’ve got an idea! Logan, how many gangs oppose the Queen Lions openly?”

The techie spun up crosshairs in rapid succession, fingers flying faster than they ever did across his keyboards. “A whole lot, but most of that’s on the principle of them being new and the older ones being established. But if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, the Dog Whistles are our best bet.”

As if on queue, all Logan, Evie, and Victor all whistled. Victor even puffed a little mist out as he did so. Zach shook his head with a smile at their antics. “Dog Whistles, eh? You got any debt with them, Ken?”

Ken thought for a moment before responding. “Don’t think so. They’re a bit too criminal for associating with them to be a good business move. But I’m guessing you do?”

A nod. “Quite a bit, actually. One of their co-founders, Bottlenose Timothy Torres, owes Will a car repair, Logan a broken arm, and me… several things. Including backup. More importantly, he hates the Queen Lions with a vengeance. Apparently they got a Syrup hand-off with the Golden Hornets busted by the police. Three capable thugs and one lieutenant gone for twenty years minimum, and a relative paralyzed in the firefight. So he’ll be more than willing to raid the Queens.”

Ken nodded, but some of the Wild and Free weren’t as willing to work with an actual gang.

“The Dog Whistles?” Robin asked, incredulous. “They’re drug dealers! Hitmen! Con artists!”

Jamie nodded in agreement. “They ain’t vigilantes, or gray-hats like you birds. They’re just criminals.”

But as Ken opened his mouth to try and convince them to cooperate, Lily spoke up. “I don’t mind.”

Robin looked at her with surprise. “What do you mean, you don’t mind?”

Lily looked at them, holding their gaze strong. “I don’t mind working with criminals. This is all on my behalf; Zachary said as much. The Lion Queens broke the golden rule, and since I’m not able, you guys are going in my place. But they still broke the rule against me, so I have final say. And I say that I don’t mind working with criminals, if it means getting even.”

Jamie sputtered. “Wha— no, that can’t be how that works, no! Ken, this can’t be how this works!”

Ken sighed. “No, Lily’s right. There’s plenty of precedent for the unable wronged party dictating the actions of those that go in their place. You’re sure you want us to work with the Dog Whistles?”

Lily nodded. “Yes. Anything to get even.”

#worldbuilding #layered earth #writeblr #writblr #prompt response

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wiypt-writes · 4 years ago

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Sunny Side Up

Summary: Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, right? And for Mike, there’s no better way to start it than by eating his favourite thing, ever.

Pairing: Mike Weiss x Reader

Warnings: Smut (NSFW, 18+) Brief mentions of drug addiction- nothing graphic. Language!

A/N: So this was what popped into my head after seeing @imanuglywombat post that damned latest Sex Position as part of her downright filthy and wonderful “Is That Even A Sex Position” weekly challenge. This position is called “The Special Breakfast”. See here for more information. And you can totally blame @sweater-daddiesdumbdork for this one. I wasn’t gonna write it but…yeah, I did. Sorry not sorry. I’ve tried to make the reader as non-descript and as inclusive as I can but I don’t usually do reader x fics so I apologise if it hasn’t quite hit the mark.

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar the reader. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

Tagged my permanent tag list.

Main Masterlist

********

“No, that’s not the same, at all.” Mike’s voice drifted up the hallway of you house as you closed the door behind you, shutting out the bitter January wind that has descended over Dover. “Yeah, well they signed up to the terms so....”

You glanced at your watch, it wasn’t even seven-AM yet and he was already on to someone about the current case he was working. But then, that was Mike all over. An addict, only now you were glad to say the only thing flooding his system was adrenaline and passion for his work.

You hung your jacket up on the pegs by the door, unwrapped your woollen scarf from round your neck and placed that over the hook above your jacket and then reached down to unzip you boots, before toeing them off. Your sock clad feet padded down the wooden floor of the hall towards the kitchen and you walked in to see Mike was bent over a file on the island in the middle, already dressed for the office.

“Clause ninety-one, paragraph twenty, sub-bullet two. Yup. We’ll present that to them today, give them chance to respond.” He paused for a moment, his head turning to you, a warm smile spreading across his face as you leaned over for a quick peck before you headed to the fridge for a soda. “Yeah. Okay, no problem, see you about half eight.”

With that he placed the cordless phone down and turned to face you.

“Morning, Baby.” He grinned, before he nodded to the Diet Coke in your hand. “Interesting choice of drink for breakfast.”

“Technically it’s not my breakfast time.” You shrugged back. “More like dinner, I suppose.”

Mike chuckled as he crossed to space towards you, his hands falling to your hips before he bent down and brushed his lips against yours in a hardly there kiss. “Good shift?”

“A heart attack, car accident, two broken legs, couple of flu cases and a shit tonne of idiotic drunks, the finest Delaware has to offer.” You shrugged. “Usual shit.”

“I don’t know how you do it, Dr Y/L/N”

“Lucky for you I do, or we’d have never met.”

“And I’d be dead.”

“Don’t.” You shook your head, swallowing a little. The memory of that night almost eighteen months ago was still raw. If you hadn’t stopped by at Mike’s that evening following an argument the pair of you had earlier in the day, you’d never have found him almost dead from an overdose. It had been a long road to recovery, and whilst nothing was ever proven, Mike and Paul were convinced that it was something to do with the safety needle case they had been working. Despite the fact that there was enough heroin in his system to stop his heart, Mike swore blind to you he hadn’t taken anything but a few lines that night, and there was something about the way he said it that made you believe him. And so did Paul.

The authorities never managed to prove anything, but there was one good thing to come out of it. When you had broken down and told Mike how scared you’d been that he was going to die and that you couldn’t cope anymore with the constant fear that one day he would kill himself for real, it gave Mike the final kick he needed because he didn’t want to lose you.

So he got clean. And this time he did it for good.

It wasn’t easy, for either of you. Once he was medically fit enough, Mike had been placed on a programme at a Rehab Centre, whereby he saw no one bar trained medical specialists and councillors for six weeks. It felt like the longest six weeks of your life but he did it. And when you went to pick him up, you instantly burst into tears at how different he looked, how better he looked, how healthy he looked.

The road to recovery is a long one, paved with temptations, you knew that being a Doctor. And whilst Mike knew and understood his triggers thanks to his programme, those temptations met him everywhere, especially because he knew exactly where and how to get his fix. So the pair of you agreed to take a fresh start. You traded Texas for Delaware, the State you were originally from, and you were beyond proud to be able to honestly state that Mike Weiss had been clean now for eighteen months. Well, apart from alcohol that is. But even that was enjoyed in moderation, and to be honest, you’d rather him sit at home with a glass or two of bourbon each night that sticking fuck knows what into his veins.

You cocked your head to one side as his hands flexed on your hip and he gave you a little side smile. “Sorry. Oh, hey guess who I got a call from?”

“Who?” You asked as he stepped back, grinning.

“The Alligator Farm. Snappy’s got himself a lady friend. They’re gonna send me some photos and stuff.”

You smiled, giving up that beloved alligator had been a hard sell to Mike. “That’s great.”

“Yeah. Oh and Paul was thinking of coming over with the family in the spring. I said they could stay here, I know it’ll be a squeeze but is that okay?”

“Course it is.” You reached up to cup his cheek. “It’ll be lovely to see them again.”

Mike smiled and dropped another kiss to your lips, this one slightly stronger before you pat his chest as he rest his forehead against yours.

“I need to go shower.”

“Want me to come join you?” He asked, eyebrow raised and you smiled.

“As good as that sounds there’s something else I want more.”

“Oh yeah?” He grinned, his eyes flickering down to the buttons on your blouse and you laughed.

“Calm down, Stud. I want pancakes and bacon, I don’t give a shit what time it’s supposed to be for me.”

Mike groaned as you moved away from where you’d been stood with your back to the large, stainless steel fridge and headed out of the room. He watched you go, the gently sway of your hips in your well fitted black pants made his groin twitch. He was half tempted to fuck your demands and go and jump you in the shower whether you wanted him to or not, but he’d seen the flicker your face had given when you’d described how your twelve-hour shift had gone down. Despite your blasé tone, he knew you too well and understood exactly how tired and stressed you were feeling. So, instead, he turned his attention to making breakfast.

Something he prided himself on was his cooking ability. He’d picked it up pretty fast since you’d moved here, he found it was a welcome distraction, so much so you very rarely made meals now, bar when you insisted on doing a roast which he never argued against. Within fifteen minutes he had a stack of pancakes, bacon, eggs- sunny side up, as you preferred- all laid out on the island and ready for you to help yourself to. He’d just poured you an orange juice when you walked back into the kitchen, hair piled on your head in a messy bun, wrapped in a dressing gown and he was pleased to see you looked relaxed.

“Oh, Mikey, this looks great!” You smiled as he wrapped an arm round you, kissing your head. He watched as you helped yourself to a huge plateful before making your way over to the table and sitting down with a sigh. Mike tucked his tie into his shirt to avoid it dropping into his food and plated himself a helping up before he sat down at the place next to you, cracking his neck slightly. The pair of you chatted about the day ahead, which for you consisted of sleeping until it was time to get up for your next shift, Mike’s contained a meeting with a company who he was currently in the process of negotiating a settlement with on behalf of a client. When you’d finished, Mike made to clear away the dishes but you gently placed your hand on his arm and stood up, insisting on doing it as he’d cooked.

When you returned to the table, Mike pushed his chair back slightly and patted his knee.

“Come ‘ere.” He smiled softly and you grinned, settling yourself on his lap sideways, your arm looping round his shoulder, fingers gently playing with his suspenders. He gave a contented sigh as he wrapped his arms around you and pressed a kiss to your head, happy to simply be close to you for a moment.

“You doing okay?” You asked and he smiled, your words carrying that hidden meaning- ‘Do you want a fix, today?’

“I’m good, Babes.” He pulled back to look at you. “I promise.”

Smiling you gently placed your lips on his in a soft kiss, which soon became heated as Mike’s hand slid up to the back of your neck, holding you in place as his tongue slid along your bottom lip. He was pleased when you reciprocated, opening your mouth slightly to allow him in. He could taste the sweetness of the syrup on you from your pancakes and, as your tongue gently swirled against his, he let out a little groan from the back of his throat and he felt you smile.

“How long till you have to be in the office?” Your voice was lower than you’d intended, betraying exactly what you had in mind and Mike grinned at you, pulling back a little, as he glanced up at the clock.

“Just over forty-five minutes, why?”

You bit your lip, fingers toying once more with his suspenders which were clipped to the waistband of his light, grey trousers and sat over a maroon shirt, set off with a black tie. “Do I gotta spell it out to you, Weiss?”

“No, I just like hearing you beg.” A cheeky glint flashed in his eyes and you gave a snort.

“I do not beg.”

“Really?” He arched an eyebrow and in a swift moment he stood up, causing you to give a shriek of a giggle as he sat you on the table in front of him. “I bet,” he pushed on your shoulders causing you to rest your weight on your elbows as he loomed over you, gently reaching for the tie on your robe, “that I can have you singing my name and begging for more,” his hands made quick work of the knot and pulled it open, before his fingers slid up the front, opening it to leave you bare in front of him, “in less than five minutes flat.”

“Less than five minutes?” You looked up at him, his eyes blown with lust and you smirked. “You’re so full of shit.”

He wasn’t though, you knew full well that you were the one full of shit. Mike had on many an occasion had you crying his name in less time than it took you to sing a verse of the National Anthem, and he knew it as the cocky expression on his face showed.

“Oh, Baby Girl.” He chuckled, bending over, his mouth brushing against that spot on your neck, the bristles of his short beard scratching your skin. “Have you learnt nothing, yet?”

“Only that you’re a cocky little bastard.” You tried to keep your voice level but it didn’t work. Your words came out a shaky whisper as one of his hands gently splayed on your stomach and brushed up your body to your sternum as he peppered hot, opened mouthed kisses across your collar bone, before his lips ghosted up your neck, over your chin and his mouth claimed yours in a searing kiss as his hand palmed at your breast. As he rolled your nipple between his finger and thumb you gave a moan and he smirked against your mouth.

Suddenly, he was gone from over you and you frowned, missing his sudden presence and you propped yourself up on your elbows to see him settling back in the chair by the table.

“Mike, what the-“

You were cut off as he reached over, grabbing your ass and hoisting your pelvis up, pulling you towards him. Before you could register what was going on, your legs were over his shoulders and you just caught a glimpse of his face, as he quirked an eyebrow at you, lips curled upwards in that maddeningly smug bastard grin, before his mouth was trailing up the inside of your thigh.

“Oh, Jesus.” You let out a little groan as he neared the place you now desperately wanted him and he chuckled.

“No, just me.”

“Fuck off you-“ But whatever it was you were going to call him flew from your mind as his tongue licked up your sex, and grazed against your clit, teasing it with quick, hardly there flicks which, you were ashamed to say, had you riled up something feral. His hands palmed at your ass, his fingers curling round the outside of your thighs as he quickened his movements, his mouth expertly devouring you, tongue flicking into your entrance as his lips circled that sensitive nub, giving a suck that made you cry out, your back arching off the table, pushing yourself further onto his face.

Mike let out a chuckle which vibrated exquisitely against you and you gasped again, your hands slapping onto the cool surface of the table, fingernails feeling the grain of the wood as he upped his efforts dramatically, lips and tongue teasing you in a way that was so delectable it was teetering along that fine line between pain and pleasure. His mouth expertly devoured every inch of you, from your inner and outer pussy lips to the depths of your walls, tongue fucking you like you he was starving, despite the breakfast the pair of you had eaten moments ago.

“Fuck, Mike, I need…” Your voice was croaky, the words sounded far off as they bounced around your lust addled brain and once again he chuckled.

“I told you.”

“Yeah, yeah you arrogant sh-oooh fuck!” You cried as he gently nipped your clit. “Shit!”

You were willing yourself to remain grounded, wanting to prove him wrong but you couldn’t. You couldn’t fight the urge you felt to ride over the edge which was building like a fire inside you. When his mouth was over you completely once more, tongue deep, you felt him move one of his hands and his thumb pressed against your clit, before the pressure eased off and his tongue slipped away.

"Okay, okay you win, Mike, please for the love of God!” You groaned and with a final, maddeningly smug chuckle he dove back in, only this time when you felt your orgasm brewing he didn’t stop. One of your hands flew to his hair, pulling lightly on his soft, spiky strands and he gave a growl as you tugged, his efforts doubling once more as his beard scratched against your sensitive pussy and inner thighs. The coil in your belly was tightening, your entire body quivered and with a final flick of his tongue you gave a cry as your orgasm crashed over you. Your toes curled into his back just below his shoulders, your own back arched as your walls clamped down over nothing, the room fading out as everything went silent and the lights erupted in front of your eyes, your entire body feeling like you were floating.

Mike grinned, guiding you through your release before he stood up, pulling you further to the end of the table as he undid the flies on his trousers, freeing his painfully hard erection. The swollen head of his dick gently swirled around your folds before he buried himself inside you, groaning as he felt you fluttering around him in the after throes of your orgasm. You let out a low groan and finally opened your eyes, looking up at him as he pounded into you, fully clothed, those fucking suspenders that drove you wild still looped over his shoulders.

He slid one, large hand under your back and pulled you up causing you to cry out as he drove deeper into you, his hand on the base of your back pulling you up and towards him as he dipped his head to give you a dirty, sloppy kiss whilst he rolled and thrust into you. Then His lips moved down, nipping at your neck, his breath hot on your ear as your head fell back, a low moan rumbling in his throat.

“God, I love seeing you like this, fucking wrecked all because of me.” His panted words made you groan even more as the heat in your groin was beginning to mount again. “Makes me higher than any fucking drug ever could.”

His thrusts continued, hard, deep, and you felt his dick throbbing inside you as he drove up against your spot, his lips back on yours as he kissed you hard, swallowing the pants and whimpers you were making as you began to teeter on that cliff edge again. With a deep roll of his hips you let out a low wail and came, once more, your core spasmed around him as your entire body tingled, and that was enough for him to follow you. With a powerful thrust he stiffened, a low grunt stuttering from his lips as he pulsed inside of you, his hips growing sloppy before they stopped completely. His chest heaving, he pressed his forehead to yours, the pair of you gasping for breath as you came down from your high.

“Shit, Mike.” You managed to stutter as he grinned, his lips meeting yours in a soft peck. “That was…”

“Yeah, I was pretty good.” He chuckled and you slapped his arm as he moved and pulled out of you. You straightened your robe and stood up, wincing as you felt his release trickled down your inner thigh.

“I need another shower.” You grumbled, before you glanced at his crotch, the damp patch where he’d pressed against you was clear as day. “And you should probably change your trousers.”

Mike glanced down before his eyes met you, and he shrugged. “Maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll go into the office like this and then every time I see it I’ll be reminded exactly what a damned good breakfast I had this morning.”

You blinked before you shook your head, scoffing. “You’re gross.”

He laughed. “You love it, Sweetheart.”

“I love you.” You corrected, your hands sliding up over his shoulders and he smiled, a pure, innocent smile that made him look like a schoolboy before he took your face in his hands and kissed you deeply, pulling away, his nose bumping against yours.

“I love you too.” He whispered, his eyes locking onto yours. “Now go, before I decide to play hooky for the day.”

“Don’t tempt me with a good time, Weiss.” You smirked, before with one final quick peck you left the room.

Mike watched you go, before he ran his hands through his hair and turned to glance around the kitchen, his eyes falling to the table he’d just fucked you senseless on.

He should probably clean that before he went to work…

#uglywombatsexpositionchallenge #mike weiss #mike weiss x reader #mike weiss x you #mike weiss reader insert #reader insert #mike weiss fanfic #mike weiss smut #chris evans #chris evans characters

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five-rivers · 4 years ago

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Glowsticks

Sneaking in before midnight on Halloween~

This is another continuation of Exhumed.

McGee had talked to several people about the strangely popular gravestone. What he had learned made him feel sick. Literally. He wanted to throw up. First, the person buried there was the kid that had been found in the park. Second, the locals had made him into a cult figure practically overnight.

Or, at least, a tourist trap figure. These people had no shame.

On the other hand… Didn’t they say that Daily person was in charge of cults? Did Amity Park have a cult problem on top of everything else that was going on? Was the cult the problem, the root problem? If there even was an actual cult…

Cults were dangerous and took vicious advantage of legal loopholes. Maybe he should call the FBI. They were the ones that were supposed to deal with cults.

He took a deep breath, pulling himself together. No. This was his case. His job. He didn’t know that there was a cult involved, not yet. Besides, it didn’t matter if they were religious so long as they were breaking the law. Yeah.

“Are you okay?”

McGee almost jumped out of his skin, his hand twitching towards his firearm before he realized that the person who snuck up on him was a kid. The kid from earlier, to be precise.

The boy’s eyes narrowed. “Were you about to pull a gun on me?” he asked.

“No,” said McGee.

The boy blinked, suspicion still evident on his face. “You’ve got to be more careful with guns,” he said. “There’s no reason to go for one just because someone surprised you.”

McGee didn’t grace that with a response. “What are you doing here, anyway? Weren’t you across town, earlier?”

“Yeah. So were you,” said the boy. Danny. His name was Danny Fenton. “Why are you here?”

“I asked first.”

“You shouldn’t ask questions you aren’t willing to answer yourself.”

What the hell was up with this kid? “I’m just trying to get a better feel for the town.”

“Hm,” said Danny. “I help out here at the cemetery, sometimes. Got to lay all those ghosts to rest, you know?”

“Don’t you think that’s a little much?” snapped McGee. “Death isn’t supposed to be a roadside attraction.”

“Oh, don’t worry. We take death very seriously around here,” assured Danny. “But seriously. I do help out. The caretaker lets me take that stuff away when it gets to be too much.” He nodded at the blank headstone and all the offerings around it. “Mom likes the flowers. Jazz is making a collage of some of the cards. You know. Stuff like that.” He shrugged, angling himself away from McGee. “Someone left a tiny copy of the Tempest once. In one of those teeny tiny books. Post. It had that one passage from Ariel’s Song decorated. It was nice. I liked it.”

“What?”

“Ariel’s Song. Full fathom five thy father lies;/Of his bones are coral made;/Those are pearls that were his eyes;/Nothing of him that doth fade,/But doth suffer a sea-change/Into something rich and strange. Shakespeare. I think it’s supposed to be a commentary on ghosts, but the guy in the play isn’t actually dead, people just think he is. So, I’m not really sure how to take it. You’re a detective, right? What do you think?”

McGee stared at the teenager. The kid who was buried there was his age. “This isn’t a joke,” said McGee. “A person is dead.”

Danny tilted his head. “I’m not joking?”

“How are you even connected to all of this?” McGee waved his hand, frustrated.

“I just told you how I’m connected to the cemetery. If you mean the town… Well, I do live here.”

“Why do Patterson and Collins know you?”

“I know everyone,” said Danny. He started backing away. “You should go get something to eat soon, if you don’t want to be late.” He turned and disappeared in the crowd.

What the hell.

McGee did not go to get food. He went back to the station. He had some questions to ask Cameron Daily, and he got the impression that the man was the kind of person to practically live at work.

When he opened the door, though, he had to stop.

“What is this?” he asked, loudly.

“Glowsticks,” said one of the secretaries. “You have seen them before, right?”

“Yes, but why?”

As much as the police department had been infested with Christmas decorations before, it was now covered with glowsticks of all varieties.

The secretary shrugged. “You’ll find out. And, no, this isn’t hazing.” She broke a new glowstick with a snap.

“Right,” said McGee. “Where’s Daily?”

“Cameron Daily is in the computer bay,” said the secretary, pointing.

“Thanks,” grunted McGee, once again wondering why there was a separate computer bay when everyone had their own desks, computers, and, in some cases, additional laptops.

Screw it, he might as well ask.

“Hey, Daily.”

“Mm?”

“Why’s there a separate computer bay?”

“Oh, it’s shielded,” said Daily.

“Shielded.”

“Yep. No signals, and the Fentons did some pretty neat stuff to the walls. Bunch of, ehm, nasty hackers. We learned our lesson, eventually.”

“The Fentons.”

“Yeah. And Foley did the firewalls.”

“They’re the ones who did the computer filing system.”

“Uhuh. Kids are geniuses. The parents aren’t too shoddy, either.”

“The—” No. There was no way. “Are they the same Fentons that hunt ghosts?”

“Yeah. You wouldn’t think it to look at them, but apparently they live off of their patents. Made a bunch of fiddly little things that every other mass production factory in the country uses. Also, they own a toilet paper company. Not my favorite brand, but it isn’t the worst, honestly. Kind of wish we’d buy it here, but, no, we get that gross single ply. I swear, that stuff should be classified as a crime against humanity.”

“You let the ghost hunters deal with your computer security.”

“Oh, I know that tone. You met them, huh?”

“Just the kid.”

Daily looked up at McGee over the computer. “What?”

“I only met the kid. Danny.”

Slowly, Daily uncurled from his hunch in front of the computer. The man was taller than McGee thought.

“Then what’s your issue? Danny’s a good kid.”

A good kid whose parents were allowed to run roughshod over the town, who was allowed to steal from graveyards, and knew all of the police officers. For some reason.

“I heard you’re in charge of monitoring the cult?”

Daily snorted. “You make it sound like there’s just one.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, after all the ghosts, most religions had to modernize, you know?”

Oh, god, this was part of the tourist trap. Or the tourist trap was part of this. Did they recruit from people who actually believed this nonsense?

“There’s more than one cult?”

“Yep.”

“Sounds like quite a job.”

“Eh. I’m mostly just keeping track of their online activity.”

“So, how are the Fentons involved?”

“They aren’t. They’re pretty areligious, overall. Danny’s been almost kidnapped a few times, though.”

“What?”

“Kidnapped. By a cult.”

“Cults. Gotta remember the plural, man. Cults.” Daily was hunching again. “But, hey, if you’re interested in the subject, I can give you a thorough run-through of this new group that started up last week. Their philosophy is wild. I can’t even tell you—”

“Hey. You’re early,” said Patterson, leaning through the door, her braid swinging. “Great. Have you eaten?”

“Yes,” lied McGee.

“Get better at lying,” said Patterson. “Come on, let’s go.”

Patterson and Collins weren’t the only ones there. In fact, there were more people in the station than there had been that morning. All with glowsticks. Said glowsticks were being loaded into unmarked cars while office staff and police officers whispered back and forth.

“Did you get the green stuff?”

“Yeah, don’t worry. Gave me more than enough.” Glowing green milk jugs were loaded into a car. The car McGee would be riding in with Collins and Patterson.

‘Green stuff.’ Was this some kind of bizarre drug smuggling ring? McGee had fallen behind in drug slang, if so. ‘Green stuff.’ Were they lacing it with glowstick fluid?

Never before had he felt so lost on a case. Amity Park was messed up.

“You’ve got the howlers hooked up?” asked Collins.

“I asked Daily to do it this morning.”

“But did he do it?”

“I mean, it looks like it. Are the howlers really that important?”

McGee had no idea what was going on.

The cars all started off in a group. Their car was the last to leave and soon peeled off to trundle slowly down back roads.

“You probably have questions,” said Collins.

“You could say that,” said McGee.

“You’ve been a good sport about them,” observed Collins.

“So,” said McGee, drawing out the word. “What is this about?”

Patterson swallowed a laugh. “Ever hear of the Men in Black?”

“Look, I’m humoring the ghosts. Conspiracy theories are where I draw the line.”

“Keep telling yourself that. Maybe it’ll stick. Anyway, here in Amity Park, we deal with their less intelligent cousins. The Guys in White!”

“That’s not their actual name,” said Collins, glancing back over his shoulder. “But, well, their appearance fits.”

“Alright, let’s say I believe you. What does this have to do with the jugs of glowstick fluid in the trunk?”

“Oh, that’s not glowstick fluid,” said Patterson. “It’s waste from the reactor that powers the town.”

“Don’t worry,” said Collins, hastily, the car swerving somewhat. “It’s completely harmless! Not radioactive at all!”

“That’s not what—” started Patterson.

“You absolutely will not get cancer from it!”

McGee raised a hand. “You have nuclear reactor fluid in the trunk?”

“It isn’t nuclear reaction fluid,” protested Patterson. “It’s—"

“Back on track,” interrupted Collins.

“Yeah. Anyway. It’ll trip the Guys in White’s sensors—”

“Eventually,” Collins grumbled.

“—so we can lead them on a chase.”

“And… why do we want to do this?”

“Because it’s a quiet month,” said Patterson. “Don’t want the Guys to get antsy.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means what it means. You’ll see in January.”

McGee looked between his two ‘partners.’ “Are you trying to get me to quit?”

“Because you’re a spy for the county?” asked Patterson. “Oh, no, never.”

Before McGee could process that statement, the car’s radio crackled to life.

“We’ve got a class-3 northbound on Orion at 35 miles per hour. Ectosignature suggests an amorphiform ghost—”

“Hah!” shouted Patterson. “That’s us! Punch it!” She twisted the dial on the radio as Collins slammed his foot into the accelerator. “Bogey to Redrum! We’ve got followers!”

“Copy, Bogey, this is Redrum. We need a few more minutes to set up. Can you stay out of sight?”

“The hell?”

The radio crackled. “Forgot you had the new guy! Don’t shake him up too much, okay? Over.”

“Copy. Collins you catch that?”

“Yeah, don’t worry, I’m taking Pan and Laurel. The holiday tour.”

“Ooh, good choice.” Patterson held up the radio again. “Yeah, we can manage. Over.”

Collins went faster. For the next several minutes McGee occupied himself with not throwing up. He succeeded. Barely.

“Bogey, this Cam,” said the voice of Daily, “followers are gaining. They’re on Brassica, just passing High Street. Triggered the speed cameras. Over.”

“How many and what type? Over.”

“Three gliders. Don’t think they’ve spotted you yet, though. Over.”

Gliders? Who did these people think they were kidding?

“Copy, over,” said Patterson. “Not like those guys care about speeders, though,” she muttered. McGee could barely hear her over the beating of his own heart.

“Sharp right, brace yourselves,” said Collins, split seconds before matching action to words.

“Redrum to bogey, we’re moving out now, over.”

“Copy. We’re on our way. Over. Head to the park, Collins.”

“Gotcha.”

It didn’t seem possible, but Collins somehow pushed the car to go even faster. Then, just as quickly as the whole ridiculous thing had begun, the car skidded to a halt in a parking lot. Seeing his chance, McGee clawed at the door handle and dragged himself out onto the pavement.

Collins and Patterson, meanwhile, were pulling the almost-certainly-toxic waste out of the trunk and launching it into the glowstick-filled woods with—

“Is that a bazooka?” demanded McGee, so far past his wit’s end that he couldn’t even see it anymore.

“Nah, just a modified T-shirt canon,” said Patterson, stowing the object away again. “Fentonworks special.”

“I don’t believe you,” said McGee.

Three – Three things – McGee did not want to call them gliders – raced overhead, jets roaring and wind whistling. They came to a stop approximately where the ‘reactor waste’ had fallen.

“What the hell?” whispered McGee, passionately.

“Come on,” said Collins. “Time for us to go.”

“Yeah, better to spectate from afar,” agreed Patterson.

“I agree,” said a third voice.

“Oh, Danny,” said Patterson. “Didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”

The boy walked into McGee’s field of view and glanced down at him before shrugging. “Couldn’t sleep.” He looked up, at the park. “Thanks for this.”

“Had to get them to blow this month’s budget somehow,” said Collins. “But, really, we should all go before the fireworks start.”

Danny sighed. “Hope they don’t blow up the fountain again. It just got fixed.”

“Same,” said Patterson.

“Well, see you later.”

“Yep, we’ve got that wellness check tomorrow,” said Collins. “You don’t have any excuse to forget, this time.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said the teen, waving over his shoulder as he walked straight into the dark.

“What,” said McGee.

“That’s just Danny for you,” said Collins. “Great kid. Super creepy.”

“Yeah.”

“How’d he even know we’re here?” asked McGee, trying to keep his voice even.

“He did give us that eeeeehhhhhhh—reactor waste,” said Patterson. “Come on, get up, we’ve got to—”

A small explosion sounded from the park.

“Seriously. I don’t want to have to pick you up.”

“I’d wind up doing most of the lifting,” grumbled Collins, who was sliding into the driver’s seat.

Patterson put her hands on her hips. “Excuse you?”

There was another, larger explosion. McGee climbed back into the car.

As they drove, he realized that no one had made fun of his name. Not even once.

Amity Park was weird.

#danny phantom #ectober #ectober 2020 #ectober week #ectober week 2020 #day 6

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buckyskorpion · 5 years ago

Text

11 hours - part seven

Pairing: Biker!Bucky x Reader

Summary: bucky is the mystery you can’t wait to solve. if you can get out of his bed long enough, that is. a biker au.

Warnings: gang-typical violence, sex scenes, alcohol mentions, probably more to come so stay tuned

A/N: hello i apologise in advance. pls dont hurt me!!! i would appreciate your feedback and your theories about where this fic is going! i hope this part isn’t too..... upsetting lmao. i wont be taking tags for this so please dont ask.

title taken from 11 hours by wet | playlist | please donate to my ko-fi!

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You believed, until now, that you walked the world seeking out dark corners and underbellies other people didn’t want to touch. That’s your job. The current case you're supposed to be working on involves a man suspected of drugging his girlfriend to take nonconsensual nudes of her and sell them to his friends while she slept. You’re well aware the world is a dangerous place.

But things look different now, in a way you never could have imagined before the Lerna. Those men were dead before you could blink, and you know life is expendable and fragile and so easy to take but it’s another thing to see it taken before your eyes. It’s another thing to take it yourself. And you know, now, why Bucky would only show you parts of his life and himself because this whole truth feels like staring directly into the sun - painfully bright, to the point where it’s all you can see and all the good things are reduced to a spotty, hazy blur.

You’re sitting in your office, at your desk where you’re trying to work but you can’t get the sound of bullet casings hitting the floor and the thunk of a knife in skin out of your head. There, in the centre of your tiny office, was where you sat on Bucky’s lap and kissed him and demanded ‘no secrets.’ Too stubborn to know he was keeping them for a reason, that maybe there are things you don't want to know after all. But you can feel his skin under your fingertips and the brush of his stubble as he kissed you, a memory you can touch, and you can’t help but think it still feels worth it. At the end of it all, if it was a choice of the Lerna happening or never having Bucky at all, you know what you’d chose.

As if he can hear you, your phone buzzes with a text from him. Joey’s at 7?

It’s already 6:30. You’re grabbing your keys and leaving the fear on your desk chair as you text him back. Sounds perfect.

It really is. Joey’s is your favourite bar, and just seeing the grimy neon sign outside makes your heart feel less heavy. This, after everything, remains the same. You still feel giddy jogging down the stairs, ready for the heady bass music to push through your chest and a whiskey apple to numb the wounds. It feels like the beginning, half-nervous half-excited to go find Bucky tucked in a booth at the back, dim purple light chiseling out his cheekbones and catching bright on his sharp smile. Back then it was innocent, if a fuck buddy hook-up could be. Now that you know you would do things for Bucky you’d never do for anyone else, that you don’t think you’ll ever be able to remove his brand from your heart- well. You skip a couple more steps as you head down into Joey’s, only a few minutes late.

You don’t slow down as you enter the bar, weaving through patrons searching for a familiar face. Now that you’re here to the urge to see him, to have him in your arms, is almost unbearable. When you do find Bucky, spinning a glass between his fingers in a nervous habit you’ve noticed he has, he feels your eyes on him immediately. He stands and you crash into him, burying your hands under his leather jacket to feel the warmth of his body against your palms. Bucky hugs you back just as harshly, the force of his embrace lifting your toes off the ground. When he pulls away his runs a hand over your head, down your hair, coming to rest by the side of your neck as if to check your pulse and make sure you’re really there.

“You ok?” he asks, bright blue eyes now dark and hooded as he stares down at you.

You nod, unwilling to let go of your grip on the back of his t-shirt even as he pulls away, and say, “Am now.”

“Need to talk to you, it’s important,” Bucky says. He escapes your grip with ease, because he’s huge and strong and it’s easy to forget that when he softens for you. He sits at the booth and you slide in across him, watching as he downs the rest of the straight whiskey in his glass like its water. That bad feeling is back, like back at Steve’s tattoo shop, but you don’t want it here. You fumble for Bucky’s hand across the table, and he lets you hold it but it doesn’t stop the dread settling heavy in your gut. You squeeze his fingers tighter, just in case.

“Is everything alright?” you ask. “Are we- did the cops find out-“

“No, no,” Bucky says, shaking his head down at the table. His gaze catches on your intwined fingers, the glint of his signet rings in the dim bar light, and says, “The cops aren’t the problem.”

“But there is a problem,” you say, and now Bucky raises his eyes to look at you.

“I need to tell you something, it’s important” Bucky says, again, and the dread rises from your stomach like bile to your throat. “You have to understand this, so you can see that I’m not- that this isn’t just-“

“Bucky.” He lets out a ragged breath as you cut him off mid ramble, scrubs a hand through his hair. You hate the way your voice wobbles when you say, “You’re scaring me.”

You almost make yourself laugh as those words leave your mouth. This scares you? Bucky, frustrated and nervous and clinging to your hand like a lifeline, but when he walked over lifeless bodies he sunk bullets into with a giant rifle on his back - that was just fine.

“You know when we were at Steve’s, and we were talking about Hydra? About Rumlow? Do you remember that?” Bucky asks. He stares at you like he’s imploring you to say it for him, whatever it is he’s struggling to say, but you don’t understand.

You nod slowly and say, “Natasha said Rumlow had it out for you. You said Hydra is your biggest rival.”

“Yes, right,” Bucky says, nodding a bit manically. He’s still gripping your hand tight. “Rumlow hated me, and as far as we can tell - or Nat, I guess, she’s been looking into it - he was acting on his own, to get to me.”

“That’s good, right?” You don’t feel sure, with the way Bucky is acting and looking at you all glassy-eyed. “No big gang war, or whatever.”

“I need you to understand why Rumlow hated me, because it’s not just- it wasn’t just about him, ok?” Bucky says, and now he’s looking around the room like that night in your office. Casing the bar, looking for exits. “He’s dead, but none of this died with him.”

“What is ‘this’?” you ask, and wonder for the first time, do I want to find out?

“The first time I met Rumlow was in the hospital, a couple of days after I got back from Afghanistan,” Bucky says. “I’d been honourably discharged, my arm was all fucked up and fried from a chem bomb and I lost all sensation in it so they sent me home. I remember I was lying in the bed looking out the window, and it was snowing. I hadn’t been anywhere but a desert in so long and I was like, what do I do know? I don’t own a coat anymore. I’m a black ops sniper, that’s not exactly a transferrable skill - can’t even put it on a resume because it’s classified. My arm’s fried and ugly lookin’. I’m fucked.”

“You must’ve been so scared,” you say. Bucky meets your eyes, and you can see it haunting him in the back of them - so much heat and fire and pain left behind, so much cold and unknown and pain lying in front. Your dad has told you a similar story, when he came back from Iraq, and he had the same look in his eyes Bucky does right now.

“I was,” he says, and you squeeze his fingers. He looks towards your hands again and says, “I was, and they knew it.”

“Hydra,” you say, and you know you’re right. Bucky nods anyway.

“Rumlow came into my hospital room and told me, Hydra helps guys like me. They helped him and look - he’s got a job and money and friends and a team again. A purpose. But I said no. I’m black ops, I know shady guys when I seem ‘em and Rumlow reeked of it. Just, Hydra doesn’t like being told no.”

“They target vulnerable, traumatised vets in hospitals?” you ask, disgusted. You can taste the hate that boils up, and that ugly, angry part picturing Bucky lying in a bed so alone and afraid and imagining someone like Rumlow trying to take advantage of him like that - that ugly part says I’m glad he’s dead.

“They’re highly trained and easily moulded,” Bucky says in way of answer, and you shudder at the thought. “But seem Rumlow failed and it was my fault. He failed over and over again every time they sent him to recruit me. So he hated me, and then I started the Commandos with Steve and Sam and Nat to target them. The only way to save the next poor bastard like me from ending up with Hydra is to end them, except there ain't a cop in the city who can touch them.”

“But you can,” you say, and you know it’s stupid but your heart has never been known as terribly smart, so you add, “Bucky, that’s dangerous.”

He smiles, small but it’s there, and he rubs his thumb over your knuckles as he says, “I know, doll. I don’t know if you know this about me, but stupid’s kinda my thing.”

“Very funny,” you say, rolling your eyes at Bucky’s cheeky grin now splitting his face. As quick as it came, though, his smile dies and so does the small spark of hope that maybe this story has a happy ending.

“I’ve made Hydra my enemy and I can’t change that. I don’t want to,” Bucky says, nodding solemnly at his own words and you watch him physically turn cold, stony and distant in the space of a second. “But that means that as long as Hydra is around, they’re going to be coming after me. First Rumlow, but it won’t stop there. They’ll come and keep coming and what if, one time, I don’t get there in time? Or you don’t get to leave your phone on, or even make it to a location before they shoot you in the back of the car?”

“No,” you say. You’re not stupid, you know where this is going and just- no. Bucky is being deliberately harsh, speaking loud and unfiltered to try and make it easier to do what he’s about to do but you won’t let him. That dread turned bile has now turned into straight, acidic fire pumping through veins and it hurts.

Bucky smiles faint and sad, says, “You said it yourself - it’s dangerous no matter what.”

“That's not what I meant,” you say, shaking your head vehemently, wildly, as if you can physically shake Bucky of this stupid idea and the actual pain you’re in just entertaining this conversation. “You know that’s not what I meant, what are- you asked me to stay, Bucky. You asked me, and now you want-“

“I know, I know,” Bucky says, tugging your hand close to him now but it’s your turn to try and pull away, albeit unsuccessfully. “I know and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but you almost died. Do you understand that? They would have killed you, and the only reason is me.”

“That’s such bullshit,” you say, trying and failing to pull your hand free of his grip but he isn’t letting go now and the death-grip he has on you, tethering you to him even as he pushes you away, makes your eyes sting with ugly tears.

“It’s not,” Bucky says, so sad, and you just want to kiss that guilt away for him even still, even as your heart is breaking under his fist. “You will always be in danger until the day comes where I can’t protect you, and I won’t do that to you. I can’t, I can’t be the reason you get hurt.”

“You can’t protect me if you’re not around,” you say, so soft you can barely be heard over Joey’s house music but honestly, you might as well be completely alone for how little you care about the bar around you.

“The safest place for you is away from me,” Bucky says, and that makes you laugh. Humourless, fucking painfully, but you laugh and Bucky glares so dark you’re reminded of the look in his eyes when he stared down at Rumlow’s body bleeding out on the ground. Through gritted teeth he says, “You think I would do this if there was any other way?”

“There is another way,” you say, glaring right back. “There’s not being a coward about it, Bucky. You lead a dangerous life, I get it. Believe me, I fucking get it, and I chose to stay. Ok? I wanna be here anyway, so why does my choice not matter to you? Is this some stupid excuse to get rid of me?”

“Don’t say that,” Bucky all but growls, and you should be scared. He’s scary, Bucky is dangerous by his own admission but you refuse to be afraid of him. Even when he’s trying to force you to be, holding your hand too tight and dragging you around the booth so he can pin you to the seat and you both know the only way you can move is if he lets you. As if he thinks he can scare you away from him, if he can’t reason you to go.

“I don’t care how dangerous it is,” you say into his seething face, inches from yours, teeth bared in a truly terrifying snarl as he pins you to the leather in a show of strength that will leave bruises tomorrow. “I don’t wanna be away from you.”

For half a moment, you really think Bucky is going to hit you. He moves so fast, and you’ve never seen his face look like that - hurt and angry and upset and half-insane all at once. But he just presses his forehead to yours, closes his eyes and breathes you in, and for another half a moment you get to think, maybe he’ll change his mind.

“You’re all I want,” Bucky breathes, so soft and quiet you almost don’t hear him if it wasn’t said almost directly into your skin. “But that’s selfish.”

“I don’t care,” you say, like a mantra now, or a prayer. Just hoping he’ll hear you, “I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care.”

“You should,” Bucky says, and pulls away from you just as fast as he came in. “I won’t be the reason you end up dead.”

Bucky sits before you like a solid brick wall - unbreakable, immovable, cold and blank. His eyes are shuttered from you and you know there’s no way to get to him now. There’s nothing else you can say. If you aren’t enough for him to push past his fear and love you anyway, nothing you say is going to change his mind. Just because you know it’s true doesn’t mean it hurts any less, though, as you sit there boxed in by this menacing stranger looking at you in a way you never want to be looked at again. Like he already doesn’t know you. Like you’ve already been forgotten.

“This was always gonna happen, wasn’t it?” you ask, more to yourself than to Bucky. You laugh at his silence, the flat set of his mouth and clenched fists on his thighs. Maybe if you never went to that first party at Natasha’s house and remained at arms length, sneaking out his window and never staying the night, then maybe you could’ve had him just a little bit longer. But you didn’t, and now you’re hurt in a way you’ve never been before. Your dad never prepared you to survive a pain like this.

You slide out the other side of the booth, tripping slightly as you climb to unsteady feet. It’s hard to see through unshed tears but you don’t bother looking back at Bucky still sat in the booth. You weave through people just as fast as when you came in, but for the opposite reason now - you can’t leave behind this dim-lit bar painted with the gorey tatters of your heart fast enough.

When you emerge onto the street you know Bucky has followed you, his hulking presence palpable behind you as you stand on the sidewalk and try and calm your rapid heartbeat. You’re surprised its still beating with how much it hurts, especially when Bucky places a hand on your shoulder and cracks your heart neatly in two. He says, softly under New York traffic, “Let me drive you home. Please.”

Instead of asking why, why does he care, why does he want to, if the safest place is away from you then leave me alone, what you say is a mildly whiny, “You don’t know where I live.”

“I’ll put the address in my phone,” Bucky says, calm and low as if to placate you but you’re well past that point now. You’re crying openly on the street like a lunatic as Bucky gently takes your hand and leads you towards his bike, manhandles you onto it, clicks a helmet on over your head. It feels cruel for him to be this soft after so ruthlessly tearing you apart, but you suppose it’s better than being left alone in the street like he never cared at all.

When you pull up to your apartment building Bucky kills the engine and leans in close to you before you have a chance to jump off and run away. You think, surely he’s not about to kiss me right now and you really hate the part of you that hopes he does, but he doesn’t. He just leans in close and whispers into your helmet, “They could be watching your place, after what happened. I’m so sorry.”

You close your eyes. Bucky’s right, this will never stop, but that doesn’t mean you want to face it alone. Your whole life has been carved out for you only, but just once you thought maybe you could live it with someone else. That’s not a life for you to have, it seems, so you take a deep breath through snotty tears and nod, say, “I can handle it,” because you know you can. You’ll have to.

“I think-“ Bucky starts but falters, bites his lip blanched white before continuing, “They might leave you alone if you make it clear I’m not in your life anymore.”

“You can’t ask me to do that,” you say, and all the resolve you just gathered is shattered as instantly as you found it. You’re crying again because fuck, nothing has ever hurt like this has, from the inside where you can’t find it or heal it or stop it so it just sucks the life out of you one painful second at a time.

“You have to, honey,” Bucky says, and you want to punch him for it. The way he talks to you like he loves you, like he cares, but he can’t if he’s making you do this. Break your own heart to save his. “Scream at me, send me away. They won’t need to target you then.”

“You’re cruel,” you say, pulling away from him. You don’t want to touch him anymore, can’t stand to be this close so you trip off the bike and stumble down the street. Bucky stares after you, his own eyes teary and face screwed up in genuine pain. It could never compare to the sick feelings in your stomach as you take a deep breath and scream, “Go away, Bucky. Fucking leave me alone and never come back or I’ll fucking kill you, you hear me? Fuck off, and don’t come back.”

You can’t help the sob that rips from you, threatening to buckle your knees and break you right on the sidewalk. Bucky is looking at you like you’ve just stuck a knife in his chest but he asked you to, he keeps asking and taking and it’s always you that ends up hurt. You leave him on the street, stumble up the stairs to your apartment and sink to the floor as soon as the door clicks shut behind you. It’s dark in your apartment, nothing but streetlights outside casting shadows on furniture he never touched, but it still feels like he’s haunting you just the same.

Bucky’s bike revs to life and he tears away, the sound ripping straight through and down the street. It leaves you hollowed out, a burnt-through husk curled up on your hardwood floor. You know you’ll never hear that sound again.

****

For your entire life it’s always been you against the world. The only person you could ever trust is yourself, the only one who’s going to look out for you is you and you can’t remember a time where you didn’t think this way. Maybe it’s nature, maybe it’s nurture, but it’s how you’ve always seen the world.

However, you’re only now starting to feel what being truly alone is actually like.

Bucky’s contact lies open on your phone, but you don’t press call. You won’t. He pushed you away for your own ‘safety,’ for his own fear, and you’ll have to learn to live with his choice. Even though you still love him and always will, you can’t have him and you’ll just have to be ok with that. So you leave this contact photo up on your phone, resting on your coffee table beside your open laptop. You’ve got the input feed of the bug you planted in your dad’s kitchen open, chunky headphones on, scrolling through the audio from the past few days since you’d last seen him.

Your heart is broken by the first man you’ve ever let into your life and the only other person who knows you and who you trust, you’re currently spying on. Now, for the first time, you truly have no one left.

Focusing on work has always been an escape for you, and even when your life is in pieces around you and your heart looks no different, work still pulls through. Even if that work is your own father and the inane conversations he has with himself about the baseball teams on TV, or the calls he makes to his vet friends, or the late-night renditions of ABBA songs you remember well from your childhood. A file lies open on your coffee table with your father’s name on it and pages of notes you’ve made from nearly one hundred hours of audio recordings. You hope beyond hope that you’re just paranoid, and that this time when you go digging you don’t find anything at all.

The only thing you’ve noticed so far is your dad makes a lot of phone calls. They’re long, with a lot of names thrown around you don’t recognise as being his friends or anyone from work he’s mentioned to you before. You write them all down to look up later, but you’ve got to go meet a client so you shut everything down and collect your notes in the file. You hide them, just in case, and grab your leather jacket before you leave. You still have rent to pay. The world goes on around you despite everything being turned upside down, almost as if Bucky never happened at all.

You leave via the back of the building, to come out onto the street closest to the subway station. Usually smokers hang out around there so you aren’t surprised to see two men leaning against the wall, but you are surprised when they star following you down the alley. At this point you’re an old hand at being followed, and the petty part of you brain thinks in Bucky’s direction, see? Doesn’t matter if you’re here or not, dumbass. You sigh to yourself and plan to give them the run around once you clear the alley, but you don’t get a chance to.

From behind you hear a couple of solid thunks, a groan, a muttered curse from one of the men and then one final thunk before silence. You turn around, half afraid of who you’re going to meet once you do and half annoyed because you think you might know who it is. Sure enough, standing there in her leather jacket and a rusted metal pipe from the dumpster in her grip, is Natasha.

She blows a stray strand of hair out of her face and says, “Fancy seeing you here.”

“So he’ll break up with me but will still have me followed,” you say, folding your arms over your chest. Natasha shrugs and you mutter, “Figures.”

“I am always the first to say James is an idiot,” Natasha says, twirling the pipe like a baton in her delicate hands. She grins at you and says, “James is an idiot.”

“I’m aware,” you grit out, glaring at the red-head. “What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you don’t end up as Hydra mince-meat,” Natasha says, “What does it look like?”

“Doing whatever Bucky says even when it’s stupid,” you say. Natasha doesn’t like that, her bright grin dropping into a scowl as she steps up to you. Small, but with a clearly lethal weapon in her hands if the unconscious bodies behind her are anything to go by, she jabs the tip of the pipe into your chest and forces you a step backwards.

“James always has good intentions, even if his logic is sometimes flawed.” She drops the pipe, letting it clang to the floor between you as if to punctuate her saying, “Besides, James didn't tell me to do anything. I volunteered.”

“Why?” you ask, sneering slightly. “I think we both know you don’t trust me, or like me, and you make it very hard to like you.”

Natasha smiles at that, and you hate the face she makes every time you say something she ‘approves’ of - condescending, like she doesn’t expect you to have brain cells and is surprised every time you do. She says, very solemn despite the smile in her eyes, “I owe you.”

That makes you pause. Instantly, like you’re right back in that bar. You can see her groaning body struggling to stand after being thrown into a wall. Rumlow pointing a gun at her back, the blood-thirst emanating off him in waves. Your own hand, as if detached from your body, flinging the knife across the room into his neck before he can put a bullet in Natasha’s.

You swallow thickly, shake your head and say, “No you don’t.”

“I do,” she insists. She steps forward with her hand out, beckoning her fingers like she wants you to hand her something. You just stare at her empty palm for a few seconds before she clicks her tongue and says, “Phone.”

You hand it over without thinking, which was definitely stupid. But Natasha just types away quickly before giving it back and you see you have a new contact with her name attached entered into your phone.

“If you ever need anything,” she says, and taps your phone screen with her nail, “call me.”

It was only minutes ago you were sitting on your couch scrolling through audio from your tapped father’s kitchen thinking you’ve never been more alone in your life. Yet here you are, looking at a helping hand outstretched from the last person you expected it to come from. Your fingers shake slightly as you tuck your phone into your back pocket, and Natasha smiles at you like she understands.

“Thank you,” you say, and you hope she knows you genuinely do mean it.

Natasha nods, then says, “Get out of here, alright? I have to clean this up.”

You suppose that’s Natasha speak for ‘your welcome,’ so you leave her to it. The whole client meeting you can’t focus properly, too busy trying to decide if you feel safer or more afraid at having one of the scariest women you know watching your apartment. By the end of the day, your conclusion is that if Natasha is going to be in your life, its probably best she’s on your side rather than against it.

When you get home that afternoon there is no sign of the two guys Natasha knocked out, nor is she anywhere to be seen. You can’t help but feel watched, though, as you enter your building and climb the stairs. She’s a busy woman and you know she can’t be watching you all the time but you still feel her green eyes on the back of your neck - its not an altogether uncomfortable sensation. That’s something to unpack later, you think, as you collapse on the couch.

You try to resist, but as soon as you sit down and close your eyes the urge to forget about the case you’ve just taken on and look into your own hunches grows too strong. You get up again and fish out your dad’s file again from your hiding place, bringing it back to the couch to flip open. The list of names you’ve been compiling is at the top, scribbled in messy handwriting as you listened to your dad’s one-sided conversations. You tallied up how many times the same name had been mentioned and in what context, however it had been hard to decipher what your dad was talking about with only half the story.

You decide to go looking into the most mentioned name - more of a title, really. Somebody your dad calls Chief shows up in almost every single conversation he has over the phone, and when you were going through the audio it dredged up some strange, suppressed childhood memory. You used to hear him talking to guys downstairs when you were doing your homework, and you always thought he called them ‘chief’ as a nickname or weird, macho term of endearment like how kids in your class would call each other ‘bro’.

Maybe, he was only talking to one guy. You were going to find out.

Starting at your dad’s job, you scroll through their website and LinkedIn profiles to find any link to the name ‘Chief.’ He works as a security guard for a chain of clubs in the city so you are doubtful, and sure enough nothing really comes up to peak your interest. Your dad really only has one other major outlet to look into and that’s the VA, so you have to swallow past the dirty feeling of investigating suffering vets and start scrolling through the website for the Brooklyn VA group attached to the medical centre.

It’s all wholesome stuff and nothing of interest to your snooping at all until you get to a photo gallery from four years ago. It’s dedicated to commemorating the Brooklyn VA and New York Police Department workshop day promoting mental health for vets and servicemen. There are a bunch of photos of group activities and the lunch put on by the VA, and you spot your dad in a couple of them. You’re about to click off when you find one where your dad is posed with another vet and a very official, very dressed up cop. Nothing you haven’t seen at least forty of before in this gallery, but it’s the caption which makes you pause.

It reads, Some of the Brooklyn VA’s finest with NY Chief of Police. It has to be a coincidence, the man’s job title and nothing more. He’s tall, broad, with sandy blonde hair turning grey under his police hat. There are more medals than you can count pinned to his uniform and even in this grainy photo you can tell he would squash your dad like an ant if he gave the Chief of Police a reason to. You’ve never paid attention to this before, steering clear of cops whenever you can, but you find yourself googling him as soon as you can pull yourself away from his mile-long stare.

As soon as the NYPD profile on the Chief of Police loads, your blood turns to ice. You want to say you’re crazy, you’re crazy, you’re paranoid, but name one time your paranoia had led you wrong? Two strange coincidences don’t happen back to back, no matter how disconnected they may appear. Two worlds you never thought you would know, let alone be watching them collide, stare up at you from your computer screen. You can hear Steve’s voice like he’s sitting right next to you, saying “It is strange we haven’t heard anything from Pierce,” and right under a professional portrait of the Chief of Police is his name burning into the back of your eyelids - Alexander Pierce.

You shove your laptop onto the coffee table and stand, pacing back and forth in front of your couch. Scraping a hand through your hair and pulling half of it out of your head in the process, you try to reason your way out of connecting these dots. They’re barely dots, their echoes of dots - so your dad took a photo with the Chief of Police four years ago and he refers to someone he knows as ‘Chief’ as a nickname and Steve mentioned Pierce was someone in Hydra and the Chief of Police happened to be named Alexander Pierce. So what, right?

“Ok, ok, ok, ok,” you say to yourself, rushed and manic. You’ll just ask your dad. He’s your dad, he was never supposed to hide anything from you so why would he start now? If you just ask he might-

You don’t get to finish your thought. Three loud knocks ring through your empty apartment, your doorbell chiming impatiently straight afterwards. You stare at the door with your heart in your throat, long enough for them to ring the doorbell again and a loud, male voice to call out your full name. Someone you don’t recognise, yet they know where you live. You approach the door on silent feet and look through the peephole, reaching for the baseball bat you keep behind a pot plant as you do.

Standing outside are two men in suits, one of whom is looming at the peephole and making stupid faces while his college rolls his eyes and attempts to hold him back. Through the door, you ask, “Who is it? What department are you with?”

“I’m Special Detective James Rhodes and this is my partner, Special Detective Tony Stark,” the unimpressed cop says, elbowing his colleague out of the way who is still trying to look through the wrong side of the peephole. Holding up a badge and gesturing for his partner to do the same, Detective Rhodes says, “We’re with the FBI, ma’am.”

“Shit,” you say, before realising you said that out loud. Your hand feels numb where you grip your baseball bat tightly, and you decide in that moment you have to be dreaming. No way has the events of the past fifteen minutes taken place.

The guy who must be Detective Stark laughs and says, “Shit is right. Let us in, ma’am, we need to ask you some questions.”

You look back at the coffee table laden with copious notes on your father and your open laptop, Chief of Police Alexander Pierce’s face staring back at you. An omen, you think, but it would be even more suspicious if you asked them to wait to clean everything up. Your heart-stopping, life-changing, maybe-discovery will have to wait.

You slide off the chain and unlock your deadbolt, opening the door for the two FBI agents. They walk in without another word, and it really hits you then. It doesn’t matter what Bucky does now, if he leaves you and never comes back or if he never left at all - you’re in this, now. And now you’ll pay the price.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader fic #bucky x reader fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky fic #reader insert fic #pov fic #biker!bucky #biker!bucky au #biker au #avengers fic #marvel fic #bucky barnes #natasha romanoff #11 hours #heheheheeeee

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starr-fall-knight-rise · 5 years ago

Text

Humans are Space Orcs, “Operation Steel- Eye,”

This is probably the last bit I will be doing on this particular thread because I want to do more with it in the book version, but hopefully this will get you guys interested in how things turn out.

They had gone through another attack. The rundi chairwoman had not been expecting it, but all of a sudden there were voices, and shouts, and people running this way and that, she had been hurriedly bundled into a truck and driven for over an hour in the opposite direction with no idea what was happening, and no one that seemed to want to tell her what was going on. When they finally stopped she was told there had been another attack, and they were trying to get her as far away from the fighting as possible.

They waited there for over half a day, and only began their return journey when a spotty call came in over their radio to drive them back. When they reached camp, a good portion of it had been damaged, especially alone the suwards side, though, as she got out of the truck, she was told they were lucky, and the ashfall cleared enough that their long range weapons became more effective, driving the Drev off for a time.

“However, I don’t think I need to tell you how imperative it is that we get operation steel-eye up and running.” The admiral was saying leading her through the camp, as the soldiers scrambled to repair and re-supply themselves for an attack that could happen at any moment. Ever since the supply ships had been able to get through the atmosphere, thing in camp were looking a little less bleak.

The wounded were better cared for, and the soldiers were receiving more rations.

Though the ash was still a heavy nuisance, and kept the days mostly dark, they did have occasional times of clearance that allowed them to see the sun.

She moved into place behind the admiral, who had led them to the new medical tent, less of a tent now and more of a pop-up shelter, with reinforced siding, and an actual door. Stepping inside, she couldn’t help but gawk at the difference just a few days of supplies had made. The floors and walls were a uniform steel grey, and proper decontamination equipment was brought in to rinse ash from their bodies. Instead of suits to put over themselves they were washed off and given entirely new sets of clothes.

Stepping onto the ward was a much greater relief. The place was spotless clean, bright white lights shone in from above, and instead of rolled mats on the floor, there were cots, clean bandages, and monitoring machines hooked up to each of the wounded soldiers beeping away with their vital signs. Instead of moaning and pitiful whimpering from earlier, they were silent most of them asleep, all of them heavily drugged under vast swaths of pain killing medication. The first half of the room housed newly injured soldiers lying on cots their missing limbs bandaged and properly cleaned.

But the back of the room, well the back of the room was where things changed.

The fruits of operation steel- eye. At least twenty soldiers, this being the first medical tent, she was told there were twenty more soldiers in the second. They did not lay on open beds, but instead hung from the walls in various states of unconsciousness, pinned there by the thick metal contraptions welded to their bodies. A main rod of the metal was riveted down their backs curving around onto their hips and then locking at the knees, similarly with the arms.

Metal protrusions connected to the underarms and over the back of the hands.

It was a strange sight, and made her rather nervous as she somehow felt the wrongness of the steel next to delicate skin and bone.

Theadmiral stepped forward to examine the sleeping soldiers, “We lost 20% of these brave men and women after the first few hours out from the operation. Bacterial meningitis, and the occasional paralysis. A few of them just stopped breathing, but that could have been a reaction to the medication. This is all we have left.

The rundi chair woman stepped forward looking up at the sleeping humans their eyes close, their faces so much more peaceful now. As per usual she was drawn to one human in particular, the only human that she actually knew on sight based on their history together, or their acquaintance.

From her reports, this human had been the first human ever to meet nonhuman life, and had been instrumental in language acquisition for their linguists, and now here he was reduced to nothing more than a piece of hardware to be upgraded and augmented for the purposes of better battle strategy

The thought made her sick and uneasy. The more she thought about it, the more she was coming to realize that the humans and the Drev had more in common than anyone else on this battlefield, both of them were unwaveringly brutal, the Drev with tearing off limbs…. And the humans continually asking their soldiers to give when they had already given so much. With this thought her eyes shot down towards the human’s new robotic leg still and silver in the painful overhead lights.

No other species had ever considered such a thing as an alternative option, adding machinery to bioology….. As far as she knew there was nothing human’s couldn’t replace, and that thought made her wonder…. How far could they go before there was no more human left before the machine took over completely?

As she thought looking up at the sleeping human the admiral came to stand next to her looking up at the face of the sleeping human.

Her eyes drifted downwards, noting a strange dissimilarity in one of the human’s arms. With one hand she pointed out, “What is that.”

He glanced towards, “Oh, well, that is a drug port.”

“A drug port?”

“He nodded, unfortunately due to our time constraints we cant let their injuries fully heal, which means we will be mainlining morphine during combat, but due to the nature of the side effects of morphine, we are going to have to pair it with a drug classified as a stimulant to keep alert during battle.”

The rundi chairwoman shifted nervously, “I… not to question your methods admiral, but havent you asked enough from them. First they lose their limbs, then you splice them with robotics, and now you are keeping them drugged.” The admiral looked down at her with a cold unreadable expression, “You wanted us to win this war, and sometimes we have to do things that don’t make us sleep so well at night.”

There was an awkward pause of silence between them, but she let it go.

What did she know.

The humans probably knew what they were doing.

***

Lieutenant Adam Vir woke slowly, but he did it without pain.

In a somewhat drowsy haze, he floated upwards towards consciousness like one would float upwards through a pool of warm salt water. lights , beginning as big fuzzy circles, soon condensed themselves downwards into sharp points of light. The buzzing in his ears followed suit morphing and churning before turning dowards and sharpening out into a baseless echo. The echo that soon turned and warped again until, “Lieutenant, Lieutenant, can you hear me.”

The light jumped first to one eye and then the other.

He blinked past the pain squinting as he tried to make out the room ahead of him.

His fuzzy surroundings condensed, contracted, and then finally sharpened out, to the face of a woman. She was small petite, with black hair pulled up in a bun, and large, thick framed glasses. She had one hand on the side of his face as she flicked the light between his eyes.

He groaned slightly and shifted.

“There were are, that's good, can you focus here on the light and follow it please.” It took him a moment to comprehend what she was saying, but finally followed the little pen light with his eyes. She clicked it off andplaced it in her pocket, “Very good.” Reaching out she felt the side of his neck and up under his jaw, “Turn your head to the right…. Now left…. Now open your mouth…. Tilt your head back.” He did as told, though somewhat groggily. As he tried to tile his head back, he felt something strange flexing with him, “Very good, now can you wiggle your fingers for me.” He did as requested tilting his head down to look at his body, which he now realized was hanging upright instead of lying down.

He blinked again, trying to push a haziness from his eyes as he squinted past his hands and down towards his legs. They were bare mostly, which is how he noticed the metal prosthetic so quickly.

He missed her next couple of words as sounds and images came flooding back to him. Ashfall, a dark silhouette looming over him, the sharp point of a spear, and terrible horrible pain.

Something was beeping frantically off to his side.

A hand rested on his arm, “Come on back to us Lieutenant, you’re safe here.” He opened his eyes again looking over to find the admiral standing next to him, “There we go.”

He blinked again.

“How are you feeling?” The man asked

“Not… in pain.” He responded thickly

“Try flexing your toes.”

He did as told looking downwards. His left foot flexed just fine, but the right remained still. He grew sick felt his stomach churn.

“Hm that…. Wait, hold on there kid, we need to power it on.” A sudden relief washed over him as the woman bent down to engage the limb. The Admiral patted his shoulder, and suddenly his eyes widened, he could FEEL his leg, could feel the woman’s fingers as they moved across the metal, could feel it as if it was his own skin.

He shivered, and then shuttered goosebumps erupting across his entire body. She looked up at him, “Can you feel that.”

He nodded dumbstruck, eyes wide.

“That's good, now do what the good lady says and try to raise your arms.”

He did as told, and nearly clobbered himself in the head as his hands and arms flew upwards. He jolted in confusion, staring down at his arms in shock. He flexed hs fingers watching as tiny metal bits flexed with him clicking softly. He flexed his arm again and it felt as if he wasn’t even moving it, instead being dragged along by the metal frame which held his body.

He dropped his hands again.

“Reduce the response time on those,” the admiral ordered, “Let him get the hang of it first.” The woman adjusted something on the leg. He shivered again, feeling her fingers, the sensation was so real, he expected to look down and see his leg back, but predictably it was still metal.

“Go ahead and flex your toes now.”

Nervously he did as asked,and this time the toes of the prosthetic twitched and then curled inwards. He moved one, and then the other and then rolled them tilting his head back and closing his eyes, feeling as if he was in ecstasy.

“Good.” All around him, the other soldiers were doing the same. Across the way, a soldier, who was missing three of her limbs had tears spilling down her face as she flexed her new arm.

Another was blinking through a robotic eye and speaking for the first time…. With a mechanical jaw.

“Lets lower him down slowly let him feel the ground. They rushed to do as told racing over to the wall and slowly lowering him towards the ground. His feet made contact with cold metal…. He could feel it, the cold through the soles of his feet, the only difference was that…. Without skin, he didn't feel that subtle deflection as skin puckered and flatted about objects.

He tried lifting the knee of the new leg, and it came as told. He flexed the ankle, and the foot moved seamlessly with it.

“Wow.”

It was almost as if his leg was back, almost as if….

Embers fell from the sky, and that dark shape moved closer to him fro the darkness.

A hand rested on his shoulder and he jerked away, “Stay with us lieutenant.” The admiral moved forward taking him by the shoulders, “Look at me.”

He did.

The other man’s eyes burned hungrily, “This is your chance…. For revenge, to make them pay for what they did to you.”

Adam nodded, but at the same time, something inside him felt very uneasy. IS revenge what he really wanted…. But of course it was… wasn’t it, that roach had taken his leg..? But shouldn't he feel more?

“And, you will help win the war, no more casualties, no more pain. You do this and it will all be over, you’ll have served the UNSC, the GA, and earth….. Can you do that for me?”

Of course the admiral was right.

“Yes sir.”

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avatoh · 3 years ago

Text

I Like You a Latte: Chapter 2

Psych Shassie Coffee Shop AU!

Chapter 2:

(Whole Story On AO3)

“O’Hara, no. Now drop it,” Lassiter said, straightening his tie and sitting down at his desk. “Not going to happen, not in a million years.”

Juliet smiled in the way that Lassiter hated, the way that said she thought she knew something he didn’t. “All I’m saying is, you made a bet and now you have to pay up. You gave your word. It’s actually pretty unlike you, not following through on something.”

Lassiter looked away, down at his desk, anywhere to keep her from seeing that blush that was rising on his cheeks at the thought of going back and facing that snarky little barista with the devilish little smile and the perfect hair, and- no. There was no way he was going back there to make good on a promise that he didn’t even really mean. It was a joke, after all.

Besides, the fact that he got the culprit right was a complete fluke, a guess, and it had nothing to do with whatever that idiot was calling a ‘psychic’ ability.

“I didn’t give my word,” he grumbled. “Anyway, I doubt he even remembers. That guy looked like he was on speed. I should have him drug tested, actually.”

“Oh, Carlton…” She rolled her eyes. “You should really be nicer to people. You’re too...”

“Suspicious? Paranoid? Tell me something I haven’t heard, O’Hara. I’m a detective. Maybe you shouldn’t be so trusting of everyone you meet.” It wasn’t as easy as it sounded, anyway, Lassiter sure found that out the hard way. He pulled a file off the stack on his desk and slammed it down in front of him. He had work to do.

. . .

Back at the Blueberry Beanery, Shawn was just finishing his shift for the day.

“Were you nice to the customers today, Shawn?” asked Gus, his best friend and the owner of the place.

“Exceptionally. I even made a new friend.”

“When you say friend I hope you don’t mean…” Gus trailed off.

Shawn just grinned.

“Please tell me you didn’t charm another customer into a date, Shawn. It’s bad for business.”

“Come on, son. You know I only do that when I know they’ll say yes.”

“Yeah, but then they go on the date with you or you guys hook up and then I lose customers in the aftermath because for some reason I’ve never known you to go past a 1st date with someone.”

“There was that one person in Alaska when I was traveling.”

“Or so you say. And that was only because you were living at his house rent free.”

“Well not rent free, I worked hard for the room and board.”

Gus rolled his eyes. “Can you please cut it out? I’ve already lost two regulars since you started working here.”

“But I’ve gotten you way more regulars than that. I can whip out the charm when I need to.”

“True,” Gus pondered. “Anyway, no more dating customers, Shawn; even if you did make a new friend today. No more.”

“Gotcha,” he said with almost zero conviction. If that detective cop guy came back, he’d certainly see if he could work his patented Shawn magic with him.

. . .

Lassiter stood at the door to the Blueberry Beanery with a new case file in hand and a belly full of dread.

So what if he was craving one of those delicious sugar filled abominations? He wasn’t made of steel. Or without taste buds, for that matter.

Though the prospect of facing that mouthy Barista again wasn’t helping his decision too much. Sure, he’d promised to come back. And sure, no matter how much he could bullshit to O’Hara (who saw right through him) he was a man of his word. So yes, he was going to go inside.

But he wished he wasn’t.

It only took two seconds after walking in the door before someone was screaming his name.

“LASSSIE!” Great, Shawn. “There he is! I knew you’d be back!”

Lassiter scanned the café quickly to find more than a few stares pointed in his direction. He felt his skin crawl.

“Only because I said I would be,” Lassiter replied. He walked up to the counter with his files tucked under his arm, and Shawn's smile grew bigger with each step, finally settling into a full-on teeth-everywhere grin.

“You don’t have to make up excuses, Lassie. I knew you missed me.” He winked. “What’ll you have today? Wait- don’t tell me. How about a surprise, huh? Something special to celebrate you closing your case.”

“How did you,” Lassiter said. “Wait. Don’t. I don’t want to hear it.”

“P-s-y-c-h-i-c,” Shawn mouthed in a drawn out fashion as he twirled a pen around in his fingers and looked Lassiter dead in the eye. Lassiter fumed.

“Just make the coffee,” he grumbled.

“You got it, grumpy pants.”

Lassiter sat down as far away as he possibly could from Shawn but unfortunately it was a rather small café. He pulled out the case file and began to read through it. There weren’t really many pressing unsolved cases since the double murder. In fact, he was pretty sure he knew who committed this crime, but it was so fresh he still had to wait for the autopsy. It was an open and shut case.

Within a few minutes of looking, Shawn called out “Lassie!” at the top of his lungs, similar to the last time. Lassiter got up with a resolved sigh and grabbed the drink which tasted slightly different but even better.

“I adjusted the ratios a bit. Usually I’m spot on, but the fact that you wouldn’t admit to liking it means I was a bit off on the preparation so let me know if you like this one better, okay?”

Lassiter grunted as he sat back down to look over the case. Yup. It looked like this one was open and shut, so he sipped at his coffee while he began checking his phone for the day.

The shop actually was a pleasant place to be. The only slightly annoying thing about it was the barista who was pretty chatty with everyone who came in. At least he knew how to keep his voice down with the other guests because Lassiter couldn’t quite make out what Shawn was saying.

Having checked his email, his messages, and solved the case, Lassiter sat in silence as his drink dwindled down. He was enjoying the uninterrupted silence, but perhaps too much. You know why they say about silence— it lulls you just enough not to notice the predator that’s about to pounce.

“So, do you think it was the gardener?”

Lassiter jumped in his skin, ripped from his thoughts, as Shawn leaned over the back of the booth, face far too close to his own. Far, far too close because he could faintly smell the fruity scent of his conditioner and the sweet coffee on his breath.

“Back up, would you?” Lassiter said. “And stop looking at my files.” He swept the papers and photos together into a neater pile to ward off Shawn’s prying eyes. “This is official SPBD information. I could hold you in contempt of the law for willfully reading classified documents.”

Shawn snorted, then leaned closer. “Or how about I hold you in contempt for failure to handle classified information? I don’t know about anyone else in here, but I sure got an eye full of those bad boys before you so meanly put them away. If you ask me, that seems pretty mishandled.”

Lassiter frowned. He’d had enough of Shawn’s snippy comments and half-baked knowledge of the law. “How about you shut your mouth and get me another one of these instead of concerning yourself with how I handle my work?” He rudely slid the empty mug to the end of the table and turned to the side where Shawn is still leaned over, way too close, and raised an eyebrow.

Shawn didn’t seem affected. He never did. “Maybe I should be more concerned with how you could handle me,” he whispered.

This time, it was even worse than the shouting because it was so low and breathy that it sent a shiver down his spine. The hairs on the back of his neck rose up, too. Sweet Lady Justice.

“I—” he stuttered. He hated the way it came out of his mouth, so unlike his usually confident demeanor.

Shawn smirked and stood back up, practically bounced over to the end of the table, and picked up his mug before running off. “ANOTHER LASSIE SPECIAL!”

Shawn immediately started making the drink himself as he was the only one working. Lassiter had only been in the little café twice and all he had seen so far was Shawn there; he was beginning to wonder if there were any other employees who worked and when he might come in so he could meet them.

Shawn headed over to Lassiter and gave him his drink. “That’ll be $4.50.”

“On second thought, I think I want my fifty cents back,” Lassiter said plainly from across the shop as Shawn slid the change into the tip jar. It seemed like Shawn’s yelling from across the building was rubbing off on him.

Lassiter handed over a $5 bill and told the annoyingly gorgeous man to keep the change.

“Wowee. Fifty whole cents for solving the case of the year and possibly a second one. Thank you, kind Sir.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Shawn quickly backpedaled.

“I’m giving you business and keeping my word, isn’t that enough. Besides, I didn't ask you to ‘help’ with the second one.”

“Trueee.”

“What’s the deal with this place anyway,” Lassiter asked.

“What do you mean?”

“How did you get stuck working here and how do you get off talking to paying customers like this? I bet you get complaints.”

“Well, I don’t talk to everyone like this, and I’d like you to know it’s been one whole month since I’ve gotten a complaint. You should feel honored, Lassie.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Why? You’ll complain about me. Remember when I solved that case for you? I’d say I'm going above and beyond the call of duty for this job here. I ought to be promoted.”

“More like fired,” he muttered under his breath. “Make this to go, actually.”

“You got it, Lass-” he stopped, then grinned. “-ieeeeee.”

“I don’t know how anyone stands you.” Lassiter grabbed the paper cup and his belongings then headed straight for his crown vic.

. . .

Lassiter entered the bullpen amongst the chatter of offices and ringing phones, before settling down at his desk and tossing the file into the completed bin. At most, he would have a day or two of petty crimes before another high profile case made its way to his desk, but he didn’t want to wait that long.

Ever eager for a new mystery to solve, he knocked on Chief Vic’s office ready to shake her down for something big.

“Enough, Lassiter,” she said, looking exasperated. “Just take it easy for a day or two, you of all people have earned it.”

“With all due respect, Chief, I didn’t become Santa Barbara’s youngest head detective by ‘taking it easy’. Are there any homicides? High profile robberies? Gang related violence? Come on, Chief.”

“Lassiter,” she said, her voice severe. “Do not come into my office asking me this again. I want you on the Farbaros case and that is the end of that.”

“Chief—”

“Out, detective.”

. . .

Lassiter tried not to slam the door on his way out, but he was never good at controlling his anger. Jules even saw it rolling off of him, judging by the way she scooted away and refused to look at him the moment he got to his desk.

“What have you got on the Farbaros case, O’Hara?” he asked. In reality, it was more of an order than a question. “Bring me up to speed, now.”

“Well... “ she began. “Easy case, really. We’ve already interviewed all the witnesses and the evidence is already pointing in one direction.” She looked up with a sorry look on her face. She of all people knew how antsy he got without something to do. “We have one of the officers already on route to bring him in for questioning. Sorry, partner.”

Lassiter signed. Great. He took a sip of his coffee and pressed his fingers to his temple. He didn’t need a few days off.

There was always paperwork to do at least, so he worked on that for the rest of the day. If there was still no big case to work on the next day, he could always look through some of the older cold cases, which always were fun to do.

The downtime between cases was only fun for a few hours. After completing and filing the necessary paperwork as well as making a few phone calls to get the paperwork and what he needed processed more quickly, Lassiter decided to reward himself with his lunch hour, which he usually took in the comfort of his own desk. Today, just because things were so slow, he decided to leave his sandwich in the fridge for the next day and go somewhere fun for lunch. There was a nice Mexican place that usually took a while to get the food out that would be the perfect distraction for today. He went ahead and called in his order and then began driving over.

After paying for his food, he took it to a nearby park across the street and sat down on one of the public benches. He had gotten himself some freshly made and hot chicken tacos, a treat for himself. The notion of a “treat” was absolutely ridiculous, he realized as he unbagged the food. Perhaps he had been splurging more than usual with all the fancy coffees and now his favorite Mexican place that was a little out of the way. Did he even deserve these so-called treats, as he called them in his mind? He hadn’t even been the one to solve the big case, after all.

What was up with Shawn? Not only had he solved one, but two cases for him in the span of a week, like it was too easy. It wasn’t easy. Lassiter had spent hours upon hours reading and looking over a bunch of information only to have a barista tell him within a short little visit who the perp was. It was ridiculous really.

As if to rub it in his face while he was contemplating the fact that it wasn’t even him who solved the big case, his phone rang: a call from Henry Spencer, his former mentor.

“Hey, Henry, It’s been awhile.”

“It’s nice to hear your voice, rookie,” Henry said jovially through the speakers. “I’m just calling because I wanted to congratulate you on solving the Todd case.”

“Thanks,” Lassiter said. “How are you doing Henry? How’s the retirement treating you this month?”

“Fine, fine. We haven’t been fishing together in awhile. You should never feel shy to reach out. Anyway, besides the congratulations on solving that big case, I was wondering if you’d be free next Friday?”

“Why?”

“I’m thinking of having a barbeque. Just a few guys from the station, nothing too big. You should come by, show the old guys how well I taught ya, huh?”

Lassiter nearly groaned at the prospect of a social gathering, but seeing as though it would all be guys from the station, he figured he would be able to talk shop for most of it. Besides, Henry Spencer was one of the SBPD’s best, the human lie detector, as they called him, and he was proud that he was mentored by him.

“Next Friday...?” he trailed off, knowing full well he had no plans. “Yeah, I could go for a burger. I’ll be there.”

“Great, see you then.”

ch 1 a03

#shassie #ao3 #fanfic #psych #psych fanfic #my fic

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apoguecalledjj · 4 years ago

Text

Fixation (Chapter 8)

Sorry, this one is a bit short! It’s because the next one is going to be long, also there’s only one more part + an epilogue!

Series summary: Eleanor is new to the outer banks, and the pogues are quick to take her in. But so are the kooks, and as she grows closer with Rafe, trouble emerges. Trying to balance her relationship with the pogues and the kooks, as well as dealing with her own personal problems, Eleanor falls into a hole she may not be able to dig herself out of.

Chapter Word Count: 2140

Chapter Warnings: Hospitals

Previous Parts: Ch. 1 Ch. 2 Ch. 3 Ch. 4 Ch. 5 Ch. 6 Ch. 7 Ch. 8

Taglist: @prejudic3 @maragritatimebaybee @drewxxrudy @outerbankslove @bricksatanakinswindow @alexa-playafricabytoto @gigi-june

“I don’t think this is a good idea, JJ.”

“Kiara, he almost killed her. He almost fucking killed her.” JJ was fuming in the front seat of John B’s van. The five of them were currently on the way to figure 8, more specifically, the Cameron residence.

“JJ’s right, Kie. I’ve had enough of Rafe fucking with my friends.” John B’s eyes were fixated on the road, but everyone knew his thoughts weren’t focused.

He pulled into the driveway and Sarah jumped out first, the pogues trailing behind her. Kiara and Pope hung slightly back, not entirely comfortable with the idea of a fight. Even though they both agreed that Rafe deserved to get his ass kicked, it wasn’t often that he was without Topper and Kelce.

They learned quickly that Rafe wasn’t alone as he burst through the front door, his two friends just behind him. Topper glared, but Kiara could see a sliver of worry in Rafe’s eyes. Worry for Ellie, or worry about getting in trouble, she wondered.

JJ didn’t hesitate. “You fucking prick!” He yelled, lunging toward the closest kook boy, his fist connecting with bone. But JJ wasn’t thinking clearly, he wasn’t focused like he normally was during fights, this time he was overcome with anger and it was easy for Rafe to hit him back and eventually straddle him to the ground.

“Don’t come around my place acting all mighty and strong, you dirty pogue,” Rafe spat in his face. John B stepped forward to pull Rafe off, but Topper stood in front of him, giving him a shove back.

“You deserve to fucking die,” JJ snarled, his hands wrapped tightly around Rafe’s arms as he struggled to get out of his hold. “You left her alone. You left her alone to die!”

Topper’s fist froze in midair, and Kelce, who had yet to move anyways, took a step back. “What’s he talking about, Rafe?” Kelce asked.

“Nothing,” He mumbled, loosening his grip on JJ.

JJ managed to push him off of him, flipping the boy over so he was now pinned against the ground. “Causing your girlfriend to overdose isn’t what I would classify as nothing.”

“Ellie overdosed?” For once, Topper sounded genuine. The two kook boys actually did care a lot about Ellie, they had grown quite close to her and to hear Rafe had hurt her upset the both of them.

“Yeah, she did,” Sarah said, stepping towards where JJ and Rafe still sat on the ground. She motioned for JJ to move and he did, and Rafe stood up to face her. “You idiot-” She jabbed her finger into Rafe’s chest. “-Got her hooked on cocaine. You know her mom’s a fucking addict? That’s why she lives with her uncle. And you got her addicted. Are you stupid?”

Kelce moved away from Rafe, looking at him in shock. “What the fuck, bro.”

Pope continued where Sarah left off. “You think you’d be smart enough to at least not push her limits. But obviously not, since she’s now unconscious at the hospital, after they found her ALONE, SEIZING in your room, Rafe. Why would you leave her?”

“I called the ambulance,” Rafe mumbled.

“Yeah, and it was almost too late. Any longer and she probably would have died,” Kiara told him, not even able to look him in the eyes.

Topper was still staring at the ground in front of him. “I had no idea she was doing drugs.”

“She wasn’t, till she got with Rafe,” John B sneered.

“She’s still unconscious?” Kelce’s voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. “Can we see her?”

JJ froze, obviously not knowing how to respond. He didn’t like Kelce and Topper, got in fights with them often, but their reactions seemed genuine and they did spend a lot of time with Ellie. He glanced at Kiara, urging her to answer the question for him.

She nodded. “You two can. HIm, though-” She motioned to Rafe. “Absolutely not. I don’t even want to see him outside of the hospital.”

Rafe nodded, his eyes wide and frantic. He looked crazy, worried, and paranoid, and that was when JJ realized he wasn’t even sober. His girlfriend just overdosed, and he was still getting high.

Kiara’s phone rang, and she stepped to the side. JJ stepped closer to Rafe. “I think it’d be a good idea for you to stay away from Ellie from now on.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Rafe kicked at the ground, turning to go into the house. “Keeping me away from my own goddamn girlfriend, yeah,” He mumbled just loud enough to be heard.

“I doubt she’s your girlfriend anymore. I got a feeling she’s gonna want to stay a long way away from you,” Sarah said.

Rafe scoffed. “Top, Kelce, you coming? Fuck the pogues.”

“Nah, man, we’re gonna go see Ellie,” Topper told him.

Kiara stepped back into the group. “Perfect timing. She just woke up.”

---

The pogues, plus Topper and Kelce, rushed to the hospital and through the halls. Travis was leaned against the wall outside of Ellie’s room, his eyes closed slightly as he hummed.

“Hey, kids,” He said, hearing their loud footsteps approaching. He opened his eyes and turned. “Topper and Kelce. Didn’t expect you two with this crowd.” His eyes narrowed and he scanned the group. “Rafe isn’t here, is he?”

JJ shook his head. “No sir. We made sure he wouldn’t come, I hope that was the right thing to do...” JJ trailed off nervously, still not entirely sure how Ellie’s uncle felt about the situation even though Rafe had almost killed his niece.

“No, that’s good. We don’t want to see him around here anytime soon,” He said, nodding. He turned to Kelce and Topper. “You two weren’t involved with this, were you?”

Kelce’s eyes widened. “No, no! We had no idea she was doing coke. She never did it around us.”

Travis nodded once again. “Alright. Well, you guys can go in and see her. She’s been asking for you. There’s no limit anymore since she’s awake, so all of you can go in, but please, try not to overwhelm her.” His gaze was aimed towards John B and JJ with that last statement.

JJ entered the room first, and the smile that spread across Ellie’s face caused his heart to flutter. She already looked so much better, there was color in her skin and her eyes were bright. She lifted her hand up in a small wave and he went to return the favor but was interrupted by John B slamming into his back.

“Why’d you stop man- Oh hi Ellie!”

She giggled at John B, and JJ swore it was the most beautiful thing he ever heard. He had been terrified he would never hear that laugh again, and every sound that came out of her now felt like a blessing.

The rest of the group piled into the room, which was way too small for all of them, but Ellie didn’t seem to mind. Her smile just grew wider and wider as they piled in, especially Topper and Kelce, who she was obviously shocked to see.

JJ took the chair by her bed, a silent agreement among his friends that he would be the one to sit there. Kiara took the other chair, John B propping himself in the windowsill and Pope standing next to him. Sarah sat on the foot of the bed after some encouragement from Ellie, and Topper and Kelce stood on the other side of the room, not used to being with this group of friends.

“Hey El, how you doing?” JJ spoke quietly, finally able to talk to her.

She sighed. “Withdrawl is hard. I have a brutal headache, and I’m exhausted. But I'm not gonna sleep. I wanna talk to you guys.”

JJ had noticed that her eyes were slightly drooping, her blinks were longer than normal, but he hadn’t wanted to mention anything. He had watched his dad go through withdrawals before, and he knew how terrible it could get.

There was a moment of silence, no one really knowing what to say after your best friend just had an overdose. Eventually, Ellie spoke up again. “So how’d you two kooks end up with the pogues? Never thought I’d see the day.”

No one spoke at first, not sure if bringing up Rafe was a good idea. But Ellie was waiting for an answer and they would have to talk about it soon anyways.

“The pogues came to tell off Rafe,” Topper finally told her, earning a smack from Kelce for how blunt he was about it.

“You guys went to see Rafe?” Ellie asked, surprised.

John B nodded. “Kiara wouldn’t let us beat him up though.”

“John B! You can’t say stuff like that!”

But Ellie just laughed. “Should have let them,” She told Kiara. Her face turned more serious. “I don’t want him around here at all though, ok? Can you guys try to keep him away?”

Kelce nodded quickly. “He won’t be around. The pogues dealt with that one.” He sent a smile their way, something no one thought they’d ever see. “And I don’t know if I can speak for Topper, but I’m not going to be around him much anymore.”

Topper nodded in agreement, and Ellie smiled softly. “Thanks, guys.”

Pope finally asked the question everyone was dying to ask. “Are you going to rehab?” He said quietly, not wanting to make her uncomfortable, but curiosity getting the better of him.

Ellie shook her head. “No, I told uncle Travis I didn’t want to go and promised I wouldn’t do anymore coke. Or even drink alcohol. The doctor wasn’t pleased, and really wanted me to go, but uncle Travis is letting me have a chance. Me crying helped a little, I think.”

"I'm glad you'll still be around, " JJ spoke quietly but he knew Ellie heard him because she smiled.

They continued to laugh and joke around afterward, Topper even managed to make John B and JJ chuckle a few times. Ellie felt happy, even after all she had been through because she was surrounded by the best people. It also helped that JJ was right next to her, he always managed to put her in a better mood.

His hand was gently rested on top of hers, neither of them could remember when he placed it there but it stayed, bringing warmth to her palm. His thumb brushed over her skin, relaxing her unconsciously.

"'M getting tired, " Ellie admitted after hours of giggling with her friends. It was still early in the night, but she still wasn't 100% and probably wouldn't be for a while. Even though she had been unconscious for over 24 hours and had taken a nap afterward, she still longed for sleep.

Everyone slowly trickled out of the room, but JJ stayed behind. "Can I talk to you alone for just a minute? It won't be long, I promise."

Ellie smiled. "Of course, I don't mind."

JJ wrapped his fingers around the hand he was still holding. He met her gaze, and she could see how serious he was. "I meant what I said before and I still do. I am in love with you Ellie, and almost losing you just helped me realize it quicker. I would give the world for you, you make my heart beat faster, and having you next to me is the best feeling in the world. I know you've been through a lot and you just got out of things with Rafe, but I had to tell you. Again, since this is technically the third time I've confessed." JJ noticed her look of confusion and quickly explained himself. "I poured my heart out to you while you were unconscious."

He chuckled. "I don't ever want to see you hurt again. I love you Ellie, and I'm willing to wait. Or unless you don't have feelings for me. I didn't think about that but if you don't it's okay. I kind of jumped the gun with that one didn't I?"

JJ would have continued to ramble on nervously if Ellie hadn't interrupted him. "JJ. Stop. I do have feelings for you. I think I always have, I was just- just overtaken by the drugs." JJ smiled, and she quickly continued. "But you are right, it is really soon. I need to take things slow."

He nodded. "Slow. I'm good with slow."

Ellie didn't respond, instead, she leaned over and pressed her lips to his. He immediately kissed back without thought, his hand moving around to the back of her neck while the other still held her hand.

They pulled away, both of them grinning. "What happened to taking it slow?" JJ asked.

"Starting now." Ellie smiled at him, then kissed him once again.

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thebluenoteblog · 5 years ago

Text

Just Between Us

Summary: You knew when you met Artturi that he was to young for you. Still, that didn’t stop you from falling for him.

Player: Artturi Lehkonen

Word Count: 1.9k

Requested: Hello! could do a imagine with Artturi Lehkonen where he falls in love with an older woman, but she is afraid that everyone can criticize her and offers him to have a secret relationship and he accepts even reluctantly wanting everyone to know about the courtship between both. I love your writing! 💕

You met Artturi in a club. The music was loud and you were both a little tipsy and probably not making the best decisions. You could tell just by looking at him, his clothes, the way he carried himself that he was younger than you. However, it was late at night and the atmosphere had you feeling some kind of way. He was cute. So, when he asked you to dance… you said yes.

You ended up in the back of an Uber before the club had closed down, abandoning your group of friends. You arrived back at your house and there was very little conversation. The words exchanged between the two of you would not be classified as small talk.

The next morning, you didn’t wake up until eleven and you were sporting a hangover and a collection of hickeys all over your body. You supposed you deserved that for hooking up with someone so much younger than you. You also deserved to wake up alone, because that’s what happened when you hooked up with attractive guys who were noticeably younger than you.

You took popped a few pain killers to help with the hangover and went about getting ready for the day. It wasn’t until after you’d done your makeup and dried your hair that you walked out of your bathroom and noticed something written on a sticky note on the bedside table opposite of where you’d woken up.

You picked it up and read it over a few times, laughing a little as you did. I had a great time with you last night. At the club. Not the sex. That was good too. I’ll stop, just text me.

Underneath the messy handwriting was a phone number. You almost threw the sticky note away. You didn’t need to be getting involved with a younger guy. That was the last thing you needed, actually. However, some nagging feeling in the back of your head stopped you. Maybe it was the amazing sex. Maybe it was the way he’d made you laugh in the club. You didn’t know. Whatever it was, you placed the note back on the end table and went about your day, the boy from the club rarely leaving your mind.

****

It wasn’t until the next day that you finally broke and entered his number into your phone. It was a day after that when you texted him for the first time. You didn’t know what exactly to say so you tried a few different things. Hey, it’s the girl from the other night. No. Hey, remember leaving me your number a few days ago? No. Hey, if you’re up for it, we could check out another club this weekend. That was probably the best it was going to get.

You pressed send and waited for a response. You waited for a long time. Eventually he did respond, I’m going to be out of town for work until Wednesday. How about when I get back we go out for dinner instead?

You paused when you read this. He couldn’t have been any older than twenty-five and that was just a guess. What job did he have where he was traveling out of town for a week at a time? Better question, why did he want to take you to dinner. You were thirty. At least five years older than him.

However, there was that nagging feeling again, and you couldn’t turn him down. Yeah, that sounds nice. Just let me know when.

You texted back and forth with him for a few more hours that night before you finally fell asleep, phone still in your hand waiting for his next response.

****

He texted you the name of the restaurant, the time he would pick you up and then followed it with a second message that read, wear something nice. You stared at your phone, confused. Then decided to google the restaurant.

It was a very nice restaurant. Too nice.

You texted him back, I can’t let you spend that kind of money.

He responded quickly with, It’s nothing. Be ready at six.

Insane. But you did as he asked, wearing a dress and a pair of heels from the back of your closet. When he picked you up, he actually came to your door which you hadn’t expected. He opened the car door for you. A very nice car. You were seriously beginning to wonder if you’d just agreed to go on a date with a drug dealer or someone with connections to some powerful crime family.

You didn’t figure out who he was until you were at dinner and the waiter addressed him by his name after taking his drink order, “I’ll have that right out for you Mr. Lehkonen.”

You’d turned from watching the waiter disappear around the corner to stare at Artturi. “Okay, what’s going on? Do you like own this place or something?”

He laughed, “No.”

“Then how did the waiter know your name?” You asked.

Artturi shrugged, “He must be a hockey fan. The boys and I come here a lot. We tip well. The servers tend to like us.”

You stared at him blankly for a moment, then slowly the pieces clicked together. A foreign guy in his mid-twenties with a shit ton of money to burn living in Canada who travels a lot for his job. You suddenly realized where you’d heard his name before. “You’re a hockey player?” You asked hesitantly, dumbfounded.

He nodded slowly, “You didn’t know that?” He asked, “Most people around here know.”

“I’m not big on sports,” you said, “I don’t dislike them… I just don’t have the attention span to follow a team for an entire season.”

He frowned, nodding again. “Maybe you could come to a game sometime. You might like it. It’s different, being there I mean.”

You smiled at him, “I would like that.”

****

You went on four more dates over the course of five more weeks before he brought up you going to a game again. He mentioned it casually while you were waiting in line for movie tickets. “There’s a game tomorrow night. It’ll be a good one. I could get you tickets if you want to come.”

You stared at Artturi, surprised for a moment. Then slowly nodded, “Yeah, that sounds fun.”

He smiled at you, “The game starts at seven, but you should get there early for warm-ups.”

Again, you nodded.

When he dropped you off that night, you didn’t want him to leave. So, when he walked you to the door, you invited him inside for a drink. You never made it to the alcohol.

****

They won. They won and much to your surprise, you had enjoyed the game. He’d skated over to you a few times during warm ups to show off what he could do with the puck and you’d laughed at how proud he looked.

After the game, you left. Heading home with a smile on your face. You got a text not long after from Artturi, where are you?

Home.

The dots appeared and disappeared a few times before a message finally came through, why didn’t you come down? That’s what the pass was for. I wanted the guys to meet you.

You frowned, staring at the message for a long moment and contemplating a response. Were you letting this go to far? You couldn’t actually start a relationship with Artturi. You’d learned since you started seeing each other that he was only twenty-four. A year younger than you had originally guessed. Not only was it unrealistic to date someone that much younger than yourself at your age, but he was under the constant watchful eye of the media.

You didn’t need all of the hockey world judging you for robbing the cradle.

I don’t think that would be a good idea.

He responded quickly with, why not?

What if it gets out that you’re seeing a 30-year-old woman? I don’t think we should see each other anymore.

Again, he spent a very long time typing the message before it came through. Finally, when it did, all he’d said was, I’m coming over.

****

You opened your door and he waited for you to motion him inside before walking around you and into the house. “Why does it matter?”

You closed the door behind him, “Why does what matter?”

“If people find out that we’re seeing each other,” he stated, clearly annoyed. “Why does that matter?”

“It matters because I don’t want that kind of negative attention, Artturi,” you said, “and as much as you make it sound like you don’t care I know you would.”

He shook his head, a sigh falling from his lips. He didn’t want this to end. He didn’t want to stop seeing you. He hadn’t had as much fun with a woman as he had with you in the past month as far back as he could remember. “I was going to ask you to be my girlfriend tonight, and now you’re telling me that you don’t want to see me anymore.”

Your breath caught in your throat. You hadn’t expected that. You hadn’t expected him to want to commit to you. Now that the option was on the table, that same nagging thought was in the back of your head that had stopped you from throwing away his phone number all those weeks ago. You didn’t want to walk away from it. You didn’t want to walk away from him. “It isn’t that I don’t want to see you,” you said. “It’s just that I don’t want people judging us for it. I don’t want people to know.”

He frowned, “What are you saying?”

“What if we just kept it a secret?” You said, “Just the two of us. At least for now.”

He stared at you, contemplating his answer. It was an easy one, really. He knew that he wanted to be with you. He knew that he didn’t want to walk out that door in a few minutes knowing that he’d just walked away from an opportunity to be with you. Though a part of him was hoping that if he hesitated long enough, you would decide that you would date him like a normal person. You wouldn’t make him sneak around behind his friends backs and hide everything from the media.

He didn’t think you realized that this would mean you couldn’t keep going out in public together all the time. You couldn’t go out multiple nights a week like normal couples did. Not with the media nosing around in his life. Not if you wanted the secret to remain a secret.

You weren’t changing your mind. You were holding his stare, waiting for an answer.

Finally, when he decided that you weren’t going to budge on this, he took a step forward and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you in for a kiss. When he pulled away he looked down at you and said, “If you want to be my girlfriend in secret, then that’s what we’ll do.”

You smiled up at him and hugged him tightly, burying your face in his chest. Over the top of your head, he stared at the moonlight shining in through the window and frowned.

#artturi lehkonen #artturi lehkonen imagine #artturi lehkonen imagines #hockey imagines #nhl imagines

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prcmctheus · 6 years ago

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beep beep y’all ur resident dumpster dweller kay here in action and ready 2 introduce u all to my Fave Boy misha who uhHHhh p much has rbf and a Thicc ukrainian accent. will this contain anything of substance other than immense rambling ?? whO KNOWS but we’ll go on this journey together but feel free to drop a like if u wanna plot and i’ll pop over to ur dm’s !!

potential triggers: death + mob activity

! ✰ ° — [ CHRIS PINE, CISMALE, HE/HIM ] mykhailo “misha” chernenko, aka agent prometheus is a thirty-five year old tactical agent that has been loyal to mercy twelve years. during that time they were injected with the gamma serum and earned regenerative healing they have a reputation of being the sagacious because they can be pragmatic & diligent. but let’s not forget they’re pretty acerbic & reticent. if you listen closely you can hear another one bites the dust by queen whenever they walk past.

okie to start off ya boy was brought into the world as михайло оландрович черненко ( aka mykhailo oleksandrovych chernenko ) but typically goes by the nickname of misha bc it’s easier and was born in kharkiv, ukraine ,,, he is a proud ukrainian and v much dislikes being deemed a russian ,, don’t do him dirty y’all . . it’s a struggle and one he will never forget n have u on his shit list ,, especially since his accent is still Thicc so any jokes will get u a side eye

his father oleksandr had strong nationalistic views , especially so when ukraine was still under soviet control and following the death of his first wife yulia ( they were visiting her family in moscow when she was caught in the crossfire of russian mob activity on her way home from the store and ultimately died from gunshot wounds ) he became heavily involved anti-russia groups back in ukraine

in 1983 when misha was born, he uHHhhHHhh wasn’t really wanted per say ?? like ,, his dad was hooking up with his mother kateryna and it was a surprise to them both that kateryna was pregnant ?? so oleksandr did the noble thing ( arguable bc he ain’t so noble ) and put a ring on her ,, mainly bc it was expected and kateryna gave him hell so u go kateryna

misha’s childhood wasn’t the best considering his parents argued more than they got along and kateryna really despised her husband from his life of crime ?? definitely didn’t agree with his ties to the ukrainian mob bc of the threat it brought to the family and especially the dirty money so she often put her sewing skills to use and made little of her own money ,, then wOP ,, four years down the line kateryna surprises oleksandr with the fact that she’s pregnant again but this time it ends up being a daughter that they name nadezhda but call nadia

it was an odd thing for misha bc for as harsh and distant as his father was to him, he had put him on this pedestal with a strong sense of idealism of what his father was like if he managed to do something to make him proud ,, despite not fully knowing in depth what his father did in the mob ( aka not good things like murder, drug trafficking and human trafficking ) so essentially that became misha’s goal in his v young life ,, he mimicked his father’s anti-russian views and showed interest in what he did for a living ,, rip 2 misha’s mom bc she nearly had a heart attack when she heard her son acting like everything she didn't want him to end up being

but with kateryna’s dismay came the affection from his father that misha had so desperately wanted and it became some weird take ur child to work day thing ,, this started when misha was around 6 years old and lasted up until he was 13 ( for reasons i’ll get into soon jndsjksd ) where oleksandr would often bring misha after school or even take him our during school ,, as some weird initiation thing of another generation of chernenko dedicating themselves to the cause of ukrainian independence

misha himself is an intelligent boy with a quick witted mind and ability to retain information and was quick to pick up on the russian language around him in kharkiv as well english ,, generally v good at learning languages and i just !!! get a lil emo thinking about the life misha could have had bc of his smarts if he didn’t get himself involved in this spy shit

his father finds it useful to start teaching misha how to properly fight bc #fambonding am i rite ,, also bc oleksandr is a shite dad who was gonna bring misha along to some attack they were planning near the russian border from tensions between the ukrainian mob n the russian mob that was starting to infiltrate in ,, just dudes being dudes n getting territorial

let’s pray 4 kateryna when she finds out bc it’s when misha is 13 and tags along with his father to this smackdown which ?? ukraine is independent at this point by 5 years so oleksandr is trash n still chilling with the mob and when shit hits the fan and long story short, oleksandr ( along with many others ) gets killed, misha ends up severely hurt and it’s not a good time ,, but things shift bc when misha comes to he’s in a hospital bed and o shIT ,, he’s chilling with the security service of ukraine which deals with counterintelligence activity and terrorism

chilling ain’t really the term but yA KNOW ,, turns out they’ve been keeping eyes on the mob movements and misha attracted the attention of ukrainian intelligence “offered” him a role as a spy with the promise of training and serving his country proudly ,, u know ,, offered is in quotes bc hoe didn’t really have a choice but it wasn’t a hard choice bc misha was eager to help out his homeland

he didn’t officially go out into the field until he was 17 bc of extensive training in combat and espionage to help defend the still young foundation of the ukrainian government especially since it was rocky from the poor economic conditions ,, and after proving both his worth and abilities in several missions, he was activated as a sleeper agent in the russian government to get a hold of information regarding russian intelligence ,, more importantly such impacting ukraine

ya boy excelled in his position, given it wasn’t the most exciting bc it involved a lot of blending in and upholding this russian persona ,, gone was mykhailo chernenko for those three years up until he was 23 since he went by the alias of konstantin vasiliev ,, and he did well !! as someone who excelled in linguistics, his was v fluent in the russian language with a believable accent to match ( one of his best qualities in his ability to take on accents easily and rn he’s fluent in french, german, italian and spanish outside of his ukrainian, russian, and english )

things went well for the three years acting as a secretary for a high ranking russian government official and uh,, u know it helped that misha was attractive and knew how to use it to his advantage and successfully infiltrated into classified information since his superior viewed misha as just a pretty face with minimal understanding of how politics worked ,, meanwhile he was the one who spilled shit during sex so who was the real weenie

due to unfortunate events, misha’s cover was blown and barely made it out of russia alive and it was around his 23rd/24th that mercy got into contact with him and for as much as misha loved his country, he figured for his own safety it would be best to leave the area since lowkey the russian government still had it out for him ,, so he joined the mercy division as a field agent and AGENT PROMETHEUS was born ,, a couple of years into it he was convicted into taking the gamma serum which gave him regenerative healing which helps out v much when he gets shot at or generally hurt

so yeah p much ya boy has been chilling at mercy as a field agent for eleven years and generally enjoying his time here given things can’t ever really get normal as a spy ,, but it was last year that bc of numerous influences, misha decided to accept the offer of joining the tactical agents and retire his days as a field agent.

personality wise ,, misha is v devoted to his job and does this hoe ever genuinely laugh or smile ?? who knows ,, i think there’s a rumor somewhere that he’s actually a robot. def gives into the slavic stereotype where ukrainian’s never smile ,, not to mention his father ingrained into him the ukrainian saying of Сміх без причини є ознакою тупості aka “laughter without a reason is a sign of stupidity” soooOOoo he’s just a bit stoic and has resting bitch face

doesn’t really realize he’s v blunt and forthright in his speak so he can come off as an asshole ( which 67% of the time he doesn’t mean ) ,, has the patience of a saint but if u push hard enough he’ll crack ,, a bit dry on the humor but can def be an asshole when he wants to. doesn’t trust a lot of ppl and it’s hard to earn his trust ,, word the only major ppl he’s trusted was a) his dad b) the security service of ukraine and c) now mercy so kudos on getting on his good side

has no contact whatsoever with his mother kateryna or his sister nadia ,, partially bc couldn’t keep up for security n safety reasons but also bc misha is p much dead to kateryna after following his father’s footsteps, getting involved in the whole mess of ukrainian / russian political n governmental affairs and also dropping his v tiny attempt of college before becoming a sleeper agent for ukraine ,, so ya boy is on his own so u can expect wALLS around him ,, bc u know ,, he don’t do emotional vulnerability or relationships

#mhq.intro #if all goes well and i am .. not dumb fjdnsj then this posts while im out to dinner #luv me and my goblin son

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nohhh · 7 years ago

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Classified Mission: Eastern Europe. Romanogers fanfic

Chapter 1

“You’re up early.” Natasha said as Steve came into the main kitchen for breakfast. “Couldn’t sleep” He replied “How do you always get up this early?” Natasha looked up from the frying pan “In the Red Room we got about three hours sleep each night, we used to whisper across the room to each other wondering who would die next.” Steve raised his eyebrows in concern “Old habits are hard to break?” Steve had the same thoughts when he was in the army. They sat in silence for a few minutes as Natasha served up a fried egg and pancake. The silence was always companionable, there was never an awkward silence between them.

“Where do you think they will send us this time?” Steve spoke first.

“Couldn’t be much worse than Afghanistan.” Natasha offered

Steve grinned “Remember the time we were sent to Hong Kong to stop the multi-million dollar drug smuggling and I couldn’t figure out how to use the phones we were given.”

Natasha laughed “I had to give you a crash course on how to use it.”

“The time I forgot to put the phone on silent-“

“And blew our cover.”

“Thank God it wasn’t on full volume.”

“The security guards still heard it.”

“At least they didn’t go straight onto the coms.”

They laughed. A screen came in on the breakfast counter, Maria Hill looked at them through a camera inset on the screen, courtesy of Stark tech. Natasha and Steve straightened.

“I am sure you have been awaiting a mission for a while now, agent Romanoff and captain Rogers and you have one. Be at SHIELD headquarters in one hour.” And she was gone.

“We’ll leave in half an hour.” Steve said, “I’ll wash up, you use the bathroom first”

Natasha nodded, walking to the door of the kitchen.

“Give me ten minutes” Steve grabbed the plates and washed them quickly leaving them drip-dry on the draining board. He walked quickly into the garage to make sure the motorcycles had enough fuel and by the time he came back Natasha was in the kitchen dressed in a black leather jacket and leggings. She nodded at Steve “Eight and a half minutes” Steve laughed. “Give me seven then.” He went to the bathroom and looked at the mirror, he shaved two days ago so that was fine and he had gotten a haircut last week, he brushed his teeth and tugged a comb through his hair. He went into his bedroom and opened the wardrobe, he pulled out his brown leather jacket and a pair of denim jeans and put them on, he also had a white t-shirt. He then went back to the kitchen where Natasha had put away the dishes and brushed the floor “Eight minutes, Rogers” She said facing him. “I’ll speed up in future.” He smiled. “Come on then, I checked the traffic, we would want to be going.”

They raced each other to the garage where two motorcycles were kept for their use.

“I win!” Natasha said gleefully

“I’ll give you that one.” Steve said grinning back at her.

Green and blue eyes widened at the alarm sound.

“Did we trip something by accident?” Steve whispered to Natasha as she grabbed a knife from a worktable.

“We shouldn’t have.” She whispered back “Go around the side, I’ll go through the house. Rendezvous in the kitchen.”

Steve nodded, carefully opening the garage door and slipping outside after Natasha handing him another knife.

Natasha stealthily walked into the main foyer where the coast was clear, she whispered into her com “All clear in the foyer”

“Same here” came the reply

A massive bang came from the spare bedroom.

“The safe” Natasha groaned, “Steve, get to the spare bedroom.”

“30 seconds”

Natasha made her way carefully to the door of the bedroom. She could hear two voices inside.

“If we bring this back to boss, we’re set for life.”

Natasha made a mental checklist of all items stored in the safe, passports, coms, SHIELD papers. Nothing of real value, unless you were forging an identity.

A heavy breath sounded in Natasha’s ear and she turned to see Steve sweating behind her. “I’m going in, you stay here for backup.” Natasha stage-whispered. Steve nodded.

Natasha opened the door silently and saw the robbers in full light, they were wearing black caps, jumpers, track-suit pants’ and boots. They looked like they were carrying weapons. She looked back at Steve and held up a finger, 1 minute.

Natasha crept up silently behind the larger of the pair and kicked him in the back of the knee, while her fist connected in a hook to his side. The man grunted in pain and fell to the floor where Natasha got him in a choke lock, using the man as a platform for gathering momentum to kick the other guy in the face, he dropped a round object that Natasha realized was a grenade. Steve, apparently had noticed a second before her and had it covered with his shield, an explosion sounded inside the shield, echoed by the space confinement. Within the two seconds Steve had covered the blast Natasha had disabled the two men and pinned them to the ground. They were unconscious, for the moment being. Steve flipped them onto their backs to reveal their faces.

Natasha gasped.

“What is it?” Steve’s concerned voice asked

“They, they were from Moscow, when I was in the Red Room they would be outside every morning with Madame B. They’re meant to be dead, in an explosion.”

“Wow, I bet Nick Fury would enjoy this. We’ll take the car. Put them into the back.”

Natasha nodded in reply.

Ten minutes later they were waiting at a roundabout when one of the men came to. Steve was driving and Natasha was keeping an eye on them through the mirror.

“What are we doing here?” A thick, brutish voice asked. Natasha hit him in the head. Steve raised his eyebrows. Natasha shrugged “Cognitive Recalibration.”

Steve laughed

**********************************

Chapter 2 is finally here! A link to this chapter will be available in the second chapter

#romanogers romanogers fanfic natsha romanoff steve rogers natashaxsteve

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aurorawebsites151 · 3 years ago

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trcubledycuth · 7 years ago

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🤧 – comforting them when crying

It was a sickly surreal feeling to have your life ripped out from beneath your feet. It’s not that he didn’t have a choice in the matter, but with enough force, anyone’s willpower would crumble under the sheer determination of everyone around him. The hold on Adrian might have been comparable to one of the gigantic snakes that frequented Australia and Peru— the kind that squeezed the life out of you, the very air from your lungs. Fucking Anaconda the movie, realness. But Julian wasn’t trying to kill his brother, instead he was wrapped around him clinging for dear life with his face buried deep against his neck — dark brown curls mangled with his tear covered face and the reality of it all. He was a grown man, but he’d also just lost the love of his life, possibly the movie he was shooting— Olivia was being extremely tight lipped about it considering they were ‘working through things’ and exploring their options; she made it quite clear Julian needed to focus on getting better— as if he were actually sick. Three months was a long time to be out, six if he really fucking sucked. But those were purely the tip of the iceberg, weren’t they?

Right alongside Cecelia and his career stood Adrian Quinn. And if this didn’t classify as letting someone down, what did? It’s not even that he’d meant to lie to him… . Reality just sort of slipped away when he’d been so focused on how not a big deal it was. Really, finding out he’d hooked up with guys was the last thing that should have been a worry because it meant far more than that. At least in the eyes of the normal. Julian just hadn’t considered it to be anyone’s business really. He didn’t even know what he was doing half the time, couldn’t that just be this weird silent area that didn’t exist unless he was looking at it? It was Tommy that complicated things. And soon to be some GHOSTS from his past, ready to cash in on the train wreck that was America’s Favorite falling from grace. Everyone needed their hand in the honeypot before EVERYTHING was gone.

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The past week had left him feeling like Hell warmed over, struggling to get a grip on what had happened. All he’d done was run from his problems, every single one of them. Holly dragged him down to the bottom of the hole, then used his next to unconscious self to climb up the ladder, leaving him crumpled in the darkness as she came out victorious, so brave. She was being applauded for speaking OUT, it took so much out of her, this dark secret hanging over her head for so long. A secret SO MANY allowed to thrive, slithering below the surface, silently collecting it’s ‘victims’. Try as they may to keep JULIAN out of the loop, Adrian had left his phone on the hospital chair when he’d went to grab J a drink and he’d helped himself, bypassing the passcode in one try and trying to see what everyone was trying to guard him from.

For good reason. It was worse than he’d thought.

So much worse than he fucking thought.

Yeah. They didn’t have confirmation he was drugged out, or headed for Rehab, but they did have his silence — it’s own admission of guilt while Holly tried hard to peddle back, claim he was just as much of a victim. They had the photos of him kissing her, Holly straddling his lap and BACKING that turbulent love affair built upon the foundation of a HOLLYWOOD CLASSIC.

Two things he didn’t remember, but the photos didn’t lie. He could even pinpoint when it was from and … She was there, wasn’t she? He’d been with Brock but … Jackson, Jackson had been there too … It wasn’t a wonder Cecelia reacted as she did. When had these even come out? Recently giving all of the shit she’d spewed over the past, what, six years credibility? It made him sick to his stomach. It wasn’t enough having EXPOSED him to the world with those BRIGHT BEGINNINGS where he did, and would have done anything to feel like MORE than he had. To actually get the shot to BE something and prove to the world what he knew he was capable of. The awards at home weren’t for nothing, he was brilliant at what he did. Maybe a little too brilliant considering the double life he’d been living right below the nose of THE PEOPLE HE CARED MOST ABOUT.

At some point the pilots grabbed their parachutes and jumped, Julian hadn’t gotten the memo and the plane that was symbolic for quite literally everything as it crashed into the ground and he felt every single fucking shard of torn metal using his body as a pincushion, as if he was a new age Voodoo Doll that had it coming. Who knows. Maybe he did deserve it. When it first broke he’d done his best to disappear. It worked out great considering Europe gave him reason to truly melt into the role, forget his own issues and obsessively lock himself within the mindset where NOTHING ELSE MATTERED. Something Brock had subtly used to further his— their own agenda, unknown to JULIAN.

THE WORLD had never truly known who Julian was, but it was easy to get a false idea. Living vicariously through his frequent Instagram posts, hours upon hours of interviews and shoots, behind the scenes bullshit all heavily weighing on the internet. His IMDB bursting with trivia added years ago from his management and the countless people that had cycled through, an ever rotating door of faces and names that didn’t matter for more than a few months at a time. It’s not to say the world didn’t have SOME idea of who he was. He’d started being real after getting rid of Holly and the management that had suggested it for the boosted career he was on his way of getting but everyone always had their own agenda.

And maybe that’s why he was finally breathing easy when Adrian was back at his side, always there for him to come home to with Cecelia to talk, de-stress, and just live. When he looked back upon his life (which was admittedly far too often), Adrian was there. And things went wrong, real wrong when Adrian left. His brother was so far ingrained into WHO HE WAS that it felt like A PIECE OF HIM WAS MISSING. Yeah, Adrian had essentially raised him, but he’d also been his partner in crime, the RING LEADER. And without that he struggled. Things escalated and his parents came to realize that they really didn’t know their youngest, at least not since HE’D CHANGED. Funnily enough he hadn’t changed, Adrian just wasn’t there to keep the lies going, and he floundered to do it himself for a few months. And maybe that’s when it all started. The constant nagging and explosive fights over nothing, constantly at head with one another in a uncompromising game of tug of war where neither side would EVER understand one another.

It left him empty. Aching for something more. For some form of understanding that seemed like a mythical beast, because the one person who got him was on the other side of the UNITED STATES. Hardly a world away, but stuck isolated in WINE COUNTRY … Well, first world problems, right? That’s how most would have looked at it. Fights with the parents? Pft, typical. Problems at school? Typical. Feeling empty, worthless? CLASSIC TEENAGER. It was both the driving force and what caused him to crumble because he NEVER grew out of it and now that … Now that everyone was turning their back?

It had him feeling sixteen again. Though even his parents hadn’t come close to the crushing weight that made it hard to breathe, forcing his lungs to struggle for air, knuckles white with the sheer force in which they were curled into Adrian’s jacket. Switzerland. The private jet was sobering, each passing minute pushing him closer and closer to the brink of no return. He was pale, quiet, lost. He’d found his place to belong and … How did he get so far from it? Holly quite literally was ruining everything, or was he just running from his problems again? Placing blame where it needn’t be? He could have went through and proposed to Cecelia, but she deserved FAR MORE than the shitshow Holly was handing out free admission to. If he was going to propose it was going to be special not some spectacle for the world to sit by and watch, this was his life, not a role.

But this is what he signed up for, right? That’s what everyone said. Boohoo, go cry into your pile of money; something that was often yelled from the other side of the glass as people tapped and prodded, shoving phones and cameras in his face, curling around him to grab that surprise selfie to say THEY MET JULIAN QUINN AND TOOK THIS REALLY AWKWARD PHOTO, failing to mention they couldn’t be fucked to so much say hello or show any human act of decency. Well, unless screaming in his face counted.

Yes, this is exactly what he signed up for when he wanted to be an actor. Acting was his escape, all he’d fucking known for how long? He’d gotten good at it out of necessity, then left the very reason why in the review mirror, never looking back. Doing whatever it took to prove himself. Turns out, it hadn’t been the right choice. Deep in Switzerland, in a town Julian still couldn’t pronounce, they stood on the sidewalk shrouded in darkness, the bitter cold nipping at every piece of skin his tears touched. It was some ungodly hour in the morning and he was left scrambling, trying to convince his brother that he didn’t need to go. Days were spent in the hospital, locked in hopeless arguments trying to derail the trajectory of his immediate future with no avail.

“I don’t wanna go— Adrian, please.” The words were sobbed into his neck with reckless abandon. When Adrian moved to Los Angeles, surely this wasn’t what he’d expected; BUT AT SOME POINT, things got a little messy. “I can’t be stuck here for three months.” And that was being optimistic, “Everyones gonna know, I gotta talk to Cee, I didn’t—“ Didn’t do what Holly said he did? Didn’t do what the photos said he did? “I don’t remember … I wouldn’t have, you know that.” What did Adrian really know anymore? Temptation was at every corner but when it came to his heart, and the heart he held in his hands; he was one of the good guys. Everyone paled in comparison to Cecelia and they were GOING TO HAVE A LIFE TOGETHER. Er, they were supposed to. That’s all he wanted. “She hates me, I can’t be here, I have to make it right,” Even if she hated him, and didn’t want to hear from him but she’d VANISHED far before he could CONFRONT what he hadn’t known was out there. Did she just think he was looking her dead in the eyes with a MOUTHFUL OF LIES? Likely … But they weren’t all lies, not this.

Sadly he didn’t get to pick and choose what she believed, no matter the amount of conviction he spoke with. “Adrian, please don’t leave me.” Please don’t hate me. Meaning as there regardless of what Adrian heard, or could make out. He was on a tangent, muffled emotion spilling out of his mouth. A fucking mess in a last ditch effort not to be stuck in his own personal PRISON OF NO ESCAPE for the next ninety fucking DAYS. Paying just under $70,000.00 a month for … what? He didn’t need this.

His own personal hell was being locked in a room with himself, no distractions. This was basically the same thing save for EVERYONE that was going to come at him with that sickly smothering ‘concern’ to make him BETTER. Actually this this was the hell now. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry— Please just … don’t go.” He needed him.

#devilsbckbone #I DO WHAT I WANT. { MEME RESPONSES }#c: jq #f: thn #i just #too many jq feels

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scriptmedic · 7 years ago

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Anatomy of a Medical Drama: House, MD

This post is part of a series on the Anatomy of a Medical Drama.

The first thing to know about House, MD is that Dr. Gregory House is One Cranky Jerk.

The second thing to know about House, MD is that it isn’t a medical drama.

Oh, sure, it pretends to be. We get all the furniture of a medical drama: the dying patients, the worried family members, the gruff attending physician, the compassionate and sensitive younger doctors. We get death and we get life and we get medical miracles.

But that’s not the true genre of House.

House is a detective show. In fact, it’s a medical adaptation of the classic Sherlock Holmes.

Instead of a doctor, I want you to consider Greg House to be a detective. (Even the name House is supposed to get you to think of Holmes.) He’s arrogant, he’s rude, he’s problematic — and he’s brilliant.

Instead of a disease, I want you to consider whatever improbable virus, condition, or disease to be a criminal, a devious mastermind out to do harm. The symptoms, the actual disease process, are thus its crimes, and the patient is its victim. The loving family members are witnesses to the crime with valuable information for our detective, while the junior doctors, House’s intrepid fellows, are the junior detectives.

Lisa Cuddy, the hospital’s chief administrator, plays the role of obstructor and leader. She’s the less-than-brilliant chief who’s supposed to see things done the “right” way. She is the Lestrade to House’s Holmes; she’s there to get in his way.

And what would a Sherlock Holmes be without a Watson, or in this case, a Wilson? A best friend who enables and supports our main character not because he doesn’t see his flaws, but because he loves him in spite of them?

House, my friends, is a crime drama.

Thus we’ve discovered House, MD‘s Content Genre: Crime Drama (Medical), also known as a Diagnosis Drama.

The Reality Genre of the show is aimed to be Realistic, grounded in reality and the cutting-edge medicine of the day. The rules of the world are ostensibly the same as the one you and I live in: magic, elves, and science fiction take no part in this show. That said, the show’s connection to actual realistic medicine is tenuous at best, as we’ll discuss below.

What Makes House, MD Great?

There are a number of things that contributed to House, MD‘s success over its eight-year run.

First, the acting was great. Hugh Laurie brought depth and a tremendous amount of weight and poignancy to the character of Greg House. The supporting cast, including Lisa Edelstein (Cuddy), Robert Sean Leonard (Wilson), Jennifer Morrison (Cameron), Omar Epps (Foreman), and Jesse Spencer (Chase) made the first few seasons absolutely riveting, and adding in talent like Olivia Wilde (Hadley / “13”), Kal Penn (Kutner) and Peter Jacobson (Taub) in later seasons only improved things.

Second, House’s mindset is absolutely fascinating: Everybody Lies. (The question that makes things interesting is how they lie, to what degree they lie, and, most fascinating of all, why they lie; this is part of the fun of House, MD as a show.)

House has been criticized for being formulaic, and I can definitely agree that it is, and yet something in the formula that drove the show was incredibly compelling. House was always doing something absolutely crazy that we knew was wrong (because the episode was only half over), Cuddy and his staff were always trying to keep him on the sane and level path, and what’s even better, the show recognized it. It was acknowledged in multiple episodes, and even by House himself, that his colleagues were the reason House could stay sane and keep from killing his patients.

In fact, House and Wilson fall into (or at least adjacent to) the “Buddy Cop” trope, what Roger Ebert called a “Wunza” relationship: one of the pair is a calm, competent, mild-mannered oncologist, while the other is a dramatic, abrasive, neurotic, brilliant critical care doctor. It doesn’t contain all aspects of the traditional Buddy Cop relationship — we don’t see them hate each other in the beginning like we do with most buddy cops — but the relationship is there; we see it after it’s stabilized.

And that drama, that tension between the egomaniac with a syringe and a helpless patient and those who want the best for both of them, made House an incredibly tense show. That tension carried us through to the inevitable end — that House would solve the case, the patient would get better, and because the patient got better, all would be forgiven.

House also had consequences for the character’s actions that played out over multiple episodes. At the end of Season 1, House is shot because he was such a jerk — which resulted in his getting a certain kind of anesthesia (ketamine) which eliminated his pain and gave him the ability to walk and run pain-free again for a limited time at the start of Season 2.

House’s unorthodox treatments (such as prescribing cigarettes for Irritable Bowel Syndrome) landed him in hot water with Medicare, which threatened to pull his license. His constant abuse of drugs, a cornerstone of his character, landed him in rehab more than once, and addiction is a theme that plays its tune throughout the show.

All in all, House was a very good show with a lot of strong qualities.

Where Does House, MD Fail?

First, we need to get something out of the way: we get a lot of racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, etc. from House himself — he is, in a sense, the show’s social villain. He’s portrayed as a man so offensive that the only reason he keeps his job is because he’s too brilliant to fire for his childishness and gruff exterior.

That said, hearing some of the awful and offensive things he’s said come from a “medical professional” and the show’s protagonist is damaging and hurtful. There were ways the showrunners could have made House a jerk without resorting to insults based on someone’s identity.

(It’s also worth considering its place in time; the show ran from 2004-2012, an era in which minority voices were far less recognized in TV than they are even five years after the show’s end. )

The show fails the realism test on several fronts. In fact, speaking as an ICU paramedic, the medicine is often laughably inaccurate or hyperbolized. Things progress at a pace that suits dramatic storytelling, not reality; diseases layer that are astronomically unlikely; hell, House’s entire specialty — “Diagnostic Medicine” — doesn’t exist, because all doctors diagnose and all doctors treat.

But that’s not the big problem with the show. The biggest problem with the show are its ethics.

The number of unethical and outright illegal measures House takes to “get the job done” would have gotten any real doctor fired in their first year. They are, frankly, a scary thing to normalize in the minds of non-medical viewers.

Speaking of getting fired, fun fact: while medical staff who come to their employers and admit addiction to a substance are generally treated well — [estimates of substance abuse among nurses run from 10-20%] — they’re not allowed to practice stoned. Many employers will give time off for rehab, but staff must be compliant to practice.

Moreover, the repeated displays of unpunished bad behavior lends itself to a mindset that “the ends justify the means,” which is incredibly dangerous. A great many awful things have been “justified” in this manner.

Is It Good TV?

This is the most irritating part about House. Because with as many inaccuracies and flaws and mixed messages and damaging representations as the show has, as many bad stereotypes as it engaged with — it was still damn good TV, at least for the first 4 seasons. Characters changed, at least a little; the stakes were constantly escalating; House the Bully was often, let’s face it, hilarious in his cruelty.

House might have been bad in a great many senses, but it was damned compelling TV, and for all its faults, that fact is undeniable.

In short: House is great to watch, but don’t try to be a Greg House.

How Can We Write Like House?

If you wanted to produce a book, movie, or TV show along the lines of House, MD, my first suggestion would be to get very, very comfortable with the genre conventions and obligatory scenes of the crime drama, and consider how they can translate into medicine.

If we truly want to classify House, MD, we would likely call it a diagnosis drama to differentiate it from a crime drama, though really all that’s changed is the furniture.

Here are some of the Obligatory Scenes and Genre Conventions for a diagnosis drama, and the parallel scenes in a crime drama:

The Disease Strikes. (The Crime) Whether something has been building up for a while or comes to a head, we need to see a character felled by a disease or injury. This must occur early in the story/plotline and is essentially the Inciting Event.

The Doctor & The Team. (The Detective & Sidekick(s)) We must have a lead character, usually a doctor, trying to solve the medical puzzle, usually working with a team. The interpersonal dynamics of the team are crucial to establishing drama and hooking the audience.

Gather Symptoms and Information. (Interviewing Witnesses; Red Herrings.) The doctor must try to gain as much information as they can to solve the case. In House this often involves burglary for reasons not entirely clear.

Diagnose / Treat / Fail / Repeat. (Red Herrings & False Accusations) As the drama wears on, the patient gets worse, often by the hands of the doctor treating them. The team iterates over their work, trying new approaches that must get riskier and more dramatic as time goes on.

It Gets Personal. There must be some reason the doctor (and thus our audience) becomes closely entwined with the outcome of the case. Either the patient and doctor or team must form a personal bond, the doctor’s reputation must hang in the balance, or the rising tension between the team (who must think differently from the doctor) can only be resolved by solving the case and helping the patient.

The Final Diagnosis. (J’accuse!) The doctor must make a final diagnosis that will either save or kill the patient.

A Life Saved or a Life Lost. (The Justice Theme) Our story must end with either the patient’s life being saved or their life being lost. This may come with an ironic twist: the doctor may save the character at the expense of a relationship they value dearly.

If you’d be willing to take a piece of advice, though… check the misogyny, racism, homophobia, transphobia, etc. at the door. Take the best things from this show, not the worst.

For more reading on genre conventions and obligatory scenes, I recommend Shawn Coyne’s excellent guide to editing, [The Story Grid], and Blake Snyder’s [Save the Cat!], both of which are excellent books on storytelling from wildly different, and yet similar, perspectives.

What Medical Drama Should I Analyze Next?

Drop a comment or reblog and let me know!

xoxo, Aunt Scripty

[disclaimer]

[Free Email Course: Injuries in Storytelling]

Anatomy of a Medical Drama: House, MD was originally published on ScriptMedicBlog.com

#anatomy of a medical drama #content genres #genre conventions #genres #medical ethics #obligatory scenes #reality genres #masterposts #crossposts

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melasvera · 7 years ago

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Painless. Fearless. Reckless. (Bendy x Reader) Part 2

A/N: Real quick. This is the set up chapter to get you to the studio, so bare with me please. You'll be at the studio next chapter.

Note, Ryan is supposed to be drunk, so I tried to make it seem like his speech is slurred. Devon has... some kind of accent. Devon is based off a friend of mine, and Real Life!Devon speaks like Fiction!Devon. RL!Devon has, like, some odd blend of a southern and Boston accent, I think. I don't think his accent can be classified. But I shouldn't talk. Apparently I have a French/British/Scottish accent, and I was born in Colorado!

Anyways!

Thank you to everyone whose liked and checked out this story!

Enjoy, and remember the story (should) picks up next chapter.

Chapter 1- Dare

It all began with a dare. A stupid dare made by stupid college kids at an equally as stupid party.

And you were just stupid enough to allow Ryan to take it.

You weren't even drunk! Why did you go along with it!?

Well, at least you weren't alone….

It was a Friday night when your roommate, Ryan, dragged you and your other roommate, Devon, to a party at some frat house. Usually you and Devon refused to go to such places, seeing as those type of things just weren't your scene. Plus, on those rare occasions when you did decide to go to out, it was almost a guarantee someone would make a lewd comment about you living with two dudes and they would usually always ask if they could ever join in.

It wasn't even like that! You trusted Ryan and Devon, loved them as brothers, and you knew them since elementary school. You all were just good friends who decided to live together to alleviate the cost of living as true adults.

Better to live together and suffer together then to suffer and struggle alone, was your logic.

And it was working out pretty well. The only downsides were Ryan's drinking and partying, Devon bringing home all types of bugs and plants, and your excessive buying of art supplies. At least Ryan didn't bring his vices home, Devon kept his stuff in his room, and you all made sure you could still help with the bills. Bills none of you truly had to worry about, due to your parents paying them, but still tried to help with nonetheless. None of you were comfortable being moochers.

That brings you to your current situation.

It had been a very stressful couple of weeks full of exams, working, and just general attempts at trying to be real adults. Ryan believed you all needed to relax, and what better why than to go to an end of exam party?

You and Devon just looked at each other, both thinking of several hundred things that would be more relaxing than a party, but in the end you both relented and got ready to go out, to the delight of your shaggy-haired friend.

It took less then ten minutes for you to get ready. You didn't care enough to change out of your outfit that consisted of a t-shirt, jeans, and an old pair of converses. Grabbing your favourite shoulder bag, you collected several items your father gave you the day you left for college; a can of police grade pepper spray, a pocket sized first aid kit, and a portable charger.

Once in you bag you looked around your room, debating if you needed anything else before you went to go wait by the door. Devon took twenty minutes longer than you, and the drive over was filled with idiots on the road, but eventually you and Devon begrudgingly walked behind Ryan into the frat house.

Crappy music was blaring, bodies were swaying, and alcohol was flowing.

Sweet heaven almighty, you could almost taste the hormones in the air.

Your eyes narrowed and you frowned as you briefly debated about going back to the car, not wanting to deal with so many alcohol, and maybe even drug, addled people. But you decided you made it this far, might as well go all the way, what did you have to lose?

Devon immediately hooked his arm around yours as you both dodge around the crowd, Ryan already lost within it (which was amazing because the dude was just over six feet), to find a semi-quiet spot. You both decided on the living room where a game of beer pong was being played. Together you sat by the fireplace, thankful that it wasn't on and that is was clear of both trash and people.

It took around five minutes of watching uncoordinated drunkards trying to toss a ball in a cup before someone offered you a drink and an eye wiggle.

Thankfully they left you alone after your first denial. Either those PSA's lied or you were just lucky, but you never were pressured into drinking or doing drugs. The only thing people tried to push you for was sex, and you weren't afraid to give those types of people you're two cents.

Devon sighed heavily, as the intoxicated man finally left you alone, pulled out a rubber band bound packet of note-cards from his hoodie jacket and handed you to them.

You huffed out a small laugh at what you guessed was vocabulary for one of his classes. Understanding what he wanted, and not wanting to drink and mingle, you began quizzing your friend. This gained you both some odd looks, but no one did anything about it. It was actually rather peaceful, once you got used to ignoring the noise.

It was after someone belly flopped on the beer pong table, over an hour later, breaking it that the people around you began a game of truth or dare. You thought it was all rather juvenile of them, but then again you didn't make a habit of going to parties, so maybe this was a normal frat party activity.

You and Devon both tried your best not to sneer in disgust at some of the dares, not wanting to catch the eye of a short tempered drunk looking for a fight. But, honestly, some of those dares were just….. did they seriously have no shame? There was a fine line between bravery and stupidity, and you should know seeing as you frequently flirted with that line. Besides, you were certain some of the things they were doing was illegal in several states.

The two of you continued to ignore the idiotic people close to you, hoping that no one would include you in someone's dare, when you heard Ryan's name being called. Devon and yourself looked over to see what your taller friend was doing.

A girl you didn't know was giggling and hanging off Ryan's arm, who didn't look as drunk as usually did this far into a party (aka he wasn't passed out, stumbling, or slurring words), and was loudly daring him.

"R~y~a~n!" The way she attempted to make her shitty, sing-song voice sound sexy made you shiver unpleasantly, "I-I dare you *giggles* I dare you t'go to….to Drew Studios. An' ya godda stream it too." The girl giggled, as if she said the most amusing thing in the entire world.

Ryan grinned, a look of pure determination taking over his face as the people around him agreed with the dare, egging him to take it.

Devon paled, you sighed heavily in resignation.

You knew that look. There was no way either you or Devon were ever going to deter him, but you didn't trust his drunk ass alone.

Devon quickly jumped to his feet, a worried look plastered on his face, and three shaky fingers in the air, "We volunteer as tribute!"

Apparently Devon didn't either.

You sighed again and stood, slipping the flashcards into Devon's back pocket. Guess you were going to try and keep your mildly drunk friend from dying in an abandoned studio in the middle of the woods.

Eh. You've done harder things before.

'Besides,' you thought as you eyed the young alcoholics in the making, 'this could work out for you.'

Without pause you stepped up onto the litter ridden couch and hollered to get everyone's attention. "HEY!"

Remarkably you got their attention and no one threw anything at you.

"If Ryan's going to do this dare," the idiots cheered and jostled each other with their back slapping, "we're going to need somethings so we don't get caught, and, or, so we don't die. And no one wants to be blamed for either of those, right?"

The people were either really drunk or really stupid to believe anything you said. Or both.

You were inclined to believe that it was probably both. Which was a good thing, seeing as they were more inclined to do as you said.

Then again, most people knew who your parents were, so maybe that motivated them?

"First, off, we need backpacks or bags, then we need gloves, at least fifty dollars, maybe some masks, some food, water bottles, flashlights, and that man's pocket knife!" You counted off each item with a raised finger then pointed with your sixth finger to a young man with an obvious lump in his pocket.

The young man blinked slowly and hesitantly pointed to himself, "Me?"

You nodded, still pointing. "Yes. You all want Ryan to get into Drew Studios, right? A knife will make it easier." Not really. You just wanted his knife. You've never seen the building outside of pictures your art teacher showed the class, but you were sure that there was someway to get inside without having to pick a lock.

Nobody moved. You raised an eyebrow and crossed your arms. "Well, you want a show or not? Get going!"

You stepped off the couch as the part of the crowd that wanted to see something illegal happen scrambled to gather the things you said you required, while the rest of them either tried to convince Pocket Knife Guy to hand over the knife or watched the chaos.

It was the girl who was hanging off Ryan who eventually persuaded the guy to give you the knife.

What she did to do that left you in awe and mild discomfort. That girl was either really drunk or really confident in herself, kind of inspiring, in a way.

Fiddling and got acquainted with your newly acquired weapon, which turned out to be a red Swiss Army knife with a yellow dog on it (fucking score! ), you waited next to your friends. Devon, in all of his four foot ten glory, was berating and trying to get Ryan to back out of the dare.

"Come on man! It'll be fun! Where's your sense of adventure! Think of the views dude . "

It wasn't working out so well.

Devon's eye twitched as he gave his deadpan answer, "Left 'em back home with Teresa."

"Your pet spider doesn't count, Short-stack."

"Think of the jail time."

"We have a kick-ass lawyer on our side if we get caught, we'll be fine."

The shorter one of your friends groaned and turned towards you, "[Name]! [Name], do somethin', talk 'im outta this craziness!"

Your shrugged as gently dragged your index finger down the largest blade of knife, unable to feel it kissing your skin, "Nah."

Devon sputtered, you grinned.

"N-nah, ya say? Fuckin' nah? The dude gonna get 'imself caught or somethin' an' all ya can say is 'nah'?" His incredulous tone of voice made your lips twitch in amusement.

Ryan laughed and slapped Devon's back, "Two 'gainst one, we win!"

Devon ignored him and looked at you in disbelief, waiting for your answer.

You snapped the knife back into it's home and clenched your fist around the four inch handle. With a smile you looked at your worried friend with a small reassuring smile, "We volunteered as tribute."

"B-but, [Name]!" Devon whines as he floundered to try to think of something that would make you convince Ryan to back out.

"B'sides," your shrug, placing the knife into your bag, "can't make Drunk Ryan do anything he doesn't want to," here said drunk young man began nodding in agreement, "might as well tag along and make sure the drunken dumb-ass doesn't do anything to illegal or off himself in some stupid way."

Ryan kept nodding for a few more seconds before what you said hit is alcohol soaked mind, "Wha- Hey!"

Devon snorted, a smile fighting its way onto his still worried face.

"And you can go home, or stay in the car or something if you really don't want to go. I'm can handle him, we won't make you."

Devon laughed hysterically, and sarcastically, at that.

"Yeah, no," he finally said with a look of pure incredibility, "leave my drunk friend with zero inhibition with the friend who woulda know what danger was if it punched her in the kisser, I'mma not livin' with that kind'a guilt, m'kay?"

Ryan swung an arm around the both of you, pulling you two into a three way hug, "Great! Now I need help coming up with a YouTube name."

It was official then. The three of you were going to break into an abandoned animation studio from the twenties and live-stream the proof to a YouTube channel that Ryan made as you and Devon argued. All for a dare.

It was decided, with no real input from you or Devon, that the channel's name would be DrewStudiosLive.

…...

Drunk Ryan wasn't a very imaginative Ryan.

Throughout your conversation, and about fifteen minutes after, all the items you requested had be collected, plus some.

Apparently the host of the party were very generous when intoxicated.

The items were all in a pile before you, consisting of an ugly neon green drawstring bag, an old soccer duffel bag, six mismatched winter gloves in varies colours and sizes, a butt load of washcloths, some bandannas, some left over, half full, bags of chips, water bottles, a pack of canned beers, and a plastic baggie with cash (fucking yes, they did it!). In lieu of a flashlight someone was smart enough, or drunk enough, to throw in a tub of glow sticks. On top of all that some smart-ass donated a small first aid and condoms with a note that said, 'have fu die :P' on it.

Your rolled your eyes at the last item and threw the condoms up into the air so they fell into the crowd. You heard a few cheers at that.

Turning back to the small pile you happily divided you're haul between the duffel, drawstring, and your own shoulder bag. You palmed the first aid kit, wondering if you should be the one to carry it, before placing it in the duffel and with the beers. Meanwhile, Ryan wrote the name of the new YouTube channel down so that people knew where to tune in, and Devon left to get the car ready, bemoaning his fate the entire time.

You and Ryan left the house with people cheering you on, wishing you luck, and throwing more glow sticks in the air, like people used to throw rice at weddings.

The laughter bubbling in your chest couldn't be stopped, even once your were in the car and on your way to the studio. You just couldn't believe that you got a houseful of your drunken peers to give you stuff all because you said you'd need it to complete some stupid dare. You continued to chuckled to yourself as you counted the money they collected. Maybe you should go out to parties with Ryan more often, who knows what you could convince people to give you if you said it was for their entertainment.

"Sooooo….." Devon drawled, not taking his eyes off the road, "what do we need fifty dollars for? It's not that far, so it's not for gas."

Snickering you answered, "We don't need it." You waved the bag of money around, "This is merely….. a…... donation. A wish for good luck."

Quite, then Devon snorted and briefly looked in the rear view mirror at you. "You just wanted their money, didn'tcha?"

You nodded once with a giant smile on your face, "I just wanted their money. And the knife. Got me a pretty sweet knife. I think it has, like, ten functions, at least." You looked back down at the money, the smile growing into a smirk, "They did good. Got more than fifty here. After this is over with we're eating out someplace that's not Jack in the Box."

This time it was Ryan who spoke, who had been silent until now because he found the beer in the duffel. "'ow much yo-you got there?" He ended with a burp, which he blew into the driver's face. Devon wrinkled his nose but otherwise didn't react.

Humming happily, and placing the cash into your bag, "Almost eighty. And stop it, save those for later!"

Groaning in disappointment, Ryan tilted his head back to chug the rest of his drink before crushing the can and tossing it on the floor.

"Ei-eighty bucks?" Devon threw his head back and cackled at that, then continued to grumble about how maybe the night wasn't so bad after all.

A/N: Make sure you tell me what you think, what I should improve on and what not.

Thanks again!

Part 1

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shippingtheswann · 7 years ago

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MODEL BEHAVIOR A Captain Swan modern AU by @shippingtheswann for the @captainswanbigbang 2017 year!

SUMMARY: Emma is an up and coming model living in LA with her best friend Ruby. Killian is a star baseball player for the LA Dodgers. Their families are close - and they grew up together. However, what happens after not seeing each other for 6 years - when they are forced back into a situation that requires them to reconnect and explore what was once there.

RATING: Explicit

WARNING: There will be smut later in the story, some mention of violence, hard language, mention of pregnancy loss

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

A/N: WELCOME BACK EVERYONE! I am so thankful to everyone who was patient enough to wait for this story to come back. I am so sorry for the delay. I gave birth to Emilia Ann on Oct 1. I was in labor for over 20 hours and I am so thankful that I didn't need a c-section (as I almost did due to some early complications). We have been relaxing at home and even watched the first episode of the new season together last week. She is already a Captain Hook fan! But again, thank you for being patient while we got used to being home and being a family. Updated will start to happen again every Friday. I really hope you enjoy this chapter. Thanks again to my amazing artist Monica and my amazing beta reader Nicola. This story wouldn't be what it is now without them!

Special shout out to Monica @acaptainswaneternity - the artist with this story. I have loved everything she has done for me - so make sure to check her out! She made an amazing cover and the best image sets for each chapter.

Another huge shout out to Nicola @alocin209 who beta read everything and tried to keep me on target!

Can also be found on FF - Chapter One; Chapter Two; Chapter Three; Chapter Four; Chapter Five

Emma had never been an emotional person, not really. Yes, she cried when she was upset, and yes, she got angry pretty easily. She would never have classified herself as a tearful goodbye type of person though. As Mrs. Jones drove through her old neighborhood and past their old school, Emma couldn't help but be caught up in the memories that flooded her system. She never really missed home, but as the car turned down the street, bringing into view her house, a tear swelled in her eye and for the first time in almost seven years, she felt homesick.

She missed her father, brother, and yes, her mother, but she never really thought she could miss a home. It was just a house, built with wood and concrete. Yet as the large colonial crept closer, Emma couldn't help but feel a familiar pull, similar to what she felt earlier in the day when she saw Killian. It was like she had been missing something for years and never knew she had a gaping hole in her heart because of it.

As Adelaide parked the car in the Jones' driveway, Emma found her eyes looking over at her home. She pictured her parents standing at the doorway waving to the school bus as she rode off to her first day of school. It was one of the only times she could remember her mother actually being around for an important day. She remembered her father teaching her to catch a ball in the front yard, something some mean girls in school made fun of her for that year. They stopped that suddenly when she hit one of them right in the stomach, with perfect accuracy, just like her dad had taught her. She remembered waiting in the yard, under the big oak tree, for her parents to bring Henry home from the hospital.

She pictured her bedroom, where so much had happened in her life, so much that shaped who she was. She was almost positive that it would look exactly as she left it. The one thing she could count on her mother for was that she would never touch the kid's rooms. Her mother redecorated the first floor of the house at least once every five years, but she never let Emma touch her own room. Emma was sure that her poster of the Backstreet Boys was still hanging above her bed with a heart drawn around Nick's head. (Yes, she still blushed about that poster to this day, considering she did it when she was twelve, but it was something her mother wouldn't let her take down.)

"Welcome home love," Killian whispered to her as the doors to the car opened and everyone got out. She'd forgotten she was still next to him once they turned into their neighborhood, too overwhelmed by what was going on outside of the vehicle.

She was actually thankful for the break. The car ride with Killian had been awkward, to say the least. After their very high school, love struck teens make out session on the airplane, which Emma was still a bit flustered about, sitting in a car with him and his family for the thirty minute drive home wasn't something she had been looking forward to. The electricity still sizzled between them and she was secretly overjoyed each time his skin touched hers when the car would jolt.

She wasn't regretting what she had done on the plane. She couldn't regret it, but she was a bit embarrassed about it. Mostly, she was petrified that she allowed herself to get caught up in the moment and allowed herself to get into a situation where a stewardess caught her sitting on an old friend's lap, with her tongue in his mouth. Never in her life had she done something like that before. Sure, there were other models who were caught having sex on set, getting caught with drugs on planes, but she would never get caught doing those things herself. She wasn't like most models, she had a good head on her shoulders.

Yes, she was embarrassed. She was also severely turned on. She had dreamt of the way he would kiss. She used to daydream of what it would be like to kiss him. Her wildest dreams weren't even close to hitting the mark. He was skilled to say the least. His hands felt like both fire and ice against her skin. It was a feeling she never wanted to forget. No one had ever touched her in the way he touched her. She never felt that way before with anyone, not even Neal. No one had ever held her the way Killian had, and all they had done was kiss. She wanted to do it again but there was a voice in the back of her head that told her she couldn't allow it to happen again.

As Emma climbed out from the back of the car and retrieved her luggage, her parents appeared at the doorway of her home. Her father hadn't changed at all. He was still the rugged man she grew up with. He had come from humble beginnings and worked on the farm that her mother's family owned. He had always been handsome and age had only accented the features of her father's face. Her mother liked to say he was like fine wine, he only got better with age. Since marrying her mother, he had quit working on the farm in order to help her manage the family's business, but he was still a shepard at heart.

Her mother, while changed, still held herself with the same grace and confidence she always had. When Emma was younger, Mary Margaret Blanchard Nolan had gorgeous long brunette hair that Emma was always envious of. Now, her mother sported a pixie cut, which surprisingly made her mother more beautiful and graceful. She was the princess of the Blanchard corporation. While Emma's father had moved into the family business, her mother followed in the footsteps of the other women in the family; running charities and spending the family fortune. However, she had to give her mother a lot of credit as she wasn't anything like most of the women in the family. Yes, her mother planned parties and dressed in fancy clothing, but her mother was at least compassionate. The charities she ran she truly cared about and she did really love Emma, even if she did like to give Emma a hard time.

Emma quickly glanced back at the Jones' family, all of whom were greeting Killian. It looked like Liam was home and had added quite a few new members to the family. Even though she knew the neighbors were more like family, no one paid attention to her. Sucking in a deep breath, Emma walked towards her parents.

"Welcome home Emma!" Her father got to her first, pulling her into a bear hug. She breathed in deeply. She hadn't realized how much she needed a hug from her father after the past few days. Suddenly, it didn't matter that she knew a lecture from her mother was coming, it didn't matter that Neal had screwed her over and it didn't matter what had happened with Killian. All that mattered was she was home, and it felt good.

"Thanks Dad, it's good to be here," she sighed, pulling back to get a better look at him. He was tanned, and she could tell that he had been spending quite a lot of time outside, which was good for him. Emma always thought he spent too much time inside a stuffy office.

"Honey, I'm really sorry, but I actually have to run," he said, sadness peaking through his eyes. "I got a call a few moments ago from the office and I have to go in, but I promise to be home as quick as I can be."

Emma's smile faltered a bit, some worry popping back up at the thought of being left alone with her mother, but she couldn't be upset with him. He rarely would take meetings on important days or skip out on time with her, so she knew his absence must be something he couldn't get out of.

As her father moved towards his pickup truck that sat in the driveway, her mother moved to take his place. Emma was actually really surprised when her mother pulled her in for a hug instead of her more traditional kiss on the cheek.

"I'm so glad you're home Emma. Come inside, I've made lunch." Mary Margaret's voice held no lie. Emma's smile returned when it seemed that her mother really was happy to have her home. At least there wasn't any passive tones to her statement and her mother didn't say anything condescending to her right away.

"Thanks mom, I'm starving," Emma's mouth already salivating at the thought of her mother's cooking. Yes, her mother could throw a party, but she could cook up a storm as well.

"I didn't make much, but there is a grilled cheese waiting for you. Sorry it's not more, but I am trying to get everything ready for dinner tonight, plus with all the work that goes into Henry's party.." she trailed off.

"It's OK mom, grilled cheese sounds amazing," Emma offered, trying to get her mother away from what Emma assumed would be a long conversation about parties she couldn't care less about. She couldn't pass up her mom's famous grilled cheese though, so she really didn't care if her mom did go on a 30 minute tirade about the DAR or Henry's party, as long as she got that grilled cheese.

On their way inside, her mother informed her that the Jones' clan would be joining them for a large dinner celebrating that everyone was together once again. She said that Henry was over at his girlfriend's house and that she would be joining them for dinner. Her mother gave her a slight glance as she mentioned Henry's new love interest, silently telling Emma not to give the girl a hard time.

Emma had always been overprotective of her younger brother. Ever since she held him for the first time in the hospital when her mother gave birth, Emma felt a deep need to protect him from anything. He was their miracle baby. Her mother had experienced medical issues when Emma was born and doctors told them they would have issues having any other children. Seven years, a shit ton of money, and a lot of prayers later, Henry was born and Emma couldn't have been happier. She had begged her parents for a sibling for years.

Leaving Henry was the worst thing about her move to LA. She never wanted to leave Henry behind. Other than her monthly phone calls to her mother, Henry was the only person she kept in constant contact with while she was away. Sure, her father joined in on the phone calls, but she didn't talk to them as much as she did her little brother. Most of her conversations with him weren't about anything; they would send each other funny articles they found, keep each other updated on their own personal ongoings (Henry's days at school and Emma's escapades around LA, usually watered down for her brother's sake).

Thankfully, her brother never blamed for her leaving. He understood her better than anyone could ever dream of. He got her need to live her dream, he got that she didn't want to fit into a box that was already made for her. Henry always supported her, and she would always support him. She would however, be very hard on his new girlfriend. Henry deserved the best and Emma was going to make sure whoever he decided to date would be the best.

The kitchen, where Emma had eaten breakfast each morning before school, surprisingly hadn't changed. She had expected her mother to renovate the area, since the last time it was updated was a year or so after Henry was born. Yet as she stood next to the island, the same familiar smells wafted through the area and the same country blue paint of the backgrounds surrounded her.

Her mother walked around the area gathering all the food she had prepared for her daughter. Emma took her seat at the island, watching the trees sway in the breeze outside of their large kitchen window. The treehouse was still up and there was still a tire swing attached to another large oak. She had been preparing herself for changes yet she saw almost none. She wasn't quite sure what to think about the lack of changes.

"So, your flight was good? You had a chance to catch up with Killian?" her mother asked as she sat everything down in front of Emma. The woman took a seat next to her daughter and turned her whole body to actually pay attention to the conversation. Emma wasn't really sure what to think about it. She was taken aback by her mother's character change, so much so that she didn't answer at first. It took her a minute to answer.

"Ummmm…. It was good. Nothing special really, which is good for a flight. And yeah, I was able to catch up with Killian." Emma only gave her mother the quick run down, unwilling to go any further into what had happened on the flight.

"It's good you had a chance to catch up with him. Both of you have been gone for such a long time. I'm sure Addie is happy to have him back, I know your father and I are overjoyed that you are finally home," her mother beamed.

"Alright mom cut the shit, what the hell is going on? You aren't acting normal," Emma asked, not wanting this weird conversation where her mother wasn't the center of attention to continue. It wasn't what Emma was used to and it made her uneasy.

"Nothing is wrong Emma," her mother began before Emma interrupted.

"Nothing is wrong? You seriously expect me to believe that? You have never had a conversation with me that hasn't started wtih you berating my choice in career, telling me about some stupid party, or some other bullshit. So what the hell is going on?" Emma almost yelled, tired of the run around.

"Emma, your leaving was tough, on all of us," her mother began, causing Emma to roll her eyes. "Now stop that, I am trying to explain and you pulling your attitude will not help."

Emma sighed and turned to face her mother. She seemed different. Her posture, while still confident, seemed off. She didn't seem as happy as she once was.

"Thank you. Like I was saying, your leaving was hard on all of us. Especially me," her mother looked right into her daughter's eyes, with tears brimming, "Emma, I am so sorry for how I acted when you were younger. Growing up, I was always expected to behave a certain way, to become exactly what my mother was. I wanted different for you. That is why I pushed you to go to college, why I wanted you to have something to live for. I know it isn't an excuse for what I did, but it is the reason."

Emma couldn't believe what she was hearing. Just a month ago, her mother sounded completely different. She belittled Emma's new gig and couldn't seem to understand why Emma didn't want to get a normal job. What had happened that made her all of a sudden decide to change?

"Just last month though, you were on a tirade about how my job wasn't worth my time!" Emma stated, with a bit of anger in her voice.

"It's because you are doing something you wanted to do, and truthfully honey, I was… am… a bit jealous. I never got that opportunity. I never got to do what I wanted to. Yes, I married your father, and I had you and Henry, but I never got to do what I wanted. Did you know I wanted to teach?" The question surprised Emma. She knew her mother had a passion for education, sitting on the board of three different education charities, but she never knew her mother had other dreams.

"No," Emma whispered.

"I did. When I was younger, I wanted to teach. Kindergarten actually. Your grandmother never let me follow through on those dreams. She told me that college was a waste of time, that my life was with the business and running charities. I was to do what all Blanchard women had done for years. Since you have left, I've had a lot of time to think about what I did. I pushed you to college because I never got that opportunity. I did to you exactly what my mother did to me, just different. I always wanted more for you, for you to grow and to become a strong leader. It just look me awhile to see that this, you modeling, is your passion," her mother cried, tears now streaming down her face. Her mother's hands were resting near Emma's plate, palms up, waiting for Emma to take them. Waiting for Emma to tell her that everything she had done was OK.

"Emma, I am sorry that I was so hard on you. I am sorry that I never supported you the way you deserved. You were always so head strong, so independent, just like your father. I didn't quite know how to raise you. I struggled. You were your father's daughter. You were always closer to him than you were to me. I was jealous about that as well. That is why I pushed myself further into my charities, why I missed so much. It hurt me to see you so happy with your father, but so unhappy with me. I am so sorry that I let you down Emma. I am so sorry that I was the reason you felt the need to leave. I am sorry that I made you feel that you were better off far away from home."

Emma couldn't take it anymore, so she placed her hands on her mother's and gave them a gentle squeeze. Yes, her mother wasn't the best when she was younger, but Emma always knew her mother loved her. She never thought any differently. She knew her mother had been upset about something for years, but this was the first time her mother ever opened up to her daughter. She knew it was hard for her.

"Oh mom," Emma began, scooting her chair closer to her mother, "Please don't cry."

"I'm sorry Emma. Really, I am. You have no idea how happy I am that you came home. My only wish for this trip is that you see just how loved you are here and don't stay away for this long again." Mary Margaret had never been more sincere in her life.

"It's OK mom. I'm sorry too. I'm sorry I stayed away for so long, but I can promise you, this isn't just because of you." Emma knew that now was the time to revitalize and start to mend her relationship with her mother. She had always wished she was closer with her mother and now was the chance to actually do that.

Clearly, they had both grown in the time Emma had been away. Her mother seemed to no longer be the woman she once was, who spent too much time focusing on projects instead of her daughter. Emma was no longer the scared girl who was annoyed with her mother's behaviour and couldn't wrap her head around why her attitude was so poor towards her.

It made sense to her that her mother acted the way she did. She remembered her grandmother, Ava, wasn't a horrible person. She was just someone who was raised very differently and in a different time, when women weren't in charge and who didn't really do much if they had money. Ava always instilled the importance of charity work in her daughter and wanted her daughter to take over for her when she passed. Now that Emma thought about it, she did remember her mother and grandmother having a rather loud discussion about Mary Margaret's involvement in something. In fact, now that Emma really thought about it, their conversations sounded a lot like the conversations she used to have with her mother.

It was time now to change things. That is what this trip was all about anyway. She came home to get away from Neal, to make that change, to make sure she never went back to him. She wanted to make sure that she would never be hurt like that again. So why not fix her relationship with her mother as well? Why not return to LA knowing she had someone, somewhere to turn to if things got bad again?

Emma knew deep down that part of the reason she didn't handle the situation with Neal well was because she didn't have someone, more specifically a mother, to talk to about things like this. Emma had never talked to her mother about relationships. Maybe if she had thought she could talk to her mother when she was struggling, she would have handled Killian's abrupt withdrawal differently and she knew for a fact she would have been able to handle Neal's betrayal better.

"Mom, I'm sorry too," she began, handing her mother a tissue to dry her tears, "I never really understood where you were coming from. I didn't try to understand. But, I didn't leave because of you, or at least it wasn't just because of our strained relationship. Sure, it helped me make the decision, but I didn't come home just because we didn't have the best relationship."

"Why then? Why didn't you come home? Sweetie, you could have told us anything, you know that. What happened?" It was like a huge change in her mother when she was asking Emma these questions. The woman in front of her was so different. Emma could see she truly cared about what caused Emma to stay away. She truly wanted to be there for Emma, she wanted to mend their relationship, just like Emma did.

"It's a long story mom and you still have dinner to get ready," Emma said, hoping to put off the heart to heart for a few minutes at least.

Yes, she wanted to better their relationship but at the same time, she didn't want to air all of her dirty laundry to her mom. She didn't know if she could handle telling her everything, mostly because she didn't want to relive it herself. It wasn't that she didn't want to share it, she just didn't want to have to say it.

"How about we kill two birds with one stone? I need some help finishing up dinner and I've always found it easier to talk about hard things when you are elbow deep in rolling dough," her mother smiled, giving her a wink.

Maybe this relationship with her mother will be easier to repair than she thought.

Before they actually dove into finishing dinner, Emma scarfed down her grilled cheese and took a quick shower, feeling gross from the flight. Airplane rides always did that to her, so it wasn't just because she could still feel Killian's hands on her.

During the baking of the peach pie (apple pie was forbidden in the Nolan household, thanks to her mother's horrible allergy), Emma told her mother about her senior year in school. She spilled the beans on everything. She explained how her mother's disapproval of things did help to drive her away, but she understood now why she did it and didn't blame her.

Her mother was nothing but supportive during the discussion. She laughed at appropriate times, including the fact that Emma got drunk that night, and was sympathetic to what Emma had felt at Killian's sudden disappearance. She understood why Emma felt the need to get away and even told her she would have done the same thing if her father had pulled the same stunt when they were young.

"So, this morning was the first time you've seen Killian since that Christmas?" her mother asked, making sure she got the story straight. Emma was sure that eventually Mrs. Jones would be hearing this but it didn't really bother her. And who knows, maybe having his mother yell at him would help him tell her why he just left with no explanation.

"Yeah, he promised to show up at my party but he didn't. You would have thought with both of us being in LA, we would have ran into each other, or at least seen each other's name in the papers but somehow we were able to stay invisible," Emma explained, a sad look coming over her face. They were almost done with dinner, which was good, considering it was supposed to start in thirty minutes.

Her father had gotten home a few minutes ago and Emma had never seen him as happy as he was when he saw his wife and daughter actually working together, with no bickering, and talking about Emma's past. He quickly kissed each of them hello and left them to their own accords.

"How did that go? This morning I mean?" her mother asked.

"Differently than I expected," Emma said, a blush forming on her cheeks. Her mother didn't miss the subtle change in Emma's appearance either.

"You still like him, don't you?" her mother asked with a smile.

"No, that ship has sailed," Emma lied, trying to cover up her new feelings that were building towards her neighbor.

"OK…" her mother said with a drawn out voice, "that's probably good anyways"

Emma turned to her mother, who was now wiping down the counter. The patio was made for dinner, tables surrounding it and citronella candles already lit in the center. The food was already prepared on platters and was waiting patiently for the Jones family and Henry to arrive.

"Why would you say that?" she asked.

"Well, as you probably saw earlier, Liam is also back in town, unable to pass up the opportunity to see his brother. He's brought his entire clan with him. He got married you know? Oh, to a lovely woman, and they have four kids. Well, that meant that the Jones' don't have enough room for everyone, so I offered them for us to house Killian here for his stay. He is staying in the guest room," her mother said blatantly, walking towards the door that just rang, leaving Emma stunned.

The oncoming storm that was the Jones clan coming into the Nolan's home kept Emma's worry from overwhelming her. Before she knew it, she had been given too many hugs to count, too many kisses on cheeks and been through a whirlwind introduction of Liam's family.

It wasn't until everyone was seated outside, waiting for Henry to show up with his girlfriend, that Emma's thoughts had the opportunity to take over.

Killian was going to be staying with them, in the guest room. The guest room that shared a bathroom with hers. How did her mother even allow this to happen? Why couldn't she invite Evie over to stay instead?

She was already having a hard time thinking through her feelings about what happened on the flight. She had really enjoyed those moments, but she wasn't 100% sure she wanted to repeat them. Actually, she knew she did, especially if he kissed her the way he did earlier, but she wasn't sure if it was the right thing. They had been drinking when they kissed, had been wrapped up in the past. He said he didn't regret it earlier, but what about now, what about after the buzz of the rum wore off?

He hadn't regretted what they had done. She hadn't either. However, she didn't want to have to face him every morning, noon, and night. She wanted to be able to think through things without him being right there. She wanted to be able to decide if things between them would go anywhere, without a joined bathroom between them. How would she ever be able to determine what is between them if they were constantly forced together? She needed to be sure about her feelings and with their first encounter in almost seven years happening because of a drunken game of truth or dare, she had to be sure that nothing was impeding her feelings.

Thankfully, the arrival of Henry and his girlfriend Violet, pulled Emma from her thoughts. Violet seemed like a nice girl. A bit shy, especially around the large group, but all things aside, she was a sweet girl. She looked at Henry the way her mother looked at her father. It was sweet actually. They had a relationship that most adults would kill for. Emma could only hope that it would last. She knew that young love, that first high school, puppy love, didn't really last. Or if it did, it was as rare as soul mates and true love.

Dinner went well, or as well as a group of sixteen people could make dinner go. The place was a mess by the time dessert and the real conversation rolled around. Dinner had started with simple small talk; discussion of the weather, Henry's hopes for graduation, as well as Violets, discussion of how stupid politics were, and Emma's least favorite pastime, stories of the kids when they were younger. Her father loved spilling stories of her when she was little, before she went off to conquer the world. Mr. Jones was the same way, but his stories tended to focus on Liam and not Killian. She could see his face fall with each passing story.

She wasn't quite sure if her mother had planned it, but Killian was sitting right across from her. So throughout the whole meal, after he took his luggage up to the guest room when he arrived, she had to make quick glances at him. She couldn't help it, her eyes were drawn to him. He started off the meal looking happy and content, shooting off jokes with his brother and little sister. Yet, as his father told story after story of Liam's childhood, his face continued to fall. She silently prayed that someone would change the subject to lighten the torture on him.

She wasn't thankful for the change of subject when it did eventually come around.

"So Emma, why don't you tell us all about your little adventures in modeling?" Mary Margaret said. She didn't mind being asked about her time modeling or telling them that she had done some pretty big jobs in the past year, enough so that she could quit her waitressing job, but she wasn't too happy about the way her mother worded the question. They were still learning each other, and she knew it would take some time for their relationship to be where it should be, but the way her mother worded the question made Emma stew.

"Well mom," she said, with annoyance in her voice, hoping her mother took note of the situation, "things have been going pretty well. I actually booked a few shoots earlier in the year that have given me enough in savings that I was able to quit my job waitressing, so now I can focus on my shoots instead."

She saw the look of pride on her father's face. Her mother however, looked a bit disappointed. Everyone else at the table didn't look any different, with smiles still plastered on their faces.

"Emma, that's wonderful!" her father said, beaming.

"Sweetie, are you sure you can afford to actually quit a paying job? I only ask because I don't want you to worry about money or anything. Maybe you should use that degree you got, put some of the hard work to good use," her mother questioned. After their previous conversation, Emma knew she didn't mean to sound condescending, but it still hurt to hear the disbelief in her mother's voice.

"Yes mom, I am sure I can afford it," she replied, with nothing but irritation seeping through her tone. "And I don't need to do anything with my degree. I'm happy doing what I'm doing right now."

"Emma, what else have you been doing out there? Go to any parties? Have any boyfriends?" Adelaide asked, with more love in her voice than in her mother's last two questions combined. She smiled at the woman who always supported her. She knew she was being harsh on her mother, but she had hoped for at least a few hours of normalcy before her mother's old colors showed through the new paint.

"Well, I'm currently helping my two best friends get engaged. They've been together since right after I moved to LA. Ruby and Lacey are perfect together. And no, I don't really go to any parties, it isn't really my scene. My ex did though. I'd say that was part of what led to our break up," Emma confessed.

She hadn't told anyone at home about Neal. No one seated at the table knew she even had a boyfriend in LA. She hadn't meant to talk about it either, but Adelaide's calming voice and question tore down her walls quick and had Emma spilling some of her guts.

"You had a boyfriend?" Evie squealed, looking nothing but excited about the development. She lived for "love stories" even if they ended badly. She was a junkie for anything remotely romantic.

"I did, but we just broke up actually. It wasn't going to work out," she explained, willing them all to leave it at that. She knew most of the table would, but she was worried about her mother as she looked down to the head of the table.

"What does he do? Is he a model too?" Brennan asked.

"No. Well yes and no. He is a model, but he is also a business owner, or something like a business owner. His father owns a couple of businesses and he helps out," Emma explained, with detest in her voice. Now that she was describing Neal, how could she even date a male model?

"You never know Emma, maybe you two will make up when you get back. Sometimes love needs some time apart. You never know," her mother started.

"Actually, I'm pretty sure Neal and I will not work out," Emma tried to tell her.

"Believe me sweetie, sometimes it just takes some distance. Just wait and see," her mother said one last time.

"No mom it won't!" Emma finally let her anger out.

The table went quiet immediately. No one lifted a drink or a fork, some of the plates of pies sitting untouched for what seemed like an eternity.

"Well let's move on, it doesn't seem like we are going to be agreeing on Emma's love life anytime soon," Adelaide said, trying to lighten the situation.

"Killian, when do you start training? By the way, the league made such a stupid decision to bench you!" her father said from the other end of the table.

So that was something new. She didn't know he was suspended. She knew something was up when he said he was coming home for three weeks, especially since the season was in mid swing and everyone was gearing up for the series. She had just assumed it was an injury or a needed vacation, but suspended?

"Well, the league was just doing what it had to. I don't blame them, it could have been a lot worse. But I start in a few days. I can't train with the Nationals, sorry David, but I am training with one of the minor leagues, so hopefully I can keep up with everything. I'm trying to look at this in a positive light, maybe take the time to do some thinking," he explained, sadness lacing his voice. She could tell he was missing his time on the field. What had happened to him, what was so bad that it got him benched?

"Thank God they sent him here to do it too, I couldn't stomach him staying in LA training while that woman waltzed around, continuing to ruin his career," Brennan cursed from near Killian. She could see the anger in the elder Jones' eyes. Liam was trying to calm his father down, placing a hand up to tell him to drop it.

"Dad…" Liam began, but was quickly interrupted.

"No Liam! Killian is throwing everything away over some whore who has controlled him for way too long. If anything good came of this shit show, it was this woman being removed from his life forever. At least that is what we can hope, right Killian?" Brennan's words hurt even Emma. The tone of his voice was vicious and harsh. Emma could see Killian breaking and all she wanted to do in that moment was console him. She wanted to tell him no matter what she would support him, unlike his father.

"Brennan…" Adelaide tried to calm her husband down, but to no avail.

"All of you, stop. Killian knows he screwed up. He has made it too far to just throw away his career over some woman. His career hangs in a balance and all because he allowed this woman to control everything he did. Killian, you need to work hard while you are here. This isn't a vacation or a chance to, what is it you said, do some thinking. This is your livelihood, you can't be a pansy ass about it!" Brennan's voice was getting louder after each and every word.

Emma could tell Brennan was riling himself up to say something else, but before anyone was able to get out another word out, Killian stood up, his chair flying as he stormed into the house that he was now staying in. He was muttering some curse words that were brilliantly strung together about his father.

No one else stood up from the table. Liam and his family turned back to their pies. Violet and Henry were like deers in headlights, unsure what to actually do in that moment. Emma felt bad for the girl. For the first time meeting the "extended family", she was getting an eye and earful. Everyone sat in silence and ate for the next ten minutes.

Brennan was the first one to get up and make his way to leave. He thanked the Nolan's for dinner, saying that he would see David tomorrow to discuss something and headed out. Thankfully, he didn't go through the house, since their backyards were only separated by a wooden fence that shared a gate.

"I'm so sorry Mary, he's been so upset since this whole suspension went down. I begged him not to bring it up. I'll talk to you tomorrow," Adelaide said as she stood up to make her leave, kissing her mother on the cheek. Her mother just waved her off, a knowing look in her eyes. This actually was pretty normal; Brennan losing his temper wasn't anything new.

Emma was actually kind of pissed no one from Killian's family got up to check on him when he stormed out. She would have gone after him, but it didn't really seem like her place. She had only reconnected with him again a few hours earlier. She didn't know what he was going through. Well she kind of did, but she knew nothing about the background.

Thankfully the rule in Emma's family was whoever made the meal didn't have to clean up, so she decided to turn in, claiming tiredness from the trip. She was, but she was also just ready to get away from all of the drama of the day. After seeing how Brennan treated Killian, Emma couldn't be upset with her mother's insistent questioning or belittling comments. Compared to Brennan, Mary Margaret wasn't rude, it was just who she was. It was a bit annoying but at least she did it out of love.

Emma was right about her room not changing; even the stupid poster was still there. As she looked at it though, she realized she would have been upset if it had been taken down. It was part of her past, part of who she was, and she could never get rid of it. She laid on her bed for a couple of minutes, staring up at Nick's face, but she couldn't get Killian off her mind. He was only a few feet away and she could practically feel him stewing. She felt bad for him. It wasn't pity, but she felt his pain.

It was another few minutes of her pacing the floor of her bedroom and their shared bathroom before she knocked on the door of the guest room. She noticed that there were no lights on from the sliver below the door. She hoped she wasn't waking him.

She heard some movement from the room, but no answer. Something in her though told her to just go in, so she did.

What she saw utterly wrecked her. Killian was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking towards the bathroom door. His hair disheveled and eyes puffy. In his hand he held a tumbler, which was half full of amber liquid. A bottle sat at his feet, also half empty. Something told her the bottle had been full only twenty minutes ago. Killian was a broken man and Emma made up her mind in that moment that she was going to fix him.

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