#as for him suddenly becoming a narcotic agent?

[ask-cloverfield]

Hiroshi Miyauchi exclusively plays inexplicable powerful cowboys

[kiachiako]

l.mark recs

my library of favorites <3 all creds to authors

series

let’s break the ice pt.1 | @sehunniepotwrites 1.4k — in which you’re attending your college team’s hockey practice with your best friend and embarrassment ensues.

volleyball for dummies (in love edition) | @ddeonuism — Mark Lee has been called many things. Dedicated was one of them and that dedication lead him into joining NeoTech College's well coveted Women's Volleyball team, the NeoTech Tigers, as their manager in hopes of winning the infamous setter, Y/N's heart. But there was one problem, being academically inclined did not come with the extensive knowledge of anything related to the sport and to put it simply, Mark Lee doesn't know shit about Volleyball.

oneshots.

[m] surviving no nut november | @domjaehyun 28.8k — mark lee x fem!reader x lee haechan

[m] sweet cream, cold brew | @lucyandthepen 26.4k — something about mark lee keeps you up at night, and you’re pretty sure that it isn’t the lingering smell of espresso on his shirt.

[m] bed of spider webs | @neovisioned​ 26k — where you hate Mark Lee because he’s everyone’s favourite, to both students and teachers. if there’s a number one, there’s a number two, and that’s you. however, after a strange event in a lab, his grades crush down, leaving the number one spot vacant for your very eyes, but as everyone’s favourite looks more and more miserable, you can’t help but worry about him, not knowing that he became the famous friendly neighbourhood superhero that saved you that one night.

[m] pretty little weapon | @lisired 25.7k — A lifetime worth of adversity had brought you to Bloodlust. You joined them to escape your history, but with Mark Lee - an undercover narcotics agent with a secret to keep - comes the threat of being forced to confront your past. Old wounds are opened, but scars heal.

[m] follow through | @ncteez​ 23.5k — Mark managed to keep his best friend status with you even after you moved away. With a friendship strictly through imessage, facetime, and social media, it was surprisingly easy to keep him in your life. Even when things suddenly became sexual. By the time you move back home, you learn that the both of you talk big game through text, but nearly forgot how to communicate face to face.

[m] delphinium | pt.2 | @ncteez 23k — You should have known that when he said he loved you after such a small act of intimacy, he wasn’t thinking with his dick. Quite frankly, he didn’t know how to. You also should have known that by being his first, he probably wanted you to be his last.

where’s your good-natured gryffindor-slytherin rivalry? | @taelme 23k — friends-to-enemies-to-lovers, Hogwarts!au (fluff, mild angst, slow burn, mutual secret pining) 

chiaroscuro | @ncteez​ 20.3k — the romanticization of art school is typical and no one romanticizes it more than mark lee, the too-confident messy-haired guy who, accidentally, makes people uncomfortable. to you though? it’s kind of flattering to become his focus.

[m] my little doll | @haechansdoll 20k — Humans have hormones, you understand that much. But does that explain why you can't stop the filthy daydreams that fill your head whenever you see a specific redhead? Does it excuse you for getting turned on by him simply breathing in your direction? And to make matters worse, he is off-limits, if your father found out you were messing with his prized boxer? You would be chained to a tower and your red-haired crush would be used as mincemeat.

safety zone | @cherryeoniis 19.1k — Mark Lee. The most perfect roommate and best friend that you could have asked for - except for the fact that he constantly messes up your laundry and can’t cook eggs very well. Even then, that doesn’t quite stop you from falling for him in your final year.

[m] give me the green light | @fadedncity 19k — street racing au, childhood friends to lovers, non idol au, college au, lil angst, fluff

[m] a clouded fate | @byunbaekby​ 17.2k — badboy!mark lee x female reader 

would you be so kind? | @sehunniepotwrites 17k — It was ironic, really, how you had a love and hate relationship with flowers. Growing up as a florist’s daughter, your love and admiration for the language of flowers flourished at a young age. Your thoughts, however, changed when you were diagnosed with the sickness that killed with one of the things you loved the most. You weren’t sure what hurt more, though - the hammering agony your heart experienced every single time Mark looked at her so lovingly or the excruciating pain your lungs suffered through whenever you remembered your best friend loved her and not you.

[m] delphinium | pt 2 | @ncteez​ 16.2k —  It wasn’t intentional. You don’t even know why you cared that he didn’t believe in pre-marital sex, but it didn’t stop you from arguing with him about it. You didn’t intend to win the argument either. Then again, he kind of let you.

[m] watch me | @sluttyten 14.6k — you pick up the voyeuristic habit of watching your neighbor that never closes his curtains and whose face you never see. on an unrelated note, you start dating the cute barista from down the street that also happens to live in the building across from yours. what could happen?

mark lee’s gluttony | @misfitneo​ 13.5k — mark lee’s gluttony will be his downfall. with the heavy burden as one of NEO’s heirs, he’s lived his whole life aiming for power; and when things get out of hand, you’re the one to suffer the consequences.

[m] gorgeous | @lucyandthepen 12.4k — you don’t know what in the football uniform mark is wearing is so attractive. maybe it’s how broad is shoulders always look in that jersey. maybe it’s how nicely accentuated his ass is when he’s running. or, maybe, just maybe, it’s how painfully conspicuous the outline of his cock is through those pants.  or, you know. all of the above.  

where do broken hearts go? | @rrxnjun 12k — you know what they say about past lovers that can remain just as friends - either they're still in love with each other, or they never were in the first place.

a series of white lies | @tyonfs​ 10.5k — in which it takes you six years to accept that you’re in love with mark lee. (it takes him one.)

[m] the girl is mine | @luvrkives 10.5k — mark and hyuck can't stop fighting over you. who fucks you better, who makes you laugh more, who you like most, who fucks you better, yada yada yada. but honestly, why argue when you would happily take them both?

[m] meant to break | @tyonfs 10.0k — when the mafia’s members task you to distract a detective that’s hot on their trail, you have no choice to accept. there’s no place for love when you’re simply a trap for lee minhyung to walk into, but you still want to immerse yourself into everything he is.

baseball (& other disasters) | @tqmies 10k — Everyone admired Mark Lee, starting pitcher of your school’s baseball team and famed ladies man. You, on the other hand, only know him as the boy who broke your dorm lobbies microwave the first time you met.

[m] pretty boy | @ncteez​ 9.3k — Mark’s favorite thing to do is sit alone at the library and enjoy the knowledge that his university offers. In contrast, your favorite thing to do is go to parties and enjoy as much chaos as possible. However, upon realizing your grades have dropped drastically due to this lifestyle, you have no choice but to approach Mark for help. 

sticky situations | @mieohmy​ 9.2k — you never thought you’d be partners in crime with the red and blue spandex wearing hero who is not only your friend mark, but also the guy you secretly have a crush on. 

[m] roommates | @smileysuh 8.3k — as Jungwoo's best friend, you have your pick of fratboys to date, including Jeno, who has a huge crush on you. But you're only attracted to Lee's that come in pairs, and you can't get roommates Mark and Hyuck off your mind.

day dream | @cozyjae​ 8.2k — 90s!au, mark lee x reader, brothers best friend au

blind love | @neocityarchive 7.2k — in which mark lee is so much more than just your best friend but you were too blind to realize it.

[m] the best man | @mrkis 6.5k — meeting the one for you at your best friend's wedding wasn't exactly how you imagined this day turning out, neither was fucking him in the bathroom of the venue.

heartbreak girl | @cinnajun 5.5k — during your first couple years of high school, mark was your closest friend; then, during your junior year, you began to distance yourself from one another after you got a boyfriend. two years later, your friendship rekindles, and mark finds himself feeling the same way he felt for you before. but, when you plan to meet up during the summer after your first year of university, disaster strikes, and mark is forced to keep his love for you bottled up once more.

[m] closed doors | @starryhyuck 5k — when your brother asks if a friend can stay in your spare bedroom, you don’t expect mark lee to show up on your doorstep.

[m] may i be blunt? | @raibebe 3.9k — stoner Mark x female reader

[m] cherry flavored thoughts | @neochan​ 3.8k — you invite mark over to study with ulterior motives and he happily goes despite having the filthiest thoughts of you.

[m] drive | @lisired 3.5k — behold mark lee - your hot uber driver who you keep getting. very embarrassing. you also fuck him.

3, 2, 1 | @justalildumpling 2.3k — at this point of your pathetically unrequited crush on your popular friend, it didn’t faze you when you found out that he wasn’t going to be at the same NYE party as you. but when he suddenly turned up to come find you did you start wondering that maybe you weren’t the only one with harboured feelings.

[m] mixtape moans | @starryhyuck​ 2.1k — you’ve learned that your shy boyfriend has written a song about you, incorporating sounds that are not made for the public to hear.

sex by the 1975 | @hyuckmov 1.8k — ex!mark x reader, jaehyun x reader (feat. best friend yeji)

[atths--twice]

Under the Skin

Mulder is injured during a sting operation. While tending to his injuries, Scully inadvertently reveals something to their fellow agents.

This was asked for by Kisha, a friend on Twitter. I loved the idea of it and it’s intrigued me since she requested it.

That’s all you get... 😉

Hope you enjoy it! ❤️

It happened so fast, no one could have stopped it.

An abandoned warehouse, the location of a possible traveling cult, the man who called himself Reverend Pure was surrounded. Tension was high, as a swarm of guns were drawn on him. Instructions were shouted and he appeared to be surrendering, his hands up as he began to kneel, when he suddenly lunged at Mulder, slashing at him with a knife he'd hidden up his sleeve.

Mulder cried out as blood soaked his white dress shirt and gunshots sounded, the suspect and Mulder both falling to the ground. As they did, Scully ran to Mulder, other agents surrounding the suspect, still shouting as the shocking image of him being cut replayed in Scully’s mind.

“You’re okay,” she said, dropping her weapon and pulling hard at his shirt and ripping it open. His tie lay by his throat as buttons flew everywhere, his chest exposed as she tried to gauge the cut through the massive amounts of blood. “It’s… it’s not too deep. You’re okay.”

“Jesus Christ.” She heard over her shoulder as Skinner walked up and she glanced up at him.

“I need some towels or something to stop the bleeding,” she said to him, pressing her bare hands into the cut in Mulder’s abdomen as he breathed deeply, moaning in pain. “Quickly, please.”

“Right. Right.” Skinner disappeared and Scully bit her lip, feeling nauseous from the sticky warmth of Mulder’s blood between her fingers.

“Scully,” he breathed, his hand gripping her wrist.

“It’s okay. I’ve got you. There’s an ambulance on the way. Shhh, it’s okay.”

“Agent Scully. Here.” She looked up and saw Agent Fowley handing her a gray t-shirt she had found somewhere. Scully grabbed it and pressed to Mulder’s abdomen as he closed his eyes and groaned at the pressure, his hand dropping from her wrist.

“You’re okay, Fox,” Agent Fowley said, kneeling beside him and touching his hair before pulling her hand away as though she had been burned. She glanced at his chest and then at Scully, her eyes hard, before standing up quickly and walking away.

“Agent Scully, here’s all I could find,” Skinner said as he walked back, a couple of towels in his hand. “Ambulance is just a few minutes out.” Scully took them from him, Mulder’s blood on her hands staining the towels, as she added it to the shirt already becoming dark with his blood.

Skinner caught her eye and she shook her head once, her mouth closed as she pressed harder and Mulder moaned again. Skinner knelt down and looked around at the chaos in the room, Scully’s attention remaining only on Mulder.

“They found the other people, got to them in time. Your theory was right, Mulder,” Skinner said looking down at him and Mulder nodded slightly.

“Safe?” Mulder breathed.

“Safe,” Skinner assured him, placing a hand on his shoulder. As Scully watched Mulder nod again, her heart stopped for a few beats as her eyes landed on Skinner’s hand on Mulder’s shoulder. Quickly raising her eyes, Skinner nodded as he stood up and walked away to assist the other agents and victims.

“Shit,” she muttered, but her worry over what he may have seen would have to wait, her concern elsewhere.

“Scully,” Mulder said weakly and she moved closer to his head, a hand still holding the towels to his wound.

“Shhh… I’m here.”

“It’s bad.”

“It’s okay, Mulder. The ambulance will be here soon. I’ve slowed the bleeding.”

“The kids… did they find them?”

“Yes. They’re all safe, Mulder. It won’t be long now. You’re okay.” He slowly opened his eyes and focused on hers. He was pale and sweaty, a sure sign of shock. She bent her head close to his ear, whispering softly to him and he nodded, his eyes closing again.

The ambulance arrived, the paramedics rushing into the room and attending to him. He was lifted onto the stretcher and with a nod to Skinner, she followed behind him, feeling Agent Fowley’s eyes on her back, now knowing what had caused her to walk away so quickly earlier.

And she did not give two shits.

______________

Hours later, her adrenaline finally slowing, she sat in a chair beside Mulder’s bed. The familiar sounds of the monitors beeping kept her alert, despite her exhaustion, as she watched Mulder’s chest rising and falling. He had been in surgery to repair the wound, and had only been back in his room for half an hour. She had waited until the doctors left to readjust his pillows and check on his wound herself. The bandage was quite large, but she knew that while it had bled a lot and was deep, the cut was not too long.

Still, it would be a bit of recovery time and she knew how he would chafe about it once he was awake. He had been in recovery for an hour and on the way back to the room had fallen asleep, the drugs strong and his tolerance low when it came to narcotics.

“The bigger they are, the harder they fall,” she whispered with a small smile, just as she had numerous times in the past. He always laughed and then inevitably fell asleep soon after, proving her point.

The door opened behind her and she turned around, feeling immediately on edge as Agent Fowley stepped inside, her eyes on Mulder. Scully stood up and crossed her arms as she could almost hear Mulder’s voice telling her to be nice.

“How is he?” Agent Fowley asked and Scully fought hard to not roll her eyes.

“Surgery went well, same with recovery. He just needs to sleep off the meds.” Agent Fowley nodded, stepping closer to the bed, and without thought, Scully stepped to the side, blocking her from getting too close. She heard Agent Fowley exhale in disbelief and yet Scully remained steadfast.

They stared at one another, Agent Fowley’s eyes taking her in from head to toe, but Scully did not flinch. She raised an eyebrow, knowing what Agent Fowley had seen and most likely wanted to confirm, possibly hoping Scully had not been in the room so she could do so.

“The suspect was shot, but survived. The others are being treated and questioned, but thankfully there are no major injuries. Aside from Fox… Agent Mulder.”

“Yes. Aside from him,” Scully said, her hackles rising as they always did when she heard Agent Fowley calling him Fox with such ease and familiarity.

“Well, he’ll probably be sleeping awhile. No need for you to wait around. I’m here.” She stared at Agent Fowley, not moving from her spot, her arms still crossed.

“Agent Scully, I know you and I haven’t gotten off on the best foot-” Scully scoffed loudly and looked down, narrowly avoiding rolling her eyes and snapping back at her.

Calm, Scully. She felt from Mulder, almost as though he had spoken out loud. Turning her head to be sure he had not, she saw he was still sleeping peacefully. Swinging her attention back to Agent Fowley, she raised her eyebrows, waiting for her to continue.

“We both have Fox’s best interests at heart,” Agent Fowley said quietly and Scully drew in a deep breath, not believing a word she was saying. She did not trust her, no matter what Mulder had said, his trust in her unwavering.

“I’m here. No reason for you to stay,” she stated again and Agent Fowley sighed with a final glance at Mulder, and walked out the door.

Bitch, Scully thought and let out the breath she had apparently been holding.

“Scully…” Mulder said hoarsely and she turned around quickly, stepping closer to the bed.

“Hey,” she whispered and his eyes opened slowly, focusing on her after a couple of tries.

“What happened?” he asked slowly, his eyes closing again.

“You were cut, slashed with a knife.”

“Mmm… yeah, I remember now. Fuck… this hurts.” He groaned, reaching for his stomach but she stopped him, holding his hand in hers and staring at him. “How bad?”

“Deep, but not long.” He moaned out a laugh and she shook her head with a small smile, his eyes cracking open.

“There’s a joke in there… but I…” She stroked his hair and stared into his eyes, the smile still on her lips.

“Tell me later. Though I’m pretty sure I know what you’ll say,” she said, letting out a sigh. He held her eyes and she leaned forward, pressing her lips to his gently.

He hummed and she kissed him again, before pulling back and staring at him. He sighed and she moved her hand to his cheek, stroking softly and shaking her head.

“I was so scared,” she whispered and he hummed again, attempting to adjust positions and wincing in pain. “Stop. Just lie still. You had surgery, not just stitches.”

“So… worse than I thought.”

“It was a serrated knife. It was deep.”

“But not long,” he whispered and she exhaled, his eyes closing. “The joke keeps… slipping away.”

“I got it,” she said with a smile, squeezing his hand.

He hummed just as there was a knock at the door. His eyes struggled to open at the sound as she turned her head. Skinner stepped inside and smiled slightly when he saw that he was awake.

“Agent Mulder. I’m glad to see you’re doing better.”

“Can’t get rid of me that easily, Sir,” he slurred slightly, squeezing Scully’s hand weakly.

“Nor would I want to,” Skinner responded softly, his eyes on Scully, who nodded at his unasked question: Mulder would be okay.

“Should’ve been paying better attention,” Mulder said quietly and Skinner shook his head.

“None of us saw it coming. You couldn’t have known.” Scully nodded at him and he nodded back. “You rest. Get your strength back.”

“The other people… they’re okay?”

“Yes. Thanks to you. They’re all alive and safe.”

“Good.”

Skinner nodded at Scully once more and left the room, the door closing softly behind him.

“Are there… will there be any other visitors?” he asked tiredly and she turned to look at him.

“No.”

“You think… or would it be unwise to ask that you lower the bedrail and join me in this truly uncomfortable bed?” She smiled and sighed, knowing how it would be perceived if she were to do that, as much as she may want to do it.

“I think it may be a bit unwise, especially after today.”

“What do you mean?” he breathed.

“Well, aside from the obvious reason for you being here in the first place,,,” She touched his chest, just above his heart, her fingers tracing the letters that lay upon his skin beneath his gown. He stared at her and she nodded.

“Who saw it?”

“The paramedics, Skinner, a few other agents, I’m sure… Diana.” His eyes widened as her fingers traced again and she waited to hear what he would say.

“She couldn’t know for sure…”

“Mulder, she’s not stupid. And Skinner would definitely know.”

“As if he hasn’t been sweetening the office pool for years,” he said with a tired sigh. “He’s not stupid either.”

“No… he’s not.”

“Are you sorry they saw it? Embarrassed?”

“No. Not at all. I just… forgot it was there in my haste to stop your bleeding. I wasn’t prepared for everyone to know.”

“Hmm,” he hummed, his eyes closing, his left hand covering hers gently. “They already know, Scully. They just hadn’t seen the hard evidence, the proof you yourself always need to see.” He opened his eyes slowly and then closed them again. “Best decision I think I’ve ever made. I don’t care if they know.” He exhaled and then he was asleep, the medication and trauma of the day taking its toll on him.

She smiled as his grip slackened and she gently moved his hand, not wanting it to slip suddenly and cause him to jump, jarring his injury. She stared at his chest and thought about the proof that had been uncovered today in front of so many others. Again, she traced the letters that she could not see, but knew were there below the worn cotton of his hospital gown, tattooed onto his flesh for all eternity.

DKS

If others had been surprised today, it was nothing compared to how she had felt when she had seen it the first time.

Coming to his apartment one Friday afternoon, the prospect of an unofficial X-File before them, she had knocked and he had answered, his shirt not quite on, already talking a mile a minute. A flash of something on his chest, above his heart, had caught her attention as she closed the door.

“So, we need to be there by five or it’s-”

“Mulder, what is that?”

“What is what?” he had asked, turning to look at her.

“That on your chest.”

“My shirt?” he had joked and she had shaken her head, stepping closer to him.

“Did you… did you get a tattoo?” She had looked at him incredulously and he let out a sigh, but did not negate her question. “Mulder? Let me see.”

“That’s okay. It’s nothing.”

“Nothing? No, it’s not nothing. Let me see.”

“Scully…”

“Is it something embarrassing? A spaceship? Or an alien? Is that why? Did the Gunmen get you drunk and take you out recently? Celebrate us getting you out of the Bermuda Triangle?” she had teased and he had shaken his head with a half smile.

“No, nothing like that.”

“Then let me see.” She had started to lift his t-shirt but he stopped her, pushing it back down and shaking his head. “Mulder, come on…”

“Scully, I…” She stared at him and finally he had sighed and nodded with a bit of a grumble. Lifting his shirt over his head, he had held it in his hands, his eyes on hers as she had looked at the darkly inked tattoo on his chest.

Three letters, about an inch or so, sat close together with a small red heart beside the last one. The font was not overly flowery, but there was beauty in the simplicity of it. It had drawn her closer, her fingers reaching out to touch it, tracing over the letters and speaking them out loud.

“D, K, S. What is… oh, Mulder.” Her hand had dropped as she realized it was her initials, tattooed on the very spot she had shot him to stop him from shooting Krycek. “Why… what?”

It was new, something she had never seen before, and her mind had spun as she thought of the implications of why he had done something of that nature.

“Why?” she had asked and stared at him.

“I don’t think I really need to say it. I think you know.”

“I need to hear you say it,” she had whispered and he had smiled with a nod.

“Of course you do. You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t.” He had tossed his shirt onto the couch and taken her hand in his, bringing it back to the tattoo on his chest.

“D.K.S,” he had said softly, as he traced every letter with her index finger and then the heart, his eyes never leaving hers as she had begun to breathe faster and her heart had pounded. “You saved me that night and countless other times. Over and over, you have done so.” She had taken a deep breath in and tears had stung her eyes.

“After… after I had been on that boat, when I told you-”

“That you loved me,” she had whispered and he smiled with a nod.

“I know you thought I was drugged up, spent too much time in the water, but…” He had shaken his head, gently rubbing her fingers. “This wasn’t a whim, or a drunken idea. I planned it. Found the place, knew what I wanted.” He had retraced the letters of her initials with her finger and she held her breath. “I wanted you here… always.”

At the red heart, he had stopped, letting her decide to trace it again, the unspoken meaning of it hanging heavy between them, a decision waiting to be made. Staring at the three initials of her name, his words sinking in, she had blinked back her tears as she exhaled and traced the heart with her finger, his hand holding, but not guiding.

“Scully,” he had breathed and then his lips were on hers, his kiss soothing and electric all at once. He kept her hand on his chest as the kiss deepened, his other at the back of her neck.

They had not arrived at their destination by the agreed upon time of 5:00. Nor anywhere else for the next couple of days.

Tracing the letters and the heart over and over, her head on his chest as he slept, she had smiled. The tattoo had been new enough that she could feel it still slightly raised as she had closed her eyes.

“I’m glad you like it,” he had whispered, not sleeping after all, and she smiled as she snuggled closer. “That could have gone either way, now that I’m really think about it here.” She had chuckled, shaking her head as his fingers had begun to run lightly across her back.

“No… I don’t think so. Well, maybe if you had gotten it a couple of years ago.” He had chuckled, the movement reverberating through both of them. She smiled, breathing deep and inhaling his scent. “Even then, well, I would have thought you were crazy, but also… there’s a sexy aspect to it that I would have been unable to deny, even as I fought to do so. Who wouldn’t want to hear that they have been permanently embedded into someone’s heart?”

“Hmm… wouldn’t you argue that’s what love is?”

“Love is that, yes… but it seems to hold a different weight when it’s been inked upon skin,” she had said softly, kissing his chest, her fingers once more tracing the swirls and loops of the tattoo. He hummed and ran his fingers through her hair.

“Dana Katherine Scully… on my skin… and under it. Forever.” He had begun to hum “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” and she had sighed contentedly, her worries about recent events fading.

She was there, in his bed, his arms, his heart and under his skin.

Her.

No one else.

_________________

Three days. That was the amount of time he could handle being in the hospital. He was still sore, stiff and slow as he walked and did his physical therapy, but he was ready to leave. There was not much the hospital could do medically anyway, he simply needed to heal.

Scully arrived to take him home and brought him a change of clothes. As she helped him dress, she paused, taking a second to trace his tattoo and kiss the red heart, before kissing his lips softly and lowering his t-shirt.

“Has anyone said anything?” he asked, as he stood up with a groan and she knew that he meant about the tattoo. Shaking her head, she pulled up his pants, buttoning and zipping them.

“No one. Though Skinner has seemed extra happy the past couple of days.” She smiled as she reached for his jacket and he slid an arm inside with a snort.

“I’ve told you, he sweetens the pot. He tells one person and then the whole building knows. He’s a horrible gossip.” He raised his eyebrows and she laughed as he put his other arm in and she adjusted the lapels gently.

“Well… anyway. I don’t care who knows. It’s been speculated for years, so…” She shrugged and he smiled, his gaze dropping to her lips. She stood on tiptoes and kissed him again before gathering his things.

They walked out of the room and down the hall slowly, his bag of possessions held in her hand. Her other arm was around his waist, his arm around her shoulder.

Arriving at the elevator, he moved his arm and brought it to the small of her back, his finger tracing a slow circle against her jacket, right where her own tattoo was permanently embedded in her flesh. The one she had chosen to put where his hand was always drawn, like a magnet.

He began to hum as his finger continued circling and she smiled, recognizing the tune.

The elevator dinged, announcing its arrival just before the doors opened and they stepped inside. He continued to hum, staring into her eyes as they waited for the doors to close.

When they did, she wrapped her arms around him gently, her head resting against his chest and the tattoo. His hand once more pulled to his spot and they swayed slowly as the elevator began its descent.

“I've got you under my skin. I've got you, deep in the heart of me. So deep in my heart that you're really a part of me. I've got you under my skin,” he sang quietly, and she smiled, his finger again circling slowly.

Breaking apart as the elevator slowed down, he grasped her hand and laced their fingers together, winking at her as they stepped out and walked slowly through the lobby. She smiled as she squeezed his hand, not caring if anyone saw, her happiness unable to be contained.

I've got you under my skin, she thought, hearing his voice singing it in her head. She glanced at him and shook her head with a smile.

If that ain’t the truth…

[forever-rogue]

Disappear Here - What Comes After

A/N: Hi friends! So here is the very much requested sequel to Disappear Here. I had a lot of fun writing of it, and I love these idiots so much, and you guys did too, which just warmed my heart so much. I hope you enjoy, and feedback and comments are always welcome! Surprise, I guess! PS - I am also writing an alternative ending, which is coming soon! 

Pairing:  Javier Peña x Reader

Word Count: 5.5k

Warning: some language and violence

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4

ALTERNATIVE ENDING

MASTERLIST

»»————-　♡　————-««

Mexico was hot. Muggy. Dangerous. But it was yours. There was no one to compete with, no one to impress, no one to prove a point to.

No, rather it was much better and fresh; your current partner and yourself had arrived at the same time and set up shop under the close supervision of Walt Breslin and Jaime Kuykendall. And it had worked. For once in your life, at least at that time, everything seemed to fall into place without a hitch. It had worried you at the beginning, surely something was bound to go wrong. Things couldn’t be this easy, right?

But a year in and everything was cherries, for the most part. Everything was fine, normal; sometimes you were almost able to convince yourself that you had a typical job just everyone else. Until, of course, the occasional bloodshed and capture of a stash of narcotics.

 But...no major hiccups. It was quiet, almost too quiet, and you felt like something was going to break soon. You knew all too well that there was only so much build up before the snap and all hell broke loose. But you pushed that all out of your mind. Why worry about something that may or may not happen? You’d just have to hope that things continued on their current trajectory. Good begets good, right?

“Y/N? Hello, earth to Y/N,” you blinked a few times as you pulled your attention out of your thoughts and back into reality. You were still clutching your cup of coffee, paused halfway to your mouth. Sighing, you set it back down and turned your attention to your current partner, Dan. He was looking at you with an expectant expression on his features, clearly having just asked something, “what do you think?”

“What do I think?” you repeated and he let out a long sigh, but there was an amused expression on his face nonetheless. He’d quickly become your best friend in the foreign county, which was not a surprise since the two of you knew no one else there besides yourselves and your supervisors. The other friends you had acquired had learned to trust you slowly, which didn’t not come as much of a shocker. But with Dan, it was never forced, or awkward, you easily fell into a natural rapport, similar to that of a brother and sister.

“You haven’t heard a single word I’ve said, have you?” he teased and you were determined to prove him wrong. You gave him a firm smile and he just raised an eyebrow.

“I have,” you lied, “and I think we should do it.”

He almost burst out in laughter as you realized you might provided the very incorrect response. Shit. Maybe you should have tried harder to pay attention.

“So what you’re telling me is that you agree with Walt that we should just storm the warehouse,” yup, you had definitely agreed to the wrong thing. While you and Dan were both headstrong and tended to rush into things, just going in somewhere blindly was practical suicide and not either of your styles. He was thorough and calculating, much like you were. Everything was a risk, but with careful planning, things usually went well.

“Ugh….yes?” you tried to suppress the laugh that was bubbling up, but it was hard to keep yourself together. You just didn’t want to give in and give him the satisfaction at that moment. He laughed as well, shaking his head at you.

“Alright, Agent L/N,” he put on a serious tone and gave you a firm nod, “we go in guns blazing-”

“Wait!” you almost shouted at him, eyes wide, “it appears I’ve suffered a change of heart. Perhaps a subtle infiltration after scoping the warehouse out will work…”

“Hmm,” he mused as he slid a portfolio over towards you, “that sounds more like the Y/N I know and love. So you weren’t paying attention at all…”

“I was…I was just…momentarily distracted,” you tried to shrug it off and hoped he wouldn’t pry any further. He was good at reading you, but maybe this time he’d realize it wasn’t anything you wanted to discuss.

Your hope was fruitless.

“What’s wrong?” he asked as you fiddled with the corner of the portfolio, eyes refusing to meet his. You just your head, “you’ve been distracted lately. Where do you go?”

You stilled at the words as time seemed to freeze. Those words were familiar, oh so familiar. Except last time you were on the other end of them. You looked at him and swallowed the lump in your throat, “what do you mean? I’m here, right here, all the time.”

“I think you know what I mean,” he insisted and you felt your heart drop, “your body is here but where does your head go?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about-”

“If you’re not completely focused or all in, anything we do can be comprised. This is a dangerous job, you know that. I want you to stay safe,” he leaned across the table and gave your hand a small squeeze. You knew he meant well, that he cared, but that knowledge didn’t relieve the moment. How could you politely ask him to stop without being too rude?

“Nothing is wrong,” you tried your best to reassure him, sure your smile was probably too fake and strained, “I’m just tired. But I promise nothing is wrong.”

“Tired,” he didn’t believe you for you a second. You didn’t even know what to do besides telling him the truth, which was probably going to be a long and arduous task, one you didn’t want to get into.

“Yes,” you were short and firm in your response as you pushed your chair back and stood up. Rubbing a hand over your face, you grabbed the file and clutched it tightly to your chest, “I’m going to head out for the day. I’ll go over this tonight and we can come with a plan tomorrow.”

“Y/N-”

“I…I’m sorry, I have to go,” you didn’t even let him finish as you hastily grabbed your things off of your desk and headed towards the door to your shared office. Something had snapped suddenly, just as you had anticipated something would. You just hadn’t expected it to be you.

You heard him calling after you in your rush to leave, but you ignored him, apologizing to all the unsuspecting passersby that you rammed into. Everything had blurred and you only had tunnel vision, and the door out of the embassy was the end goal.

When you burst out into the street, the fresh was a welcome relief. You bent over and tried to catch your breath, cursing yourself for forgetting that you had accepted a ride from Dan that morning. You’d either have to swallow your pride and go back inside and play off what had happened, try and get a cab in the busy traffic, or walk home. It was a few miles, but your pride was much too high to go and grovel, and you were short on cash and luck, so you decided to take your chances and walk home. If you had a singular goal, hopefully your mind wouldn’t wander too much. You didn’t dare let it stray far. Not again.

But it was no use.

Despite your best efforts, he still invaded your mind; your every thought and feeling. He’d been on your mind a lot lately. No matter how much you tried to suppress the memories, they kept bubbling up in your mind; how he tasted, how he touched you, how he kissed you, how he used to tell you that he loved you. Everything.

It had been 389 days since you’d last seen Javier Peña.

Not that you were keeping count...not in a physical place, but mentally you marked down each day that passed.

And he still managed to invade all of your senses no matter how hard you’d trying erasing him from every part of your life.

You were so wrapped up in your own thoughts, too far gone to pay attention. You were on autopilot, so deeply entangled in your thoughts that you completely the fact that someone had been following you. 

Not until they were right behind you and the sound of stomping footsteps reached your ears. Turning on your heels, you tensed up at the sight of the large man looming over you and pointing a gun directly at your face. Dropping everything you in your arms from the sheer shock, your instincts took over and reached for the pistol in the back of your waistband. But he easily had the drop on you and the gun was kicked from your hand. The kick was hard and you clutched your sore hand immediately, trying to figure out what to do. 

You hissed at the pain before holding your hands in surrender. You weren’t giving up, but were trying to quickly come up with a plan. If managed to somehow gain trust and he went easy on you, you could break away and fight for your freedom.

But before you could react or anything else, the loud pop of a gun reached your ears and the man that had been formerly threatening you dropped to the ground, right at your feet. Your hands flew to your face in horror as you watched flow from his skull onto the hot concrete, gun discarded and a look of terror permanently etched on his face. Your stomach twisted as you looked around to see where the shot could have some from. But you couldn’t anyone on the quiet street. No one was panicking, hell, no one was even around. Despite your best efforts, you could spy no one.

Gathering your things off the ground quietly, you shoved everything in your bag and retrieved your discard pistol off the ground. You prayed that it was a good sign that no one was nearby, hopefully that meant this couldn’t be traced back to you. Not that you had done anything wrong, but you knew how the system worked, and you wanted to avoid it all costs. Taking one last glance around, eyes wide and wild, you figured it was safe to leave. You had no clue who this man was, or what he wanted, but you figured it couldn’t be anything good. No one would be targeting you without knowing who you were; he had to know.

Almost tripping over your own feet in haste, you ran, almost sprinted, the rest of the way home. It was only a few more blocks, but by the time you reached the door to your apartment, your lungs felt like they were on fire, and the stitch in your side felt like it was tearing your body apart. Dripping in sweat, you were sure you were a sight and if any of your neighbors saw you they might have thought you had just run some kind of marathon. But at least you were home, safe, at least as safe as you could get in the middle of this mess.

Everything seemed to catch up with you at once and your vision ran blurry, and your stomach churned; before you could stop anything from happening, the entire contents of your breakfast and lunch came up, and you grabbed the nearby planter and upchucked into it. Once you were done, you slid to the floor, worn out, mentally and physically, pushing the planter as far away as possible, wiping your mouth with the the sleeve of your blouse.

Casting a small grimace at the flowers, you felt bad; they had been beautiful but were now ruined. Not that you could help it. It was a totally unexpected accident. Hopefully the kind woman who lived at the end of the hall and tended to the small garden and all the plants wouldn’t be mad, or figure out it was you. She was always kind, making sure you were taken care of, and you didn’t want to ruin all of that. You reached up and tried to unlocked your front door from the floor, doing the best thing to use the key and ending up fumbling with the lock for more than a few minutes.

A sigh of relief escaped your lips as you finally managed to get it open, and dragged yourself inside, kicking the door shut again and locking it immediately, making sure everything was well sealed. Your mind was racing as you tried to figure out what to do; the rational part of your brain told you to call the embassy then and there and tell Dan or Walt what had happened. They would have been all over it within seconds. But you didn’t even know what to tell them really; you barely even know what happened, it was over so fast. How would it sound if you just called and said ‘hey, a man just tried to attack me and someone else killed him and I just ran home’?

Instead, you managed to pick yourself up on shaky legs and tossed everything onto the counter, before dragging yourself to the bathroom. Perhaps a shower would be able to help calm you down; at least to scrub away the remainder of the strange occurrence. You turned the water up as high as possible before hastily discarding your clothes onto the cool tile of the floor and step in, letting the stream hit your tired body.

You stood there for a long time, not moving, not bothering to do anything but let the water run down your skin. It was scalding, probably too hot to be a good idea, but it was all you could focus on. If your mind focused on the feeling of the hot water, it couldn’t think about anything else. You definitely weren’t ready to rethink and relive the events of the afternoon. 

You wanted those memories as far gone as possible. You’d been working in the field for some time now, getting used to the violence and horrors that you did witness; but you never had a man fall dead at your feet. That was a whole different sight altogether; already burned into your mind, and you would no doubt have nightmares about it.

Only once the water had run lukewarm did you even make a move to clean your body. You made quick work of washing your hair and scrubbing your skin until was raw and clean. When it turned ice cold, you finally stepped out and wrapped yourself up in a towel, traversing to your bedroom and collapsing on your bed. You didn’t even bother to grab clean clothes or pull on pajamas before slipping under the covers. The sweet pull of sleep had started when you were standing under the cascade of hot water, and you while you were worried about nightmares, you were happy to at least try sleeping. Maybe your mind would calm down.

You didn’t have much time to think about any of that because you were lost to the land of sleep before you knew it. Witnessing an unintended murder had that affect, you supposed.

»»————-　♡　————-««

The next morning, you woke up in a cold sweat, unrested and just as unsettled as the evening before. It was strange, but nothing felt real in the moment. It was all a bad play and you were in the starring role. But you couldn’t let this keep you from going to work, not if you wanted to keep up a normal facade. They were likely already suspicious after your rapid departure from yesterday. So much for keeping a low profile.

“What’s up with you?” Dan was cheery and he looked well rested, like he had not a care in the world. You cursed him silently. Why hadn’t this happened to him? He probably would have handled it much better. 

You remained silent as you put your things down and your desk, flopping into your squeaky desk chair and letting out a long sigh. Before you knew, Dan was at the other side of your desk and set a pipping cup of weak cafeteria coffee in front of you. You gave it a dismal look, but saw that he had prepared just how you liked; he was making an effort at least.

“Truce?” he asked quietly as you picked up the coffee and took a sip, savoring the weak flavor of the liquid in your mouth. It was better than nothing for now. You looked up at him and nodded slowly, “I’m sorry about yesterday. I shouldn’t have pushed you like that. I just...you’re my partner and I want to make sure you’re safe. Okay?”

“Okay,” a small smile spread across your lips at his kindness. You could tell he was just being honest, which caused you to pause for a moment as you wrestled with whether or not to tell him what had happened yesterday. You should have...but just couldn’t bring yourself to do it. What if it was all for naught? You didn’t want to worry him unnecessarily, there was enough of that going around anyway, “truce. How about later we go and find some better coffee than this shitty excuse?”

“Deal.”

It was clear denial and deflection, but it was all you could muster up at the moment. it was something anyway. Maybe, once you were back in your right mindset, you’d tell him. But for now you preferred to keep everything at bay, pushed to the fair recesses of your mind.

As you had been only a few other times in life, you were once again thankful to be stuck doing mind numbing, menial paperwork for the day.

You were glad to had driven to work that day, not wanting a repeat of what had happened the previous day to occur again. Not that you just expected it would...that surely had to be a fluke. Something that was never going to happen again...or so you hoped.

As soon as you got home, you slipped inside and made sure everything was secure before grabbing a bottle of cold white wine from the near empty fridge. You’d have to make sure yourself face the world and go to the market soon and restock on groceries. But that was a problem for future you.

You eyed the cupboard and decided against it, instead quickly uncorking the bottle and taking a large swig from it. When you swallowed that down, you followed it up with a few more gulps, finishing almost half the bottle in rapid succession.

Knowing you’d need something in your stomach to avoid a headache or some form of handover, you were about to settle the bottle down on the counter when a loud knock came at your door. It startled you so much, the bottle totally missed the counter and ended up falling to the floor and shattered into a million pieces. Shit.

Cursing yourself and whoever was at the door, you hopped around the mess and scurried to your bag where you had your trusty gun stashed. Maybe it was all overreaction, but you weren’t expecting any visitors and weren’t about to take any chances. But then again, what kind of intruder would take the time to knock? Either way, you’d rather act first and apologize later, than take the risk.

You slowly made your way to the door as the knocking continued. Using the peephole proved to be unhelpful and you couldn’t see anything through it. Fuck.

Without thinking, you threw open the door and help up the gun, ready to defend yourself with whatever you were faced with.

“Jesus Christ! Were you going to shoot me!?”

You lowered your gun at the familiar voice, chest rising and falling rapidly as you tried to make sense of everything. That voice, you knew that voice so well; but you just never thought you’d hear it again. Slowly looking up, you found those damned velvet honeyed eyes starting back at you.

“Javi?” your voice cracked as you looked at the man in question starting back at you. The same man that had broken you 390 days earlier. He looked the same, but different. Perhaps it was just you that was different. But everything was different.

“Y/N-”

“I told you I never wanted to see you again,” anger immediately flowed through your body. How dare he? You were ready to slam the door in his face and shut him out again. It was like he could read your mind, like he knew he had been occupying everything single one of your thoughts lately and decided to make himself known. But you couldn’t deal with him again. Not now. Probably not ever, “so leave.”

“Y/N,” there was a difficult tone to read in his voice as he put his foot in the doorway to prevent you from closing it completely, “please. I can’t leave. Not without telling you...I...the way things ended, I can’t leave things like that.”

“I have nothing left to say to you,” you insisted, rolling your eyes in a defensive manner. You couldn’t let him see you weak, vulnerable, and go back to him with open arms. He had hurt you in the worst way possible. But here you were, a part of you insanely happy to see his beautiful face again. 

“I have things I need to say to you. I can’t not say them,” he was pleading with you now, and for some reason, the emotional part of your brain took over and you slowly opened the back up, sighing as you walked away and waited for him to follow.

“Speak,” you told him, removing the magazine from the gun and throwing them both back into your bag, “you’ve got ten minutes.”

“What if takes longer?” 

“Then I guess you’re out of luck,” you shrugged as you leaned against the counter and waited for him to speak.

“Y/N...” he ran his hands over his tired face as he tried to figure out where to begin. He had all of this planned out, a whole big speech, but it somehow was going exactly the opposite. Everything he had thought of was going out the window and his mind was blank. He wasn’t exactly sure of how you were going to react, but for some reason, he expected a little more than this. But somehow, seeing your face and hearing your voice again, reminded him exactly of how badly he had fucked up, “I’m sorry. First and foremost, I am so sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” you almost laughed with bitterness, “it took you over a year to figure out to say that? I gave up everything for you, and you had no problem tearing it all down and then you just come back and say I’m sorry?”

“I know what I did was wrong,” he leaned against the counter directly across from you and let out a long breath. He was wringing his hands nervously as he seemed to be looking anywhere but your eyes. He didn’t think he could stand if there was hate in them. But he knew you weren’t capable of that; your heart was too kind and pure to ever truly hate anyone. Even if he did deserve it, “and I never should have done it. I regretted it at the time and every single day since you left.”

“Did you regret it when you’d come into my bed after you fucked your informants? Did you think of them when you were fucking me?” all the words that had been built up for all this time were bubbling to the surface suddenly, and there was prickling at the back of your eyes despite how hard you to tried to keep it together.

“I never thought of anyone but you,” he said quietly, “and I regretted it as soon as I started...”

“Then why the fuck did you do it?” you wished you were stronger, that you could yell and be mad and tell him to curl up and die in a hole or under the hot Mexican sun, but you couldn’t. Instead, you trained your eyes on the floor, counting every single piece of broken glass from your forgotten wine as you tried not to cry. But you didn’t hate him, couldn’t hate him. Truth was, at your core, you’d never stopped loving him, “I-I asked you for one thing, Javi. And that’s the very thing you did. Why? Why? I thought you loved me...”

“I did love you, baby, I still love you,” he thought about reaching out and pulling you into his arms but he stopped himself; he wasn’t sure if he could take that kind of rejection, “I have always loved you.”

“Then why did you do it?” a few tears had run down your cheeks at his words, but you quickly wiped them away, refusing to let them linger. His heart broke at your teary voice,”why?”

“I was scared,” he admitted after a long bout of silence as your eyes finally met his. His dark eyes were glossy as he gave you a pained look, “so scared.”

“Scared?”

“Scared because I never felt the way I feel about you about anyone else before,” he confessed softly, and you couldn’t deny the butterflies that were erupting in your stomach, “I’d never felt so strongly, never loved someone so much before. It was all I could think about. And it scared me to death. So I tried to convince myself in other ways that it wasn’t true, that it wasn’t love. It was easier for me turn to what I knew, then to...just admit that I was in love with you. It was never my thing before, especially not after the first with Lorraine...I didn’t know how to deal.”

“Why would being in love with me scare you?” your question was quiet, barely above a whisper as the tension in the air grew thicker and thicker, “am that I repulsive to you?”

“No,” it was immediate and firm, “never. Do you now what’ it’s like to be loved by you? Someone who is much too good for me, someone so smart, kind, beautiful, lovely? Someone who I absolutely do not deserve? I wondered everyday why someone like you would love me. Surely, you’re much too good for me, and you could do so much better than me. But you still chose me, you loved me. And I fucked it up because I was an idiot and I was scared. And it cost me the best damn thing in my life. Nothing’s been the same since you left. Nothing.”

You remained silent for a long time, letting his words wash over you. It was hard to hear, but a part of your heart felt like it was finally healed now. Like you’d gotten the resolution and closure you deserved. Even if you didn’t agree with his logic, or how he’d handled things, at least you knew now. And he’d been honest; you could tell by the way this all seemed to tear him apart that he was being truthful with you. 

“You’re an idiot, Javier Peña,” you straightened up and wiped away the drying tear tracks, “truly. But you’re wrong, you know.”

“Oh?”

“You weren’t just loved by me then, back before I left,” you decided that you might as well lay it all out now. He was honest with you and deserved that much back at least, “you’ve always been loved by me. Even now, even after I left. I never stopped.”

“You probably should have,” he teased with a small chuckle before the two of shared a laugh. It almost felt the same like it used, warm and familiar, “a horrible decision, really.”

“I know,” you shrugged your shoulders, “but I’ve never been known to make the best decisions. Besides, you don’t chose who you love...it just happens.”

“How lucky I am, “ he mused quietly, “to be loved by you.”

“I just...yeah...Javi, how did you even find me?” you were curious...not that it was probably that hard to track down another DEA agent, but you still wondered. He’d come from Colombia all the way to Mexico...for you. 

“It wasn’t hard,” he admitted with a sheepish grin, “there’s only one embassy here in Mexico. And then finding you wasn’t too hard. I’ve been around a little while.”

“What?!” your heart was doing all sorts of flips in your chest. 

“I wasn’t going to come at first, at least not to talk to you,” your whole mind was running wild with questions as you looked him with a confused expression, “I just…I had to make sure you were safe…because I can’t be the one to protect you anymore. I just had to know for myself that you were okay.”

“I don’t understand…” you looked at him as he waited for you to put two and two together, “you’ve just been here…watching me…”

“Yes.”

“It was you,” it finally clicked. The reason you were safe, the reason you were alive, was because of Javi. He’d been the one who had gotten the drop on the man that had come after you the day before, “the man yesterday...you killed him.”

“Yes,” he nodded, “I saw him and I couldn’t just let him do something to you-”

“Why didn’t you just say it was you then and there?”

“I wasn’t sure if you wanted to see me,” he shrugged, “I followed you home and made sure you were okay. Safe anyway...I know it must have been hard, what happened.”

“What changed today?” your voice was shaky and every part of your body was screaming at you to just grab him and hold him.

“I had to see you.”

“After all this time?”

“Always,” he reassured, “you’ve been on my mind every single day. And even if you didn’t want to see or to talk to me, I had to come and say sorry. I know it probably doesn’t mean much, but I had to at least get it out.”

“Oh,” fuck. You hadn’t expected this in a million years. Suddenly all the old feelings bubbled up inside you, feelings you had tried so hard to repress. They’d never left, just been ignored. But now? You were sure of nothing. All the rules were out the window.

“Yeah,” he scratched the back of neck awkwardly as an air of confusion hung around you thickly. What now?

Javi moved from his place against the counter and started to head out towards the door. You didn’t move to stop him.

“Well, I guess my ten minutes is up,” his hand was on the door and he opened it slowly with a loud creak. Your stomach was in knots as you debated what to do, “thank you for listening. I know this doesn’t make anything better or change anything, but I just had to tell you. I’m sorry, amor, for everything.”

He gave you a last quick glance before walking out and closing the door quietly behind him. You let out a long sigh, listening to his retreating footsteps for a few moments before turning back to the long forgotten mess on the kitchen floor.

You picked up a few pieces, tossing them absentmindedly onto the worn tile of the counter top. Then it hit you - revelation.

Jumping to your feet, you ran to the door and flung it open, popping out of your apartment and booking it out of the building. It was getting dark now, but you could still make out Javi’s retreating back.

“Javi!” you kicked off your work heels so you could easily run. He either didn’t hear you or didn’t care, but it didn’t stop you from running after him, “Javi!”

Just before you reached him, he turned on his heel, a surprised but soft expression on his face. You stopped and almost rammed into him, trying to catch your breath, “Y/N? What’s wrong?”

“I…” where did you start? You still had a million things you wanted to say, a million things you still needed to hash out, but you couldn’t just let him walk away, “don’t go.”

“What?”

“I love you,” you spit out as he took a step closer and left very little distance between your bodies, “and you’re an idiot and I’m still mad, so mad, at you, but I can’t just let you go. Not again. Don’t go. Not like this.”

Only a few moments passed before Javi put his hands on the sides of your face. He trailed a few fingers over your cheek, the familiar feeling warming his soul. A grin crossed his face before he crashed his lips onto yours, and you wrapped your arms around his neck. It was suddenly like no time had passed. You were safe again; you were home.

Javi placed a hand on your waist and held you as close as possible. For a moment he wasn’t sure if this was real or a beautiful dream. But the little moan that spilled from your lips reminded him that this was real, very real.

“God, I’ve missed you,” he closed his eyes and rested his forehead against yours. You still felt the same, smelled the same, tasted the same. But better. Because he finally realized just how madly in love he was with you.

“I’ve missed you too,” you sighed in content. The moment was perfect; back in your lover’s arms after all this time.

“I owe you so much,” he whispered as he pressed a few soft, featherlight kisses to your lips and cheeks, “I’m not perfect, by any means, you know this, but I want to try and make it up to you. I really do…if you’ll have me.”

“You came all this way just to apologize to me?

"Yes…”

“You’re an idiot, Javier Peña. Truly,” you kissed the tip of his nose that you adored so much, “but you have me. All of me. You always have.”

“Does that mean that you’re willing to try this again?”

“Only if you never do anything like what happened in the past again,” you cradled the side of his face, “because if you ever do that anything like again, I will chop your dick off and feed it to the wolves.”

“That’s only fair,” he agreed, “I love you, Y/N. Truly, completely, you and only you.”

“And I you,” you let him wrapped his arms around you and hold you tightly. You rested your head against his chest, listening to the heartbeat that had lulled you do many times, “come back home with me?”

He nodded as he reached down and picked you up and you wrapped your legs around his waist,  as he started to head back to your apartment. You let your head drop on his shoulder and relaxed, “so about this new partner of yours..this Dan guy-”

“Javi, are you jealous?”

“What!? Of that guy?”

“You totally are! You’re jealous of Dan!”

“Never. He seems like a little dork that follows you around like a puppy dog-”

“You’re jealous,” you giggled as kissed his neck, which was your biggest weakness of all, always had been and always would be, “you have nothing to be jealous of.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” you reassured, “I’ve missed you, Javi. Please don’t ever leave me.”

“Never,” he promised firmly. Something in your bones told you he meant it. This was it, this was everything, “never.”

»»————-　♡　————-««

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[fromiftowhen]

fic: and you decide what you think of me

Hey anon! Originally this was going to be my post for the undercover day for Chenford week, but it didn’t work out. That day ended up being i’ve got the real thing (and nothing else matters), but I liked this enough to keep it in my gdocs until this meme came around. 

And then I opened it up and realized it was about as finished as it was going to get. So I’m doing something I don’t typically do, and posting it here instead of on ao3... because it’s finished, and there (probably) won’t be more, but it’s not quite as complete as I usually like my fic to be. 

So, enjoy! (Feel free to ask about any of my other WIPs!)

(The Rookie -- Chenford. Rated T. 2235 words.)

It’s not that Tim hates undercover work. It’s that he hates the roads it can lead a person down, the way it can consume a life and ruin a marriage and throw his world off its tidy, easy axis. 

So he never volunteers, he never takes the chance, his career never suffers for it, and his axis stays as it should. It can’t change his life again if he doesn’t get involved. 

Which is why, of course, it somehow falls directly in his lap, and he never sees it coming. 

Or. She does, actually. And he never sees her coming. 

He couldn’t have seen her coming if he tried. 

——-

He’s just finished his beer when she crashes into him, long brown hair brushing his cheek, and her stumble is just controlled enough, just the exact right amount of pressure, that he knows it’s intentional. 

“Babe!” It’s loud, louder than necessary in the relatively empty bar, and he wants to ask who she is, what she’s doing, but. 

“I’m sorry, just help me out here,” she says, and her hand is on his shoulder and she’s kissing him, quick and dirty like they’ve done it a thousand times before, like they know each other, like he’s her safe place to land. 

It feels like coming home, in the weirdest way, but not to any home he’s ever recognized. 

“Sorry,” she whispers, just a breath against his lips as she pulls back. There’s a tiny flash of recognition in her eyes as she takes a step back, like maybe she’s seen him before. And maybe in a different life, maybe, they knew each other, because she feels a little familiar. His skin pricks in what might be recognition, but he can’t place it. 

“Yeah,” he clears his throat and wishes his beer wasn’t empty. He glances around, checking to see if she’s clearly trying to get away from someone. What the hell is going on?

She holds herself like law enforcement, strong muscle and confident, challenging eyes. He feels like he’s being read, and he doesn’t necessarily like it. 

“What in the hell—“ he starts, but she just smiles, and he wishes he didn’t immediately feel warmer, better, somehow. 

“Thanks. See you later,” she whispers, shaking her head, and it’s like the tiny motion distracts him, because the next thing he knows, she’s gone. 

——-

He’s still reeling a little when Grey calls him into his office the next morning. He shouldn’t even be surprised to see a flash of long brown hair as he walks in, but somehow, he still is. 

“Sergeant Bradford, I hear you may have walked into an undercover op last night.”

He glances at the woman. “More like it fell into my lap, sir.”

Grey glances between them, and maybe he’s about to introduce them, but he misses his shot. 

“Semantics,” she mumbles, reaching a hand out. The press of her hand is firm, so different from the way her fingers had floated against his shoulder last night. He wishes, half-heartedly, that he could stop thinking about it. 

“Lucy Chen,” she says, and the name sounds a little familiar, maybe. 

“Tim Bradford.”

She nods, like that was the expected answer. “Sorry about last night. I recognized you from a couple joint crime scenes last year, and I needed to blend in a little to keep my cover, so..” She trails off, and he doesn’t need her to fill in the blanks. 

“Agent Chen is working an undercover assignment to help bring down a big drug ring out of Malibu. She was hoping you’d be willing to lend a hand.”

He glances at Grey sharply before he responds. “I don’t work narcotics, sorry.”

Grey nods slightly, but Lucy looks undeterred. It’s a little aggravating. 

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not a narcotics officer,” she says, smiling. “Agent Chen,” she says. “I’m a profiler with the FBI.” 

And it all clicks into place, that nagging familiar feeling. A kidnapping case last year, and a high profile bank robbery a couple months after that. He’d been first on the scene for both, and she’d come blazing in, lots of energy and questions and earnest answers, a little hard to miss. 

He nods. “Not a big fan of feds, either.”

“Ouch, Sergeant. I won’t take that personally.” She smiles, and he hates how he already feels a little doomed. “But I’m hoping you’ll reconsider. I just need a little backup, and it turns out a few of our principle suspects saw me with you last night, so it’d be easier to keep that part of the cover the same.”

“Aren’t there a thousand colleagues you could rope into this?” 

“We’re trying to keep as many of my colleagues out of the early stages of this, in case they need to go undercover at some point. This is a months long operation, and my part in it is small, it’ll be over soon. Yours would be even smaller.”

He glances at Grey, who gives a tiny shrug. Super helpful. 

“What exactly would I be doing?”

She grins, like she knows she has him. “Basically exactly what you did last night.” He wants to ask if that means she’ll randomly kiss him and disappear again, but he stays quiet. “Just help me blend in a little, maybe keep the creeps away. Nothing life changing.”

He rolls his eyes. He wants to say no. He wants to stop thinking about the fact that he hadn’t kissed anyone in months, before last night. 

He wants to say no. He means to. 

But she sticks out her hand to shake, a deal, a promise, and nothing in him can say no. 

——-

He’s regretting his inability to say no the next night, shoulder-to-shoulder on the edge of the dance floor in a crowded club at what is alarmingly past his normal bedtime. The music is loud and the crush of bodies makes him equal parts annoyed and on edge. 

Agent Chen — Lucy — though, she looks like she lives for it — the noise, the music, happy, laughing, loud people all around her. She looks alive, vibrant and carefree, and it’s distracting in a way he couldn’t have prepared himself for. He has no frame of reference, but instinct tells him that’s just how she is. 

She’s anything but distracted though. He watches her, the way she’s clearly taking in her surroundings, keeping her eyes on their target for the night. 

“Fun crowd, right?” She half-shouts over the noise and he raises his eyebrows at her. If she says so. 

He shrugs. 

“I spend the majority of my day behind a desk, reading files,” she explains. “I spent most of my 20s behind a desk, actually.”

He leans closer, so he doesn’t have to shout. “This doesn’t seem like an assignment a profiler would usually take.”

She shakes her head. “It’s not, unless you spent most of your 20s behind a desk and woke up one day bored and craving an adrenaline rush and basically demanded some real field experience.”

The honesty surprises a laugh out of him and he smiles despite the crowd, despite the noise. 

“Kidnappings and bank robberies aren’t enough of an adrenaline rush?” He asks, and her eyes absolutely light up. He doesn’t want to notice it, but it’s impossible not to. 

“So you do remember me.” It sounds like a gotcha. 

“I remember the cases,” he mumbles, glancing away. 

“Mhmm.” The way she’s looking at him readies him for another question, but their suspect moves onto the dance floor and she grabs his hand before he can react. “C’mon.”

She pulls him out on the dance floor, and he’s a little embarrassed at how easily he lets himself be dragged. It doesn’t feel like work. 

“Dancing wasn’t part of the agreement,” he says as they stop just a ways away from the suspect. 

“You don’t have to dance, bud. Just stand there and look pretty.” He wants to protest, and he definitely rolls his eyes, but he lets her step into his space and wrap her arms up around his shoulders. The song isn’t slow, and suddenly neither is his heart rate. 

“Come on,” she urges. “Act like you’ve danced with a woman before.” 

He huffs out a sigh and lets his hands skim her waist lightly, pulling her in so she can look over his shoulder easily. 

“Better?” He half-grumbles, his eyes scanning the dance floor around them. 

“Mmm.” Her soft reply is distracted. The song slips into something louder, faster, and she presses against him, her hair brushing the side of his neck. He vaguely wonders if it looks as intimate as it feels, pressed together close as the music pulses around them. 

“What is it you’re looking for exactly?” He asks, pitching his voice just loud enough she can hear over the music, even though his lips are basically buried in her hair. 

“Body language.” It’s quiet, and she shifts against him to move them slightly. “We’re putting together profiles on the major players now, so when the op develops more, when we have to send someone in really undercover, they’ll have as much inside information as possible.”

“Body language?” Her hand slides to the back of his neck and he tenses. 

“It can tell you all you need to know about a person sometimes.” 

He rolls his eyes. He doesn’t disagree, necessarily, but it feels flimsy to base any real assumptions off of it. 

“For example,” she continues, “you tensed when I touched your neck. That tells me you either really don’t like being touched there, or you really do.”

He feels extremely aware of every muscle in his body now, how they’re at risk of tensing and giving away secrets he isn’t even aware he’s keeping. 

“But whether or not you enjoy being touched there isn’t really the question I’m directly trying to answer. It becomes what else can your body tell me about why you tensed up that can help me figure out if you enjoy it or not?”

“Good lord,” he mutters. 

“But of course, I’m not going to go dance with that guy, so it means looking for nonverbal clues and observing the way he interacts with people.”

“What does that—“

Her other hand drags across the back of his neck, her nails raking the skin lightly, and he tries so hard to keep from tensing, from reacting in any way. 

“— Teach us about a suspect?” She finishes, and he doesn’t know her, not really, not at all, but the laugh in her voice is unmistakable. 

He nods, but doesn’t let himself respond otherwise. 

“It helps us figure out how to approach him, who to send in, what to focus on. Does it need to be someone he’s intimidated by, does he need to exert force over them to trust them, how does he interact with men versus women, or in a group dynamic? What are his weaknesses, physically, emotionally?”

“Seems like a lot of work,” he says, and maybe it seems a little too bookish, a little too clinical for him to really invest in, but she doesn’t need to know that. 

She leans back, and it’s the first time he’s seen her face in several minutes. He’s not sure he knows her any better, but the look on her face makes him think she knows him better. “It is,” she says. “But I excel at my job.”

She leans back in, and it goes like that for another hour as she tracks the guy around the club, peppering in little facts and details about what he’s doing and what it means about his personality. 

Some of it, honestly, is distant white noise to Tim, her voice pleasant and upbeat, her words carefully chosen but bold. He does his job, he holds her close, he scans the dance floor, he keeps her safe. 

——-

He walks her to her car after their suspect leaves, and he’s all too aware it’s the first time he’s not been touching her in over an hour. He walks with his hands in his pockets and wishes he didn’t spend so much time thinking about what she’s reading into that body language. 

She smiles when they stop at her car. “Thanks,” she says, and he shrugs.

“No big deal.” 

“No big deal,” she echos. “So, if I need you again, you’re in?”

“I guess.” 

She laughs. “Well. It’s not a no. I’ll take it.” He watches her glance away and then back to him, her eyes falling on his lips, and it doesn’t take a body language expert to read the signs. 

She leans up on her tiptoes, presses her lips to his quickly and runs her fingers along the back of his neck.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, pulling back. “Just wanted to see what it was like when it wasn’t for show.”

He swallows and nods. “And?” 

“Just as good as the first time,” she smirks, backing away toward her car. She waves, getting in the car, and he thinks he smiles in return.

Just help me blend in a little, maybe keep the creeps away. Nothing life changing, she’d said. 

He’s definitely not the expert here, but he’s pretty sure she was wrong. 

He runs a hand over the back of his neck as he turns to head to his truck. 

She feels a little life changing. 

[route22ny]

This is a harrowing read, and in the end you may ask yourself, as I asked myself: how was the nation not protected from such criminality?  Decades of organized crime involvement culminated in the most corrupt and dangerous president in American history, one who now presides over a reeling nation in the throes of a deadly pandemic. 

We watch in horror and disbelief, daily, as he ineptly--or maliciously--mismanages the nation’s response to covid-19, contributing to a death toll expected to surpass that of the Vietnam War...twice.  How did we get here?

This is must reading.

***

IN THE EARLY 1980s it was decided—by whom, and for what ultimate purpose, we can’t say for sure—that Donald John Trump would build a casino complex in Atlantic City, New Jersey—probably the most mobbed-up municipality in the state. Dealing with the mafia might have dissuaded some developers from pursuing a Boardwalk Empire, but not Trump. He was uniquely suited to forge ahead.

Donald’s father, the Queens real estate developer Fred Trump, had worked closely with Genovese-associated and -owned construction entities since building the Shore Haven development in 1947, when Donald was still in diapers (the first time around). Fred was an early mob adopter, the underworld equivalent of an investor who bought shares of Coca-Cola stock in 1919. The timelines is important to remember here. Organized crime did not exist in any meaningful way in the United States until Prohibition. Born in 1905, Fred Trump was just two years younger than Meyer Lansky, the gangster who more or less invented money laundering. Thus, Donald Trump is second generation mobbed-up.

When Donald first ventured from Queens to the pizzazzier borough of Manhattan in the seventies, he entered into a joint business deal with “Big” Paul Castellano, head of the Gambino syndicate, and Anthony “Fat Tony” Salerno, of the Genovese family he knew well through his father and their mutual lawyer Roy Cohn. As part of this arrangement, Trump agreed to buy concrete from a company operated jointly by the two families—and pay a hefty premium for the privilege. Only then, with double mob approval, could he move forward with the Trump Tower and Trump Plaza projects. (Among Cohn’s other clients at the time was Rupert Murdoch, whom he introduced to Trump in the seventies; you would be hard pressed to find three more atrocious human beings).

Atlantic City is in South Jersey, closer to Philadelphia than New York, so to build “his” casino, Trump needed to play ball with the Philly mob. That meant dealing with Nicodemo “Little Nicky” Scarfo, head of the most powerful mob family in Philadelphia. Land that Trump needed for his casino was owned by Salvie Testa and Frank Narducci, Jr.—hit men for Scarfo, collectively known around town as the Young Executioners (the nickname was not ironic). To help negotiate the deal, Trump hired Patrick McGahn, a Philly-based attorney known to have truck with the Scarfo family.

(The last name should sound familiar; Don McGahn, the former White House Counsel, is Patrick McGahn’s nephew. And Don McGahn is not the only Trump Administration hire with ties to the Philly mob. Among Little Nicky’s associates was one Jimmy “The Brute” DiNatale, whose daughter, Denise Fitzpatrick, is the mother of none other than Kellyanne Conway. A number of wiseguys paid their respects at DiNatale’s 1983 funeral. I don’t want to make the mistake of condemning Conway or Don McGahn for the sins of their relations. But given Trump’s OC background, it’s fair to question why he chose two children of mobbed-up families for his inner White House circle.)

Trump acquired the needed Atlantic City property at twice the market value: $1.1 million for a lot that sold for $195k five years before. But there were legal pratfalls, shady dealings, chicanery with the documents. The New Jersey Gaming Commission was investigating the matter, because casino owners could not, by law, associate with criminals. And most of Trump’s friends were crooks. It looked like Trump was in trouble—not only of losing his gaming license, but of criminal indictment.

And then, something miraculous happened. On 4 November 1986, Scarfo and eleven of his associates were indicted on charges that included loan sharking, extortion and conducting an illegal gambling business in a racketeering conspiracy. Prosecutors had tried for years to take down Little Nicky. And now, after all that time, they finally had their evidence. Not only that, but the investigation into Trump? It went away. Poof—as if it never existed.

A confidential informant, or “CI,” is a mole run by law enforcement within a criminal enterprise. Not a “rat,” whose treachery is well known to his comrades, but a craftier, more duplicitous breed of rodent. Crimes committed by the CI are overlooked, or allowed to continue unabated, in exchange for good intelligence—“treasure,” as Control calls it in Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy.

A fictional example of a CI is the Greek, a character on the show The Wire (spoiler ahead). Baltimore law enforcement piece together that the Greek is the head of a crime syndicate that deals in narcotics and human trafficking. But when they finally move to arrest him, the operation is kibboshed by the feds, for whom the Greek is a Confidential Informant. This is extremely frustrating for viewers of the show, who rightly regard the Greek as the cause of so much woe in West Baltimore.

In real life, there are two famous examples. The first is Whitey Bulger, the head of the so-called Winter Hill Gang, which operated for decades in Somerville, Massachusetts. In 1975, Bulger became a Confidential Informant for the FBI, handled by a corrupt agent named John Connolly. His intelligence helped take down a rival mob family in Providence, Rhode Island—a city notorious for the influence of organized crime. In exchange, Connolly allowed Bulger and his associates to operate with impunity. At least 19 people were killed by the Winter Hill Gang while the feds looked the other way. When the FBI finally realized its mistake, Connolly tipped off Bulger, who went on the lam for 16 years. He was finally arrested in 2011; by then he was in his eighties. He was killed in prison seven years later.

The second famous CI is Donald Trump’s former associate Felix Sater. Racketeering charges against him back in 1998 ended with a fine of just $25,000—a slap on the wrist. From then on, Sater become a top echelon confidential informant, feeding law enforcement intelligence of “a depth and breadth rarely seen,” as court filings show. “His cooperation has covered a stunning array of subject matter, ranging from sophisticated local and international criminal activity to matters involving the world’s most dangerous terrorists and rogue states.”

The winsome ex-con, still one of the more puzzling figures of Trump/Russia, “continuously worked with prosecutors and law enforcement agents to provide information crucial to the conviction of over 20 different individuals, including those responsible for committing massive financial fraud, members of La Cosa Nostra organized crime families and international cyber-criminals,” prosecutors claim. “Additionally, Sater provided the United States intelligence community with highly sensitive information in an effort to help the government combat terrorists and rogue states.”

His intelligence helped prosecutors break up the “Pump and Dump” and “Boiler Room” mob operations in the 1990s. He turned over useful information about the Genovese crime family (note: the same family Fred Trump fronted for), and provided ample dirt on international arms dealing (note: Jeffrey Epstein’s specialty). And his crowning achievement: he helped the United States track down Osama bin Laden (funny how the Russian mob knew where he was). Sater is proud of his CI work, and has talked it up the last few years, probably to counter his association with the mafiya, and with Trump.

We know about Bulger being a CI because his handler turned out to be crooked. We know about Sater being a CI because he outed himself prior to his sentencing in 2009—and because he keeps boasting about it. If Sater had not come forward, Loretta Lynch, the former Attorney General, would not have been legally permitted to reveal his status.

That’s the thing about Confidential Informants: they are confidential. The informant doesn’t want to be made as a mole, any more than law enforcement wants to burn a source. Both sides are bound to secrecy. It is the good guy version of omertà.

The only way to know for sure if Donald John Trump is a Confidential Informant is if he admits it himself (unlikely), or if law enforcement comes forward (illegal). But the circumstantial evidence is compelling. The pattern is: 1) Trump deals with mobsters as usual; 2) Law enforcement begins investigating Trump; 3) Mobsters suddenly get busted, while 4) investigation into Trump is scuttled. This happened three times that we know about. I’m not counting the first known instance of Trump providing information to prosecutors, concerning Cody and concrete, in the late 70s:

I can conceive of no scenario in which Trump was not a CI, and a top echelon one at that. He’s avoided indictment too many times. No one is that lucky.

Or, put another way: How can someone that lucky manage to run a fucking casino into the ground?

Salvatore Gravano, known as “Sammy the Bull,” was an underboss of the Gambino crime family. After the assassination of “Big” Paul Castellano in 1985—an audacious hit, done in broad daylight—John Gotti was installed as the figurehead capo. But in practice, the Bull was the one calling the shots. His territory? Manhattan. For as long as he was in power, any construction that took place in New York, New York had to be approved by Gravano. “I literally controlled Manhattan,” he told ABC News. He did a lot of business deals with Donald John Trump, and speaks of him fondly.

After his arrest on 11 December 1990, Gravano turned state’s evidence to help put away Gotti, his nominal boss. The lead prosecutor of the case? Robert Swan Mueller III. (This is why, when Trump found out Mueller was named Special Counsel, he collapsed into a chair and muttered, “I’m fucked.”)

We know that Gravano flipped on Gotti. But who flipped on Sammy the Bull?

On 19 July 1990, the Division of Gaming Enforcement (DGE) of the State of New Jersey opened an investigation into Donald John Trump, regarding the Trump Organization’s business dealings with Joseph Weichselbaum, a mob associate and embezzler who had been convicted not once, not twice, but three times. Trump hired Weichselbaum’s company to provide helicopter transportation to Atlantic City, conveying high rollers to and from New York. As a casino owner, Trump was prohibited by law to do any business with the serial felon. He not only continued to do so, but he went to bat for the guy, going so far as to write him a letter of recommendation. (There’s more bizarre stuff with Wiechselbaum, whose case wound up being initially tried by Trump’s sister, a federal judge, but I won’t get into it here).

Six months after the DGE opened its investigation, Gravano got pinched. And once again, as if by the wave of a magic wand, Trump’s legal troubles seemed to vanish.

It’s worth noting here that Sammy the Bull likes Trump personally, then and now, and seems not to blame him for ratting him out. There were likely others who informed on Gravano, too. But given the timing, the investigation against Trump, his disastrous finances at the time, and his long familiarity with federal prosecutors, it stands to reason that Trump, too, turned on his longtime business associate.

The Kurt & Courtney decade was unkind to Donald John Trump. The Bush I recession hit his businesses hard. Trump filed for bankruptcy protection for Trump Taj Mahal (1991) and Trump Plaza (1992). Again: our “lucky” guy had managed to go bust in the casino business. In between those bankruptcy filings, he lobbied Congress for tax relief for real estate developers, began phoning reporters claiming to be a publicist named John Barron, had an affair with a D-list actress named Marla Maples, and divorced his wife of 14 years, the mother of his kids Donald, Ivanka, and Eric: the former Ivana Zelníčková. (Sidenote: Ivana Trump’s father was a big wheel in Czechoslovakia’s Státní bezpečnost intelligence service; Miloš Zelníček helped raise his grandchildren, especially Don Jr., who speaks fluent Czech…but this is a subject for another dispatch).

Things were going south fast. Trump desperately needed a lifeline. He found one in Moscow.

The Soviet Union collapsed on Christmas Day 1991. What the West viewed as the triumph of capitalism over communism was really the subversion of a conventional superpower by the shadowy forces of transnational crime. The Cold War was not over; it just shifted modes of attack. In the early 90s, Russia invaded the United States—not with soldiers, but with mobsters.

The commander of this underworld incursion was a violent ex-con named Vyacheslav Ivankov, known as “Yaopnchik,” or “Little Japanese.” Hardened in the brutal Soviet prison system, Ivankov was a member of the vor y zakone, or thieves-in-law—the arm of the Russian mafiya that originated in the post-Second World War gulags. He was such a nasty, violent motherfucker that when it was necessary to rough someone up to extort them, he didn’t send in a subordinate—he did the job himself.

Ivankov arrived to the United States in 1992, ostensibly to work in the film industry. Even the new Russian government warned the FBI that he was up to no good. The feds lost sight of him almost immediately, even as he traveled from New York to Florida and everywhere in between, consolidating power, and displacing the Italian mob. (That brazen 1985 hit on “Big” Paul Castellano was instrumental in achieving this Vor hegemony, as the Gambino boss neither liked nor trusted the Russians). Per the testimony of Bob Levinson, the FBI’s foremost Russian mob expert:

Ivankov’s organization’s income was derived from a number of sources: his group was implicated by sources to have been involved in the “gasoline tax scam” whereby so-called “daisy-chains” of petroleum handling companies were established with the specific intention of defrauding governmental tax authorities using non-existent or ghost companies to pay the gasoline taxes due.

A primary source of the group’s funds was the collection of “krisha” or protection money from wealthy Russian and Eurasian businessmen operating between North America and the former Soviet republics. In addition, the Ivankov organization organized the collection of, in effect, a “street tax” from Russian-born and Eastern European criminals who were operating their illegal enterprises in North America. Ivankov organization members fanned out across the United States and Canada identifying and then approaching these criminals saying that each now had to contribute to an “obshak” (mutual benefit fund) being collected and organized by the Ivankov group.

In addition, Ivankov and other members of his organization settled business disputes for Russian and Eastern European businessmen operating between North America and the former Soviet Union, receiving in return a percentage of the amount in dispute, usually hundreds of thousands of dollars. Through his authority as a “thief-inlaw” and the head of a criminal organization, Ivankov was able to exercise a kind of informal power in the émigré business community tantamount to decisions made by formal, official courts of law. Those who went against the decisions made by Ivankov and his associates were usually met with violence, including beatings and/or murder.  

As Little Japanese worked the States, Semion Mogilevich, the current head of the Russian mob, set up his base of operations in Budapest, Hungary, where he moved in 1992 with his Hungarian girlfriend. “The Brainy Don,” as he is called, soon acquired a bank in Russia, which allowed him access to the global financial system. Meyer Lanksy may have invented money laundering, but it was Mogilevich who took it to Hollywood, so to speak: Lansky wrote the book, and the Brainy Don made it into an international blockbuster. (Note: Levinson, the FBI agent, moved to Budapest around this time, to investigate Mogilevich more closely.)

For three fruitful years, Ivankov did his thing, laying the foundation for what would become the world’s pre-eminent organized crime operation—more S.P.E.C.T.R.E. than GoodFellas. He ran amok. Law enforcement had no idea where he was….until, one day in 1995, they found him living in a deluxe apartment at—you’re not gonna believe it—Trump Tower. And that was not the only Trump property he frequented: Ivankov was also a regular at the Trump Taj Mahal in Atlantic City. He was arrested in June of 1995, convicted, imprisoned, and deported to Russia in 2004 to face murder changes. Once home, he was promptly acquitted. He was gunned down in Moscow in 2009.

This monster was living in Trump’s building, gambling in Trump’s casino.

What was Donald John Trump doing in 1995? Failing tremendously. That was the year when he declared a loss of an unfathomable $916 million on his tax returns. It was also at this time that Trump Tower became a sort of Moscow on Fifth Avenue, with any number of Russian mobsters scooping up apartments—an arrangement that began in 1984, when the Russian mobster David Bogatin purchased five condos for $6 million. Trump Tower was one of just two buildings in all of New York City that allowed units to be purchased by shell companies. Why did Trump, virtually alone among New Yorkers, allow these fishy deals?

As the indefatigable Craig Unger writes in the Washington Post,

the shady Bogatin deal began a 35-year relationship between Trump and Russian organized crime. Mind you, this was a period during which the disintegration of the Soviet Union had opened a fire-hose-like torrent of hundreds of billions of dollars in flight capital from oligarchs, wealthy apparatchiks and mobsters in Russia and its satellites. And who better to launder so much money for the Russians than Trump — selling them multimillion-dollar condos at top dollar, with little or no apparent scrutiny of who was buying them.

Over the next three decades, dozens of lawyers, accountants, real estate agents, mortgage brokers and other white-collar professionals came together to facilitate such transactions on a massive scale. According to a BuzzFeed investigation, more than 1,300 condos, one-fifth of all Trump-branded condos sold in the United States since the 1980s, were shifted “in secretive, all-cash transactions that enable buyers to avoid legal scrutiny by shielding their finances and identities.”

Unger continues:

The Trump Organization has dismissed money laundering charges as unsubstantiated, and because it is so difficult to penetrate the shell companies that purchased these condos, it is almost impossible for reporters — or, for that matter, anyone without subpoena power — to determine how much money laundering by Russians went through Trump-branded properties. But Anders Aslund, a Swedish economist, put it this way to me: “Early on, Trump came to the conclusion that it is better to do business with crooks than with honest people. Crooks have two big advantages. First, they’re prepared to pay more money than honest people. And second, they will always lose if you sue them because they are known to be crooks.”

It is simply inconceivable that a creature of the underworld, a man who had extensive dealings with mob figures for his entire career, would, in a moment of dire need, be unaware that mobsters were buying his properties, using shell companies to conceal the origin of the dirty rubles.

It is also inconceivable that a mobbed-up real estate developer—a crook whom the government of Australia would not grant a gaming license because of his obvious mob connections; the subject of a 41-page initial investigation by the Department of Gaming Enforcement in the State of New Jersey that, taken together, is positively damning—could have avoided indictment for all these years unless he was covertly helping out law enforcement. Trump is a criminal, yes, but his crimes are not as heinous as Ivankov’s, or Gravano’s, or Scarfo’s. Prosecutors would happily toss a minnow like Trump back into the sea if it helped them catch the big fish.

Nothing about Trump’s term as president suggests he’s turned his back on organized crime. He hasn’t “gone legit.” His Twitter antagonists comprise a “Who’s Who” of the FBI’s Russian mob experts: Robert Mueller, Andrew McCabe, Bruce Ohr, Lisa Page. He has attacked the credibility of those who know what he really is. That is what made Trump’s attacks on Mueller so ironic. He impugned the former FBI director as corrupt, while depending on his incorruptibility to not reveal his (alleged) CI status.

To reiterate: we cannot know for sure if Trump was a CI unless he admits to being one (maybe Yamiche Alcindor can goad him into admitting it?), or if the federal prosecutors in the know break protocol to expose him.

As it stands, prominent G-men have given us clues. When McCabe was fired, he began his statement thus: “I have been an FBI Special Agent for over 21 years. I spent half of that time investigating Russian Organized Crime as a street agent and Supervisor in New York City.” The subtext there is that McCabe knows who Trump is.

In the excerpt of his book Higher Loyalty sent to the press, James Comey compared Trump to Gravano. “The [loyalty] demand was like Sammy the Bull’s Cosa Nostra induction ceremony—with Trump in the role of the family boss asking me if I have what it takes to be a ‘made man.’ ” Of all the famous mafiosos, why did Comey choose Gravano, a relatively obscure figure, as the comp? He wants us to dig into Gravano.

(Gravano himself was asked about the Comey pull-quote by Jerry Capeci of Gangland News; he said, “The country doesn’t need a bookworm as president, it needs a mob boss. You don’t need a Harvard graduate to deal with these people…[Putin, Kim, Xi] are real gangsters. You need a fucking gangster to deal with these people.” This seems to indicate that Sammy the Bull thinks Trump is a “mob boss” and a “fucking gangster.” Takes one to know one?)

Unless he thought it would help him avoid prison, Trump will never cop to being a Confidential Informant. We can only infer that he served that function by presenting the circumstantial evidence to support the hypothesis. But plenty of people can confirm or deny (rather than refuse to confirm or deny) Trump’s involvement. Bob Mueller, certainly, but every prosecutor too that dealt with Scarfo, Gravano, and Ivankov, and plenty of smaller cases besides.

When a Confidential Informant is deliberately fucking up the federal government’s response to a pandemic—when his willful negligence will cost hundreds of thousands if not millions of American lives—protocol must be sacrificed for the greater good. Is not the purpose of that law, of all laws, to protect the people from enemies foreign and domestic? And has not the COVID-19 response, or lack thereof, proven Trump to be an active enemy of the United States?

We don’t need more careful legalese. We don’t need more cryptic phrasings along the lines of “If we had had confidence that the president clearly did not commit a crime, we would have said so.” We need to hear, loud and clear, what the FBI knows. We need to be told, unequivocally, that Trump is an inveterate crook—a real crook; an actual criminal; not just a cute Twitter assertion—and, even more surprising, and contrary to all recent evidence, that he is capable of telling the truth when it serves him.

Notes:

This piece was written under the expert guidance of Lincoln’s Bible. If you don’t already do so, please follow her on Twitter, and check out her own mafiya reporting at Citjourno.

I encourage everyone to read the State of New Jersey Department of Gaming Enforcement investigation report on the allegations against Donald John Trump in the Wayne Barrett book Trump: The Deals and the Downfall.

The late Bob Levinson was the FBI’s best Russian mob fighter. His Ivankov testimony is also essential reading.

The photo at the top is the Greek, from The Wire—the best show in the history of television.

https://gregolear.substack.com/p/tinker-tailor-mobster-trump

[split-n-splice]

you live, you learn / you love, you learn / you cry, you learn / you lose, you learn / you bleed, you learn / you scream, you learn ~ "You Learn" by Alanis Morissette Time for a brief intermission for some backstory. I have my reasons. This may clash with the flow a little bit, but oh well. Regular linear timeline will resume Ch27: Aura Of Others

[Chapter Guide]

26. Intermission: Jagged Little Pill

New Years Eve held promise. A new year, a new start, a new resolution, a new her. The troubled city now knew her not as Shilo Gough, a local nobody, but as a rising superheroine by the alias of Shego.

It had taken a heap of good behavior to get out on probation just to go home in time for the winter holidays, though her siblings had been deemed low-risk and returned officially months ago once the restoration of the neighborhood had been completed. It helped that the grand unveiling of Team Go and her return to Go City had come a month early out of necessity.

At first, she eagerly embraced the new double-lifestyle, even if she wore an anklet at all times to track her whereabouts and the activity level of the new innate gift only Shego was permitted to use. It at least meant getting out of the facility and distancing herself from the research teams which wanted to dissect her under the guise of helping.

She’d thought going home to rejoin her family would mean returning to some normalcy, but December hadn’t gone great, as she’d been called into action no less than three times a week. Overall, it really hadn’t been her year, so it didn’t surprise her that even the season of gift-giving, comfy sweaters, and cookies was put on the back burner in favor of demanding hero duty.

She convinced herself she didn’t mind the distraction from Yuletide festivities. It beat sitting at home looking at gift tags signed From Santa in inelegant print or noticing the distinct lack of music that somehow made the house several degrees colder. Spending time with family was disheartening when it was incomplete anyway, but she’d run herself so far into the ground by Christmas that the best gift she could hope for was to be buried in her blankets – not running through the streets after the criminal of the week. Even with Global Justice’s so-called assistance, she’d hardly had a good night’s rest since coming home.

End of the month meant another refill on her prescription. The narcotic was uniquely formulated for her and came from no ordinary pharmacy.

Shilo – Shego – and her brothers-turned-teammates, Hego and Mego, had just wrapped up the Christmas caper and smiled and waved for the press and wished an early Happy New Year to all of Go City when they were collectively pulled aside by agents in the shadows. A woman with an eye patch congratulated them on a job well done, but a pat on the back was the extent of their reward when it came down to it. Mego sniffed and grinned, happy for the attention from a pretty lady doling out compliments, and Hego proudly announced it was all in a day’s work. Shego sighed and held out her hand in anticipation of the usual delivery she’d received from Betty personally for the past three months.

From there, they dressed back into street clothes in one of the agency’s many secret boltholes found throughout Go City, and Shego shook herself out in relief to be Shilo again. Her brothers wanted to walk home together, her sandwiched between them, so the relief was short-lived.

“There’s safety in numbers,” reminded Hugo, grabbing her arm to tow her along. He was filling out around the shoulders and torso, and lately his idea of a gentle grip had begun leaving bruises.

“Oh, come on!” Shilo whined. She recomposed herself quickly then to tease her older sibling instead, “What do you need me for? You can walk home yourself. You’re a big boy.” It was no exaggeration either. Hugo was little more than seventeen, but over the past year had developed a pair of guns capable of intimidating professional wrestlers. The jocks at their new school, which Hugo had been attending for months now, gave him a wide berth, so she heard.

Milo sprang three steps ahead in the snow suddenly, proclaiming his independence, “I don’t need either of you! Anyone comes after me, I’ll sock it to ‘em.” He boxed at the air with pale bony knuckles, a far cry from Hugo. Affected with the onset of puberty and ganglier than ever, the tween tripped over his own legs and slipped, falling to the icy sidewalk. In a perfect world, he’d be home next to Mom, taking a piano lesson or baking sugar cookies – not out on the streets, excited to pick up the slack for policemen or secret agents.

Shilo’s fist curled in her pocket, palm growing warm around her refilled prescription. Her other hand reached down to grab one of Milo’s as he stuck both of his up in the air, expectantly waiting for a sibling on either side to grab hold. Shilo was glad Hugo released her to take Milo’s other hand, and while she would have been happy to drag her little brother through the slush, her big brother spoiled the fun by lifting him to his feet with ease.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m just going to the mall,” she swore. “I’ll be home by three.”

“That’s what you said last time,” noted Milo, ambling along next to her. At least his tiny body put something between her and Hugo now. “Dad made dinner! Do you know what he made?”

“Fishcakes,” she sighed, nodding. She’d barely choked down the cold leftovers that night when she snuck in at six in the evening. Anyway, 6:00PM wasn’t that late. Back when she still visited her best friend at her house down the street, she used to come home at a quarter to nine, if at all. But that was before Lady Fate came to Go City. Now that she had a superpower and could defend herself better than ever, it made an early curfew pretty silly.

Shilo opened her mouth to argue when a fluttering past her head made her duck and topple into her spindly little brother. A curse nearly escaped her lips as she locked her eyes on the offending – pigeon? – flapping away to join its flock in a skeletal snowy elm at the corner. In the past month, she’d had a lot of things hurled her way, and it was becoming second nature to dodge at the faintest sign of a projectile. So her heart hammering in her chest was justified as Milo shoved her away.

The hairs on the back of her neck rose when a nasally voice behind them called, “Excuse me?”

Hugo turned, even though Shilo grabbed Milo and kept towing him along. “Can I help you, sir?” asked her big brother to the civilian behind them. Shilo clenched her jaw. Didn’t they have a rule? Don’t talk to strangers. Not outside of uniform, anyway. It wasn’t conducive to keeping a secret—

“You’re Team Go. Right?”

Shilo whipped around to lock her eyes on the stranger, freezing on the spot.

Milo on the other hand bounced free of her grip. She grabbed for him again, but he’d bound up to Hugo’s side to proudly announce, “Yes! Yes, we are.”

Hugo cuffed him on the shoulder, and just about threw him into a snowdrift by doing so had he not caught him in his other paw. “I’m – we are not,” corrected Hugo in a practiced statement. “But maybe I can help you?”

The man stood in a grungy old parka trimmed with a collar of white, stained and weathered. He wrung his hands, duct-tape mending the holes in his leather gloves. “I’m Dr. Robinson,” he introduced, and struck out a hand to shake. The grimy man didn’t look like a doctor. He wasn’t one of Global Justice’s anyway.

Hugo didn’t take the hand and he most certainly didn’t give his name. It was probably the smartest thing he’d done all day. “Pleasure,” he said, and repeated once more, firmly, “Can I help you?”

The man’s beak-like nose pointed at them all in turn. Shilo’s stomach twisted as it was aimed in her direction for a millisecond too long, and she stepped forward to take her place between her brothers. The thin lips of the down-on-his-luck doctor, if he was even a doctor at all, split into a wide grin he quickly smothered. That was enough of a clue there was a screw loose. “Actually, I was thinking I could help you.”

“We’re good,” said Shilo, grabbing her brothers by the arms.

Hugo was unmovable. He crossed his arms over his chest and scoffed. “You. Help us? Do we look lost to you?”

“They might need help,” mumbled Milo. Shilo elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

“I can – I have – you are Team Go!” Robinson insisted. “Aren’t you?” He sounded a little desperate.

Hugo had been about to steer them away when he shot a look back at the sketchy figure. “I told you, if you need help—”

“I don’t need help,” swore the prideful shivering man, his laugh wavering as he flapped his hands about and lurched forward. “I don’t need you. But you could really use me. I can – I’m like you, see?” He stuck out his hands as if to flip them the bird or show them his fingers. All ten digits were accounted for, but by the wild flick of his eyes as he waited for them to react, he had lost his marbles.

Eyebrows rose at Dr. Robinson. An exchange of glances, and Hugo and Milo burst into laughter. Dr. Robinson looked to his hands, all over himself, and up at them as something strange crossed his face. Disbelief, maybe. Disbelief that two young heroes were laughing at him.

“You can’t see it,” he muttered, sounding halfway out of his mind. “I-I have a gift like you!” he defended as the boys doubled over in infectious laughter. “You just can’t see it! You don’t have the eyes for it,” he squawked, voice shrill with desperation.

“Someone needs to come take Dr. Cuckoo back to the funny farm,” chortled Milo.

Hugo had a hard time reining it in. He thumped Milo so hard on the back that the boy fell into the snow again. “Get me a phonebook!” he guffawed. “We need to find this guy a shrink.”

Milo looked up at Hugo from where he lay, beaming ear to ear, and a new wave of laughter shook him and brought him to tears.

Shilo shoved her big brother, but he didn’t budge. “Leave him alone, you guys.”

The balking man shrank back from them. “I’ll show you!” he squawked, as if it were a threat. He looked beyond them, a hand outstretched and fingers clawing the air in a vaguely come-hither motion, but nothing at all happened. He paled. He shook his head like a wet dog, greasy ginger hair splattering droplets of melted snow. Shilo backed out of range as the man ground out something animalistic she couldn’t decipher. His face twisted and he clawed at his features.

He looked undoubtedly crazy in that moment. He was probably on something, she decided.

She couldn’t complain when Hugo took her by the shoulders, pulling her back from the sketchy derelict tripping out. She caught Milo by the hood of his jacket as the three of them left the questionable individual to have a meltdown there on the snowy sidewalk.

++X++

By the time Shilo reached the mall, the cuckoo lunatic had been left behind along with the worries of Shego’s hero duties, if only for a little while. She peeked over her shoulder, casting a quick glance about for signs of her brothers she’d barely escaped from, before ducking behind the hedge and around the wall to the side of the shopping center where the average civilian had no business loitering.

She smelled her before she saw her. Debatably cooler than the snow around her and seemingly indifferent to the winter chill, a fair blonde leaned against the brick and mortar wall, pink mini skirt daringly short and snow-white stockings spotless. As Shilo sauntered up to the pink-clad girl, striving to match her flippant air, a cigarette was offered to her. She took a drag – she couldn’t not with Priscilla’s critical eyes surveying her – and licked her lips to taste the trace of Priscilla’s cherry lip gloss left on the filter.

Shilo fought against the urge to choke. She swallowed and kept her cool. “So. The usual?”

“Yeah. Why not,” said Priscilla between drags, and patted a fanny pack on her hip to jingle the change inside. “I won a bet with Mickey, so it’s on me.”

“What was the bet?” Shilo was handed the smoke again too soon, Prissy’s smirk egging her on. Unenthused but compliant, she took another puff as the mischievous girl grinned at her. She couldn’t help laughing back and coughing as she did so. It was a good excuse to drop the spent butt on the ground. “What?” she snickered in demand and shook the girl’s shoulder. “Priss, what did you do?”

When her best friend since daycare made a sly gesture with hand and cheek, Shilo shoved her and stumbled away, an awkward bark of laughter erupting from her.

“That’s disgusting!” Shilo declared through her laugh. She wove her fingers behind her back to hide the unsettled burning in her palms as they walked back around toward the front. She grinned nonetheless, cheeks pinched as she failed to fight off a blush. “Don’t even joke like that.”

“Call it what you want, Shi. I call it easy money. It got me ten bucks.”

Priscilla was as proud and smug and comfortable in her own skin as ever. After the hectic year she’d had, Shilo’s gut twisted as she doubted she’d find that level of confidence. The extent of her experience on that front had been Seven Minutes in Heaven with Mickey at Priscilla’s thirteenth birthday party a few years back, and given the resulting locked braces, it wasn’t such a fond memory. And now with her new looks, boyishly short hair, and sickly pasty-pale skin, she was in no hurry to expand on that experience.

“Jeez,” muttered Shilo with a shake of her head. She got a grip on herself and glanced back to the cigarette butt smoldering in the snow. She stopped herself from wiping her mouth before she could smudge Shego’s makeup, and kept her disbelief or disgust or whatever it was she felt to herself as they made for the mall arcade.

As per usual, ten dollars split between two players went quick. Just to extend their stay a little longer, Shilo forfeited some of her own hard-earned babysitting money to the machines.

She wasn’t complaining though. It was a scrap of normalcy she couldn’t find back home. Back home, there was no Mom, no cookies, no music, no joy – only phone calls for appointments with doctors and for interviews, toddlers who never stopped crying, and a father who drank too much these days. It was hardly home at all, and she was hardly even Shilo there anymore. She was just Shego, waiting on standby to be called upon for a hero emergency. Even her prohibited rendezvous with Priscilla felt too much like just going through the motions, but she refused to think of that.

Tickets were redeemed for a handful of cheap toys. Fake spiders and bouncy balls were thrown off the second-story to the level below, landing in the hair of unsuspecting passerby, or bounce-bounce-bouncing across the plaza to inevitably bounce out of sight, disappearing either into a shop or into the expensive indoor garden sporting a water feature at the heart of the mall.

Eventually a beer-bellied security guard walking toward them was their cue to scram.

The small rush paled in comparison to the adrenaline surges she’d have in the heat of battle over the past month, but it was enough to bring a smile to her face and feel normal. Shilo laughed along with Priscilla as they held each other’s hands, taking turns practically dragging the other as they made the dash for the far end of the mall.

Suddenly she was tugged aside and into a parlor. The parlor Shilo had her sights on was still several shops away and involved pizza, not piercings, but she humored Priscilla as the girl sought out the gaudiest hoops and filled her in on a spiel of flimflam about what was trendy at the school they once attended together.

It was a blow she wasn’t ready for, but Shilo tried to keep the smile on her face. They didn’t go to school together anymore. There had been years they didn’t share the same classes, but they’d always shared the same school – until now. Shilo was due to start private school clear on the other end of town soon, and Priscilla would go on attending in the local district. That alone was enough to feel like a guillotine had separated them – but Shilo shook her head and smiled at her reflection as Priscilla held up earrings featuring the eyes of peacock feathers to her ears, still pressing she should have them re-pierced.

With no extra cash for earrings, let alone even considering paying for piercings, Shilo wasn’t so sure about trying the old ice and needle trick again.

Her mouth stayed shut as Priscilla fidgeted with the rack of earrings, taking a nicer pair to hide in her sleeve. Shilo said nothing still as a hand smacked her on the butt, earrings slipped into her back pocket with a sleight of hand. She shot her friend an unhappy look through the mirror.

Priscilla coughed into her fist, “Wet blanket.”

Shilo was soon casting a glance back as they left the parlor. A few shops away, Priscilla retrieved the earrings from Shilo’s back pocket. “These will look good on you,” she said decisively, brandishing the stolen item. “Don’t you think?”

The tag sporting a pair of green rhinestone earrings was deposited in her hand. “Yeah,” said Shilo, pushing the evidence back out of sight into her pocket. She scanned the crowd of shoppers, seeking out anyone in uniform, but even when her search came up empty, she couldn’t relax. The best of GJ’s spies didn’t stand out anyway.

They finally made it to the food court. Shilo pulled out her change and counted nickels and dimes for a slice of pizza that once tasted like greasy cardboard but was now a delectable slice of heaven after the diet she’d been restricted to at the research center for the better half of the year.

Priscilla, with her bowl of chili cheese fries, criticized her for her choice in grub as she joined Shilo at a table. She showily unzipped her jacket, letting her crop top show for all to see, like she was really all that. Still, Shilo pulled into herself just a little, fixing her eyes down on the pizza that had gone cold while waiting for her friend. She was sweltering hot, but she zipped her own coat up a little tighter. She couldn’t go around showing off her skin like that anymore. Her sickly complexion attracted enough stares, and she didn’t need to be recognized as Shego for her pallid green skin alone.

Shilo had taken all of two bites, more focused on digesting the gossip around school and the neighborhood than she was on eating, when Priscilla licked her fingers suggestively and Shilo had to look back down again.

“Eleven o’clock,” said Priscilla, plucking up another chili-saturated crimp-cut fry. Shilo raised her brow in question, and Priscilla rolled her eyes. “My eleven,” reiterated her friend, and a chili cheese fry was used as a pointer before being scarfed down. “Don’t look now, but there’s a total creep checking you out.” If anyone was looking their way, it sure wasn’t because of Shilo.

“What?” she blurted and looked anyway. She didn’t find anyone staring at her, but she did see something just familiar enough to catch her eye: a raggedy parka and a head of dirty red hair.

It was the raving lunatic from earlier. He was counting change in the palm of his hand. Looking to menus. Checking his pockets and finding a hole.

The mall food court wasn’t the best place to find a meal on a budget, but Shilo turned back to her pizza, choosing not to think too hard on it. Where the beak-nosed man chose to scrounge a meal was none of her concern.

Except, now it sort of was. It was Shego’s concern. An oath to protect and aid the citizens of Go City and adjacent towns had been sworn on live television for thousands to see just a few short weeks ago. She’d been given a crash course on emergency aid, combat, and etiquette in preparation for her introduction as a guardian of the public.

She hadn’t needed a whole lot drilling to be told to be a Good Samaritan, even if she’d protested the extremes the supervising agency wanted her to go to. Shego had a reputation, but she wasn’t Shego right now. She was Shilo, and Shilo’s best friend was giving her a funny look at she stood.

It was no big deal. She had some leftover change in her pocket. Enough for something more substantial than an overpriced plain corndog she could see Robinson settling for as he stepped toward a counter.

++X++

By the time the sketchy man sat down at their table, he’d already blathered a bit about himself, as if in an attempt to put her at ease and make up for the poor first impression. He dealt with exotics, namely wildlife, so he claimed. The winged world was Dr. Robinson’s specialty, and he’d devoted his life to rescuing and rehabilitating birds of all kinds, from condors to hummingbirds. A glimpse at scars decorating his arms stood testimony, carved into him from beaks and claws of every size, worn like badges of honor.

“So…you’re a veterinarian?”

“Was,” corrected Dr. Robinson, and corrected himself again. “I-I mean. I’m qualified! I just…don’t have my office anymore.”

Across from Shilo, Prissy Priscilla heaved a sigh and leaned heavily on her fist. For the first time since the scruffy panhandler sat down at their table, she spoke, wondering, “Now what do you do?” Shilo knew better than to believe her friend was genuinely interested. It was merely a dig at an exposed sore spot.

Dr. Robinson was quiet for a moment before answering, “I’m in between jobs,” in between bites of chili cheese fries. Prissy had forfeited the snack to him after claiming she was on a diet anyway.

Shilo relaxed only slightly. He was just a veterinarian. There was a distinction between a mere animal vet and the doctors that had poked and probed her and studied her for weeks – months – on end in the name of science and the greater good.

It was no surprise Priscilla didn’t share the same concerns. After all, she hadn’t been quarantined after the incident back in April. She was eyeballing the man, relaxed and critical, not leery or suspicious as Shilo was, and not even a crowd of shoppers to eavesdrop deterred her from asking aloud, “You got bud? You stink like it.”

Before Shilo could kick her under the table to silently reprimand her for going around saying rude things or inquiring on illegal substances so openly, Dr. Robinson scooted his chair back. His eyes flickered from Prissy to Shilo and back. He was in no rush to voice a reply.

“She can keep a secret,” promised Priscilla on Shilo’s behalf, lowering her voice. “Right, Shi?”

“I…I do not have any on hand,” said the man carefully, withdrawing the tray of fries with him.

Priscilla puffed. “Well, you’re old, right?” she said. Shilo almost kicked her again, but she must have known it was coming, because her boot met open air.

Robinson frowned. “I’m only thirty—,” he began indignantly.

“Perfect,” said Priscilla with a smile.

Shilo couldn’t say she agreed with Priscilla’s newfound interest in the man or the ploy she was weaving. If she had a choice, she’d choose not to be part of it, but as things were, she didn’t have much of a say in the matter – because Prissy would do what Prissy pleased, and whether Shilo tagged along was up to her own moral code, which at the moment was a grey area. She couldn’t just leave her best friend to venture off with a strange man alone without someone to back her up.

Dark snow clouds made it impossible to see the sun setting, but it was growing ever darker by the minute as they left the mall, a clear indicator it was past curfew and high time she head home to fix dinner and prepare for a grand countdown on live television tonight – but Priscilla was pushy and always got her way, grabbing Shilo by the hand to insist she not be a spoilsport. The thought of leaving her alone with the shifty man made her stomach twist, so she yielded easily to the pressure and let Prissy pull her after the guy.

A tobacco store was soon located, and while Prissy was getting her latest nicotine fix, unabashedly chain-smoking away as they waited around the corner of yet another shop they legally had no business with, Shilo had to whisper over to wonder why they were still following Dr. Robinson. The man had just left them a second time to run inside the liquor store to make another purchase with Priscilla’s cash.

“Psh. Because he’s cool?” answered Prissy under her breath. She held up the cigarette as though it were proof, and passed it over.

Shilo took a hesitant drag, but couldn’t help shuddering to think of where Prissy’s lips may have been just hours ago. Whispered chatter and answers to questions she wasn’t sure she wanted to ask in the first place were interrupted soon enough by Dr. Robinson’s return.

“Cool,” praised Prissy, inspecting the label on the bottle she was presented with. Shilo recognized the brand as something her own father drank. The sight of hard liquor in her friend’s hands made her insides writhe.

“Well. I’ll see you girls around,” said the nervous man as he began to retreat into the shadows of the alleyway. It had begun to snow again, and it seemed to concern him as he glanced skyward. “I really must be getting home.”

“I thought you were homeless?” blurted Priscilla, already following him before Shilo could make a grab for her. “I’ve got a garage you can crash in if you need it.” Surely she just wanted to squeeze more favors out of him in return for her pocket change.

“Oh, no. I have an apartment. Not far from here.” Nerves flashed in his eyes as Priscilla sauntered toward him. “There’s no – it’s – it’s really no place for girls like you. It’s condemned, you see—”

Prissy sounded giddy as she grinned and giggled, “Sounds creepy. That where you keep the goods, Robby?”

“Priss!” Shilo called, still standing cemented to the spot where she’d been left.

Her best friend shadowing the scruffy man paused and glanced back just as she’d been about to grab his arm. “What?” she asked back, smiling innocently. “Too good for a little fun now? Is that it? Don’t be a drag, Shi.”

Shilo glanced back toward the street, and back to Priscilla slowly backing away toward Robinson as the man retreated. “We need to head home,” she insisted.

“I don’t have a curfew,” scoffed Priss. “You can go home if you’re so afraid of the dark.”

It wasn’t the dark she was afraid of. Most of the criminals she’d dealt with so far didn’t care what time it was. But leaving Priscilla alone with a strange man wasn’t happening. Shilo at least had a means of defending herself and others too, and if anything bad happened because she left Prissy alone with some creepy exiled veterinarian, she’d never be able to live with herself.

So for the sake of her best friend, she followed.

Shilo knew they didn’t belong there the moment they entered Robinson’s neck of the woods. She had a hunch Priscilla knew as well. Her best friend began to look nervous for a change as they ventured deeper into the sketchy neighborhood.

The uneasy girl even reached across in an attempt to hold Shilo’s hand, as she used to when they were in a rough area – but after an accidental zap, kept them to herself. Alienated by her own alien fire, Shilo did the same, keeping her fingers safely tucked in her armpits and accepting the chill in the gap between her and her best friend. If she didn’t get a grip on Lady Fate’s gift soon, the organization overseeing her underaged superhero team might insist she wear “fire-proof” gloves full time, for the safety of those around her, like Priscilla.

Priscilla didn’t seem terribly concerned for her own safety though, considering how willing she was to follow the strange man through the driving snow. They were led further from home with each step they took, and it was indisputably past sundown when Robinson cut into a dead-end alley.

He waved for them to follow him into the dark niche, out of view of potential witnesses. If it weren’t for the blanket of white snow, it might have been too dark to see anything at all. It didn’t make the rickety old fire escape the man gestured to any more welcoming though.

“It’s. Up here,” he said through chattering teeth, and breathed on his hands, still bound up in soggy worn gloves. He strained to smile, barely visible in the dark, and tried to jokily add, “This would be so much easier if one could fly.”

Shilo unfolded her arms and cast a glance up and down the street. There was no one coming from either direction. This man and her best friend already knew her secret. There was no harm in lighting up a hand to let some of the energy burn off. If anything, it served as a warning for Robinson, and might cause the ankle bracelet to ping for Global Justice to send out an agent to investigate or collect her for the unauthorized use.

She didn’t expect Priscilla to scoff at the sight of her green luminescence. Lip raised and eyes rolling, the girl turned her back to Shilo’s glow. Shilo recalled it, snuffing out the lantern-like plasma radiating and bubbling from her hand. She at least used the residual warmth in her palm to rub her other hand and return some feeling to her frozen fingers.

Her stomach twisted into a knot as she watched the tall man lift Priscilla up by the waist to aid in getting her footing on the hanging ladder above.

“You should wait down there, Shi,” called Priscilla through her exertion as she meticulously scaled her way up to the first landing. “Don’t think it’ll hold ya.”

Shilo said nothing. It was a dig at her feather-light weight. It wasn’t hard to see she was still on the scrawny side, still recovering from her bad experience at a research facility that had allegedly been shut down. Knobby bones, gaunt features barely filling out, and pants that needed help staying up on her hips wasn’t a good feeling, but she was making progress day by day. Personal trainers had been helping her recondition with diet and exercise, but she still felt like a shadow of her past self. She really wasn’t fit yet to be out fighting criminals of any degree – not that any minor should be out doing such risky work in the first place.

Eyeing the man extending his grubby paws out toward her, she knew without a doubt she could at least take him on, glow or no glow. Before he could assist her, with or without asking, she leapt up as high as she could, catching a grip on the slippery bars and scrabbling with her feet as her hands melted the ice coating the metal. She climbed and clawed her way up after Priscilla as her friend stepped back, clapping slowly.

“Me-ow,” jibbed Prissy. “Where’s the catsuit?”

“It’s not a catsuit,” Shilo hissed. At least she hadn’t called her Team Go uniform a onesie again.

She felt the shake of the metal platform underfoot then, and shot a glance down to Robinson hefting himself up. He was tall enough he didn’t have to jump, but his upper body strength was unexpected as he hoisted himself up. Being cornered on a fire escape wouldn’t concern Shilo so much if she was alone, but Priscilla was already climbing precariously higher.

Several stories up was a broken window, fully kicked in to allow safe entry. Snow blew in after them as they trespassed into the condemned building. The man’s so-called apartment exceeded expectations – at least in terms of how decrepit and dilapidated it was. Robinson might have known his way around in the dark, and Priscilla might have made a show of rolling her eyes about it, but Shilo lit the way with her radium-green plasma as there were no working utilities. Still, water could be heard dripping as if they were walking through a cave system, and filthy icicles hanging like stalactites in places didn’t bode well. Graffiti decorated the walls, some partly obscured by the mold and stains. Rats could be heard squeaking and scurrying about out of sight.

Shilo was barely glad Robinson led the way because the last thing she needed was his malodorous breath on the back of her neck to urge her onward. She had to continuously remind herself that the only reason she was following him at all was to keep herself between him and her friend.

Up a multitude of staircases and finally through a door that had been busted off its hinges, and Dr. Robinson sighed hugely and spread his arms abruptly, making Shilo jump back and snap out an arm to stop Priscilla in her tracks.

“Home sweet home!” he announced. “Mi casa es su casa.” He ducked around the wall, and a dim orange light flickered on with the hiss of propane, and then he was popping back into view, shuffling away into the dark depths of the cluttered room. “Top floor. You’re welcome to come meet my friends up on the roof, if you’d like. If you’ll excuse me, I’m late with dinner.”

Robinson was already heading for another staircase, grabbing a sack of birdseed off a shelf as he went. A door opened at the top, a gust of freezing air and a few snowflakes blew in, and then he was gone.

The moment they were left alone, Shilo shook her hand as if to put out a match, and she turned to Priscilla. “We shouldn’t be here,” she stated. It was true. It had to be true – because what teenage girl should be hanging around with some creepy thirty-whatever year old homeless man squatting in a condemned building?

“No way,” Priscilla protested, holding up the bottle of booze and cracking it open. “This guy’s cool.”

Their definitions of cool had seriously diverged over the past year. Shilo grabbed the neck of the bottle and pulled it down before Prissy could take a gulp. “You can get high at home. This isn’t worth it,” she pressed. She shouldn’t have even had to say so.

Prissy cracked a grin then and jerked the bottle away, taking a defiant swig anyway. The alcohol looked like it tasted bitter. “I’m exploring my options,” she said nonchalantly. “This guy might be able to hook me up with a little more. Y’never know.” She shrugged. “If he can, you’ll try it with me, won’t you?”

Shilo gawped, rendered just short of speechless. “No!” she blurted, the answer one of pure reflex.

The bleached-blonde’s mischievous smile vanished, replaced by a frown. “God, Shi. Don’t be a prude,” she hissed, shoving Shilo’s shoulder. “Don’t tell me that goodie-two-shoes shit has gotten to you?”

It had and it hadn’t. She was being pressured into the lifestyle with ultimatums, and there was a new code of conduct she had to follow, but even if she didn’t have to save face as an up-and-coming superhero, what Prissy was asking was still out of the question. Otherworldly gifts and an outrageous double-life had nothing to do with her resolve to get out of Robinson’s shabby niche of the city.

“That’s not it,” Shilo argued. “I have responsibilities! I have to get home for dinner, and get ready to go on air tonight for the countdown, and—,” she was interrupted before she could go over the entire list of reasons she couldn’t stay – why they shouldn’t stay.

“If you’re too busy to be my friend anymore, just say so, Shilo.” The words stung, but they were second to Priscilla’s dark eyes boring into her like a stake to the heart.

She reeled then, but Priscilla caught her wrist before she could step back. She was drawn into a sudden hug, Prissy’s arms nearly crushing the breath out of her in a hold that didn’t feel so great. It was a far cry from the buoyant girlish embraces they used to bounce and crash into when they were seven, ten, twelve, a year ago – and Shilo’s stomach twisted into a knot now as newfound reservations made her pause to peer over her best friend’s shoulder to check her hands for warning signs of igniting before letting her own arms loop around the girl to squeeze her back. Prissy didn’t stay long enough.

Cold sticky lips pressed to Shilo’s cheek, the ginger kiss devoid of affection. “If you need me to disappear from your life, I can do that for ya,” was not what she needed her best friend to whisper in her ear.

The arms around her slipped away, leaving Shilo bewildered and cold and hugging herself as she reluctantly let the girl withdraw from the hug. Priscilla spun around on her heel then to trot off after the shabby creep up the creaky staircase and onto the roof. A momentary cold gust blew in again, chilling Shilo to the bone.

Her throat was too thick to swallow, much less call after her friend to tell Priscilla she was being too melodramatic. The girl was the sort for theatrics – but the past month since Shilo had been home, things had been indisputably different. She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t noticed. She knew Priscilla’s fake smiles when she saw them, knew when Prissy was kidding around, knew when she was overreacting. She knew her best friend. And she knew her well enough to know she’d just made neither an offer nor a threat.

It was a promise.

Shilo didn’t even feel her legs move when she lurched forward suddenly. She flew up the steps and just about kicked the door open, her heart hammering as she burst out onto the snowy rooftop. She whirled around, scanning the white-blanketed surroundings as icy wind blew through her, a flurry of snowflakes breezing past the hems of her jacket to sting her burning skin.

Dr. Robinson was spotted beside a shack-like structure, chattering and gesticulating to himself. The bottle of liquor in his hand made her stomach churn and she scanned the snow for signs of tracks that lead to the parapet, but there were none, as far as she could see. He cocked an eyebrow as she stalked toward him, fists glowing.

“Where’s Priss?” she demanded, stepping past him to take a look inside the stinking little rooftop shed. There was nothing but racks and cubby holes to be found inside, filled with dozens of sleeping and cooing pigeons.

“Your friend? I haven’t seen her,” said Robinson. “But I can help you look.”

“Bullshit.” Shilo whipped around to face him, her eyes drawn to the liquor in his grip. “She just came up here. Who were you talking to?” Her voice was rising. Frantic sparks of green energy were jumping from her fingers. She clenched her fists tight again.

“My pigeon,” Robinson answered, sweeping a small white dove off the nearest roost outside the coop. The symbol of peace, white as the falling snow, perched serenely on his finger. His smile was less white, less peaceful, as he offered a reasonable explanation, “It’s dark inside. Maybe your friend slipped past you.”

Shilo was backing away now, blinking and reeling, if not a little dazed. She scanned the rooftop once more, hardly hearing his offer again to help her look as she circled the one and only thing her best friend could possibly be hiding behind, but the girl was nowhere to be found. No tracks in the snow lead to the edge to indicate foul play.

With the cold of desertion sinking in, Shilo didn’t waste her breath calling for a friend who clearly didn’t want to hold a friendship any longer. At what point her shoulders fell in defeat and she traced the path back through the dark condemned high-rise, she wasn’t sure, but it came shortly after the threat of tears welled up.

She was freezing and soaked from head to toe by the time she trudged home to her own neighborhood, crushed and hours past curfew. She was already late, but stopping by her best friend’s house on the way to ask if she was home hadn’t helped anything. She’d worn a fake smile and everything – but as promised, the girl had vanished. It felt that way anyway, when the girl’s parents refused to answer the door. Unsurprising, as they’d made it clear weeks ago that they didn’t want her around once they’d learned of her tracking anklet and supposed probation, as if she was the bad influence or some kind of criminal now.

Given everything that had turned her life upside down the past year, questioning if the girl ever existed at all really was the last thing she needed.

What she needed was to forget about the empty space left by the stake yanked out of her heart like a massive thorn, and her numb fingers and toes, and her stuffy nose, and the scolding she’d received the second she came walking through her front door.

Discarding sodden slush-covered clothes to the hamper, Shilo reached into every pocket, as per habit, to empty them. A few pennies, a soggy receipt, a plastic spider, shoplifted rhinestone earrings – something was missing. Heart beginning to thud a desperate beat as her hands grew warm, Shilo turned each pocket inside out to be sure.

Shego’s suppressant medication had gone missing.

[dragonrajafanfiction]

St. Petersburg, Florida, Fourth of July.

The midsummer night reverberated with the boom of fireworks, punctuated by the awed gasps of the spectators. The bright colors reflected off the water of the Gulf of Mexico, doubling the display. People lined the beach, couples hand-in-hand, children on the shoulders of their parents. An old grizzled veteran stood in his military colors, solemnly saluting.

Some people would say that patriotism was one thing that brought Americans together. Whether or not that was true was up for debate. Even if it was not, the pretty colors and food and family, feeling the kiss of a cool ocean breeze, were enough of a common denominator.

At the moment, everyone in the crowd was happy. They had the day off, an excuse to drink and stay up late.

But there were a few serious faces observing the beach that night. On the top floor of a nearby condominium hotel two young people dressed in navy blue to blend in with the night sky held binoculars trained on the stretch of beach. Silhouetted by the flashing pyrotechnics, they looked like stalking birds on the building.

“Post 1. No Target found.”

“Post 2. No Target found.”

There were seven posted sentries on this beach. Each one had temporary agents, as well as official agents from the executive department waiting on standby among the line of food trucks on the boardwalk.

They all carried guns filled with Frigga bullets: special ammunition filled with powerful anesthesia. These bullets were made especially for this mission to carry three times the normal dose.

The target tonight was very difficult. The participants in the mission were first and second year students. Rookies. As part of their first year, they had to be assigned at least one high level mission, to expose them to the realities of the battlefield in their war against the dragon clan. It helped weed out potential weaknesses, both mentally and physically.

“A+ level unstable hybrid...” Jason looked out over the beach, watching a group of young men try to throw one of their friends into the ocean. “I’ve only been here for a week...” 

“What are you worried about? They wouldn’t send us out here if they thought we were going to die. Besides, the target is probably going to be down in that crowd, not looking for us up here on a roof.”

His partner Rebecca ran one hand through her ebony hair. She smiled at him. “Relax, Okay? I’m sure the higher ups know what they’re doing.”

Jason, a first year student, ranked a measly C. His partner ranked a B+. She also outranked him in other ways. Her father built up a business from scratch, starting out running a delivery service for tamales out of his home. He cultivated that startup into a successful franchise present in three cities. She’d lived a comfortable life ever since. 

He on the other hand, while having everything in the world, wanted to study art, was pushed into business by his father, only to drop out when his obvious lack of interest manifested itself in low grades. If it wasn’t for Cassell, his father probably wouldn’t look him in the eyes.

Her B+ wouldn’t catch the eye of the Cassell Elite, but it, as well as her bubbly optimistic personality drew him to her. He was happy to be on her team from the start. Maybe if he did well, he would get over his shyness and tell her that.

He had two pistols that he was trained to fire loaded and ready. He cast his eyes back down the edge of the building. “There’s a lot of people in the way. What if it just... mows its way through them?”

“Stop worrying! We have the president of the Student Council here, remember?”

“Jason, Rebecca, turn off your Headsets while chatting.” A frigid voice sounded in their ears. They both clapped their hands over their mouths.

The target was called the “Night Stalker”, a mysterious man who cut a weak and miserable figure and appeared on the street to perform magic tricks for whatever people would give him. There was little more description than that. He tended to cover his face, walk about at night. But no one could forget his magic.

He was becoming an urban legend. A few people who heard about him walked about trying to encounter him. They said that if you gave him a coin, he would show you a vision so enthralling it was like a dream come true, a high better than any drug.

The idea was irresistible. The local police accused him in dealing narcotics and hallucinogens. They put a warrant out for his arrest. But no one came forward. 

Then the bodies started showing up. 

Severed limbs washed up at the beach to be found my joggers. Dog owners described their beloved animals fishing them from the waves. There was no consistently to the victims. He was an ambush predator. He took whatever wandered by.

In the end, a victim escaped when, while under the high, he took a wrong step off a curb and badly twisted his ankle. He spotted his companions, dancing away from him. He called out but they didn’t hear him.

Someone took him to the hospital. A few days later, his friends were found, dismembered on the beach.

While the police desperately searched for clues, Cassell intervened. The case reeked of Dragon activity. An out of control Hybrid had emerged in St. Petersburg.

It was once the practice of Cassell College to eliminate such hybrids. They were on the verge of becoming a Death Servitor. They were extreme dangers to a  human public that were all too susceptible to their Soul Skill. However, a woman, now in her third year at the College changed that practice.

The S-Ranked Hybrid, Carli. 

Rebecca had heard all sorts of rumors whispered about Carli. She heard that she had killed a servitor on her first day, survived a ranked - SS mission only a few days later, participated in the slaying of a Dragon King and defeated Caesar Gattuso at the Day of Liberty under the banner of her self-made exclusive club.

If that weren’t enough, she won the heart of Chu Zihang, one of the most handsome guys in school who was notorious for not caring about dating girls at all.

All at a school were girls were ranked mostly by how pretty they looked in a white skirt. 

Carli had come in and quietly and swiftly dominated, even down to the way this A+ mission was handled. She had a Soul Skill that could control them, according to the rumors. Rebecca couldn’t help but have great admiration for her. Maybe someday, if she worked hard, Carli would let her into her club.

Loud laughter got her attention. The group of young men from before cavorting and splashing around, waist deep in the surf. The sounds of their hollering was audible even from this high vantage point. They suddenly paused, gathered around in a circle as though looking at something in the center. Occasionally, one would laugh, but mostly they were quiet.

Jason sat up. “Observation Post 1. Reporting suspicious activity!”

Rebecca looked down at the men. They suddenly broke their huddle shouting and cheering and whooping under the light of the fireworks. The display had reached its climax, the series of explosions drowned out every sound.

The men cheered and jumped, pumping their fists at the bright lights.

One young man was suddenly yanked beneath the waves as though he were tied by the ankles.

Then another.

Rebecca shouted into her comms, voice taught with terror. “Alert! Alert! We have target! We have target!”

[unitremover]

MERCENARY FILES: SMOKESCREEN

A smooth-talking scoundrel with a checkered past, SMOKESCREEN's morals have lately had a way of getting the better of him.

A street rat from the wrong side of the tracks in Polyhex, Smokescreen and all the other empties he was surrounded by spent their days fighting over scraps and taking low level jobs thrown to them by the various "legitimate businessbots" who operated out of the area. Eventually, Smokescreen managed to stand out from the crowd and proved himself a remarkably quickwheeled messenger boy. His time in the slums also made him develop something of a silver tongue that allowed him to talk his way out of scrapes with bigger, tougher bots and other sticky situations. For these reasons, the crime lord Black Roritchi took a shine to the young bot and officially made him a part of his organization.

Though he no longer wanted for Energon or accommodations, being part of a criminal enterprise meant that Smokescreen was now expected to do a bit more than just deliver messages. Now, he regularly participated in shakedowns for protection money and collecting debts, using those smooth talking ways to intimidate people into paying without laying a finger on them. This was good, because the thought of actually having to make good on those threats made Smokescreen want to vomit. Additionally, he was now tasked with running Roritchi's various "products" to his distributors. While at first he was only carrying low level items like Estrelan cy-gars and low-grade circuit boosters, Roritchi began trusting him with more and more, graduating him all the way to things like syk and illegal weapons. Not wanting to lose his new station in life, Smokescreen grinned and bore it, no matter how much it ate him up inside.

Eventually, Smokescreen got the sense that Roritchi was going to ask that he move up from simply running product to distributors to becoming an active pusher himself. Before they could cross that bridge, though, the Decepticons began their coup d'etat and suddenly things like the drug trade became less of a concern. Already having deep connections into the Decepticon regime, Roritchi managed to ensure that his criminal enterprise would continue to thrive under this new rule and established Mercenaries as a distinct, protected group that could exist freely from the Decepticons and any other Autonomous resistance force that may or may not exist. Seeing a way out, Smokescreen applied for Mercenary status and became a free agent.

Even though he can now pick and choose what kinds of jobs he does, Smokescreen still primarily works in smuggling weapons, seeing it as the least morally troubling option he has. He reasons that whether or not the Decepticons will admit it publicly, there's a war going on and bots are going to blow each other up with or without him. However, he still feels a great deal of guilt over the jobs he took before the war. Helping to spread dangerous narcotics is certainly part of that, but he also has a sinking feeling some of that military grade weaponry ended up in the hands of pro-Decepticon insurgent cells.

While he tries his best to stay within the very strict guidelines for how far a Mercenary can go without being labeled a traitor to the Cybertronian Empire, Smokescreen can't help but occasionally skirt or push the boundaries of those laws. Though a lack of evidence and his wits have kept him out of trouble thus far, it can't be ignored that the Decepticons are growing more and more suspicious that he may be knowingly aiding enemies of the state. Sooner or later, a day will come where Smokescreen will have to decide if he values his morals more than himself....

[lookinghbo]

'Looking' Made Raúl Castillo A Sex Symbol. Sheer Force Made Him A Star.

In New York, in the middle of July, if the fickle subway system allows it, you’d be wise to arrive at a destination 10 minutes early. You’ll need that time to let the sweat evaporate, to stamp out the damp spots that have betrayed your outfit.

Raúl Castillo forfeited his chance to cool down before shaking my hand at a Manhattan hotel restaurant on a sweltering Thursday morning. I didn’t mind. It was an honest mistake.

The “Looking” star was running slightly late and looking slightly frazzled when he bounded toward our table. He’d confused this hotel for another within walking distance where, the previous night, Castillo had attended a screening of the new Alexander McQueen documentary with his girlfriend, the costume designer Alexis Forte, who has the late fashion maverick’s biography at their Brooklyn apartment.

It’s cute to see celebrities frayed, even ones who are still building their marquee value. Castillo is the type who hasn’t yet abandoned public transportation when navigating the city, even though it’s becoming harder to do so without attracting strangers’ gazes. While trekking home from the “McQueen” event, a Latina teenager tapped him to say she loved “Atypical,” the Netflix series in which Castillo played a charismatic bartender sleeping with Jennifer Jason Leigh’s married character. The teenager’s mother loved “Seven Seconds,” the Netflix series in which Castillo played a narcotics detective tending to a racially charged investigation.

Raúl Castillo: a guy you can bring home to Mom, punctual or otherwise.

It’s his voice that people recognize, the 40-year-old actor said, a modest notion considering his breakthrough role as the sensitive barber Richie on “Looking” made Castillo a veritable heartthrob, despite the HBO show’s modest ratings. But it’s true that his warm baritone gravel is a distinguishing trait. Earlier this year, when I saw “Unsane,” Steven Soderbergh’s scrappy iPhone thriller set inside a mental institution, I recognized Castillo’s intonation before his face appeared onscreen.

That’s a significant feat. Castillo mumbled so much as an adolescent that a teacher recommended he see a speech therapist. He refused, instead reminding himself to enunciate or else using the impediment as a defense mechanism. “I have all these things wrong with my voice,” Castillo said, though few today would agree.

Castillo’s cadence may be growing familiar, but fame hardly seems like his long game. This is, after all, a guy who studied playwriting ― hardly the creative pursuit that commands the brightest spotlight ― at Boston University, after which he paid about $300 a month to live in a garage in Austin and perform local Chicano theater. “We the Animals,” a Sundance indie opening this weekend, marks the first time Castillo is the one generating a project’s star power. He portrays the father of three tight-knit boys storming through a wooded town in upstate New York. The movie, adapted from Justin Torres’ autobiographical novel of the same name, combines elements of “Beasts of the Southern Wild” and “Moonlight” to capture a domestic home life that’s equal parts tender and volatile, where abuse and affection are equally common.

Castillo’s enthusiasm about “We the Animals,” and about the possibly of again working with its director, Jeremiah Zagar (“Captivated: The Trials of Pamela Smart”), speaks to his ambivalence toward the celebrity ecosystem.

“He could be like Tom Cruise without the child slavery,” Zagar said, roasting the “Mission: Impossible” moneymaker’s Scientology association (and its alleged history of forced manual labor). “Raúl’s that kind of a dude. He’s a perfect-looking dude, and yet he’s incredibly real and honest and true. There’s never a false note. He’s also incredibly collaborative. As a director, that’s a wonderful thing. I didn’t know what I was doing, really, because I had never directed a narrative before, and Raúl had a way of making me feel comfortable and confident in my own beliefs and my own material. He’s so seasoned and so clear about what he needs to do to make a scene work and a character work and to elevate other people around him.”

It’s a small movie with grainy aesthetics and an impressionistic lyricism ― in no way the kind of thing that will make a killing at the box office. For someone who first fell in love with theater by discovering the plays of Puerto Rican and Mexican writers like Miguel Piñero and Luis Valdez in his high school library, playing the complicated patriarch of a mixed-race family feels like a destiny fulfilled. (Sheila Vand, star of the Iranian horror gem “A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night,” plays Castillo’s wife.) At this point, opportunities to extend his commercial footprint ― guest spots as a cannibal on “Gotham” and a music teacher on “Riverdale,” for example ― will find Castillo one way or another.

“I’ve always felt that I was never cookie-cutter,” he said. “For as much as I tried to fit my square peg into round holes, constantly, my whole career, I could never do it. Whenever I read ‘We the Animals,’ I didn’t think I would be cast in that film. [...] I felt viewed more as a Richie. People think I tend to find those roles easier than I do a role like this, ’cause it’s harsh. I knew that I could do it. I’m so grateful for both Jeremiah and Justin, who did see that in me.”

Born in McAllen, Texas, a midsize agricultural town that sits on the Mexican border, Castillo’s triumphs were born out of people believing in him at the exact right moments. He belongs to a first-generation immigrant family, even if home was a mere 10 miles down the road. Castillo didn’t feel othered, but his dual identity instilled a sort of anti-establishment fluster.

“I just saw a lot of bullshit in the structures that were established for me,” he said. “I found a lot of hypocrisies. People valued money, and I think when I was very young, I valued money and I didn’t have it. I think I hated myself for it.”

Slowly shedding the Catholic mysticism that once awed him, he took up bass and played in punk bands. When his friend Tanya Saracho, who would go on to write for “Looking” and “How to Get Away with Murder,” likened his GPA to a lifeline out of McAllen, Castillo decided to care about school. But in Boston, he was suddenly the minority. His “bad attitude” kept him out of second-year acting courses, until mentorship from a professor of color let Castillo understand that he shouldn’t punish himself for being subjected to an overwhelmingly white institution. And when he moved to New York in 2002, his pal Mando Alvarado, now a writer for “Greenleaf” and “Vida” (on which Castillo will soon appear), posited presentation as a mark of self-worth; if he didn’t put care into his résumé and headshot, why should anyone put care into hiring him?

Of course, when success takes years to manifest, it’s easy to forget the lessons you’ve learned. Living with four or five roommates at once, Castillo worked his way into the Labyrinth Theater Company, an experimental off-Broadway troupe founded by Philip Seymour Hoffman and John Ortiz. He still wanted to be a writer ― in high school, Castillo only ever acted to impress girls anyway ― but in 2006 he found himself starring in a Labyrinth production of “School of the Americas,” a play by “Motorcycle Diaries” scribe José Rivera. The acting bug stuck. In 2009, his play “Knives and Other Sharp Objects,” a multigenerational drama about class in Texas, opened off-Broadway, earning a mixed review from The New York Times.

Still, nothing quite lasted. The business side of things was grueling, and his coffee-shop gigs were getting old, even if he did count Lili Taylor and RuPaul as customers. An agent sent him on auditions for “huge” Hollywood movies ― which ones, Castillo wouldn’t say ― but dropped him after none proved fruitful. He was ready to give up altogether when “Looking” came around. Castillo had starred in the short film that became a prototype for the series. Its director, Michael Lannan, called him to audition for Richie (the character he’d initially played) and Augustin (a more prominent Latino character who worked as an artist’s assistant). He didn’t land either role, even though he’d originated one of them.

But by the time “Looking” was a week away from shooting, a Richie still hadn’t been cast. The producers called Castillo to read for Andrew Haigh, the gifted English director who shepherded the half-hour dramedy. Haigh had seen Castillo in an indie mystery called “Cold Weather” that gave him “street cred.” Crashing on John Ortiz’s couch in Hell’s Kitchen, wondering what else he could do with his life, Castillo was at a bar one night when he received an email with a contract attached. He had no representation to negotiate his salary, but it didn’t matter: After living check to check, he was on HBO.

“I was like, ‘Yes. Take my soul. I don’t care. Pay me. I need money,’” Castillo recalled. “I needed not just a paycheck but the affirmation. I needed something artistically that I could sink my teeth into that had value to it. Something that was substantial. Something that had a real point of view. I needed a character that gave me a platform to do what I do in a really great scale in the best way possible. And it ended up being that. That show was such a great gift to me.”

All of Castillo’s ensuing fortune can be linked to “Looking.” It made him a sex symbol, a love interest, a fan favorite, a rising star whose claim to fame meant a great deal to anyone hungry for frank depictions of queer intimacy. Richie was the good-natured, self-righteous ideal ― a perfect counterpoint for Patrick (Jonathan Groff), the series’ unsettled protagonist. It became gay viewers’ great disappointment when they learned that Castillo, their anointed hunk, was in fact straight.

“His inability to be fake as a person translates directly into his acting,” Groff said. “There is nothing extraneous or false about Raúl, and he brought a grounded, honest integrity to the character that absolutely no one else could have. He’s also just innately magic on screen and has that ‘it’ factor.”

Perhaps it was Castillo’s dual identity as a Mexican-American that helped him shine as a gay, blue-collar Californian who was sure of himself despite being rejected by his family. It’s certainly what lets him shine as the cash-strapped paterfamilias, caught between unremitting love for his kin and an inescapable pattern of violence, in “We the Animals.” This dyad comes at time when Castillo sees his identity splashed across the evening news.

McAllen houses the U.S. Border Patrol’s busiest hub for detaining immigrants suspected of entering the country illegally. While Castillo was vacationing in Europe and playing make-believe on sets, children were being ripped from their parents’ arms in his hometown.

“I would always have to explain where McAllen was, and now it’s this name you’re seeing constantly in the news for all these reasons that represent, for me, everything that’s wrong with this country,” Castillo said. “It was paralyzing. I was sitting in a beach in Europe, wondering why I deserved to be there. My parents had access to this country in ways that people who are coming from longer distances don’t. We had the great gift of citizenship, which is an incredible privilege. But my parents were immigrants, and they navigated that dynamic our entire lives. I saw my mom and my dad deal with all the insecurities and all the precarious nature of what being an immigrant in this country is. [...] Having grown up going back and forth across the border throughout my whole life, it’s disheartening and upsetting to see what’s happening. And then to think about this particular movie that deals with children, who are especially in that age when their minds are being formed and their view of the world is taking shape, to think about [the ones] locked in cages is enraging.”

Castillo may be miles from that crisis now, but he’s done more to better the world for brown people than he can know. His goal hasn’t been to diversity Hollywood roles written for white ensembles; it’s been to find work that naturally accentuates the grooves of his Latino heritage. He saw almost no Chicano role models in popular culture growing up, and now he is writing and starring in artistic endeavors that paint all shades of the human experience ― gay, poor, brown, cannibalistic, whatever ― with a dynamic brush.

Which isn’t to say everything’s gotten easy. He was slated to play the lead in “Mix Tape” (a musical drama set in Los Angeles) and appear on “One Day at a Time” (the Norman Lear reboot), but has since exited both series and would rather not disclose why. I got the sense, during our two-hour breakfast, that Castillo is still protective of how he is perceived. Maybe he always will be. He’s comfortable reflecting on his upbringing and his relationship with race ― concepts he’s spent his whole life processing ― but being candid about recent setbacks, as routinely asked of celebrities in interviews, does not yet come easy.

It’s the “ego business bullshit” that still eats at him. It’s what eats at most of us. But when someone makes a name for himself, that burden slowly fades to the periphery, replaced by a newfound comfort, even power. The man who once served RuPaul coffee now shares an agent with the drag dignitary.

“For so long, it was all feast or famine,” Castillo said. “I just took work when I could take it. And at this point, I’m in a new place where I want to be more thoughtful about the roles that I take on from here on out. The projects, the roles, the people. I’ve learned so much in the journey that now I want to apply all that and also honor my experience, because at this point I want to work with people who challenge me in all the right ways and push me to become a better actor and a better artist.”

[wykart]

Fix Her

Chapter 5 of a fic about Five and Vanya and all the tragedy surrounding them (chapter 1) (chapter 2) (chapter 3) (chapter 4)

Chapter Summary: Five has just started working for the commission and decides to pay a visit to the city where he grew up. He comes across a familiar face. 

read here on ao3 or continue chapter 5 under the cut

14965 days after

It was his fourth job. Belgium. Three days. A simple locate and destroy. It was early days for him in the commission – very early. So early, that they were yet to understand what he was capable of, and tended to underestimate his abilities. Hence, he had been allocated three days for a job that took him under two hours by a miraculous partnership of happenstance and skill. And so, he had three days. Three days to walk unabided in a world that was still breathing. There was only one place that beckoned – the one place that he’d spent all his childhood dreaming of escaping. It occurred to him that he could walk right through the front doors of the academy, now or three years earlier, at the very moment he disappeared. Even if such an action wouldn’t send the commission into a murderous frenzy, pinning all their best agents on his tail, he still wouldn’t do it. The thought of Vanya searching his old face for traces of the friend she’d lost was unbearable. Most of all, he couldn’t face his father. He couldn’t face being treated like some disobedient child that had finally, finally learnt his lesson. There was no life for him back at the academy. The only thing that worried him now was preventing the apocalypse, timeline be damned. He didn’t much care for the world that would live on afterwards – it wasn’t a place meant for him. His place was the ruins, the fire and the blizzard before the trees that grew over the rusted ruins of mankind. That was where he belonged, no matter how hard he had tried to escape it. He missed Delores. He missed solitude and hopelessness and the freedom that was complete existential damnation. So he went to Griddy’s, as he used to, when the world seemed too much.

…

1095 days after

Three years. There was finality in a milestone like that. Three years, and she wasn’t a kid anymore. Three years, and it was becoming difficult to hang onto false hope. The other’s had all accepted it far sooner. Five had been too self-righteous, too self-absorbed. He’d been disobedient, and his power had consumed him, one way or the other. Her siblings threw around other ideas; that Five was living it up somewhere far away, that he’d finally gotten tired of the old man’s bullshit and left. As selfish as it was, Vanya found the latter a much heavier burden to bear. The Hargreeves children were sixteen now, and no longer children, at least by their own standards. Luther was loyal and insufferable as ever, Diego as bitter and impulsive, Allison was a teenage sweetheart and grade-A bitch, and Klaus was losing himself to a wide range of drugs and narcotics, despite Ben’s best attempts to stop him. Ben was perhaps the most restless of all, how many bodies had he racked up over the years? Certainly far more than the rest of them combined, and it haunted him. Those things he harboured were eating him up from the inside, and he seemed more distant and melancholic than he’d been even as that quiet, bookish kid. Though their father urged them onwards, the team was already showing signs of falling apart. Allison was often away in bigger, more glamorous cities, Klaus was essentially powerless, and even Diego had stopped pining over his place as number one and had instead started getting into the odd scrap on the streets and staying out far too late. Reginald only grew bitter as the rest of them fell apart, and Vanya couldn’t help but smile along as their great and powerful fantasy crumbled to the ground.

She’d managed to master the art of sneaking out over the past few years, and now she was so quick, so quiet, that Five might as well have been there, teleporting the two of them directly outside the window. Security was also far more lax nowadays, as Reginald spent most of his time pent up in his office and leaving them to their own devices, having accepted their noncompliance. He’d even stopped using the security cameras. It had taken her a while to muster the courage to sneak out on her own after Five disappeared. She got the money from Klaus, who always had some hiding somewhere that he’d stolen off dad or one of the others. He’d been too high to notice her taking it. She didn’t go as often as she and Five used to, it just wasn’t as fun, wandering the streets by yourself and living inside your own head. Tonight, her head was a particularly insufferable place to be – it was ablaze with a single, excruciating fact. He’s never coming back. So she went to Griddy’s, as she did, when the world seemed too much.

…

He looked up from his notes when the door opened, the shrill chime indicating a new customer. He went on writing feverishly, he was so close to a breakthrough.

“Hey there, kid,” the waitress called – the same waitress, he realised, though she seemed a lot friendlier now. “the usual?”

“No thanks.” And of course she picked tonight to sneak away from the academy. It had been so much easier to ignore when he’d just been passing through, so much easier to forget what it had been like to live as a person among others, among friends. Vanya Hargreeves sat herself down a few stools away, dark fringe a little longer, and swept to the side. Her voice was a little deeper, and she seemed to have hit that stage of puberty where her limbs were too long for the rest of her, and her elbows stuck out at odd angles as they rested on the counter. Sixteen. It had only been three years for her, and yet she had changed so much. “I don’t know whether I could do a jelly-donut tonight, I’ll just take a coffee.”

“Coffee?” the waitress repeated, disapproving, “isn’t it a bit late for that.”

Vanya chuckled to herself, and he couldn’t stop staring. “It’s okay, I’m not exactly planning on sleeping tonight.”

“Well,” the waitress indicated towards Five, sitting at the far end of the bar, “it seems that’s a trend tonight.” She grinned and turned to busy herself with the machine. Vanya’s eyes only flicked to him briefly as the waitress mentioned him, but there was no recognition, why would there be? He was just some sad old man alone in the city. Vanya wrung her hands and laced her fingers absent-mindedly – he didn’t remember her being so restless.

The waitress set a steaming mug of coffee down in front of her. “So, what’s the occasion? I don’t see you in here much anymore.” Vanya clasped her hands around the mug and bent her face towards the steam emanating from the top, warming herself.

“I don’t know,” she sighed, “I guess I was just feeling a little nostalgic.” Five barley managed to suppress a snort. She sounded almost as old as him. She sat in silence for a moment, sipping tentatively at her drink, until suddenly, it all must have been too much to bear alone. “Do you remember that boy, the one I used to come here with years ago?”

The waitress chuckled. “Of course I remember, the two of you here in here almost every week, laughing and having a right old time – it made things interesting for me on this lousy shift.”

Vanya smiled sadly, “yeah,” she muttered. “Well it’s been three years now, since he disappeared. I don’t think he’s ever coming back.” Her words stung, and he wished he could tell her that he was here, that he’d tried to come back, had never for a second in forty years stopped trying.

The waitress didn’t seem to know what to say. “I’m sorry, kid. I almost forgot, you’re in that umbrella club, right? They tried to keep it all hush-hush when one of the boys stopped showing up on the TV.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not in on the whole club thing, but he was. He hated it.” She took another sip of coffee. Her hands were starting to shake. “You know," she sighed, unsure of whether or not to continue, “I think he ran away and left me.” The waitress drew her lips into a hard line, clearly unsure of how to proceed. “I’m sorry for bringing that up,” Vanya said, hastily, “I just, I can’t be alone in that house, not tonight. I just needed to tell someone who wouldn’t say I was stupid for still caring.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” she said, “you come by whenever you need to.”

Vanya pressed her lips together in a hardened attempt to smile. “Thanks.” She was trembling, and not just from the coffee. He watched her reach a quivering hand into her pocket – a black overcoat instead of the old blazers they used to wear – and retrieved a zip-lock bag full of those orange and white capsules she’d taken for as long as Five could remember. She gulped one down with a sip of coffee and seemed to calm down almost immediately. She sighed, shaking out the last of those anxious jitters.

The next few minutes were some of the most tense and difficult of his life. There was an overwhelming urge to say something, to reveal himself, but he knew that doing so would only make things worse. Not only would commission lackeys be sent after him to covertly snuff him out once he was out of the way – but it would make things so much worse for Vanya. She’d be happy and heartbroken all at the same time – they’d been meant to grow up together. She’d want him to stay, but he couldn’t – and not just because of the commission – because of the others, because of his father. He couldn’t help but feel like every passing second was time wasted, the person he’d been fighting to get back to all this time was as unreachable as ever, and it broke him.

After a while, he couldn’t stand to be there any longer, and he couldn’t concentrate on his equations with all the tumultuous thoughts racing through his mind. All those years spent alone, he thought it had numbed him, made him better, stronger, emotionless. Turns out, he’d only learned to block it out, he’d only pushed all of those feelings away under his purpose of preventing the apocalypse. Now, all of those feelings that had been stewing away inside for decades finally bubbled to the surface, all the things that he’d hidden away because they’d been too painful to consider.

He stowed away his notebook – he’d plastered paper over the original cover, considering that Vanya hadn’t yet written the autobiography that he was holding – and picked up his briefcase. He gave the waitress a curt nod as he left the shop, and the shrill chiming of the door as he opened it caused Vanya to look up from her coffee. They met eyes for a moment – an awkward encounter with a total stranger, and the painful reunion of two friends, all at once. He straightened his suit jacket and stepped off into the night, trying not to think abut all the hours he spent racing along here as a child, showing off. He thought that coming back to his home city might bring him some comfort, reaffirm his goal to save his family – but all it did was remind him just how much he’d changed, just how much the world he had known didn’t recognise what he’d become. All it did was remind him that he didn’t belong anywhere but amongst the ashes he’d spent his life trying to escape.

[rockhoochie]

Hunt Hard, Play Harder (Part 1)

Summary: Dean and his girl finally have some time alone.

A/N: This OFC doesn’t have a name, so it can kinda be a reader insert. Written for Kinktober  2017 (Prompts:  Begging, Name-Calling, Orgasm Delay/Denial). I do not condone name-calling/slut-shaming in any way unless it is within the confines of a consensual relationship. Unbeta’d. Please reblog if you enjoy! If you’d like to be tagged in anything, just send me an ask! Thank you for reading!

Pairing: Dean x OFC

Warnings: Shameless Smut, PWP, Name-Calling, Dom/Sub Undertones, Outdoor Sex, Impala Sex, Hair-Pulling, Dirty Talk, Oral Sex (M/F receiving), Unprotected Sex

Word Count: 4,339

My work is not to be copied, altered, posted or otherwise used without my express written permission.

“I don’t know whether to be completely pissed off or totally turned on.”

My heart jumped a little as Dean sauntered his way back to the Impala, loosening his tie and rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt as he came towards me. Just watching him walk was enough to quicken my pulse and make my breath catch in my throat – all I could think about was helping him unbutton that damn shirt and running my hands across his broad chest.

I was sitting on the side of Baby’s hood, slowly swinging my legs back and forth, heels bouncing lightly off the tire. I parted my legs as he made his way in front of me, my dress hitching just a little further up my legs. As he placed his hands beside each of my thighs, I leaned forward to kiss him lightly on his lips.

“Why would you be pissed off, Agent…who are you today?” I teased.

“Agent Satriani” he snickered. “And to answer your question darlin’”, he started in that rough voice of his, “I should be pissed off that your treating my Baby like a park bench. On the other hand, you look fucking gorgeous sittin’ on her like that”.

“It was getting too hot sitting inside her,” I explained, as I wrapped my arms around his neck.  “Didn’t think you’d be gone so long and I needed some air. Find anything?”

Dean straightened up and stepped back, placing one hand on his hip, the other cradling the back of his neck.  A hint of exasperation crossed his brow.

“Nah, bupkis. Looks like we’ll have to hit the books again tonight.”

I groaned. It was the first time we’d been out of our crappy motel room in two days, and the thought of going back and staring at our laptop screens and borrowed library books nearly made my skin crawl. This hunt was starting to wear on all three of us – we’d been at it for over a week now. For all the research Sam, Dean, and I had already done, for any hint of a lead we followed, this case was showing no sign of progress.

To make matters worse, there had only been one room left at the motel. Aside from a hurried and desperate fuck in the bathroom while Sam was out getting food our first night there, Dean and I hadn’t had much time to ourselves. We had managed to fool around a bit in the late hours of the night after Sam had fallen asleep– for the past three nights, I had woken up to Dean’s fingers stroking me inside and out, his free hand clamped tightly over my mouth to keep me quiet. Each of those times he had brought me to the edge, then dragged his fingers out just before I tipped over. And each of those times he would hum low and wickedly and whisper, “maybe I’ll let you come tomorrow, kitten.”

Between the sleep deprivation, the close quarters, the hunt with no end in sight, and the desperate need for an orgasm, I was about to lose my mind.

The sun was already starting to set, a full moon taking its place in the sky. By the time we’d get back to the motel it would be well past dark. I began mentally psyching myself up for another long night.

“Well,” I yawned, “Let’s stop and get some coffee on the way back.”

I began to slide off the Impala, but Dean came back towards me, hands on either side of me again, trapping me where I sat on the hood.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, the corners of his mouth turned up slightly, the jade green of his eyes sparkling devilishly.

“I thought you wanted to leave. It’s getting dark, and we have more work to do”. We were in the middle of what seemed like nowhere, parked in the lot of a small State Park that no one else had seemed to want to visit that day. Not that I felt threatened by the desolation or the impending darkness – I was with a Winchester. But I did hope to get at least a cat-nap on the hour drive back to the motel.

He ran a hand slowly up my arm, sending a tingle up my spine. He followed the curve of my shoulder to the valley of my neck, and trailed his thick fingers to the back of my head. I felt the warmth of his breath against my ear as he leaned in, lightly running his nose along and behind it.

“Let’s stay out here a bit longer, just you and me," he suggested softly. He nipped my earlobe as a prelude to the kisses he began trailing down my neck. His fingers tangled in my hair, slowly gathering a section of it into his fist. I gasped as he suddenly pulled it back, my throat taut and exposed, the tingle in my spine morphing into a shudder of anticipation. “I think want to play with my sexy little kitten for a while.”

Warmth spread through me as he unleashed his plump, perfect lips on mine with a fervent and hungry kiss. His tongue demanded entrance immediately, which I granted as I wrapped arms around his neck and my legs around his waist, urging him closer. I had been wet for him for days, and moaned into his mouth when a new trickle of arousal rushed through my aching core. My hips began to rock of their own accord as our tongues stroked and tangled in each other’s mouths. I began to lose myself in the taste of him, that afternote of oak from the whiskey he had sipped from his flask, the whisper of peppermint from the gum he had chewed, the pleasant lingering of the coffee he had drank earlier. Kissing Dean was like drinking a drug – a drug that made my mind float, my body flush, and would always keep me coming back for more.

The sharp pinch of his teeth on my bottom lip only slightly brought me out of my narcotic-like daze. He released my hair and cupped my face in both of his hands, his thumbs gently stroking the apples of my cheeks.

“Would you like that?” he crooned, his voice thick as dark honey. One hand left my cheek and traveled down to my collarbone, sliding across the skin my sundress didn’t cover, and stopped on my breast. He kneaded it gently, bushing his thumb across the stiff peak of my already hard nipple. “Would you like me to play with you, kitten?”

It didn’t matter that we were in a parking lot with only the moonlight to illuminate us. I needed him so badly I could taste it.

I could only reply with a moan as he released my face and my breast, his hands skimming down my waist to the top of my thighs.

“I asked you a question, baby girl.”

I swallowed hard, my mouth and throat dry from panting. “Yes,” I breathed. “Yes, play with me Dean.”

“That’s my girl.”

He pulled me off the Impala, easing me down. No sooner than my feet touched the ground, he spun me around, pinning my back flush against his chest.

“Hands on the hood sweetheart, and spread those legs,” he ordered as he slowly bent me forward against the car. I complied ardently, loving the way he took control like this.

“What a perfect ass”, he muttered as I felt him rub each cheek. I hummed with a smile as I felt the hem of my sundress being pushed up my thighs, excited for his reaction when he discovered I wasn’t wearing anything underneath it. As soon as the fabric was up to my waist, I heard a soft “fuck” escape his lips.

“No panties, huh?” he rasped. “You must want my cock bad. Such a little cockslut for me, aren’t you?”

His words shot straight to my throbbing clit. “Fuck, yes Dean” I whimpered, “God, please I need your cock inside of me”.

I heard him chuckle softly behind me. He pulled me back upwards, my head leaning against his chest. I could feel his stiff cock against my ass, and couldn’t stop myself from grinding against it.

“Mmm, can’t wait for me to fill you up, can you? Let’s see if you’re ready to take it," he said.

Dean held me against him with one arm while his free hand found its way to the apex of my thighs. He ran a finger up the center of my folds, moaning as my slick covered it.

“My god, baby girl, you’re dripping for me. But you don’t get my cock just yet.”

I cried out as he thrust two fingers deep inside of me. He pumped them in and out slowly, barley brushing my g-spot. My breathing turned into constant moans, sighs, and whimpers as he fucked me with his fingers.  

“Love hearing my kitten purr,” he murmured. “Love every sound you make when I’m touching you, licking you, fucking you…love how soaking wet your pussy is for me…”    

My legs were shaking, my walls tightening around his fingers, the urge to come becoming raw need.

"Jesus Dean, please…” I whined.

“Christ, I love hearing you beg. I can’t wait to shove my cock inside this tight, sweet pussy.”

I felt his fingers crook just right deep inside of me while his thumb slowly circled my clit. “Tell me how much you want it, sweetheart. How bad does my little cockslut want it?”

“Want every inch of it deep inside me.  Want to come all over you, feel my cunt clench around you, make you come inside me…want it so bad Dean, fuck, please, need your hard cock…Dean, oh my god…yes..”

I felt my body winding up as his broad fingers moved in and out, delivering jolts of electricity with each circle of his thumb against my clit.

“You ready to come, baby girl?”

I replied with a string of whispered yesses and pleas, the gathering force of my release taking everything else away from me.

Something between a whine, a curse, and a scream passed my lips as he withdrew his fingers. I heard an almost vindictive chuckle rumble from his chest.

“Thought you wanted to come all over my cock?” he said, burying his head in the crook of my neck.

“Jesus Dean, you’re killing me,” I panted.

“I’m not done playing with you yet,” he growled, turning me around to face him. He took a step back, unzipping the fly of his dress pants. “On your knees, kitten.”

I sank down on to the concrete of the parking lot, the discomfort of the hard surface on my knees fleeting as soon as he pulled his thick, rock hard length free of his pants. Reaching for his hips, I couldn’t help but lick my lips at the sight of him slowly stroking his huge, perfect dick.

“You want this?” he teased.

“Yes, let me taste you…”

I grabbed his waist and pulled closer, letting my tongue lick a slow stripe up his length and circle the tip, lapping up the salty bead of pre-cum that had formed at the head.

Dean groaned at the minimal contact, lacing his fingers through my hair and locking my head in position in front of him.

“Open up, sweetheart. Show me what a good whore you are and fuck me with that hot mouth of yours.”

Holding the base of his shaft, I took as much as I could of him into my mouth, sliding him in until he almost hit the back of my throat. I moaned at the taste of him, the sensation of his throbbing cock stretching my lips. I heard him hiss as the sounds I made reverberated against him. I bobbed up and down slowly, Dean guiding my motions, swirling my tongue around his thickness, spending a little more time licking along the small indent just under the tip. I gazed up at him, watching him stare through half-lidded eyes as my mouth enveloped him.

When his eyes met mine, the sound of something primal and guttural escaped his chest as he pushed my head down and slammed into my mouth. His head flew back with a groan.

“Fuck, you take my cock so good baby.”

I moaned in response, my lips tight around him, tongue twirling, my hand gliding along what wouldn’t fit in my mouth.

“Such a hungry slut for my cock, aren’t you?” he mumbled as I worked him over.  “That’s a good girl…that’s it baby, let me feel your throat…”

A muffled cry caught in my chest as I curled my lips around him, sliding him as far back as I could until he hit the soft flesh of my throat. I fought back a gag, felt my eyes start to water, but didn’t care – I wanted to devour him, wanted him in me any way I could get it…

“So good…” I heard him mumble in a rough whisper. “So fucking good…”

His praises were sending pulse after pulse of liquid heat straight to my core. I trailed a hand toward my center, sliding a finger through the slick-soaked center of my folds, circling around my swollen clit that was begging for friction. I mewled as the pleasure of touching myself while I sucked Dean off sent me into a lust-filled high.

Dean’s hands were still tangled in my hair. He pulled up, causing me to stop my movements. I released his cock, slick and covered with my saliva, out of my mouth.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” he scolded, his sandpaper voice deep and smoky.

My breaths came fast, chest rising and falling in a quick cadence of gasps and pants.

“Had to touch myself, Dean. Wanted to feel how wet I was for you…shit, baby my pussy’s fucking soaked for you…” My voice shook and began to falter as I spoke. Losing myself in raw desire, I dipped my index finger into my entrance before trailing it back to my clit, pressing against it harder and circling faster.

“I don’t think so kitten,” he growled, tucking his cock back into his pants. “On your feet now.”

As soon as I stood up, Dean grabbed me by the waist and lifted me back onto the side of Baby’s hood. He fisted the hair at the nape of neck and tugged it back, forcing my eyes to meet his.

“Are you such a filthy slut that you need to play with yourself? Can’t wait for my fingers or my cock?”

My mind was completely lost in a fog of heat, nearly ready to explode just from the deliciously filthy words coming out of his mouth.  It took almost all I had to manage a reply.

“Dean…” I croaked meekly, “Please…fuck me…give your little cockslut what she needs…”

He released his grip on my hair, draping his hands over my shoulders.

“Lay back,” he ordered.

I laid myself down against the cool metal, my ass positioned right on the edge, Dean standing between my dangling legs.

His rough, calloused hands skimmed over my knees and up my thighs, pushing the fabric of my dress toward my waist until he had my pussy fully exposed. He trailed his finger over my center, barely touching me, causing my hips to buck forward.

“This is my pussy to play with,“ he growled, as he continued to trace the outline of my folds. “My pussy to fuck…my pussy to touch…” he slipped the very tip of his thumb into my entrance as he began to bend himself forward, teasing my wet hole as he placed kisses on my exposed stomach. His lips traveled further down until I could feel his hot breath against my core. “My pussy to taste…”

He grabbed of both my legs roughly, lifting them up and over his shoulders. His fingers spread me open as he licked a long, slow stripe from my entrance to my clit. I shuddered when he dipped his tongue inside of me, practically screaming as he licked every inch of my cunt, grabbing the short hairs on his head and grinding myself against his sinfully perfect mouth. I heard him snickering menacingly underneath my relentless moaning…he knew I was on the edge again and he was enjoying every minute of his nearly torturous ministrations. He gave me one final slow lick before raising his head.

“I can’t get enough of seeing you like this, kitten.”

He ran his hands up my torso as I lay on the hood of the car, my dress hitched up to my stomach, chest heaving, skin flushed and red hot. He massaged my still clothed breasts as he looked me up and down.

“You’re so fucking beautiful laid out like this, my pretty slut spread out on my Baby, begging to be fucked…”

Unable to take anymore, I pushed myself up and threw my arms around his neck. I caught his lips with a kiss, shoving my tongue inside his mouth, tasting my arousal on him.

“For fuck’s sake Dean,” I mumbled between kisses, “I need your cock now.”

With a grunt, he lifted me to the ground again, his lips never leaving mine as he walked us toward the back door of the Impala. I heard the door open, and sucked in a breath as he released me from our kiss.

“Get in,” he demanded, gesturing for me to climb in the backseat. He slid in quickly after me, practically slamming the door closed.                                           

“Take that dress off,” he ordered.

He watched me pull the simple dress over my head as he removed his tie, tossing it over the front seat along with my dress. I was almost completely naked, save for the black lace bra I had been wearing underneath.

I fumbled for his belt as we lost ourselves in another kiss. The second I had it unfastened, he unbuttoned his pants, sliding them down past his knees along with his boxers in one swift movement, his cock springing free. I couldn’t help but wrap my lips around it again, licking and sucking as I stretched myself out on the bench seat.

“Can’t get enough, can you baby girl?” he rasped.

I hummed in reply as I hollowed out my cheeks, bracing myself to take him in as far as I could again.

Dean groaned loudly. “Fuck…kitten, you need to stop…don’t wanna come in your mouth…”

I released him and rose to my knees. Dean slid towards me, the bright green of his eyes now almost completely black with lust.

I pulled myself on to his lap, straddling him, positioning my warm, wet center just in front of his hard length. I trapped his lips with mine again, opening his shirt button by button. Once his bare chest was revealed, my mouth found its way to the pulse of his neck. I nipped and sucked at the sensitive skin, drawing a guttural moan from him as I ran my hands along the curves of his firm chest, grinding my core against him.

“Dean,” I breathed, “baby let me ride you…please…wanna ride your hard cock…”

“Oh I know you do, you fucking whore,“ he spat as he maneuvered to unhook my bra and send it flying. “And you’re going to.”

I rose up, ready to take him. He ran the head of his cock up and down my folds, teasing me, making me gasp when I finally felt him guide the tip to my entrance and push in slightly.

“Tell me what you are,” he demanded.

“I’m your little cockslut, Dean.”

“Are you gonna ride me good? Gonna take every fucking inch of my cock into that sweet pussy?”

“Yes, please, give me your cock, let me take it…”

I nearly saw stars as he filled me with one hard thrust. At this angle, he hit my sweet spot instantly, and I cried out as I began to rock my hips quickly. I was wound so tight I could already feel the heat pooling in my stomach.

“Slow down kitten…want you to ride me nice and slow…that’s my girl. Fuck your cunt feels amazing, so tight, dripping around my cock…”

I whimpered as he took a breast into his mouth, licking and sucking my hardened nipple. When he took it between his teeth and tugged gently, a pathetic cry escaped me. The slow pace and his attention to my breasts had me teetering at the precipice – I felt my orgasm building and building, burning at my core, begging to be released.

“Dean, please I’m so close…” I whined.

“Does my little slut need to fuck me harder?”

“Yes…oh god, yes…”

“Then do it kitten. Ride my cock nice and fucking hard. Let me feel you come all over me.”

I began bucking wildly, raising myself up and down on him as he met me thrust for thrust. I braced myself against the backseat when I felt his thumb on my clit.

“De – I…oh shit…I’m…”

“Such a good girl...fuck that’s it…come for me baby…come for me now…”

I sank down on him and I was gone, coming harder than I ever thought possible, screaming as torrents of white hot ecstasy ripped through me over and over. A rush of wetness coated my walls as Dean rode me through my orgasm, praising me in between curses as he chased his own release, thrusting up into me faster and faster until I felt his rhythm falter. He came with a long, gravelly grunt, filling me up with his hot cum, his cock twitching inside the warmth of my soaked cunt.

We rocked against one another gently as we came down, sharing our breath as our chests heaved. I closed my eyes and rested my forehead against his, steadying my breathing as my heart continued to thrum in my chest.

Dean traced his finger from my temple to the curve of my chin. When I opened my eyes, I was met with the brilliant green of his, staring into mine adoringly, and a soft smile across his lips.

“I love you. Love you so much,” he said, brushing my lips with the gentlest kiss.

“I love you too, Dee.”

He groaned at the loss of warmth as I lifted myself off of him, giggling as I turned to sit on the now sticky bench seat beside him.

“Whatcha giggling about, sweetheart?” he asked.

“We made a bit of a mess in here.”

Dean looked around the floor of the car. He leaned down and grabbed a discarded flannel shirt that had been sticking out halfway under the front seat. With the softest touch, he wiped away the remnants of our mixed climaxes, sweeping the soft cotton gently between my legs.

“Isn’t that Sam’s shirt?” I asked.

He stopped to briefly study the flannel. “Huh. Sure is.” He used it again to wipe himself off and tossed it back on the floor.

I laughed. “Oh he’ll just love that.”

“Well, that’s what he gets for leaving his clothes in here.”

Dean began to button and zip himself back together as I leaned my naked body over the front seat in search of my dress. He wasn’t able to resist giving me a playful slap on my ass.

“Watch it, Winchester” I said, sitting back down beside him and pulling my dress over my head, “If you keep that up you’ll get me all hot and bothered again.”

“Is that a promise?”

Just then, “Heat of the Moment“ came blaring from Dean’s cell phone in the glove compartment.

“And that would be Sammy, wondering where the hell we are,” Dean sighed. “We should head back.”

We shared one more kiss before climbing out the back door and settling into the front seat.

***

Dean called his brother back after he got us back on the main highway. Although it wasn’t the safest thing in the world, I was stretched out across the seat, resting my head on the solid muscle of Dean’s thigh. The rumble of Baby’s engine, the roll of the smooth pavement under her tires, and the crushed velvet thickness of Dean’s voice began to lull me into a contented sleep.

“On our way back now…nah, didn’t find anything…uh huh…really? Dude, that’s awesome…well it is...for god sake, just go have some fun…alright.” He ended the call, placing his phone back in the glove compartment.

“What’s going on?” I asked sleepily.

“Sammy spent a little time at the diner across from the motel. The waitress just invited him to her place.” Dean said with a smile. “You know what that means?”

“That your brother’s finally getting laid?”

“That and…” he paused as he took one hand off the steering wheel and placed it on my head, petting me softly. “It means that I get some more playtime”.

I hummed as a smile crossed my lips, the beginnings of a twinge of arousal prickling through my skin.

“I don’t know, Dean…” I trailed my hand up his thigh and placed it between his open legs, palming him through the smooth fabric of his pants. “I think that means I get to play with you for a change," I purred.

I felt him stiffen against my hand, a low moan escaping his lips. “In fact…”

I raised myself up beside him, pulling my hand away from the hardness forming between his legs to undo the button and zipper of his pants. I reached in to pull out his cock, slowly stroking his length up and down.  Dean gripped the steering wheel tightly as he breathed in a sharp intake of air.

I leaned in close to his ear and murmured, “I think my playtime starts right now.”

To be Continued

Read Part 2 Here!

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[prettyfunkyunorganized]

If Things Had Been Different - Gabe

Hello again! I’m so glad to be back! Things have finally settled down, for the most part, so here’s a post. Finally. 

So, while I was absent I got a bit of writing done when I needed a distraction and this is the result. I kept thinking about Raper and how different things might have been for Gabriel if he had found out about little Sonya before she was born. So I wrote about it. And I fucking love it. A lot. So yeah, have just over 3,100 words about pre-fall Gabe getting a call in the middle of the night about his ex.

If Things Had Been Different - Gabe: pt 2

Daughter Series - Reaper Installments (the original story):  pt 1, pt 2, pt 3, pt 4

Gabe was sitting in his office, staring blankly at the wall across from him. He had only been in charge of Blackwatch for about six months but holy hell had it been a mess. It was secret ops, so he knew it was going to be messy, but he had gravely underestimated how much work and time this job was going to be. “I agreed to this because Jack asked me to, because I needed a distraction after pissing off my woman and my side girl, but shit . . . Might have made a mistake.” His head lulled back as he closed his eyes. It was late, or maybe early, and he was exhausted.

He had a good team, but a team that was good for black ops. Shifty, ruthless, calculating, sometimes drunk, always ready to kill black ops soldiers. They were good operatives, they were, but they all had that same broken psychology and tons of emotional baggage they kept squirreled away.

Jack had asked Gabe to watch over them, keep them under control, contain them. Because Gabe wasn’t like them. But after six months? After reading reports of sickening corruption, deadly biochemical weapons, genocide involving women and children – so many disgusting, awful, gut-wrenching things – he could feel a callous growing around his heart. He’d held a dying child in his arms, he’d sent agents after a politician who was using a children’s home as a cover for human trafficking, he’d watched a woman stab herself in the abdomen with a shard of broken glass once she found out she was pregnant with a warlord’s child. Gabe had always known there were fucked up people in the world, everyone knows that, but coming face to face with their victims was getting to him. Most of the people he saved nowadays weren’t grateful and full of praise, they were drained, body and soul. He was quickly becoming just as empty.

And if terrified him.

But it was worth it. He could be a husk of a man if so many others could live their lives in peace. “I can handle it,” he murmured to himself. “I’ll get by. I’ll find a way. I have to.”

It was nights like this he missed having someone to go home to, someone to make him smile – or at least fake one. Fake it ‘til you make it and all that. Ruby, the woman he’d had an affair with, always made him grin, until the sex was over. Nora, the woman he’d betrayed, made him feel at ease, for the first ten minutes he was home, then it turned into a guilt trip about settling down.

None of that mattered now, though. Both of those relationships had crumbled into a sea of regret, quite catastrophically, too. He was alone with his work now. No reason to leave the base unless it was a mission, no reason to pretend he was fine unless Jack or Ana came around, and no reason to go back to his room. He would likely get back to work and fall asleep at his desk. Again.

Before Gabe’s fingers reached the keyboard the phone rang and he froze. A call? This time of night? “Nothing good comes from a ringing phone at 2:30 in the morning,” he sighed. “What atrocity am I dealing with tonight?”

The HR department’s extension number registered in Gabe’s mind just as he hit the speaker button. “Fuck,” he hissed. Human Resources. Someone on the team had made a mess. Pollas en vinagre.

“Good evening, Commander Reyes,” came a tense voice clearly trying to play it cool.

“It’s morning, miss, and I’m getting a call from HR, I doubt anything about this is ‘good.’ Just tell me what’s going on,” he grumbled, rubbing his eyes.

“The local hospital called, sir, they are asking you to head there right away,” the woman said hurriedly.

“I swear to God,” he growled. “Who did it? Who ruined my night this time?” Then again, his night had been shit long before this.

The woman on the other end hesitated and Gabe grew concerned. These calls were nothing new, and no one had ever struggled to give him the news quite like this.

“Is someone dead,” the commander asked gravely.

“No, no,” she clarified, sounding worried, “but there was a close call. With a woman named Angelica . . .”

He reeled. “Ruby? Why the hell are you calling me about her? That woman is no longer my concern and I intend to keep it that way.”

“I understand that, sir, and I told the hospital that but they thought – ” She faltered again. “They thought you might be concerned with the baby she’s carrying.”

Gabe suddenly felt very cold and his fingertips felt as if they were being pricked by needles. Baby? Baby? When the fuck had that happened . . . It couldn’t be his, could it? Yeah, they had been screwing a while ago, but – holy shit. Holy shit. He had probably gotten her knocked up.

He took a deep breath and forced the panic away from his mind. “Is this Lydia,” he asked the woman on the other end.

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you told anyone else about this?”

“No, sir.”

“Good, good,” he huffed. “Don’t. I’m leaving now, but I’ll be back as soon as I can and sort things out then.”

“Sure thing, Commander,” she agreed, “I’ll tell everyone you’re handling some Blackwatch business. They know better to ask anything more after that. Except for your agents, they might be suspicious, but I’ll keep them off your tail as long as I can.”

“Thanks, Lydia. I owe you,” Gabe moaned.

“No problem, and, uh, good luck.”

He laughed dryly, “Thanks, think I’m gonna need it.”

They both hang up and Gabe headed for the door, throwing on a hoodie with shaking hands. The cab ride was excoriatingly long, giving the man plenty of time to scream at himself for ever getting together with Ruby in the first place while subsequently praying she wasn’t hurt too bad. For the baby’s sake. “Baby,” he whispered in the back seat. “There’s a baby and it’s mine. Maybe.” He should have asked Lydia what had happened. Sitting here, wondering what had put his pregnant ex in the ER was killing him. He darted out of the car before it actually stopped.

A grumpy man behind a desk pointed him in the right direction. The two of them had seen each other before, usually when one of his agents got drunk and roughed someone up – or got roughed up themselves, but the nurse seemed particularly judgmental tonight. Guess he had reason to be. There was a doctor closing the door to Ruby’s room as he approached.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Gabe said, his voice slightly more high pitched than usual, “is Rub- Angelica in there?”

“Yes, she is,” the doctor nodded brow slightly pinched in a way that made Gabe feel weak. “You must be the father?”

“Um, yes,” he choked out, “I guess I am.”

“You didn’t know about this,” she asked in surprise.

“No, I had no idea. I would have . . . No, I didn’t know.” Gabe couldn’t say exactly what he would have done if he had known about all this earlier, but he would like to believe he could have kept Ruby out of the hospital at least.

“Well then,” the doctor began, seeming satisfied, “I’m glad you got here so quickly. Perhaps you can help us figure a few things out. She’s being uncooperative.”

“Sounds right,” Gabe sighed. “I’ll tell you anything I can, but I haven’t seen her in around half a year.”

“I see,” she frowned at the chart in her hands. “Was she taking any illegal narcotics when you last saw her? And please, be honest.”

“Na-narcotics,” he gaped. “No! Ruby likes to get a little wild, party harder than most, but I never saw her taking any heavy drugs. Not once.”

“She is now,” the doctor said pursing her lips, “and she’s clearly not been taking care of herself or the fetus in any other way. I’m stunned we haven’t seen her in here before now.”

Gabe felt cold all over again, but it permeated deeper this time. He swallowed hard. “The baby’s okay though, right?”

She pursed her lips and looked away a moment. “There’s still a heartbeat, but it’s not as strong as it should be, and the mother is very malnourished, meaning the child is too. In all honesty, you’re lucky there hasn’t been a miscarriage. We would like to do some testing and a proper ultrasound but she keeps fighting us. We’re worried that if we force anything we will hurt her or the baby.”

Gabe ran his fingers through his hair and hunched over. “Christ, Ruby, what the hell happened?”

“Look,” the doctor sighed, losing a bit of her professionalism, “she’s awake now and she’s said your name a number of times so maybe you can get through to her, convince us to let us help her. She has an IV she keeps messing with but she NEEDS it. That baby needs it, too. If you can calm her down that would help a lot.”

He scratched his scruffle and nodded despite his lack of faith. “I’ll do what I can.” She stepped out of the way and allowed Gabe to see the patient.

Ruby was almost unrecognizable. Her hair had been dyed some unnatural shade of black, her skin was marred with scabs and scratches, her face was hollowed and limbs unsettlingly thin. If it weren’t for that trademark red lipstick Gabe would have thought he was in the wrong room. A thin blanket was covering her lower body, but he could see the shape of a large bump at her midsection. “Mierda, Ruby, what have you done to yourself?”

She leaned her head up and scowled. “What are you doing here, goody two shoes?”

He came closer slowly, timidly, and leaned on the foot of her bed. “Docs called me. Said you were asking for me.”

Ruby scoffed and pulled her covers closer. “There’s no way I did that.”

“I sure as hell haven’t been keeping tabs on you anymore,” he said flatly, “you must have said something.”

“They were drilling me for an emergency contact,” she muttered, “musta let something slip.”

“I’m glad you did,” Gabe murmured more gently before looking from a nasty bruise on his ex’s arm to her face. “You should have told me, Rube, about the baby. You should have told me.”

They stared right into each other’s eyes, both refusing to give in. She had an awful glare, but it began to slip, bit by bit until she was biting her lip as tears formed in her eyes. “Don’t you fucking chide me, Gabriel,” she spat, “don’t you dare.”

“What do you expect me to do,” he said coming around to the side of her bed, “you’re pregnant, really pregnant, and I had no idea! Why didn’t you tell me?”

She picked at the nubs of her chipped, bloody fingernails. “Didn’t see the point – if this thing survives I’ll be dumping it off at an orphanage as soon as the cord’s cut.”

Gabe lost it, gripping the rail on her bed and leaning over Ruby as she jolted in shock. “What the fuck do you mean, if the baby survives?! Were you trying to kill it? And yourself? Is that why you picked up a needle and started jabbing yourself? WHY?! Ruby, I could have helped you. If you didn’t want the baby that’s your call, I would have accepted that, but pumping yourself full of poison and starving yourself is not okay. That’s not fair to our kid. It’s not their fault you got knocked up, it’s mine. Punish me if you want, but don’t become a junkie and torture yourself like this. Please. You’re better than this.”

“Gabe,” she whispered, wiping the tears from her cheeks and trembling, “I’m not better than this and you know it. I know I should have told you but I couldn’t. I don’t know why, but I just couldn’t! That fucking pregnancy test came back positive and I just spiraled out of control. Christ, I hardly even remember the past few months. It’s like I just kept getting bigger and no matter what I did this thing kept living and every part of me kept hurting. I’m sorry Gabe, I am, but – but – ” She began to sob and shake, hands clamped over her mouth as she tried to control herself.

“Alright, alright,” he said softly, “deep breaths.” Gabe was still irate, but he wasn’t going to be cruel and berate Ruby while she was lying in the ER. He rubbed her shoulder until she stopped hyperventilating. She looked exhausted, as if the outburst had drained the last of her energy.

“This baby is better off never being born,” she whimpered, “I’m sure she’s already sick and rotten like me, and we all know I shouldn’t be a mother. I don’t want to be one.”

“No one is going to force you be a mom, Ruby. Honest, but that little guy is pretty big now, I don’t think an abortion is an option anymore.”

“It’s not,” she groaned. “I don’t know what to do now.”

“Well, I’m hoping you’ll try to take better care of the baby until its born and I take over,” Gabe said firmly. She frowned up at him.

“You’re going to take her? Mr. Overwatch man who has no time? The guy who got together with me because he didn’t want to get serious with his lady?”

“Things are different now,” he said somewhat aggravatedly, “it’s not Nora harping at me, there a kid. My kid. A kid who didn’t ask for any of this and needs me. I’m not saying I’m going to be father of the year, but I’m going to try.”

She eyed him thoughtfully for a long minute before sighing, sounding relieved. “You’ll take good care of ‘em,” Ruby nodded. “They’ll be okay with you.” Her eyes closed and she buried into her pillow.

“Hey,” Gabe said encouraging her to stay awake, “you gotta let these doctors know you’ll work with them, okay?”

“Fine,” she griped, rolling over onto her back. Her stomach looked massive on her withered body.

He hit the nurse call button, still staring at her belly. “Uh, Rube?”

“Yeah?”

“How far along are you?”

“I dunno, maybe seven months? Maybe more?”

“Wait,” he said pursing his lips, “you broke it off with me when you were already pregnant? Did you know?”

“Shut up and go find the doctor,” she snapped, waving him away with a disgruntled look. He knew better than to press the issue at this point. Besides, no changing it now. He’d be less pissed if he kept thinking about the future and not how things could have been.

There was some discussion, some paperwork, and a lot of Ruby rolling her eyes, but in the end, Gabe was given access to his ex’s medical information – he would be kept informed at all times on the status of both patients.

“Is there anything else you need from me,” Gabe asked.

“No,” Dr. Faraday, the woman from the hall, replied, “everything should be in order. We will let you know once the test results come in and when an ultrasound is scheduled. For now, Ms. Cotter needs to get some rest, we’ll start treatment tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” he said with a small smile. “Can I have another minute with her? I’ll be out soon, I promise.”

“So long as you keep it short,” she agreed, leaving the room. Ruby yawned and glanced to Gabe.

“What else do you want,” she asked sleepily. “I really don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

He leaned on the bed again, hands in his pockets. “All I want to say is thank you for being amicable about all this. I’m not going to condone what you’ve done, but I’m glad you’re trying to make it right.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she huffed, “I’m just glad it will be over soon.”

“If at any point you want to change your mind, if you want to see your baby – ”

“No,” she all but yelled. “I don’t want anything to do with either of you after it’s born! I’m putting all this behind me, like it never happened.”

“Okay, okay.” Gabe knew he should leave, let her be, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. There was just one more thing he –

“What is it, Gabriel,” Ruby growled, “I know you want to say something. Just do it so I can go to bed!”

“I was hoping I could, maybe,” he fumbled.

“Spit it out.”

“Could I  . . . feel your stomach? Just once? I’ll understand if you say no, but – ”

“Will you leave if I say yes?”

“Yes.”

“Then go for it. Little shit won’t stop moving around so you may as well do it when I can’t ignore the kid.” She pulled her blanket down and exposed a filthy crop top and some unbuttoned jeans surrounding her mostly bare belly. There were bruises and what looked like cigarette burns on her tight skin. Gabe was equal parts enraged and entranced. His little mijo or mija was in there. A goofy smile blossomed under his curly mustache.

He placed his palm gently on a patch of unmarred flesh and rubbed his thumb along the curve of her stomach. “Hang in there, conejito,” he murmured.

One soft little pat thumped against Ruby’s skin just to the right of Gabe’s hand. He laughed and moved his hand to the spot and the baby kicked right in the center of his hand. “That’s my girl.”

Ruby squirmed awkwardly and yanked the covers over her. “I’m tired,” she said in a voice so meek Gabe hardly believed it came from the party animal.

“Sure,” he said moving away, thumb rubbing the spot on his palm where his child had kicked. “Get some sleep and try to take is easy on the docs, okay? They’re trying to look after you, both of you.” She nodded and closed her eyes.

“And take care of my girl for me,” he said just above a whisper as he opened the door.

“Gabe?”

“Yeah?”

“You really think it’s a girl?”

He thought a moment. “Guess I do. Just a feeling.”

“Don’t name her after me.”

He held back a snort. “Alright.”

“And . . . make up a story about her mom. Something nice. Don’t let her grow up knowing what I did to her. That I was this shitty.”

“I’ll do what I think is right for her,” he said determinedly, “but I’ll be gentle when I tell her about you.”

“’Kay. Night, Gabe.”

“Night, Rube.”

@watch-your-grammer @winchester-sonsandcastiel @envy-kitty

[tumbleweedshorts]

Mind Thief

Inspiration: Facebook prompt:

"I think I've lost my mind. Did you take it? I don't know where it is." "Maybe it's in that bag."

I need to find a place to hide this. The cops will soon be on my tail, and I need to hide this. It's not merely a matter of my survival or my freedom, however. It's for the good of the country.

I'm a mind-catcher, you see. I'm hired by various people to capture the minds of others for various purposes. I was trained in this by my uncle. He was a notorious mind-catcher in his day, and took me on as an apprentice after my parents died. It's a delicate job, and one needs to take care not to leave any trace of oneself behind in the subject's head. My uncle always used to say, "Take only the mind, leave only nothing". But after years of painstaking practice, I had proven my mettle.

Ever since I started in this career, I've never thought much about the ethical side of it... It's always been more important to me to make a living than to care about my targets' well-being. And maybe I should have started caring about that sooner. Recent events have made me reconsider this.

What you need to understand is that when someone's mind is captured, they become unable to do much at all. No sense of self left, no reference, no background, no memories, no attachments... I've seen (and, I admit, sometimes enjoyed watching) some of my targets after the fact. My uncle explained a lot of it too.

The result of this on the subject is that the first new memories, the first new experiences, become overinflated in the emptiness of the mind, and as a result become their first new reference, their first new sense of self. For example, if the first thing they hear is a duck quacking, they will associate with that and think they're a duck, and it can take years of other contradicting experiences, years of retraining, for them to realize they are not, in fact, a duck.

It's also possible to inject a mind into someone, but this needs to be done much more carefully, as putting too much mind into one person can cause massive confusion and eventually brain damage. So one needs to first remove just the right amount of mind before injecting a new one.

But it's also not good to inject a mind blindly into an empty head, as this can lead to a complete lack of muscle coordination in the subject. Indeed, muscle commands aren't entirely extracted but they're still present in the extraction, so reintroducing muscle commands can create conflicts.

Anyway, I'm a mind-catcher. Usually I work for private people who need others "eliminated". And I've been very good at this, never leaving a trace and never getting caught.

Until, that is, two years ago when I stumbled into a trap. It was a sting operation by the authorities. They wanted a mind-catcher to work for them. My uncle was long dead, and I'd become the best in the business. However, as they couldn't trace me with any evidence, they set this up to catch me in the act. Since then, they've been threatening to arrest and execute me lest I assist them in their mission.

At first it was easy, and simple. I was to apply my skills to dangerous people: convicted criminals, sentenced serial killers, proven paedophiles, real rapists, and occasionally true traitors, when they were caught. It all seemed fair and aboveboard, and brought in a decent, steady income.

I still take on the odd job privately, because that brings in more money. I'm sure my new bosses suspect it, but if they do they tolerate it, as I am by now the only mind-catcher left in the country. Realizing this, they even allowed me to take on an apprentice.

But a couple of months ago, following the election, there has been some change at the top. The head of the police force that employed me became the country's president, and a paranoid one at that. And he'd hired another paranoid guy to replace him.

Suddenly the police's authority was greatly extended. It has now become a real thought police, at the service of the new leader's propaganda machine. Opposition political parties have been the targets of major crackdowns.

Thankfully, until now, my job has essentially remained the same. I would receive an order, complete with a case reference. I had access to the case files, and I always checked them out of curiosity. So far I've only captured truly guilty minds for them.

Until yesterday, that is. The job they gave me yesterday was different. Looking through the case file, signed by the new police chief himself, i didn't see any actual proof of any wrongdoing. As far as I could see, this guy was just the number two in one of the main opposition parties, guilty of no more than expressing concern at the new leader's actions.

I fulfilled my orders with the usual precision and skill. But inside, for the first time since I had started in this career, I felt guilty. this subject was just a victim, a victim of a paranoid government in its efforts to institute its new propaganda.

I couldn't sleep at all last night, reeling from the implications of what I had just done on my bosses' orders. Instead I stayed up. After a bottle of wine and a few hours of thinking, I knew I needed a plan. This morning when I left my home, my plan was ready.

For the first time in my life, I was going to get involved in politics. And for this, I was going to do what I do best, and stay ahead of the authorities the same way I always had.

I headed out to work. On the way I withdrew my savings, so as to have enough cash with me. I arrived at the central precinct, and immediately requested a meeting with the chief. During the meeting I expressed my concerns... that our actions weren't part of a bigger, more systematic program.

He agreed with me completely and started expounding his plan to make this systematic and far-reaching, targeting not only political opposition but autists, schizophrenics, immigrants, disabled people, racial minorities and religious believers. I had overheard him describing bits of this over coffee, but now I was getting confirmation.

He and the new President wanted to turn this country into a new Nazi regime, only this time with a powerful new weapon: me. He was going to use me to train a whole class of mind-catchers. He was going to reshape the country in their image by neutralizing all who didn't fit their model. By stealing their minds.

All the while the recorder in my briefcase was catching his every word. I needed this recording as evidence. When we'd finished our discussion, I acted reassured and confident the plan would work. I bent down to pick up my briefcase, opening a vial of narcotic gas underneath his desk and holding my breath. I then got up, shook his hand and walked to the door. But instead of leaving, I locked it. By then the chief was already drowsy. I put a gas mask on.

Once the police chief had gone to sleep, I took out my equipment and put it on his head. I knew this would be my only chance to act. Once the agents found their boss without a mind, they would know I had double-crossed them, and they would hunt me down. I had to act quickly and get away quietly.

The mind cap buzzed with activity for about an hour, transferring all his memories, his past, his feelings, everything, through the rubber pipe to the empty bottle on the desk, already labeled with a fake name and the date.

When that was finished, I packed everything away. The sleeping gas, I knew, would still give me another half hour to get out of there. Making sure I left no traces in the office, I unlocked the door and left the precinct the back way.

Since then I've been hiding out at my uncle's old place, which is now an auto shop. It's been my uncle's front business for his entire career, and when he died I sold it and opened my own front elsewhere. But I'm friends with Jack, the new owner, having helped him end his grandmother's suffering by removing her memories of the past war and her intense PTSD.

She's doing better now, much more cheerful. He's retrained her well, following my advice. He seems to have convinced her that I'm a relative, and she keeps inviting me over for lunch at their place above the auto shop. Today I took her up on that, the better to hide out there for a while.

That's where I am now, of course. Sitting on their sofa looking at the bag on the table. Inside this bag is the bottle with the police chief's mind. I think of the implications of what I've just done. And then a thought strikes me: this mind probably contains a lot more information than I imagine, and possibly a lot of information that would be useful to plenty of people. And some of those people would use it... for all the wrong reasons.

Another disturbing thought strikes me... I could use this information myself, for my own purposes, if I choose to. Just the thought of that makes me shudder. My original plan was just to reveal the recording from this morning to people who would be able to overthrow the government. But this... this is dangerous. I need to get rid of it. I need to hide it.

Unfortunately, it's almost impossible to destroy a captured mind. The only fool-proof way is to bleach it, an extremely delicate operation that first involves converting it to a liquid form that won't just waft back into the atmosphere, spreading random bits of itself into random people's minds and potentially causing significant side-effects.

When I bleach a mind, I'm usually in a specially protected lab with specialized equipment that prevents any of those side-effects. Obviously, if the cops are going to be after me, I can't go back home to my own lab. And Jack tore my uncle's old lab down entirely a year ago to expand his business.

I need to think about this. I can't just leave this lying around. I can't just throw it away. I can't entrust it to anyone, lest they break or open the bottle. I can't let these ideas get back out there.

I know what I'll do. After lunch, I'll pack my things again and go. I'll cross the border and find a place to hide out. But wait - it still won't be safe. Suddenly I realize that this bottle I have in my possession is nothing but a time bomb...

I need to get rid of it far, far away from anyone, where it won't affect anyone. Where that is, I don't know. Just not here. Not in this country. I have to go, today. Far away. to the middle of the ocean or the middle of Antarctica or wherever. I need to hide this bottle where it will never be found and its contents will never be released. I'll leave after lunch.

***

OK, I've made it. I'm at the south pole. It's bloody freezing! Hopefully the temperature will play in my favor. I've never seen a mind in such conditions before, for all I know it might have liquefied or solidified already, and be easier to handle.

I take my briefcase and walk about a km away from the Pole itself. I take my shovel and start digging through the snow. After a few meters I make it to the first layer of ice. I swap the shovel for a pickaxe and continue digging.

After two hours of this I've dug a hole about 2m down into the ice. My thermal clothing's efficiency is starting to be beaten by the ambient cold, however, and I'm already starting to tremble. I get out of the hole, go to the sleigh and grab another coat as well as the briefcase.

Getting back to the hole, I take out the bag with the bottle. I've lined it with several layers of foam, to make damn sure the bottle didn't break on the way. I take out the bottle and prepare to lay it into the hole and cover it up.

A sudden gust of wind almost shakes me off my feet and at the same time causes me to shiver violently. The bottle falls into the hole and smashes at the bottom. A bluish liquid spreads on the ice, but still gives off a bit of smoke. I desperately try to get away from it and shovel snow back onto it.

But the wind makes my efforts unsuccessful. I hold my breath, to avoid inhaling any of it. Unfortunately minds are more treacherous than that... They can go through clothing and skin, and just holding my breath can only delay what is now inevitable.

I start shoveling snow back into the hole, but progressively my mind starts teeming with different things. My movements become more erratic and random. Pretty soon I drop the shovel entirely and fall to the floor, twitching randomly with all my body.

I have visions of strange people, an unknown woman, Jack, the President, children being tortured and killed, myself stealing the police chief's mind, an ideal society where everyone thinks like me, the President's right hand...

Me, I have to stop this... I suddenly slap myself, without meaning to. It's the effects of that mind contam... I'm in front of me, talking about concerns about the prog... I'm digging myself into the snow with my random movements. It's too l... We'll manage, Mr. President, we'll succeed. I have just the m...

Noooo! It's too late... I... I can't... They'll all die! All the substandard people, all the undesi... I can't go back. I can't... I can't do anyth... I can't even get up... There's only one thing to do... Kill them all...

No! No! I have to stop it! But I can't... I shouldn't... In a last moment of lucidity, I realize I shouldn't even try to go back. I must let myself die there, on the snow, at the bottom of the world...

And the world will be peaceful and united under the Optimal Race... It's cold... It's so cold... I must... let myself... die...

[kaishighat]

Believer|| A Self Para

A lot happened the night of July 28th 2017. Jeb Hiatt and his band debuted their album in The Tunnels. Lydia Reagan and her family held a charity event for the children’s hospital, and the NYPD Narcotics and Homicide units made their way down to the docks for what was going to be a shit show. Kai was shaking. The thought of Alexie and his goons taking out him and his friends and the innocent people involved scared him to death. His stomach was in knots. Kai didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to be here and he didn’t want to be in this situation. But it was a full on war. Ian and Shura had suited him up in a vest and he took the oath to be a temporary agent. The fucking irony. “Hey, it’s gonna be alright, yeah small one?” Shura spoke, giving Kai’s shoulder a squeeze. He didn’t feel like it was going to be alright. They were literally on their way to take out a hive.

The entirety of New York City’s Russian Mafia.

And he was helping them do it.

These people that once helped him take care of his makeshift family, gave him a job and invited him into their homes, he was about to send them to prison. But on the flipside, they were killing people. Innocent people. When you’re so used to your life being able to be black and white, it’s hard for anything to start turning gray. But he had to do it. Because Ian and Sam had a point. What made him think that regardless of loyalty, they wouldn’t one day come for him anyway?

They parked out in an alley, Kai looking across the van over at Sam who was watching him in the rearview mirror. “Ya good kid?” She asked, her voice low and serious. He just nodded. His stomach was turning more and more by the second. “Heads up, black car three o’clock.” Ian spoke before anyone else could say anything, everyone getting ready to roll out. “Just stay behind me, yeah? You’ll be fine. We couldn’t do this without you.” Kai nodded at Sam, looking over at Shura, waiting for him to give the signal. He turned his hat backwards, swiftly and quietly getting out of the car with them. Most of this, he learned when he was a drug runner. It was virtually no different. Only now he was leading the police around a maze instead of strolling in like he owned the fucking place.

The squad quietly made their way around, the muscle men behind them doing their best to make quiet arrests, while Kai, Sam, Ian and Shura made their way into the core of the building. His heart hadn’t stopped pounding. The thing that surprised him the most was how quiet it was when they were walking through. Radio silence. Once one gun went off it’s like they didn’t stop, and suddenly everything was happening so fast. “Kai! Twelve o’clock!” He didn’t even think, he just turned the direction, avoided the shot fired at him, and pulled the trigger. And his blood ran ice cold.

“Fuck is he dead?”

“Don’t think about it.” Was the only answer he got. “Oh my god. Oh my god oh my god.” Shura came up and slapped him across the face, adjusting his hat in the same motion. “Get ahold of yourself! It was you or him! You or Him!” Kai nodded, swallowing hard but still looking at the body on the floor, Shura groaning and going over, kicking the gun away and examining the body. “You just shot him in the arm, he’s passed out from shock, but he’ll live. Okay?” That made him feel better, whether it was a lie or not, but he needed to focus. So he pulled it together and followed the group. They just needed Alexie. Anyone else was a win, but they mainly needed Alexie. But once they got down into the main of it all, it was a fucking mess.

Shit was being fired at them left and right and he didn’t know if he should just hide so he followed their lead, taking cover behind the crates and the giant bags of whatever the fuck was being sold. Sam was calling for backup since what they had didn’t seem to be enough. There were a few scuffles, it had been awhile since Kai had been punched in the face but he still knew how to throw one, this time aiming for the legs and arms to put down the people that were after him. Bullets were flying past him and everything just seemed so unreal to him. Like he wasn’t even in his body as he followed the three veterans. And then, he was hit in the chest, knocking the air right out of him, and he realized this was definitely real.

Ian grabbed him by the back of the vest, dragging him to safety. “You alright?! You hit anywhere else?” Kai shook his head, sitting up straight and doing his best to get air back in his lungs. “I’m good! I’m good I’m alright!” He shouted over the noise of it all, pretty sure he was going to be deaf by the end of the night. Suddenly it was quiet, and they knew that wasn’t good. Shura peeked up, stepping out for a second and looking in all directions. “Clear!”

There was a ring through the air, and then he was on the ground. The three popped out, Kai firing off and hitting a couple more people that came out of hiding, Sam and Ian following suit. “Sam, cover me!” Ian ordered, the woman nodding and following, letting Ian drag Shura back to safety. “I’m out!” She called, looking at Shura’s gun in the middle of the floor. Kai looked around, he could hear the commotion outside of the other officers trying to get everyone that ran under control. “Where’d he go?” He looked at Sam, who was also looking around, trying to find their main target. The two emerged, Kai standing in front while they tried to make their way to the gun on the floor. “Guys…. Guys!” The two turned around, Kai immediately raising the pistol to take the shot but stopping when Sam put her hand on his arm. “You couldn’t get a clean on, you’d hit Ian right in the neck.”

“The thing you need to know, is that I always win.” Alexie smiled at the two, his attention turning to Kai. “See, I treated you well. I opened my home to you, you met my kids and taught my son and daughter, I got Marley into an amazing school, and this is how you repay me, Kai? I’m disappointed.”

“I’m not a murderer.”

“Don’t try and take the high road. You’ve done just as much damage, working with this… traitor and that woman that would’ve gladly put you behind bars a few months ago doesn’t erase that.” Kai knew that. He knew that at this point, Alexie had the upperhand. “But I’ll settle for Ian right now.” He cocked the gun he was holding, and Kai was suddenly reminded of the first night he worked with the man. How he asked Kai to man handle a victim into his car and then made him stand out there on the cold docks while he shot him at point blank range.

He remembered how helpless he felt.

But he wasn’t helpless now.

“Pull the trigger and I’ll put you down, Alexie.” He cocked the gun, staring right back at the man.

Sam looked at Kai, her eyebrows furrowed together. “Kai you wait for an order to fire that weapon. You wait for a clean shot.”

“Why he’s not wrong. If I wasn’t of use to you, you would have me in a jail cell right now. I could just pull the trigger and take the work off for you guys.”

“You’re not like him, though, you are not that person! You have a choice to walk out of here or become him.”

Things were starting to go back to slow motion.

At an arms length away, Alexie had the gun to Ian’s head. Shura was shot and bleeding badly and Sam was out of bullets, so it was only Kai with his gun drawn. Torn between the people he loved and becoming what he was thought to be. Proving everyone right. He couldn’t handle it. His thoughts went to Marley and how she’d have to grow up without him, the worry he’d put his family through, and Noelle. God Noelle. He’d have to leave her behind, and that’s not the life he wanted. His mind flashed to his friends and all the holidays to the day he got engaged. To the times he wouldn’t be there for if this went wrong like Jeb’s graduation and watching his fiance walk the runway. And it really hit him.

He could never be like Alexie.

“What do we do?” He asked, his voice shaking as the words left his mouth and glanced at Sam, scared to take his eyes off the two in front of him.  “What do we do?!” He yelled, voice now cracking as he was on the verge of tears. He’d already shot more people dead than he ever wanted to in his life, there was no coming back from that, but he couldn’t end this peacefully either. There was no clean line, and he wasn’t about to put down his best friend and the person that took care of him; no matter how bad of a man he was. Sam was thinking. There had to be a solution to this or backup had to be on the way, something had to come through and end this well for them.

“Kai listen to me. You’re a smart kid. Just put the gun down and we’ll all walk out of here. I promise you.” Alexie spoke, his charming voice soothing him but only for a moment. He was trying to get into his head. He was trying to turn him back onto his side.

Alexie, the man with no fears, was worried.

“Kai don’t you dare put that gun down. You keep it drawn, you take the shot when you get one.” Sam ordered. “He doesn’t have a shot!” Alexie about laughed at the idea. “Look, Kai, I’ve protected you, yeah, you put the gun down and we can all walk out of this. Have I ever lied to you?” And everything went still.

Kai wanted so badly to put the gun down and believe that Alexie was telling the truth. But with both Sam and Shura begging him to keep it drawn, his attention fell on Ian. The harsh truth of the situation crashing down on him like the first wave from Katrina.

“He’s never gonna let you go, is he?” His voice was void of anything now, swallowing the lump in his throat like he just swallowed the truth.

Ian just shook his head, the panic setting in on Alexie’s face. “No, Kai. He’s not.”

“There’s, uh…. There’s no way out of this is there?” Again, he shook his head, a calm expression on his face as if he’d already accepted his fate. As if he knew what was going to happen before any of this started.

“No.”

Kai started breathing heavier, he wasn’t sure what to do. “Kai you need to take the shot.” Sam spoke, the panic on her own voice, knowing just as well as Ian and Shura and Kai and Alexie, there was only one way this would end. Knowing that if anyone else were to get hurt, it was on her and it was time to accept that.

“It’s okay, Kai. It’s okay.” Ian spoke across to him, Kai shaking his head, his arms slowly lowering, no matter how much he tried to keep them up. “I can’t do it. I-I-I can’t…” The tears were streaming down his face now, taking the dirt and sweat and blood that had built up on his face with them. Ian’s face, unwavering as he offered Kai a sad smile as he spoke.

“You got this kid, it’s gonna be alright.” 

He didn’t hear anything after that. He knew Sam was begging him to just take the shot, to get this over with. And he knew Alexie was now telling him he shouldn’t take the shot. That if he would just put the gun down they’d be okay. He saw Shura bleeding out. He saw the dust settling onto the warehouse floor.

He heard the whistling of a bullet.

And then he saw Alexie Romanov drop to the floor, the gun going off and the bullet hitting a crate of marijuana. With the simple squeeze of a trigger, an empire was dead. “Goddamn Gomez! About took his head off!” A sniper from the window up top killed the man they all wanted to take to prison. Help arrived in the knick of time, and then it was over. People were rushing in to sweep the rest of the warehouse and neighboring buildings, and the small group was escorted outside.

The next thing he knew they were lifting Shura into the ambulance, he was laughing but Kai was pretty sure he wouldn’t be once he woke up again. Everyone on the other side was handcuffed and just waiting to be hauled off and taken in. He let Sam take the gun from his shaking hands, and let her take him over somewhere he could sit while she went off and reported or did whatever was left for her to do. Across the way he saw Ian being questioned. The ambulance was patching up a few cuts and bullet grazes on his own arm, things he didn’t even feel until now he had so much adrenaline running through him.

Eventually wives and husbands and girlfriends  and boyfriends were showing up. He watched as Anja ran over to Ian as he sat in the ambulance getting his own wounds tended to. He saw Sam looking like she was about to pass out, but staying awake anyway. He saw what he assumed was Shura’s husband or boyfriend or whoever run to the ambulance, tears running down his face as the male suffering from blood loss tried to comfort him. And he realized all these people put on the line, for this one moment, everything. “Hey, Hiatt.” Sam walked over to him, standing in front of him, almost like they were back on the steps of his construction trailer just a few short weeks ago. “Call your fiance. It’s over. And meet us back at the squad room on Monday for debriefing.” And then she walked off. All that work and worry and effort all for this.

And with his good arm, he picked up the phone and called Noelle.

“Hey…”

[latestnews2018-blog]

'Looking' Made Raúl Castillo A Sex Symbol. Sheer Force Made Him A Star.

New Post has been published on https://latestnews2018.com/looking-made-raul-castillo-a-sex-symbol-sheer-force-made-him-a-star/

'Looking' Made Raúl Castillo A Sex Symbol. Sheer Force Made Him A Star.

In New York, in the middle of July, if the fickle subway system allows it, you’d be wise to arrive at a destination 10 minutes early. You’ll need that time to let the sweat evaporate, to stamp out the damp spots that have betrayed your outfit. 

Raúl Castillo forfeited his chance to cool down before shaking my hand at a Manhattan hotel restaurant on a sweltering Thursday morning. I didn’t mind. It was an honest mistake.

The “Looking” star was running slightly late and looking slightly frazzled when he bounded toward our table. He’d confused this hotel for another within walking distance where, the previous night, Castillo had attended a screening of the new Alexander McQueen documentary with his girlfriend, the costume designer Alexis Forte, who has the late fashion maverick’s biography at their Brooklyn apartment. 

It’s cute to see celebrities frayed, even ones who are still building their marquee value. Castillo is the type who hasn’t yet abandoned public transportation when navigating the city, even though it’s becoming harder to do so without attracting strangers’ gazes. While trekking home from the “McQueen” event, a Latina teenager tapped him to say she loved “Atypical,” the Netflix series in which Castillo played a charismatic bartender sleeping with Jennifer Jason Leigh’s married character. The teenager’s mother loved “Seven Seconds,” the Netflix series in which Castillo played a narcotics detective tending to a racially charged investigation. 

Raúl Castillo: a guy you can bring home to Mom, punctual or otherwise.

Eric Ogden for HuffPost

Photo shoot produced by Christy Havranek; Grooming by Claudia Lake; Clothing courtesy of Theory

It’s his voice that people recognize, the 40-year-old actor said, a modest notion considering his breakthrough role as the sensitive barber Richie on “Looking” made Castillo a veritable heartthrob, despite the HBO show’s modest ratings. But it’s true that his warm baritone gravel is a distinguishing trait. Earlier this year, when I saw “Unsane,” Steven Soderbergh’s scrappy iPhone thriller set inside a mental institution, I recognized Castillo’s intonation before his face appeared onscreen. 

That’s a significant feat. Castillo mumbled so much as an adolescent that a teacher recommended he see a speech therapist. He refused, instead reminding himself to enunciate or else using the impediment as a defense mechanism. “I have all these things wrong with my voice,” Castillo said, though few today would agree. 

Castillo’s cadence may be growing familiar, but fame hardly seems like his long game. This is, after all, a guy who studied playwriting ― hardly the creative pursuit that commands the brightest spotlight ― at Boston University, after which he paid about $300 a month to live in a garage in Austin and perform local Chicano theater. “We the Animals,” a Sundance indie opening this weekend, marks the first time Castillo is the one generating a project’s star power. He portrays the father of three tight-knit boys storming through a wooded town in upstate New York. The movie, adapted from Justin Torres’ autobiographical novel of the same name, combines elements of “Beasts of the Southern Wild” and “Moonlight” to capture a domestic home life that’s equal parts tender and volatile, where abuse and affection are equally common.

Castillo’s enthusiasm about “We the Animals,” and about the possibly of again working with its director, Jeremiah Zagar (“Captivated: The Trials of Pamela Smart”), speaks to his ambivalence toward the celebrity ecosystem.

“He could be like Tom Cruise without the child slavery,” Zagar said, roasting the “Mission: Impossible” moneymaker’s Scientology association (and its alleged history of forced manual labor). “Raúl’s that kind of a dude. He’s a perfect-looking dude, and yet he’s incredibly real and honest and true. There’s never a false note. He’s also incredibly collaborative. As a director, that’s a wonderful thing. I didn’t know what I was doing, really, because I had never directed a narrative before, and Raúl had a way of making me feel comfortable and confident in my own beliefs and my own material. He’s so seasoned and so clear about what he needs to do to make a scene work and a character work and to elevate other people around him.”

Eric Ogden for HuffPost

It’s a small movie with grainy aesthetics and an impressionistic lyricism ― in no way the kind of thing that will make a killing at the box office. For someone who first fell in love with theater by discovering the plays of Puerto Rican and Mexican writers like Miguel Piñero and Luis Valdez in his high school library, playing the complicated patriarch of a mixed-race family feels like a destiny fulfilled. (Sheila Vand, star of the Iranian horror gem “A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night,” plays Castillo’s wife.) At this point, opportunities to extend his commercial footprint ― guest spots as a cannibal on “Gotham” and a music teacher on “Riverdale,” for example ― will find Castillo one way or another. 

“I’ve always felt that I was never cookie-cutter,” he said. “For as much as I tried to fit my square peg into round holes, constantly, my whole career, I could never do it. Whenever I read ‘We the Animals,’ I didn’t think I would be cast in that film. […] I felt viewed more as a Richie. People think I tend to find those roles easier than I do a role like this, ’cause it’s harsh. I knew that I could do it. I’m so grateful for both Jeremiah and Justin, who did see that in me.”

Born in McAllen, Texas, a midsize agricultural town that sits on the Mexican border, Castillo’s triumphs were born out of people believing in him at the exact right moments. He belongs to a first-generation immigrant family, even if home was a mere 10 miles down the road. Castillo didn’t feel othered, but his dual identity instilled a sort of anti-establishment fluster.

“I just saw a lot of bullshit in the structures that were established for me,” he said. “I found a lot of hypocrisies. People valued money, and I think when I was very young, I valued money and I didn’t have it. I think I hated myself for it.”

Slowly shedding the Catholic mysticism that once awed him, he took up bass and played in punk bands. When his friend Tanya Saracho, who would go on to write for “Looking” and “How to Get Away with Murder,” likened his GPA to a lifeline out of McAllen, Castillo decided to care about school. But in Boston, he was suddenly the minority. His “bad attitude” kept him out of second-year acting courses, until mentorship from a professor of color let Castillo understand that he shouldn’t punish himself for being subjected to an overwhelmingly white institution. And when he moved to New York in 2002, his pal Mando Alvarado, now a writer for “Greenleaf” and “Vida” (on which Castillo will soon appear), posited presentation as a mark of self-worth; if he didn’t put care into his résumé and headshot, why should anyone put care into hiring him?

Eric Ogden for HuffPost

Of course, when success takes years to manifest, it’s easy to forget the lessons you’ve learned. Living with four or five roommates at once, Castillo worked his way into the Labyrinth Theater Company, an experimental off-Broadway troupe founded by Philip Seymour Hoffman and John Ortiz. He still wanted to be a writer ― in high school, Castillo only ever acted to impress girls anyway ― but in 2006 he found himself starring in a Labyrinth production of “School of the Americas,” a play by “Motorcycle Diaries” scribe José Rivera. The acting bug stuck. In 2009, his play “Knives and Other Sharp Objects,” a multigenerational drama about class in Texas, opened off-Broadway, earning a mixed review from The New York Times. 

Still, nothing quite lasted. The business side of things was grueling, and his coffee-shop gigs were getting old, even if he did count Lili Taylor and RuPaul as customers. An agent sent him on auditions for “huge” Hollywood movies ― which ones, Castillo wouldn’t say ― but dropped him after none proved fruitful. He was ready to give up altogether when “Looking” came around. Castillo had starred in the short film that became a prototype for the series. Its director, Michael Lannan, called him to audition for Richie (the character he’d initially played) and Augustin (a more prominent Latino character who worked as an artist’s assistant). He didn’t land either role, even though he’d originated one of them.

But by the time “Looking” was a week away from shooting, a Richie still hadn’t been cast. The producers called Castillo to read for Andrew Haigh, the gifted English director who shepherded the half-hour dramedy. Haigh had seen Castillo in an indie mystery called “Cold Weather” that gave him “street cred.” Crashing on John Ortiz’s couch in Hell’s Kitchen, wondering what else he could do with his life, Castillo was at a bar one night when he received an email with a contract attached. He had no representation to negotiate his salary, but it didn’t matter: After living check to check, he was on HBO.

“I was like, ‘Yes. Take my soul. I don’t care. Pay me. I need money,’” Castillo recalled. “I needed not just a paycheck but the affirmation. I needed something artistically that I could sink my teeth into that had value to it. Something that was substantial. Something that had a real point of view. I needed a character that gave me a platform to do what I do in a really great scale in the best way possible. And it ended up being that. That show was such a great gift to me.”

All of Castillo’s ensuing fortune can be linked to “Looking.” It made him a sex symbol, a love interest, a fan favorite, a rising star whose claim to fame meant a great deal to anyone hungry for frank depictions of queer intimacy. Richie was the good-natured, self-righteous ideal ― a perfect counterpoint for Patrick (Jonathan Groff), the series’ unsettled protagonist. It became gay viewers’ great disappointment when they learned that Castillo, their anointed hunk, was in fact straight. 

“His inability to be fake as a person translates directly into his acting,” Groff said. “There is nothing extraneous or false about Raúl, and he brought a grounded, honest integrity to the character that absolutely no one else could have. He’s also just innately magic on screen and has that ‘it’ factor.”

Eric Ogden for HuffPost

Perhaps it was Castillo’s dual identity as a Mexican-American that helped him shine as a gay, blue-collar Californian who was sure of himself despite being rejected by his family. It’s certainly what lets him shine as the cash-strapped paterfamilias, caught between unremitting love for his kin and an inescapable pattern of violence, in “We the Animals.” This dyad comes at time when Castillo sees his identity splashed across the evening news.

McAllen houses the U.S. Border Patrol’s busiest hub for detaining immigrants suspected of entering the country illegally. While Castillo was vacationing in Europe and playing make-believe on sets, children were being ripped from their parents’ arms in his hometown. 

“I would always have to explain where McAllen was, and now it’s this name you’re seeing constantly in the news for all these reasons that represent, for me, everything that’s wrong with this country,” Castillo said. “It was paralyzing. I was sitting in a beach in Europe, wondering why I deserved to be there. My parents had access to this country in ways that people who are coming from longer distances don’t. We had the great gift of citizenship, which is an incredible privilege. But my parents were immigrants, and they navigated that dynamic our entire lives. I saw my mom and my dad deal with all the insecurities and all the precarious nature of what being an immigrant in this country is. […] Having grown up going back and forth across the border throughout my whole life, it’s disheartening and upsetting to see what’s happening. And then to think about this particular movie that deals with children, who are especially in that age when their minds are being formed and their view of the world is taking shape, to think about [the ones] locked in cages is enraging.”

Castillo may be miles from that crisis now, but he’s done more to better the world for brown people than he can know. His goal hasn’t been to diversity Hollywood roles written for white ensembles; it’s been to find work that naturally accentuates the grooves of his Latino heritage. He saw almost no Chicano role models in popular culture growing up, and now he is writing and starring in artistic endeavors that paint all shades of the human experience ― gay, poor, brown, cannibalistic, whatever ― with a dynamic brush. 

Eric Ogden for HuffPost

Which isn’t to say everything’s gotten easy. He was slated to play the lead in “Mix Tape” (a musical drama set in Los Angeles) and appear on “One Day at a Time” (the Norman Lear reboot), but has since exited both series and would rather not disclose why. I got the sense, during our two-hour breakfast, that Castillo is still protective of how he is perceived. Maybe he always will be. He’s comfortable reflecting on his upbringing and his relationship with race ― concepts he’s spent his whole life processing ― but being candid about recent setbacks, as routinely asked of celebrities in interviews, does not yet come easy.

It’s the “ego business bullshit” that still eats at him. It’s what eats at most of us. But when someone makes a name for himself, that burden slowly fades to the periphery, replaced by a newfound comfort, even power. The man who once served RuPaul coffee now shares an agent with the drag dignitary. 

“For so long, it was all feast or famine,” Castillo said. “I just took work when I could take it. And at this point, I’m in a new place where I want to be more thoughtful about the roles that I take on from here on out. The projects, the roles, the people. I’ve learned so much in the journey that now I want to apply all that and also honor my experience, because at this point I want to work with people who challenge me in all the right ways and push me to become a better actor and a better artist.”

Photography by Eric Ogden. Photo shoot produced by Christy Havranek. Grooming by Claudia Lake. Clothing courtesy of Theory.

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