#dusts off tumbler after being gone for so long

[silkythewriter]

Hi! I just stumbled upon your blog because of Death Note and that you were accepting requests for it! Can we get a gender neutral reader trying to convince L to put cat ears on? For science? Pretty please? :3 (They might need to bribe him with something sweet for him to do it)

✧Reader putting Cat ears on L!✧

Warnings!: Non!

Fandom!: Death Note!

Author note!: RAHHH TYSM FOR THIS REQUEST IT WAS SO FUN AND SILLY TO WRITE GENUINELY, PLEASE REQUEST WITH MORE IDEAS LIKE THIS!!💞💞💞＼(⁀▽⁀ )／

Summary!: Reader putting cat ears on L! ( ˘ω˘ )

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“Go kitty, go kitty

Go kitty, go, and just

Ride kitty, ride kitty

Ride kitty, roll!”

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At first questioned you motives behind it, were you trying to use this as black mail after?, Maybe embarrass him?

It’s just the natural detective in him coming out, but if he finds out it’s purely for fun he’d mello out! (See what I did there? ( =ω= ) )

Bribing him with sweet treats is a must!, brownies, pudding, or cake would do the trick! I feel like his personal favorite is strawberry short cake though so do with that as you will!

Honestly…at first he’d be against it, but just to please you and get back to his work he’ll plop them on and stare at you with his beady eyes for a second

He actually doesn’t mind it, the minute your smile starts beaming at him like sun rays he genuinely forgets about it even being on him, as he just takes in your features and naturally as he does, study it aswell very single small detail.

Sometimes puts it on himself to surprise you just to see your smile, only when alone and in private though which lets be honest with ourselves is most of the time.

As stand off-ish as he is, I feel like depending on how long you two have been together, he would enjoy physically affection, but a bit watered down. As he himself hasn’t had much love in his life let alone romantic affection so at some points in time it’s a bit overwhelming for him.

But trust me when I say this man LOVES when you softly rub your fingers through his scalp like an actual cat. A bit embarrassing on his end? Yea, but I mean… anything for you affection he supposed

He likes running his fingers along the fake cat ear material. The soft fur is very nice quality!, and maybe if they added a bell to the end of the ears he’ll probably fiddle with them while thinking.

He of course takes them off after awhile, much to your dismay, but he does keep them! As a Memory sake and also just to play around with it.

He does get flustered! Hard to tell sometimes but you can always see the small tint of pink on his cheek and the subtle way his body tenses up before becoming jelly in your grasp.

He definitely gets you a matching pair!, he’ll get yours either the color of your hair or alternatively your favorite color!, maybe some accessories to go with it too!

Maybe to go with the ears some oversized hoodies that color match it. Or some sweat pants lord knows this man is obsessed with sweat pants.

He does admittedly like seeing you in matching ears, he can’t put his finger on it but something About just makes his heart thump.

He naps like a cat (on the rare occasions he actually sleeps…if you can even call it that (¬_¬)) he does that thing if you two are sleeping in the same bed, where he just kinda puts his full weight on you and decides to just die for a few hours on you 😭

Put your hands on both sides of his face and pepper his faces with kisses, he might as-well be your own cat cause he’ll protest then question when you go to king without giving him any.

Likes your smell, you can feel the faint sniffing he does when he gently lays his head on your collar bone and has his joes against your neck.

Misa and light once walked in on it and immediately turned around, at least light, Misa tried speaking but light dragged her out. It was awkward for a while after…(ﾒ﹏ﾒ)

He does that thing cat do when you try touching them, like batting your hand away, yea, he does that but when you try taking the ears back 😭

Overall, he loves them… his static face makes it hard to tell but when you match and see the faint smile on his face you know his true feelings!, he loves you and your unique way of showing it (⊃｡•́‿•̀｡)⊃

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IM SO SO SO SORRY FOR DYING (again…) I’m working on a way to post regularly without being burnt out so fast (╥_╥)… if you have any tips please do share!, anyway, I HOPE YOU ENJOYED! PLEASE REQUEST AGAIN! :3

[onfreckledwings]

“You know I didn’t mean it, right?” Dean says one night.

Cas squints in that way he does as he looks up at Dean through his lashes across the library table. He tilts his head in question.

“What I said that night. Before you left...after Mom.”

And that’s all it takes for the wind to leave his sails. Deflated. The memory is still fresh in his mind, even after all this time. And despite Cas’s best efforts, yeah. It still stings. He lets his eyes fall to the names scratched into the mahogany of the table. He stares at them: at Jack’s name and his, at Sam and Dean’s initials.

At Mary’s.

Why does that something always seem to be you?

You’re dead to me.

He lets his index finger trace the letters of her name. Grief, guilt, and loss unfurls from behind his rib cage and grips around his heart like tentacles.

He’d said he was sorry. Cas knows he is. Logically, at least. He’d be lying if he said doubt didn’t sometimes reside quietly in the corners of his mind, in the chambers of his heart.

His forefinger is tracing the ‘W’ next to the ‘M’ when he tries to hold his stiff upper lip, tries to conceal the raging inner battle from Dean.

“Of course.”

And it’s the best Cas can do in that moment. He regrets it almost instantly, because it sounds like bullshit, even to him. So he tries to deflect, to end this conversation before it begins. He rises from his seat and takes both of their scotch glasses in hand.

“I’ll go get us some more,” he says, plastering his best attempt at a smile on his face as he starts heading for the kitchen. Dean’s footfalls are quickly behind him.

“Cas,” he calls out, and Cas tries his best to steel himself against the ache in his chest as he continues walking.

Being human sucks sometimes. He used to be able to flip on a proverbial robotic switch whenever he needed to avoid feeling, to avoid emotion, because angels were soldiers first and foremost. And because emotions were always the doorway to doubt, it was important to be able to turn them off in order to preserve the objective of the mission at hand.

Now though, after Jack pulled him out of the Empty, grace left behind, he’s finding it exceedingly more difficult to hide behind a mask. Especially now that his built-in armor is gone.

He feels everything so much more intensely now. And he hates it, particularly in moments like these. Because he doesn’t want to feel insecure, he doesn’t want Dean to feel guilty, he doesn’t want to rock the boat.

When he steps down into the kitchen, he notices how Dean’s footsteps don’t follow his over the threshold. He puts both glasses down on the counter as he reaches for the bottle of Macallan 12 in the cupboard. He unscrews the cap and begins pouring.

“Don’t do that.”

It’s a small, quiet thing. Cas’s hand stills over the rim of the second glass before he glances over his shoulder at Dean.

“You don’t want any?” He tries going for nonchalance. But he can tell with the weight of Dean’s footfalls that it doesn’t work. He rotates on his heel to face the man as he approaches.

“Not the scotch, Cas,” Dean says, low and quiet. He steps down gingerly into the kitchen then, wincing slightly before stopping at the opposite end of the island. His green eyes bore holes into Cas’s, and it feels like he’s staring into his soul.

Maybe he is.

Cas can’t help the worry that cloaks him as he watches Dean move. Can’t help the guilt he feels at not being able to help. He drops his shoulders then as he turns around, pouring the amber liquid into the second glass before capping the bottle and placing it back on the shelf. He feels rooted to the counter, and so he sips his scotch in an elongated pull. Avoiding.

“Look at me,” comes the soft plea. He hates how sad Dean’s voice sounds; how guilty and rough and burdened.

Cas inhales deeply, and turns to place Dean’s glass in front of him on the island. He can’t help but map the freckles dusted across his cheeks.

Whatever Dean sees in Cas’s eyes must be distressing, because he’s looking at him with such pity and sympathy and Cas feels shame creeping up his neck. He looks down at the fabric of his navy blue t-shirt, picking at an invisible piece of lint by way of distracting himself from Dean’s stare. But then he hears soft footsteps before he sees Dean’s feet approaching into his space.

Cas lifts his chin and tries a fake smile again, reaching to take a sip from his glass. He hums softly as the hints of vanilla, butterscotch, and an array of berries flow down his throat.

“It really is astonishing how they’re able to combine so many different flavors in this,” he tries. Because he really is fine. It was almost a year ago, and there’s no use rehashing something that’s already been dealt with. It’s stupid that it still feels like a sharp ache in his chest — because Dean’s already apologized, so it really shouldn’t matter anymore, right? — and so Cas is trying his hardest to brush it off.

But then Dean’s reaching to take his glass out of his hand and placing it on the counter before his hand encircles Cas’s wrist. His eyes shoot up to meet emerald green, and he feels paralyzed, because lying to Dean has never been easy.

“Don’t,” Dean says again. “Don’t do the whole brave-face thing. Not with me.”

Cas shakes his head. “I’m not,” he says with a scoff, more on instinct than anything else. But then Dean’s setting his jaw, eyes piercing, and Cas relents. “It doesn’t matter. You’ve already apologized. It was a long time ago, Dean.”

“It does matter,” Dean grits out through clenched teeth. “The fact that I hurt you...matters. You ain’t a machine, Cas.”

Dean takes a labored breath, taking his free hand to rest it against his chest.

“...it kills me that I ever even said ‘em,” he says, green eyes pleading into blue. “You gotta know that.”

Cas shakes his head, lifting his gaze to the ceiling. His eyes begin to burn, and he sets his jaw as he closes his eyes. He refuses to let Dean see him cry—because he still feels like it’s his job to protect him, grace or no— so he turns his back to Dean to grab his tumbler of scotch and knocks it back.

The smooth burn on his tongue settles into his stomach, and it grounds him, allowing him to bite back the tears that threaten to fall. He braces himself against the counter, and Dean’s hand falls from Cas’s wrist to his side.

“You weren’t wrong,” Cas murmurs in the stillness. “I made some really poor choices over the years that put you and your family in jeopardy.”

He keeps his voice eerily steady and even, sighing heavily as he lifts his chin to look at the ceiling again. “I didn’t blame you then, and I don’t blame you now. It wasn’t like I didn’t deserve it.”

Dean’s hand grips his shoulder and he spins Cas around to face him.

“You didn’t. God—” he says, green eyes ablaze with ferocity. And Cas wants to argue, but then Dean is pulling him towards his chest.

Cas goes rigid and tries to push back against the force of Dean’s embrace. “Dean, your back—”

“Is fine,” Dean bites out and forcefully yanks Cas into him. “Come here.”

Cas’s eyes flutter shut involuntarily as his chest crashes against Dean’s, and he lets his arms encircle Dean’s waist gently, mindful of the still tender wound in the middle of his back. He chokes back a whimper as Dean’s arms envelope him, one hand resting between his shoulders and the other cupping the back of his head.

“I’m so sorry,” Dean whispers against the shell of Cas’s ear, voice thick and gruff. The warm caress of Dean’s breath chases goosebumps across Cas’s skin. “God, I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” Cas murmurs gently against the line of Dean’s jaw, rubbing circles near the small of his back. “It’s okay.”

Dean’s breath saunters, and Cas can feel a warm wetness trickle down the slope of his neck, seeping into his shirt.

He wishes he could meld Dean into him then, just to envelope him completely, to shield him from everything that could hurt him the way he once could.

But Cas is human; and all he can do now is hold Dean.

So he does.

He buries his nose further into the crook of Dean’s neck and breathes deeply, relishing the scent of his shampoo, scotch, and simply the essence of Dean Winchester.

God, how he loves him.

“I forgive you,” Cas whispers around the tears clinging stubbornly to his throat. He lets one lone tear slip down his cheek as Dean’s fingers curl into Cas’s hair.

He feels the stifled sob before he hears it, and he pulls back gently to search Dean’s eyes as they spill over freckled cheeks.

Cas reaches to cup Dean’s face before resting their foreheads together. “I forgive you.” He drops one hand from Dean’s face to place it over his heart, feeling it thrum beneath his fingertips. “Please try to forgive yourself.”

Dean screws his eyes shut as he clenches his jaw, and Cas knows he wants to protest, wants to berate himself and scoff at the idea of self-compassion. So he lifts his chin to press his lips to Dean’s forehead, letting the kiss linger for only a moment.

He swears Dean leans into it.

“Let me check you,” Cas says quietly, reaching to place his hands gently at Dean’s sides and urging him to turn around.

“‘s fine, Cas,” Dean says, but lets himself be moved so that he’s bracing against the island. Cas reaches for the hem of Dean’s black tee, lifting it up midway to inspect the once-gaping wound in the center of his back.

It’s mostly healed by now; Jack had gotten Dean through the worst of it, but Cas’s stomach churns at how close it could have came to a different outcome entirely.

So he sees to it to check the wound every day, tracking the progress of its healing and closely monitoring Dean’s recovery. The pink, puckered skin is still raised slightly, promising a gruesome scar in the future. But it’s nearly fully closed up, and there’s no sign of infection.

Cas lets his thumb trace a large circle around the wound, and Dean shudders at the soft touch.

“It’s healing well,” Cas confirms. He removes his hands and lets Dean’s shirt fall back down, smoothing the fabric down his ribs. “How does it feel?”

Dean turns in his arms, and Cas starts to step back when Dean’s hands fall to his hips, anchoring him there.

He gets lost in those beautiful forest greens.

“It’s okay,” Dean murmurs. “It just pulls sometimes. Kind of catches when I move too quick.”

Cas nods, and feeling emboldened, reaches to flatten his palms against the planes of Dean’s chest.

He takes a heavy breath, eyes downcast with guilt. “I’m sorry I can’t heal the rest of it.”

He feels Dean shake his head as a finger curls underneath his chin, lifting it to meet their eyes again. Cas’s chest aches when Dean’s palm cups his cheek, grazing the stubble.

“You’re back,” he whispers gravelly. “‘s all that matters.”

Cas nods, and his heart begins to hammer under Dean’s locked gaze. He feels like he should step back in the interest of personal space, but then Dean’s eyes are flicking between his, to his lips, and back again.

Cas freezes as his breathing quickens, and then Dean is slowly leaning in to brush his lips against Cas’s own.

The world stops.

Cas reaches up Dean’s sides to cling to his shoulder blades, and he lets himself fall pliant when Dean presses him against the counter. Dean’s tongue is a butterfly caress against Cas’s mouth, and he opens to let him inside.

It’s a gentle, smoldering thing; not urgent or frenzied, neither panicked nor rushed. Something heavy and ethereal blooms behind Castiel’s ribs and spreads through his limbs, leaving sparks and tingles in its wake. He lets himself sink against the counter, and welcomes all of Dean’s weight as he presses into him.

It feels like grace.

Cas reaches up further, one hand cupping the rough stubble of Dean’s cheek, the other carding through sandy-brown strands of hair that have grown slightly longer in the midst of his recovery.

Cas tries to stifle a whimper as Dean’s tongue flicks languidly against his own, mapping the peaks and valleys of his mouth. His heart aches, aches, because he never thought — ever — that he’d be lucky enough to feel this. To have this.

Tears slip out from behind closed eyes, trailing down his cheeks. The cool air of the bunker chills the warm rivulets on his face.

Dean shifts minutely, dipping his chin slightly to move away for air; but not before he sucks Cas’s bottom lip between his own, gently nipping with his teeth. Claiming.

Ragged breaths fill the kitchen as they both heave for air. Foreheads rest together as Cas drops the hand from Dean’s hair to rest it over his heart.

It’s pounding just as hard as his.

“I love you too,” Dean chokes out around a muffled cry as one hand frames Cas’s jaw, the other falling to grasp against his ribs, fisting into his shirt.

Cas’s legs nearly give out then. He pulls Dean into his chest, cupping the back of his head to bury Dean’s face into his neck. Dean’s arms wrap around him like a vice, and he sobs quietly into his skin.

Castiel kisses Dean’s temple, lips ghosting the shell of his ear. “I love you so much.”

[symphosiuscortex]

Diamonds and Leather (Ed Nygma x fem reader)

((A new Ed smut drop?! Oh yeah. It’s also been posted here on AO3, but I thought I’d post on good ole tumblr too. Heavily based on Sick Thoughts by Lewis Blissett, because this piece plays on on LOOP in my head every time I listen to it. "We're psychos forever, in diamonds and leather, we'll never get better." I mean COME ON it’s an Ed song mate. Hope you like!))

CW: Heavy petting, smut leaning, MINORS DNI 18+

The routine was always the same. He would text you on his way home after a few days of hiding wherever he laid low from a heist, letting you know he would be there soon. You’d fix him a drink, ask him about his day; a slice of domesticity you knew he craved. But this time, he had been gone for five days. Five days that felt like five years. And you wanted him to know just how much you missed him.

Your phone had pinged a couple of hours ago.

Be back home tonight.

Excitement coiled in your gut as you sprung into action. A long shower, to get yourself relaxed and smelling good. Padding over to the large dresser while you towel dried your hair, you opened the top drawer and let a smile tug at your lips as you ran your fingers over your selections. Ed had a thing about lingerie; no expense was spared, and he made sure your bank account kept you well stocked with Agent Provocateur and La Perla. Choosing an emerald green set trimmed with black lace, you slipped into them, combining them with a pair of stockings and your newest designer stiletto heels. You finished off the look with a long silk robe, wanting to leave underneath with the imagination. You found the remote to the CD player on the top of the dresser, filling the room with soothing music to relax with while you fixed your hair and makeup.

Sitting down at your dressing table, you pondered the selections you had, deciding on a sultry, vintage inspired look. With your hair in rollers, you applied a taupe eyeshadow, complimenting it with a winged eyeliner and some waterproof mascara. Light blush was dusted over the apple of your cheeks, and you finished off with a bold red lip. When your hair was dried, you let out the rollers, fixing the curls so they framed your face and accentuated your features. One last spritz of the perfume you knew he loved, and you were ready.

You took one last glimpse in the full length mirror on the wall before you headed out to the living room. He would be home soon, but you wanted to fully appreciate yourself. Before you met Edward, you had your hang-ups like everyone else. Clothes never quite fit right, and you could feel self-doubt creeping in about everything to do with yourself, looming over you like a cloud. But thanks to his efforts, all that had been shed like a skin you didn’t need. Tailored clothes had worked wonders, of course, but it was the praise that he gave you each and every chance he got. He didn’t just worship you; he practically kneeled at your feet while he revered you as a deity. He was quick to compliment every facet of you if he even got a glimpse of that uncertainty starting to make it’s move. Not just your appearance, but how smart you were. How kind, or brave, or daring… He made you feel adored. Just as much as you gave back to him. Not many were happy to stroke his ego, but you adored the way he bathed in your words when you told him how handsome and intelligent he was. You both needed it desperately, needed each other desperately, and so you gave and gave without a shred of insincerity. Just as you would tonight. And even you had to admit, tonight you looked like an absolute bombshell.

You were getting the decanter of scotch and a crystal tumbler ready on the table beside the armchair when you heard the door being unlocked. You couldn’t help but grin as you nudged the glass into the perfect position, before making your way towards the front door, heels clicking off the marble as you went. He didn’t notice you at first, too busy with making sure everything was secure before he could relax. But when his gaze shifted towards you, he froze in place, eyes raking over every detail of you and breath caught in his chest. You made the first move, smoothing out the lapels of his overcoat as you tilted your head coyly. “May I take your coat?” you practically purred, slipping it off his shoulders before you even got an answer.

The shock was only there for a few heartbeats, before the calm and collected part of him kicked back into place. He had a calculated look in his eye, as if trying to figure out what you were up to by greeting him like this. “You’re looking lovely this evening,” he said with a small grin, taking off his bowler hat and moving towards the coat rack to hang it up. “You’ve missed me that much?” There was a playfulness to his question, but no malice. Just pure curiosity.

You had already hung his coat, taking the hat from him gently and allowing your fingers to make contact with his gloved hands for a lingering touch. “Just most of the time,” you answered, a mock pout on your lips. “You’ve left me all on my lonesome for so long.”

“Five days, fourteen hours and thirty-two seconds,” he smirked as you slowly made your way back to the living room, adding a swing to your hips that left his gaze lingering on you while he shed his suit jacket. He started to take off his gloves, but a small noise of longing left you lips that stuttered his movements and focused his attention back to you.

“Leave them on,” you said with a hint of pleading in your voice, causing a low chuckle of amusement to rumble in his chest as he obliged you. He knew you had a thing for them; he had noticed the way you shivered when he traced your bare skin with them, and so made a point to drag out the time needed to remove them. He nodded as he began to roll up his shirt sleeves to the elbow, taking his time as he strolled towards you with confident steps. That also hadn’t escaped his notice, the intensity in your eyes whenever you watched him do it. And if you had made so much effort for him, he was more than eager to reciprocate.

“And what’s the occasion for being treated so lavishly?” he asked with a light tone, settling himself down into the armchair as you poured his drink. He was trying to play it cool, but deep down he was in awe. Of course, he adored it when he came home to you in sweatpants and his old Gotham University sweatshirt you so liked to borrow, on your laptop or watching TV and greeting him with a beaming smile that caused his heart to threaten to burst out of his chest. But this… This he wasn’t expecting. He knew that you didn’t have ulterior motives; you had never asked for anything, and everything you had was so gladly given. It was a nice reward for the days of headache that he had developed from all the planning and execution of causing absolute mayhem upon the city. And what a reward it was.

“I need an occasion?” you asked with a smile and a tilted head as you handed him the tumbler, allowing him to take a sip before easing yourself into a straddle across his lap. You could feel his hardness already at your core, and the knowledge sent skitters of pleasure through your spine. “I just think the biggest threat to Gotham city needs some pampering, that’s all.”

You knew the stroke to his ego would stoke a fire inside him, and you could see it in the intensity of his eyes as he looked up at you beyond the rim of the glass. A hand settled on your waist, smoothing patterns with his thumb at the silk on your waist as he rested the glass against the arm of the chair. “And I very much appreciate it,” he sighed in relaxation, leaning back as he got comfortable. “Do I get a kiss tonight?”

You couldn’t help but beam with happiness as you giggled, leaning down and capturing his lips with your own. You ran your fingers through his hair as you intensified the kiss, grinding against him as you savoured the taste of scotch on his tongue. When you came back up, you could see the red smudge of your lipstick on him, and you could feel your excitement growing more intense. It was like a mark of ownership in a way; he was all yours, and nobody would ever take him from you. Of course, a few had tried, but you had shut that down very quickly with a few deadly looks and even deadlier words whispered in their ears. You always wondered if that borderline possessiveness bothered him or fuelled him. By the way he fucked you so intensely when you got home when it happened, you assumed the latter. Fuelled by your desire, you slowly pulled at the waist tie to the robe, adoring how his attention was fully on you, on your every movement and soft sigh as you let it fall off you, pooling at his feet.

You heard the small curse of need under his breath as he placed the glass on the table, letting his hands roam over your body, the leather fuelling your need for him as you arched your back and let him savour you. “You look…” You noticed the bob of his Adam’s apple as he tried to find the words, his lips finding your collarbone as he gripped the meat of your ass. “You look divine, my darling.”

“I’m glad you like it,” you murmured when words finally came to you, getting lost in his reverence for you as he showed you just how much he missed you. When he came to a stop, you pouted, though there was a smile on his face as he gestured his head towards the front door.

“In my overcoat pocket, left hand side. Be a dear and bring it to me, won’t you?” he asked softly, taking one last chance to smooth the lace of your stocking at your upper thigh before you got up. He was being cryptic, and it sparked a thrill in you. You also noticed that it was probably him giving himself some time to recover before he got too excited. Slowly getting yourself off his lap, you sauntered over to follow his directions, fishing through the overcoat until your hand met something rectangular.

You knew what it was when you pulled out the item he requested. A square box, flocked with black velvet, a little bigger than the size of your hand. You’d gotten many pieces of jewellery from him before; he always thought of you on heists, and made sure to pick something sparkly for you for a gift to return home with. You tried to keep your calm as you made your way back to him, taking your place straddled on your lap as you bit your lower lip, the corners of your mouth curled upwards. “Can I open it?”

He nodded with a smirk, taking the time to have another sip of his drink as he watched your reaction. Slowly opening the clasp, you couldn’t hide your gasp of surprise as you saw the contents. To say that the necklace perfectly presented inside was dripping with diamonds was an understatement. You knew it must have been worth thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, and the fact that it was most likely stolen gave you an even bigger thrill. “Ed,” you whispered, carefully placing the box aside after you took it out to feel the weight of it in your hands and marvelling as it shone in the light. “Oh my God, it’s… It’s stunning.”

“Anything for my darling,” he smiled, watching as you moved to pull your hair aside in a wordless request to have it on. Drink forgotten on the table, he took it gently from your hands, clasping it around your neck and marvelling on how well it complimented you. “And it looks so perfect with your current outfit.”

You grinned as you dove in for another kiss, arms encircling his neck as you felt his hands on you again. “Thank you,” you muttered between kisses, more than eager to let your thankfulness known with your body as you pressed your chest to his, kisses trailing down to his jaw and across.

“You’re more than welcome, my love,” he smirked, hands tracing a pattern down your spine. “You know, I did say it complimented your outfit, and that’s true,” he whispered, hissing with pleasure as he felt your hand palming the crotch of his trousers. “But I do wonder what it would look like if only paired with the heels.”

You grinned, laving your tongue against the crook of his neck and relishing in the sounds it elicited from him. Oh, you were sure he was wondering. And you were more than happy to provide.

[sillyrabbit81]

The Instructor - Part 4

Summary: Agent Walker continues your training.

Pairing: August Walker x Female Reader

Word Count: approx 3.8k

Warnings: smut, Dom/sub dynamic (m Dom, f sub), dégradation kink, praise kink, slapping, rough sex, orgasm control, I think thats it?

Authors note: Not beta read, only edited by me. There will be errors, my apologies.

Masterlist

Part 3 Part 5

The Instructor Part 4

August took you to the surveillance room. The operation had the whole ninth floor to work from, you didn’t know how the CIA was able to pull off such a requisition, but you knew not to ask questions. Chances were, even August didn’t know how that was done.

Agent Thomas was there with two other Agents and although they were both men, they were so opposite in nature and appearance you wondered how they could possibly work together. One of them seemed to radiate constant joy and good humour, while the other seemed dour and uninterested in anything. You receive a handshake and a welcoming smile from Agent Ortega and got a short nod from Agent Turner. Despite August introducing you by your name, since Agent Thomas had beaten you to them, your name was New Girl.

Apparently, there were two more Agents you would meet when your shift finishes. The number of Agents on this case struck you as odd. Six agents plus August all in the field seemed overkill for any simple surveillance case. Four should be more than enough. Hell, you could probably do it with three.

Ortega was the agent you would spend the next 8 hours with, and you were relieved. You were confident you knew how to do your job, but since this was your first field assignment, you were nervous and Turner made it worse.

So did August, if you were honest with yourself. You found yourself playing with the golden circlet around your neck a lot and chided yourself for bringing attention to it. It was meant to be discreet but if you constantly played with it, eventually someone would notice. You frequently found your concentration lapse and you would focus on August instead of your job. He was becoming an obsession, he invaded your mind constantly. You couldn’t stop thinking about him, anticipating your next visit or, remembering your too few encounters.

During one such daydream, you caught Ortega staring at you, expectantly. You quickly realised it was because he had spoken to you but you hadn’t responded. “Sorry,” you say. “I tend to get really focussed on my work and block out other sounds.” You lie smoothly. Ortega waves away your apology and repeats the question.

You enjoy your time with Ortega, he was friendly and warm without being lecherous. Perhaps his simple wedding band helped to put you at ease. He doesn’t offer information about his partner and you don’t ask. You both eat a lunch of sandwiches made in the kitchen and while the work doesn’t stop, you and Ortega start chatting and you find yourself growing more comfortable with him. Even though he calls you New Girl, he doesn’t treat you like a rookie and you found your confidence increase as the day went on. You even found yourself sharing jokes with him.

However, an hour before your surveillance shift finished, August came back to the room requesting an update. As he comes in the door you were smiling, still getting over a laughing fit with Ortega. Although he shows no obvious reaction, you notice a slight tightening of his jaw. You keep the smile plastered to your face as you look away, but you know there isn’t a hint of a smile in your eyes.

August checks in with Ortega who reports the day’s events. He leans over Ortega’s shoulder resting one hand on the desk while the other held one side of a pair headphones up to his ear as he listens to some audio. You can feel August’s gaze boring holes into you, and you can almost hear him say, “Look at me, Pet.”

Slowly you raise your eyes and look at him. You had to smother a gasp. He wasn’t just staring at you, it felt like he was stripping you bare with his eyes. The fire is his blue orbs was scorching with desire. His gaze holds you captive, and you know if Ortega sees what was taking place, your secret would be out. Scandal at this point in your career would mean you were chained to a desk for the rest of your life, if you didn’t quit in frustration, which was usually what most people did.

But August doesn’t take pity on you, he knows the risks too and doesn’t avert his gaze. He licks his lips, drawing attention to his mouth. With a leering look he mouths, “I’m going to fuck the shit out of you tonight, Pet.”

You make a strangled noise and Ortega looks up at you started. “You ok, New Girl?” he asks.

You reach down and clutch your foot, slipping it out of your shoe. “Yeah,” you say, hiding your face while you rub your foot. “Just a cramp.”

August ignores the situation and keeps listening to the audio. You avoid looking at him and he leaves a few minutes later. Even after he is gone, you still feel your ears and cheeks burn and you doubt you will be able to regain your concentration. Then you receive an email from August that simply reads “8 pm.” The rest of your shift is a write off.

Not long before eight pm you stand nervously outside August’s apartment. With trembling hands, you knock on the door. You feel tipsy, you can’t think straight, you’re giggly with nervousness and your legs are unsteady, ready to betray you at any moment.

“It’s open,” you hear August call from inside.

You take a deep breath in a useless attempt to settle your nerves and open the door. You see him sitting at his dining table reading from his laptop and nursing a tumbler of what looked like gin or vodka. He didn’t get up, just flicks his eyes up as the door opened, saw it was you and flicks his eyes down again.

“Lock the door,” August says and you do as he asks.

He is wearing his suit pants and button up shirt, but he had taken his jacket and tie off. His sleeves are rolled up and a few of the top buttons on his shirt are open and you can see tufts of his dark hair on his chest. His hair is still impeccably groomed, but a five o’clock shadow dusts his jaw. Even without the suit, he exudes authority, from the set of his jaw, to his posture, the only thing casual about him was his laxed attire.

“You’re early again,” August says. You still can’t tell if he thought being early was a good thing or not. Until he said otherwise you would continue to be early because you were sure August wouldn’t tolerate tardiness.

You half shrug in reply, but don’t say anything. You realise you hardly say anything in front of August, he intimidated you more than else did. He made you nervous in a way that was so intoxicating that you found it hard to even think of anything you wanted to say. Unless, he asked you a question, then you can hold nothing back. Perhaps it was because you know there is no one in the world that has more power over you than he does.

“Take your clothes off, pet.” August says, still not looking at you. “All of it this time, except your stockings and heels.”

You try to swallow, your mouth feels dry, but you don’t hesitate to obey, his tuts of disappointment that morning still lingered in your mind. Your hands shake as you undress and fold your clothes neatly. You aren’t sure why you feel like its important to fold your clothes, maybe it was because even when August was relaxing, he always had an air of clean order around him. Like he needed things to be just so. However, you know that’s not completely true, you have seen the chaos dance in his eyes, the thin veneer of civility he wore like a skin suit couldn’t hide all of his primal urges and tendency towards recklessness.

“Come sit next to me,” you hear August say the second you had folded your underwear and placed them on top of your clothes. You didn’t think he had been watching but he must have been, because even now he seemed to still be focussed on the screen in front of him. You feel a little silly that you had undressed like you would have at home, you didn’t even try to make it look good for him.

So, you make an effort this time, to show him you want to please him. You let your hips sway just slightly as you walk, the movements feel natural, yet seductive as you near him. You pull a chair away from the table but August stops you, putting his hand over yours. His fingers are warm on your skin and you feel a shiver run up your spine.

“Not there,” he says.

You walk around to the chair on the other side of him, but August stops you again. “Not there.” He looks at you, then with a small movement of his head and a smirk, he indicates the floor. “On your knees, pet.”

You’re shocked and before you can stop yourself you say, “On my knees?” You look at the rug under the table. It was fairly plush looking and soft so your knees wouldn’t hurt. You wondered if he wanted you to take him in his mouth again, you couldn’t think of another reason he would want you on the ground.

“Yes,” August says, with little patience, but his smirk holds. He must find your bemusement funny. “Now.”

You slowly sink to your knees next to August, you feel a little humiliated, but you are curious to see where this was going. August lets out a content hum as you obey. The sound makes you smile and you look up at him, his smirk now looks more like a smile and he pats your head. “Good girl.” He praises. All thoughts of humiliation left you as those two words warm you. August places his large hand on the back of your head and guides it to his thigh.

Again, you’re confused, until you feel his hand stroke your head. He pats you, soothing himself as he finishes his work. He occasionally lifts his hand to do some typing and you find yourself watching his hand impatiently until it is returned. Occasionally he touches your collar, running his fingers along it, as if reminding himself that you as his. Sometimes his fingers slide up and down your back, with long tender strokes that make you break out in goose bumps and when he makes you shiver you hear him hum with satisfaction.

Eventually you hear August give a big sigh and he stretches his neck before closing the laptop and moving it out of the way. He takes a last swig of his drink before putting it aside as well.

“Pet,” August says. You look up at him and he gives his head a little jerk again and you stand up. He looks you up and down, his eyes seem critical as he inspects you, but you know he likes what he sees because his tongue licks his lips before he bites his bottom lip.

August guides your leg over his and you stand in front of him now, your legs on either side of his and your bottom rests on the table. You feel exposed while he continues to study you, and you want to close your legs as you see his eyes linger on your bare slit. You know he would see the slick wetness of your arousal, you could feel it on the inside of your thighs. You close your eyes, a little embarrassed by your obvious display of desire.

August starts to run his hands over the outside of your thighs, hips and waist and back again, while he leans in and kisses the soft skin of your belly. You involuntarily giggle and your hands reach for his head as his stubble tickles at your sensitive skin. Still smiling he takes your hands in his, pulls them behind your back and holds both of them in his huge paw. He returns his kisses to your tummy, but this time they are bigger, wetter and you can feel his tongue lick at your skin as he does. You try not to wriggle, you try and hold still for August, but his teasing touch is too much and you find yourself squirming as he plays with you.

Between kisses he says, “I think its time I got to know you better, Pet.” You feel the heat rise in your body and you feel your heart beat everywhere. God, he has barely even started and you were so ready for him. “Time I explored you.” His eyes looked up at yours as his tongue slid up your body and over your nipple briefly. He held his face in front of your breast, letting his breath tickling your hard bud. “Time I tested your limits.” He takes you in his mouth, sucking on your nipple, and letting his teeth graze you, your body shuddering with pleasure.

Looking up at you August’s voice is suddenly serious, “If you need me to stop, say Red.”

“Red to stop,” you repeat, letting him know you understand.

Letting go of your hands, August lifts you by your waist and sits you on the table. “Lay down, pet.” He says, pushing against your shoulder. He lifts your legs so that your heeled feet rest on his thighs. You moan, and want to draw your knees together, but you feel his hands on the inside of your thighs pushing them further apart. You are completely on display for him, you can hide nothing as he continues spreading your legs. You shut your eyes, tight. Your mind and body were in conflict. You were on fire, hot with lust and need, but your mind wanted to say no, to stop, you couldn’t stand the embarrassment.

“Spread your lips wide for me, pet. I want to see your cunt dripping wet for me.”

You shake your head, you can’t do that. It was too much. Already so exposed and naked, the thought of holding yourself open to him was too humiliating. “Please August,” you murmur “I can’t.”

The loud smack against your breast takes you by surprise. You hear the noise before you even register the pain. “August,” you cry. Your hands reach up, covering your breasts, and you try to rub the sting away.

“Hold yourself open. I want to see inside you.” August’s voice is low and firm, not angry, just stern. You lift your head to see him, he tilts his head and his whiskered lip curls in a cruel grin, almost like he was daring you to say no again.

Laying your head back on the table and squeezing your eyes shut, you move your shaking fingers down to your slit. You’re so wet and so aroused you struggle to hold your swollen petals apart. You hear August’s breathing start to quicken and his voice is barely above a whisper as he says, “Good girl.” You feel a finger slide teasingly over your exposed core and despite your shame your hips roll in desire. “You have such a pretty wet cunt, Pet.” His finger sweeps up your slit, his rough pad pausing on your clit. You gasp as he does, and a low moan escapes you parted lips.

August chuckles, “You’re very responsive, Pet. I like that.”

His finger moves back to your entrance, and with agonisingly slow movements he pushes his finger into you. You feel yourself clamping down on him already, you’re so desperate to be filled. Your hips start to rock as he curls his finger inside you, searching for your spot.

“Oh fuck,” you cry when he finds it, you unconsciously try to curl up into a ball as every muscle in your body contracts. Your hips move faster now, and you eagerly beg, “Please August.”

“You are an impatient little slut sometimes, pet,” August says as he lays an arm over you, stopping your undulating hips. “I think patience will be your next lesson, but lucky for you, today I want to watch you cum.”

Without warning, August pushes a second finger inside you. You cry out as you feel yourself stretching to accommodate him. You were so close to coming, your whole body felt pulled tight like an elastic, ready to spring apart when the tension got too much. Your fingers start to hurt as you hold yourself open. Even your fingers feel tight, ready for the release of your orgasm.

Your thighs start to tremble and you feel the warm wave start to rise from your toes. “Are you about to come pet?” You barely hear August through the fog bliss you’re feeling as his fingers dance inside you, coaxing you to your peak.

“Yes,” you say through your moans.

“Ask permission,” August says.

You’re so close you can’t make sense of his words. “What?” you ask.

“Ask me if you can cum. This is my cunt pet, I will control when you cum. Or I can stop now.”

You understand that threat, “No, no, please don’t stop.” Panting, and breaking out in sweat you say, “Please August, can I cum?”

“Yes, my needy little slut. Cum for me. Now.”

And you do. You don’t know if it was because he told you to or if it was because you were so close anyway, but when he said now, you felt a wave of warmth flood you. Your body pulsed and your core milks at his fingers and they keep hitting your spot. It feels like your orgasm lasts for an age and even as you come down from your high, you tremble in little after shocks.

You are in such a haze you don’t notice August removing his fingers until you feel both his hands on your knees, pushing them up and out as he stands. Wrapping his arms around your thighs, he gives them a tug. Your ass is barely on the table and in your malleable state, you feel like you’re going to fall off, but he holds you there.

There’s a new sensation at your core, and you groggily sit up, resting on your elbows. You see August, cock in hand lining himself up. You whimper, not yet, you think. Augusts lifts his eyes and you’re caught once again in his piercing blue eyes. His shows you his teeth and grabs your throat as he impales you with his cock.

You would have thought that you would adjust to his size quicker after the euphoria of your orgasm, but you were wrong. You feel yourself reluctantly stretch around him, and despite the pain, as he fills you, tears you apart, it feels good, he feels good.

August pulls you up by your throat, and you wrap your legs around him for stability. You think he’s going to kiss you, but he studies your every facial expression, listens to every little moan as he starts to fuck you. Still feeling weak, every thrust from August throws you, his firm grip on your throat was the only thing stopping you from falling back on the table.

“You look so good, pet,” he grunts at you through his gritted teeth. “You look like a slut, with your pretty mouth moaning for more.” He leans in close to you, and growls into your ear, “But you’re not just a slut, pet. You are my slut.”

You cry out as he says it, his claim of you relights the fire between your legs and you start moving with him, trying to fulfil the growing need inside you. You grasp his shoulders, holding onto him as he keeps whispering in your ear, “You greedy girl, you want to cum again don’t you?”

“Please, August,” you say. He raises his head and sticks two fingers in your mouth, pushing them in deep, almost making you gag. As you build to your peak so does your boldness and this time you find Augusts eyes. You run your tongue around his fingers, before starting to tease them and suck on them.

August snarls as he watches, and increases his pace. You want to cum again, but you don’t want to stop sucking his fingers. But then August breaths a curse, “Fuck.”

You couldn’t hold it off now, you say around his fingers, “Pease August, can I cum?”

“Fuck, yes,” August is as lost as you are and as you fall over the edge, and your pulsing walls grip his cock he thrusts into like he wants to tear you in two. On his last pump he lets out a deep rumbling growl, before his whole body shudders. You had never seen a man who came like him, the way he doesn’t hold back, the way he lets his primal urges over take him, the noises, all of it was so fucking hot.

August leans his sweaty forehead against yours while you both get your breath back. His hand still holds your throat but he moves it under your chin, and with the gentleness that always surprises you, lifts it and kisses you with soft lips and a caressing tongue. You kiss him back, matching his mood, softly licking at his lips.

With a final kiss, August pulls away and helps you to your feet. “Ok?” he asks. You nod and he chuckles briefly, “Who knew you had both a degradation kink and a praise kink?”

You look away from him, embarrassment filling you. August sees it and lifts your face to his again. “I fucking love it,” he says. “Much more to explore.”

You smile, still a little shy about it, but not as embarrassed. “Come,” he says and takes you to his bedroom where you both get in bed and you lay like you had that morning.

You stay awake, pretending to sleep, keeping your breaths long and steady. Eventually August drifts off, and you wait until he falls into a deep sleep.

You slowly get out of bed and creep over to the dining table. You lift August’s laptop from the chair he had left it on. You open it and enter the password you saw him use on the plane. Your hands start sweating as the machine connects to the CIA network. You think you hear a noise and you look behind you, but you can see or hear nothing.

You type August’s CIA log in and enter another password. You are worried about this one, you aren’t sure if you had been able to catch all of it. You release the breath you didn’t realise you were holding when the CIA logo fills the screen.

You feel eyes on you and the hair on the back of your neck starts to rise. Terrified you turn around and come face to face with August and his unforgiving eyes. “What do you think you are doing, Pet?”

Part 5

Tag List:

@henryobsessed @omgkatinka @legendarywizarddetective @posiemax @nostalgicb-txh @moonlacebeam @anitababi @agniavateira @blakerogue @shadesofarrogance @mansaaay @stxlemate

[phoebe-of-ivalice]

FFXIV Write 2021 Prompt #8

Adroit (adjective) clever or skillful in using the hands or mind.

The Hunted: Part 2 (cut placed due to length)

Phoebe paced the floor of the Rogue’s Guild nervously. She’d been there all night, lurking in the corner as she waited to see her old mentor, Jacke. She’d need his advice on her current situation if she wanted to find this Hunter before… she shuddered at the thought of what any of it could mean. The man sent after her the last evening was obviously a decoy who was meant to put fear in to her mind. It angered her that it had worked so well. She’d need to get ahead of her enemy if she wanted to protect herself.

Finally, around 5am Jacke came stumbling in, smelling of cheap perfume and plenty of booze. If she didn’t catch him now, she never would. Phoebe stepped into his path, blocking him from his room where he’d sleep the entire day away. He paused for a moment and a confused look crossed his face. Who dared to stand in his way? He stared at her chest for a good solid minute before he spoke up. “Hold on… I know… I know these tits,” Jacke said. He finally glanced up at Phoebe, who was rolling her eyes. “Ah, Phoebe! What brings ye to my side of this here fine city? ‘Ere to pay your respects to yer favorite guild master, eh?” He waggled his eyebrows at her. She shoved his shoulder playfully as she groaned. Under normal circumstances, she’d have made a joke in return, but right now there were more pressing matters. “Jacke, I need your help. I’m in a spot of trouble,” she whispered to him once he’d stopped laughing. He seemed to sober up enough at that, nodding and grabbing her lightly by the arm. He guided her into a side room, as close to an office as the man had. He shut and locked the door behind them, indicating for her to have a seat. “So what’s got you runnin’ back ‘ere to ol’Jacke for help? Ye was always one to ‘elp yerself as I recall. Gave ye that pair o’fine stabbers and off ye went.” Jacke has never quite let go of her leaving the Rogue’s guild to run off to the Far East. He liked the shinobi well enough; even learned a thing or two himself from them. She had been his favorite for quite some time, in a number of ways, and he was sorry to see her leave. “One of my contacts has been missing for days Jacke. They aren’t like that, one of my most dependable in fact. Had some vital information about my next target they’d wanted to tell me in person. Then last night some creep followed me down to the wharf. Had to kill him before I could get anything out of him. The body fell into the water, so it’s either gone out with the tide or the guard found him. The only thing he said was that someone was hunting me. Not sure if I should be terrified or flattered,” she chuckled, trying to cover the worry in her tone. Jacke sat across from her, mulling over the information she’d provided. He leaned back in his chair and scratched his chin. Phoebe arched an eyebrow in his direction as time seemed to come to a halt. She cleared her throat, bringing Jacke back to the present. He beamed at her, a sign that nothing good could come from this conversation. “I ever tell ye about my favorite stabbers? Sharp as can be, inlaid with gold and emerald in the hilts. Right beauts they were… til I made a fool of meself an’ lost ‘em in a bet to Captain Rhoswen. She’s been a right witch about it ever since. I dinna think I’d ever hear of ‘em again. Well, one of me boys was beddin’ a Sanguine Siren the other day. Told him where she keeps my lovely stabbers locked in a safe. Now, if someone were to recover those for me, I may be willin’ to owe ‘em a favor of sorts,” he made his terms quite clear to her. Always one to want his back scratched before helping someone else… he never changed. “Fine. Where is this safe then?” she asked, pursing her lips to express her annoyance. “Ahha! You’re the best for the job. Now, the safe is in the cellar of the Missing Member. You’ll need your lockpicking kit I gave ye. Still got it, yeah?” Phoebe nodded her head. It was with her all the time practically. She listened to the rest of the instructions and Jacke started to ramble in his inebriation. She held a hand out to him, letting him

know she had enough to go off of and was ready to set out. “I need to get this over with, if I take too long that only gives this Hunter more time,” she quipped, closing the door behind her. Back on the docks, she pulled her hood into place. She scanned the area for anything suspicious but there was no one to be seen. She'd need to wait until it was dark out if she wanted her best chance at getting in unseen. She’d need to figure out how she could drop two stories below the main floor of the Missing Member without being seen. She’d need to cause a distraction most likely. Then when everyone was busy, she’d have to climb the roof and drop down the back of the building before anyone saw her. It would be tight but if anyone could do it, it would be her. First things first…. She needed to find a rat.

———————————————————————

One angry squeaking box later, Phoebe climbed up the stairs to the Upper Decks and made her way over to the Missing Member eatery. The rat she’d managed to catch would be good and angry by the time she’d release it into the front door of the restaurant. She casually walked across the main courtyard, and over the bridge to the doorway. Luckily there were only a few guests standing outside that were too busy talking to even notice her. She cracked open the door, sliding the box in on its side to allow the creature to escape. She stood off to the side as far as she could and waited.

It didn’t take long until a few screaming guests charge out the door, followed by screams from the inside. The few people who had been waiting decided it would be better to make themselves scarce. It was the perfect time for her to move. Phoebe nimbly climbed up to the rooftop, grasping onto the spire as she secured a rope from her pack around it. Lowering herself over the edge, she repelled her way down the sheer side of the white wall. She chuckled as she neared the window of the kitchen, yelling and cursing could still be heard from within as they chased the rat around. It worked better than she’d hoped.

Down two more stories, she found the small window Jacke had described to her earlier. He’d need to consider himself lucky if Phoebe was able to clear the frame with how small it appeared. Using a small glass-breaking tool, she cleared out one of the panes and flipped the lock. She pushed the frame open and stuck her head inside to make sure no one else was around. It was dark inside, the only light was the small beam of moonlight falling through the window.

Phoebe squeezed through the opening, only slightly panicking as her hips stuck for a mere second. It certainly wasn't a place frequented by people, as she noted the thick coating of dust on most of the items stashed away. Old paintings stacked across one side of the room, several locked trunks, and a large safe took up most of the small space. A ladder on the far side of the room most likely led to a trap door up to the next floor.

The safe would be simple enough for her to open. It had a classic style lock, instead of the fancy combination locks many of the nobles had in the wealthier cities. Phoebe removed her lockpicking tools, rolling the case out on the floor so she could select the right ones. Her hands worked quickly, one long ear pressed closely to the safe to listen carefully to each successful click. She deftly tested each tumbler and slid in the torque pick to prevent them from falling back in place. As she heard the last tumbler fall into place, she pulled the crank handle open on the safe... and an alarm sounded from the chest. How the hells had they rigged that up?

Phoebe rifled through the safe as quickly as she could. There were a number of small treasures in the safe, and Phoebe's fingers itched to pocket more than she needed. There was no time now thanks to the pounding of running feet on the floorboards above. The daggers were in a small box on the bottom shelf, and she shoved the beautiful knives into her pocket inside her coat. She couldn't resist grabbing a lovely ruby hairpin that sat in the very back corner as a reward for herself. The pirates above were now fighting to get the trap door open, as the lock seemed to have rusted shut.

Phoebe shimmied out the window and scaled the wall as fast as she could. As her coattails disappeared over the roof, a very angry Captain Rhoswen was shouting obscenities out the broken window below. By the time the captain had made it to the main floor, Phoebe was long gone.

Phoebe dropped the daggers on the table with a loud clang. Jacke had been asleep, chin on his chest and feet propped on the table. The noise made him jump and he unsheathed his knives as he cursed.

"Settle down, you ol' fool," Phoebe grumbled, "There are your stabbers back. I hope you have some information that was worth my time getting those."

"Aye, that I do. Found out sumthin' while you was out. Your contact is dead, strung up in a tree jus' outside Ul'dah. Might want to make yer way there. Body was taken by the Flames for inspection."

Phoebe sighed, "Thanks Jacke, I better go catch the last airship for the night. And watch out for Rhoswen, she's going to be spittin' fire."

"Thanks lass I... wait what do you mean?! Phoebe wait!" she closed the door behind her with a wicked smile as Jacke called after her. She had an airship to catch and no time to waste.

part 3>

[britishsass]

Psychonauts Broken Link Chapter 2: Broken Trust

Milla looked around in the city she was in. It was pretty empty to be honest, it had a reddish orange sunset sky, filled with lots of clouds. Inside the city were stores labeled as ‘Cassie’s Collection’, or 'Astral Plains’. It was nice of Razputin to think about his friends. Milla then felt a gust of wind passing by her… it was a ball of green. 

“Hey! Wait!” Milla shouted as she followed the orb. She went through the streets, facing censors, regrets, doubts, everything that can be seen until she reached a corner and found the ball. The ball was sure green, but it also had a swirling top. 

“Excuse me, who are you?” Milla asked. 

“I’m Veter.” the orb responded. The voice was ver similar to Sasha… it was exactly Sasha. 

“I am Milla Vodello. It is a pleasure to meet you.” Milla greeted. 

“Is Zemlya around?” Veter asked. 

“I don’t think so, but your friend Pozhar told me that she loves the circus. Is that true?” Milla asked. 

“Of course… does she like me as well?” Veter asked. Milla was confused, but she wanted to answer… it was just that she couldn’t find a good answer. 

“I… I guess so. I think she does like you.” Milla smiled. That made Veter smile… despite the fact he had no mouth. The two then stepped out looked around the city. The city was still barren. The sky was still cloudy. Needless to say, there were somethings that stood out, there were the Psychonauts Logo on flags and even had some streets named after Psychonauts, Forsythe Blvd., Mentallis Ave., and Nein St. were some of the lanes. Then, a large censor had arrived, wearing a Psychonauts Uniform. Milla focused on her psi-blast and defeated the censor… or so she thought. As three more censors popped out of the large censor. Then more… and more. Needless to say, she couldn’t fight them all, but she had an idea. She looked at a movie theater. And immediately dashed away along with Veter. Thankfully all of the censors didn’t catch her… except for one. One censor followed her and immediately the two then fought until the censor and Milla landed in one of the films. Milla got up and dusted herself off… she looked aorund and saw that… this wasn’t an ordinary movie theater. She saw that there was just a long hallway, in a pitch black room, with a tv and a vhs tape and vhs player. She then exited and looked inside one of the other rooms, they were the same. She then headed in the theater she landed in and looked at the VHS she was holding.

“Aftermath” it read. Milla placed the tape inside the tape player and the tv screen did a bright flash of white. When the flash was gone she was inside… Sasha’s lab? How? Was this a memory? And the latter was answered. She was unaware of what was going on it was Razputin and Sasha using the brain tumbler… this is what the tape meant by Aftermath, it was the aftermath of the casino mission. Then another flash happened, this time it was the collective unconscious. She heard the conversation Razputin and Sasha were having, but it wasn't… it wasn’t good. 

“Agent Forsythe seems to feel you’ve learned your lesson, and that no further consequences are needed. I think she’s being too lenient.” Sasha spoke. Lenient? Did Sasha just say that Hollis was too forgiving? She did forgive Razputin… but did Sasha as well? “Next time you find yourself in someone’s mind, and it occurs to you to overreach your boundaries, use this.” Sasha stated as he pulled out the smelling salts. 

“Smelling salts?” Raz asked. 

“These will cause you to exit the brain immediately, before any damage is done. You may also use this place to return to some of the minds you’ve already visited, of course, if you feel there is some unfinished business there. Use the smelling salts when you feel ready to leave.” Sasha explained. That made Milla smile. 

“Thanks, Sasha. And I’m sor–“ but before Razputin could finish… Sasha was gone. And just like that, the film stopped, Milla was back in the movie theater.

That memory made Milla confused, should she feel anger? Sadness? Worry? What did she just witnessed? She knew that Sasha had a hard time talking to children… but did he have to be that hard? Who would just leave and not accepting one’s apology… she had to talk to Sasha… he must have an answer. She stepped out of the movie theater and contacted Sasha.

“Sasha?” Milla asked telepathically. 

“Yes Milla? Is there something you want to talk about?” Sasha responded. 

“It’s about Razputin… did you forgive him after the casino mission?” Milla asked with worry. She knew that Sasha had some trouble talking to her… but Sasha’s answer made her blood run cold. 

“No, I didn’t. Is there a problem?” Sasha asked. She gasped. 

“You WHAT? Sasha! He just got back from a mission!” Milla responded. 

“Camilla, must I remind you that he reiwired Hollis’ mind and fixed it?” Sasha asked in slight annoyance. “Why are you upset about my actions?” He continued. 

“I’m not upset about that, sure Razputin did something wrong… but you never forgave him! Let alone made him feel lonely.” Milla responded with slight anger. 

“So? There are somethings we can’t forgive.” Sasha responded. 

“Yes, but we should not talk about it right now… after this, you are in trouble.” Milla ended. Sasha wanted to respond back, but he couldn’t, actions do come with consequences… maybe like his own when he left Razputin?

[No comment.]

[samingtonwilson]

A Bid on Bucky

Summary: You spend thousands of dollars at a bachelor auction for Bucky when you could’ve had him for free this entire time.

Pairing: bucky x reader

a/n: this fic is damning evidence that idiots in love is my favorite genre, your honor. i’ve more likely than not used this gif before but idc because im lov it

Tony Stark is a humanitarian— a fact you have neither forgotten, nor will he allow you to forget. 

Oftentimes, he’ll remind you verbally and, other times, a visual reminder will be posted on the team’s social media accounts. The pictures of him at the elephant sanctuary he helped found in Thailand are your personal favorites.

If news of his latest cause is not filling the pages of The Times or showing up on CNN’s special segment of Billionaires Who Care with Christiane Amanpour, it’s being distributed via monthly text reminder of reasons to leave Tony’s special coffee alone— last month you were told, “His donations allowed the doors of Planned Parenthood to remain open in developing nations such as Burkina Faso, and all he asks for in return is that his teammates do not finish his goddamn coffee.” 

Of course, because you all live for him sniffing out your mugs at morning meetings to discover the culprit, his reminders only lead to greater coffee theft as it, in turn, increases the redness in his face when he finds the morally corrupt heathenous criminal— who is usually Clint. 

In true Tony Stark fashion, though, his favorite way to remind you all, and the rest of the world, is through a gala. A gala where champagne flows like water, money is no object, extravagance is to be expected, and, as a member of the team, attendance is mandatory. 

At first, you hated the damn things. It’s not like you’ve ever cared about the private island one guest owns which another guest is so obviously jealous of, or if the deal to buy a chunk of land on the light side of the moon before that hippie Elon Musk usurps it all has successfully closed. 

But now? Now that you’ve learned how to direct the money those snots brag ostentatiously about into causes you truly care for with a couple little sly techniques, you fucking love the things. 

You and Natasha have a game, actually. Whose Shameless and Absolutely Disingenuous Flirting Will Lead to More Money Donated to (Insert Tony’s Latest Cause Here)? 

Natasha is the current titleholder as Smelly Von Oil Tycoon’s wife shooed you away before you could close the million dollar deal and Cowboy Hat McFast Food Franchise would have given up his entire company if Natasha kept batting her eyelashes at him. But in the end, just as every other time the two of you have played, you both felt like winners because the almost obscene amount of money was helping fund housing for Rohingya refugees living in Bangladesh. The competitive edge to it is just for entertainment. 

This time, though, seeing as this event is an auction and you are in no mood to flirt with red-faced old men with paper-thin skin, you have taken to auctioneering with Sam. 

Motioning to a projected photograph of a luxurious Paris hotel room with a view of the Eiffel Tower in your best Vanna White impression, you grin as brightly as you can. “And the last item Sam and I will be auctioning off together is a two-night stay at Plaza Athénée in Paris. First class airfare for two is included, as are two tickets to the Louvre. You’ve been to Paris, haven’t you, Sam?” 

“Why, yes, baby girl, I have,” he replies with a grin as broad as yours, the spotlight and his natural charm causing his deep brown eyes to sparkle like diamonds. You think for a second that you can actually hear Bucky scoffing in the audience. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, but I will say that it is called the City of Love for a reason.” 

“Of course, our unlucky-in-love Sam shared those kisses only with every bit of bread and cheese he came across but you can share it all with someone special.” At that, Sam elbows you gently in the ribs with a fond roll of his eyes. “We’re going to start the bidding at twenty-thousand dollars.”

Immediately, paddles shoot up and Sam begins calling out higher bids and paddle numbers while you lean your hip against the podium and take a long sip of your champagne which has since, unfortunately, gone lukewarm and flat. Your face pinches and you scan the crowd for a wandering waiter. 

Before you can, though, your head tilts just as you spot Bucky, a large button reading “BACHELOR #4” pinned to the lapel of his tux.

He’s laughing. Not openly and loudly like he usually does when the two of you are alone, but his shoulders are shaking and he’s grinning so the skin beside his eyes wrinkles. You think fleetingly that his cheeks might even be dusted in pink as he ducks his head. 

The sight makes you smile, too, and you set your champagne aside. It’s secondary now. 

“Congratulations to Mr. Baldwin and all the other winners of these wonderful vacations,” Sam says once the winner has been announced and ushered backstage. “Sadly, our time is up for the night.”

You nod and pick up your microphone again. “Yes, but you will be seeing Sam again tonight as a part of the Bachelor Auction. Give the crowd a spin, Sam, show them what they could be going on a date with.” 

Sam unbuttons his wine-colored tuxedo and spins slowly, a slight swing in his hips. He’s met with several wolf-whistles, a rose thrown on stage, and a brief retching noise courtesy of Clint, to which Sam replies with a wink and a scoffed, “The glory is too much to handle for the insecure and faint of heart, ain’t it, Barton? We got a doctor on retainer in case you pass out.” 

Sam holds out his elbow to help you down the stairs and you gratefully loop your arm through his, your other hand hoisting the hem of your dress above your ankles. 

You sigh after meeting one of the bid winners, smile falling from your lips the moment you turn away. “I should’ve bid on that Marrakech trip.” 

Sam cocks an eyebrow. He doesn’t seem to mind one bit that you have yet to release him and simply follows you as you head to the bar. “Enjoy it last time?” 

“You mean when I was there to locate stolen Chitauri weapons?” you let out a bark of sarcastic laughter. “Steve didn’t even let me glance in the relative direction of a souq when that was the only reason I volunteered.” 

“So that’s a no?” 

You take the fresh flute of champagne a waiter offers and nod your thanks. “That’s a hell fucking no.” A pathetic pout and, “I deserve to love Morocco.” 

“Makin’ that face at me won’t help your cause. Makin’ that face at Pervert Santa Claus over there,” he points to a man, rosy-cheeked with a white beard and wandering eyes, who you recognize as the winner of the trip. “That’ll get you what you want.”

You make a face, tongue sticking out as you gag, and set your glass atop the bar. “First of all, even the prospect of sex with me will make his heart give out.”

Sam laughs into his tumbler of whiskey and rolls his eyes.

You grimace openly when the eyes of an elderly man— his arm around a woman who looks to be barely in her twenties— linger a bit too long and smile when he visibly shrinks. “And B., I only flirt with them to get donations. I’d sooner never leave this tower again than get with one of these ‘I only donate money to boost my public image’ types.” 

He hums and a slow, lazy smile curves his lips. He nods his head in the direction of something behind you. “Barnes’ got a different ideology.”

As casually as you can, you turn your body to lean your elbows atop the bar and tilt your head ever so slightly to glance where Bucky is standing. 

Standing and laughing. How is he still laughing? 

Arching an eyebrow at the woman he speaks to, you lift your glass to your lips. “Doesn’t look like she fits the bill.” 

“You’re joking,” Sam laughs, shaking his head as he sets his elbows on the bar as well. His shoulder brushes yours and, despite the itchy fabric of his tuxedo, you don’t mind. “That’s Maris Scheufele.” 

Long, chestnut brown hair swept over one shoulder to keep her back bare, her gown is silky, liquid gold. Dripping in wealth.

You purse your lips and turn back to Sam. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?” 

“Chopard heiress.” 

“Chopard like—” with wide eyes, you point at the sapphire and diamond earrings borrowed from Pepper on your ears and the matching ring on your left index finger. “Like Cannes Film Festival Chopard? Like that Chopard?” 

“Yeah, that Chopard.” He has to stop from laughing at the look you offer him. He thinks he might see your skin turn green in a matter of minutes. “She’s more loaded than Cigarette-Breath Du Rideshare-App-CEO from the elephant benefit.” 

You manage a small smile and a quick roll of your eyes, only to have them once again land on Bucky and the Chopard heiress. Maris. 

You aren’t jealous— per se. Jealousy is an ugly emotion, after all. Childish, and inconsiderate, and rooted in insecurity. 

Sure, she’s cuddled up next to someone you’re in the midst of denying feelings for out of fear and the prospect of being undeserving. And, sure, she’s covered in diamonds and you’re usually covered in dried blood, dust, and dirt from HYDRA facilities. But you aren’t jealous. 

You know you’ve wasted your time, his efforts, and your emotions being anything but happy with Bucky. Chances lost never come around again, right? So you’ve made your peace with it. You’ve had to make your peace with it.

With how much you’ve messed up, how many chances you’ve lost. With how perfect she is and how perfect he looks laughing with her. 

Perfect. 

So perfect that your teeth grit and the grip you have on your champagne flute tightens.

“He’s gonna bring in the big bucks.” 

You snort. “I thought he had different ideologies.”

“He does. But you know she ain’t gonna let him get auctioned off to anyone else.” A corner of Sam's lips turn up in disgust as he, too, stares at them with little stealth. Nick Fury would be ashamed in you both. “Lookin’ at him like he’s a piece of jerky.” 

“Jerky?”

“Old, dried up beef.” He then hums in agreement with his own words. “Nasty, hundred-year old beef.” 

With a laugh— a laugh that has the cadence of a sob— you drop your head into your hands. 

You meet Bucky’s eyes when you pick your head up, his head tilted in silent question. Perhaps at your wet, ironic smile, perhaps at the pull of your eyebrows. 

You shake your head in response and it’s when he almost immediately returns to laughing at whatever Maris Scheufele is saying that you straighten with a frown. 

What the hell kind of name is that anyway? Maris.

“What the hell—” you pause to take the glass from Sam’s hands and polish off his whiskey. “What the hell is so funny?” 

The glass is snatched back. “Not you finishing my drink, that’s for sure.” 

Shrugging as you continue to stare at Bucky and Maris, you mumble, “Put the next one on my tab.” 

Sam snorts as he asks for another drink, facing you as he adds, “S’an open bar, you cheap ass.” 

Once you’ve been able to secure a fresh, much stronger drink for yourself, you loop your arm through Sam’s again and set your chin on his shoulder. Your noses nearly bump when he looks at you and you both laugh softly. “I fucked up, didn’t I?” 

“You did.” He yelps and laughs when you pinch his side, lightly knocking his head against yours. Gentle eyes meet yours as he says, “Not tryna be harsh, but you had him and you let him go.” 

“I know.” 

“He spent weeks moping about it, you spent weeks moping about it.” 

“I know.”

“It was miserable comforting both you idiots.” 

“Yeah, you’re the real victim here.” 

Despite your dry tone, he nods in agreement. “You could tell him right now. Get all this bullshit over with and out in the open.”

Just the idea makes your heart rate spike. “He might reject me. Exact revenge for what I did.” 

“Barnes is a lotta things. Greasy, geriatric, testy, fuckin’ annoying as shit—” Sam hisses when you pinch him again, “— but vindictive ain’t one of ‘em.” 

Before Sam can convince you to move even an inch from the part of the bar you’ve dubbed yours for the night, warm fingers wrap around your elbow and tap your arm five times in quick succession. A secret identification code. 

A secret identification code that makes you smile despite yourself. You lift your head from Sam’s shoulder and hope you don’t look too eager as Bucky leans back against the bar, facing you entirely. “Look who it is.” 

He waves vibranium fingers and grins, a bit of that thirties charm you’d heard so much about shining in his blue eyes as he looks at you. “Hi, sweetheart. Wilson,” he adds with a playfully curt nod, chuckling when Sam returns it. “You were great up there. Prettiest MC I’ve ever seen. Almost had me buyin’ the trip to Morocco to make up for the shit Steve put you through.”

You feel Sam shaking in silent laughter and sigh when you hear his whispered, “For fuck’s sake.” 

“Only ‘almost’?” you ask with a pout Bucky grins at and wide eyes that have him swallowing over a dry throat. “What does a girl have to do for you to actually bid?” 

He shakes his head after a moment of simply staring, chuckling. “These poor bastards don’t stand a chance against you, do they? They’d probably sign their entire companies over to you and not think twice about it.”

“Just doing my part to save the Amazon,” you shrug. “Like you’re doing with the Bachelor Auction.” 

“‘Bout that,” he begins as he straightens his jacket and tie— all black. You trace his jaw, sharp and angular, when he glances away for just a second. “How long d’you think it’ll take Stark to put me out of my misery when nobody bids on me?”

“I wouldn’t be so negative. I know of one person who’ll definitely bid on you.”

His lips quirk up on one end, eyes dreamy as his head tilts in indulgence. “Yeah? Who’s that?” 

“Your heiress.” 

Bucky doesn’t seem to notice Sam jabbing his elbow into your ribs and cocks an eyebrow in confusion. “My what?” 

Though you weren’t planning on replying, Tony’s voice over the speakers doesn’t allow Bucky to question you further and you heave a sigh of relief. He calls all the bachelors to the stage and Sam pulls his arm from yours, bumping your shoulders together before he departs just as Tony begins telling a story of his first bachelor auction and how much he went for. 

Bucky remains still, however. Leant against the bar, eyes on you. 

“Bachelor number 4,” you say, pointing at the button he wears. You smile softly. “You’re needed on stage.” 

That seems to jolt him out of whatever stupor he was lost in and he stands straight. He takes a step forward and pauses, so close you can feel the heat radiating from him and smell his subtle cologne. “Bid on me if no one else does.” 

“I won’t need to.” 

Natasha finds you just as the bidding begins and orders herself a drink. She doesn’t say much, simply looking at you as you stare at Bucky standing next to Steve and Sam, and nods to herself. She remains a quiet, comfortable presence until Steve is brought to centerstage and nearly every paddle in the room shoots up. “You tell him yet?” 

“Nope.” 

“Thought so.” She nods her head to her left and you follow the movement to where Maris sits, back straight as she, too, looks at Bucky— but she’s grinning, paddle poised to be raised. “Scheufele being a cock block?” 

You’re visibly surprised when you turn back to Natasha, her ginger hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders. “How did you— How the hell could you possibly know that?” 

With the crooked curve of blood red lips, she smiles. “I’m just that good. And Sam texted me about it ten minutes ago.”

She continues to watch you as the excited winner of a date with Steve rises from his seat. “He’s next.” 

“I know that.” 

“You gonna bid on him?” 

You snort, though unconvincingly, and shake your head. “And go against an heiress? I’ll save myself the embarrassment.” 

“Stark pays us buckets,” she tells you with a frown, picking a stray piece of lint off her silver dress. “You could afford to go against an heiress.”

Bucky’s eyes are narrowed as he looks over the crowd of people seated at their tables. The light bounces off diamonds and sequins, gold and shiny leather shoes. It stings his eyes, it makes him scowl. 

“And next, ladies and gentlemen, feast your eyes on Bachelor Number 4,” Tony announces, turning a bit to glance at Bucky as he trudges over, not bothering to look a bit more appealing. “James Buchanan Barnes, truly the human equivalent of a cat.” 

Bucky openly glares at Tony now.

“James enjoys silence, brooding, eating like a fuckin’ horse, and telling the same story more than once,” Tony continues, ignoring the roll of Bucky’s eyes. “Cute, cuddly, and a little dangerous, we’ll start the bidding at one-thousand.” 

Three paddles shoot up. One from Maris, and two toward the center of the room. Your shoulders tense, Bucky’s relax.

“Okay, do I see eleven hundred?” 

Two paddles remain lifted until Maris shouts from her seat in a lilting voice, “Three thousand.” 

Your jaw clenches, Bucky grins. 

Tony set his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Alright, three thousand going once—” 

“Thirty-one hundred!” 

It feels as if the entire room turns in their seats to gape at you, but you try to pay them no mind. You, wearing your jealousy and determination like armor, stand at the bar with an empty glass in your hand, waiting for Tony to call your bid. But before he can— 

“Thirty-two!”

Your eyebrows furrow as you look at Maris. “Thirty-three!” 

“Four thousand!” She’s smiling. A perfectly manicured eyebrow is raised in challenge. 

You see red. “Forty-three hundred.” 

“Six thousand!” 

“Sixty-five hundred!” 

“Seventy-five hundred!”

When you look at the stage in a bit of a panic, Tony grins expectantly at you and Bucky— Well, you don’t think Bucky’s ever looked so shocked in all the time you’ve known him. But when his eyes go from Maris to meet yours, you find yourself yelling, “Ten thousand!” 

The room goes silent, or maybe you’ve just tuned it all out, and Tony is shaking his head in amusement. “Ten thousand going once.” 

You turn toward Maris as she sits and tosses her paddle onto the table. “Ten thousand going twice.”

You face the stage again. Bucky’s expression is unreadable. “Sold to our beautiful teammate in blue.” 

A bright spotlight shines on you and you fight the urge to run from the room, from the Tower, from New York, and give your best smile. 

— 

It’s four in the morning, all the lights on the residential floors of the Tower have been turned off, and the world is peaceful. But your mind continues to race. 

You sit at the kitchen counter, container of Sam’s leftover cheesecake from your lunch out with him open before you. You twirl a fork between your fingers and stare at nothing in particular, your soft breaths the only sound in the room. 

You’d changed out of your dress hours ago, washed off your makeup and taken the pins out of your hair. You could barely meet the eyes of your reflection out of fear of judgement and you didn’t ask FRIDAY to dim the lights or lock your door just in case she laughed at you. 

Tony had yet to talk to you about paying the ten grand you bid on Bucky and you left the ballroom before anyone could so much as snicker. You knew you couldn’t hide forever, you just needed the night to come to terms with your own stupidity. 

Yet as you prop your chin upon your palm and sigh, you think you might need a day or two, too. 

Quiet steps down the hall are made purposefully louder as they grow closer so as to not startle you, the lights dim as bulbs flicker on to about ten-percent of their full brightness. You fear your heartbeat might be audible to everyone in a ten mile radius at the sight of his blue eyes, messy brown hair, and wrinkled black t-shirt, and take a deep breath through parted lips in a futile attempt to calm it down.

He offers you a small smile and walks to the fridge. “You want some water?” 

You shake your head— even though he can’t see you. “No, I’m fine.” 

There’s a beat of silence and you take a breath to steady yourself. “Buck, I think we should talk.” 

He takes out a glass bottle of water for himself and shuts the fridge, leaning against the sink. He’s still smiling. “I know.” 

“I—” 

“I’m not gonna hold you to this thing,” he interjects, rolling the bottle between his hands. He watches as you sit up straight and set your fork down. “I know you made the bid just to donate the money and save me from that married heiress—” 

“Married?” you repeat to yourself. 

“And you’ve made it clear you just want to be friends,” he continues, undeterred. “So it’s okay. Hell, I’ll pay for half of it so I’ll feel like I’ve actually done somethin’ to save the sea turtles.” 

“The Amazon.” 

“Right, the Amazon,” he amends with a quiet laugh. He takes a sip of the water and sets the botte aside. “So whaddya say, huh? We’ll go half and half, help this cause out a little, and you don’t have to go on a date with me.” 

“Bucky, you don’t understand—” 

“No, no, I get it,” he says, walking around the narrow strip of granite separating you to sit on the stool beside yours. Features soft but a little sad, he shrugs as warmth rolls off him in waves. “I told you to bid on me in case no one else did and you saw how much more Steve went for. You tried to raise the bids on me and got stuck since those billionaires didn’t want to shell out more than ten grand on the Winter Soldier. I get it!” 

“That’s not why I did it, Bucky. Not at all.” 

He lowers his eyes to his hands, staring at mismatched palms, and says nothing. 

“Honestly, I—” You stop yourself when it feels as if your heart’s lodged itself in your throat and struggle to swallow over it. “When I saw that Chopard heiress talking to you and laughing with you, and when she bid on you and almost won that date, I— Something happened.” 

He looks at you now, eyebrows pulled together. “What happened?” 

“I— I don’t know. I guess I was a little jealous,” you say with a laugh only to shake your head. There’s a subtle sting behind your eyes, at the tip of your nose, and you pray to every deity you can think of to stop any tears. “No, I was very, very jealous. You two looked so happy and perfect and I wanted to scream, and cry, and— Fuck, all I could think about is how much time, and energy, and emotion I’ve wasted pushing you away so neither one of us ends up heartbroken when I already am.” 

You sigh, unable to meet his gaze as he gapes at you, his mouth hanging open as you laugh mirthlessly. “It probably seems so stupid to you and I know you’ve moved on, but, holy hell, I wish you still had some kind of crush on me because I’m dying here, Buck. I mean I just spent ten thousand dollars to make you go on a date with me.” 

“You did,” he agrees. He’s smiling when you manage to look at him, “You spent ten thousand dollars on me when you could’ve just had me for free this entire time.” 

He grasps your chin between his flesh index finger and thumb and jostles you a little, gaze so adoring. “And what punk ass told you I moved on from you? Huh? That same goof who said it’s just a crush?” 

He leans forward and pauses just before his lips meet yours, as if waiting for you to pull away only for you to close the distance first. 

What starts off as just a light brush of your lips against his quickly turns into a deep, hungry kiss that quiets your mind and forces your heart into overdrive. The warmth of it reaches your toes and every hair follicle, especially as both his hands cup your face while your fingers tangle through his hair, the rasp of his stubbly beard against your soft, sensitive skin stealing your breath even more.

You pull away first and your voice is small, a bit hoarse as you ask, “So you still like me?” 

He sets his forehead against yours and his lips pull into a smile. “I’d say it’s a li’l more than that, sweetheart.” 

It’s hours later when the sun is up, the cheesecake slice is long forgotten, and Bucky’s pulled you onto his stool to straddle his lap, your lips swollen and a little painful, that you groan in embarrassment. 

He immediately leans away from your neck and looks up at you in concern, lips full and cherry red. “What? What’s wrong?” 

“I have to pay Tony ten thousand dollars.” 

Chuckling, he rolls his eyes and presses a kiss to your chin. “I’ll pay it.” 

“Then I’ll owe you ten thousand dollars.” You withhold a moan when he nips at a part of your neck that has your hips rolling into his, the hitching of his breath felt more than heard. “That— that just transfers the problem.”

You feel him smile, arm tightening around you. “I think I know of a way you can pay me back.”

“Sounds like you just discovered the world’s oldest profession.” 

A punishing nip under your jaw and you gasp as he laughs. “I’m still all for going half and half to save the sea turtles.” 

“The Amazon.” 

He sighs and leans back. “Fuckin’ Christ. Someone needs to save the fuckin’ turtles already, then.”

[strawberrysoup]

Let’s Review || Chapter 21

Peter Parker knew that his big sister would do anything for him to be safe and happy. She’d given up everything for him twice over already and would do it again in a heartbeat. And that’s why, when the criminal mastermind Tony Stark started inextricably following him around, he didn’t say a word. Because he knew without a doubt Penny would do whatever she had to if it meant keeping Peter safe. He had to protect her, just like she always protected him. He never considered what would happen if Stark decided both Parker siblings were worth taking. Never considered who else in Stark’s inner circle would agree. He just wanted to protect her and yet somehow, they both ended up with needles in their necks.  

relationship: Steve Rogers/Original Female Character/Bucky Barnes, background Peter Parker/Tony Stark rating: Explicit warnings: Dark Steve Rogers, Dark Bucky Barnes, Dark Tony Stark, Dark Avengers, kidnapping, non-consensual&dark sexual situations, underage Peter Parker, emotional and psychological abuse, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat more warnings: you know what? there’s really not anything. except like... this ones gonna hurt 🤙🤙 good luck

read this: fuck guys this chapter was draining and insane, please reblog and comment if you liked it. pleeeease.

The anxiety had been building for a week now, but as the final day of Penny’s stay in the tower progressed Peter found himself practically vibrating with panic. He’d been trying, desperately, to make Tony change his mind—he’d spent an entire day not talking to the man, had screamed and raged against him, he’d cried and begged, offered anything in exchange for Penny to stay. The older man had held his ground remarkably, gently admonishing him for all of his misbehavior and brattiness and explaining, every time, that it was what was best for Penny.

In all fairness, Peter realized about half way through the week there was no hope for convincing Tony, but he had to keep up the behavior lest he rouse suspicion. Thankfully it wasn’t exactly hard to be depressed and angry and petty, not when Tony was endangering his sister.

The garbled piece of technology in his pocket felt heavier than ever, in his head the iridium electrodes were ten thousand degrees. Peter didn’t want to use it—kind of. He didn’t want to make Tony sad or angry, but he kind of did? What he knew he wanted was for Penny to escape, with or without him.  Any disappointment or anger would be worth it, he’d revel in it just a bit, and Penny would be safe.

“Come here baby.”

His feet moved before he even thought of it, trailing over to where Tony was standing at the bar with a finger of scotch in a tumbler. They were getting ready to head down to the soldier’s floor, freshly showered after a day in the lab and just waiting for it to be time. Peter didn’t understand why they couldn’t just go early, why did they have to wait all day anyway? He could’ve been with Penny hours ago, he could’ve helped her escape hours ago. The clock was ticking and his nerves were rising.

“You are freaking out,” Tony told him pointedly as he drew Peter into his arms once he was close enough, tucking the boy against his chest, “I can feel your brain going nuts. What do you need baby?”

“Penny.” It wasn’t a belligerent or angry response, just short and desperate.

Tony sighed heavily, weight settling on his shoulders at the teenager’s words. He’d been conflicted for the last week, ever since Steve told him the ‘plan’. The plan to take Penny a thousand miles away and tuck her away inside of a cabin until they could condition her to behave. He understood the method to the madness—he’d considered spiriting them away before too. But the keyword was them. He had considered taking them both off to some secluded cabin. It was the same sensation Tony had gotten when he decided he would steal Penny away along with Peter; they were supposed to be together.

But that wasn’t to say he didn’t see the necessity.

Tony was fully aware that Penny was not adapting the same way his boy was. Where Peter had fallen into tolerance and was moving towards acceptance and potentially even appreciation, Penny was still actively resisting most of the time. Steve revealed that she’d started to break after reaching her pain threshold, there had been small cracks in the surface and the soldiers were managing to pry their way through the gaps. Had it been Peter, they would’ve had him calm and docile and perfectly behaved by now—but Penny was a completely different animal.

It was slow going though, agonizingly slow. And her reluctance caused a correlating reluctance in Peter, who generally matched her opinions and emotions but at about a quarter of the level of passion. Not to say Peter wasn’t passionate about things, the kid was, but Tony still wondered if the teenager realized the gravity of what had happened the way Penny did.

For all of his intelligence, Peter was still young. His ability to think logically was great, but his immaturity hindered him; Penny had shielded him, a lot, from the realities of the world. The idea that he was with Tony for the rest of his life likely didn’t mean much, it was a concept but Peter didn’t have any way to conceptualize the future like that. His brain was perpetually stuck in the present, just like most kids his age.

Penny understood consequences. She understood harsh realities and disadvantages and unescapable struggle; she’d lived it for so long. Three jobs, no bed, no insurance, no degree, no— Tony had to stop himself. Penny understood suffering in a way she hadn’t allowed Peter to, had protected him from. Penny knew what forever meant and she knew it was crippling. Peter was in the early chapters, still in his exposition and living in the moment. His sister was at the end of her story, a tragic dénouement of everything she’d ever known.

Peter had retained his rose-colored glasses, whereas Penny’s were smashed when she was thirteen. Hard stop, no condolences for the loss of her childhood—they were obliterated when she could barely comprehend what life was and the difference between the pair was palpable.

If they kept the siblings together, Penny would never adapt beyond protecting Peter. She wouldn’t be able to see the future as an opportunity versus a loss, not while she felt like she had failed him. Seeing Tony touch him, talk to him, look at him was enough to make Penny fall into a pit of existential dread over her failure to protect her brother. The separation had to happen; him and Peter needed to develop away from the soldiers and Penny—there was no other viable solution.

The way Tony’s arm tightened around his back for just a moment, a quick reassuring squeeze, told Peter that despite the silence the man hadn’t changed his mind. He wouldn’t relent. He wouldn’t fucking fix it.

“Here, you know what? Let’s peek in,” Tony gestured towards the TV with the tumbler, tugging Peter around the bar to stand just behind the sofa, “JARVIS, how’s Penny and the Popsicles?”

“Ms. Parker has just changed clothes and is awaiting your arrival, sir,” the AI responded smoothly, “shall I pull up the camera feed?”

“Yeah, throw it on the TV,” Tony wrapped his arms around Peter and pulled him into his chest once again, resting his cheek against the side of his head while they focused on the screen, where Penny was walking into the living room.

She was wearing a long sleeved shirt that dusted her knuckles and leggings, her masses of hair pulled into a bobble on the top of her head. The camera was focused on the living room as a whole, angled to see the front of the couch and armchairs, Penny’s daybed just barely visible in the corner. Bucky was sitting on the armchair, phone in his flesh hand while Steve skirted the top corner of the screen, walking around the kitchen and dining room.

Peter clocked that something was amiss immediately. Penny was hugging herself around the waist, shoulders hunched towards her ears as she crossed the room. They were able to catch her profile as she came to a stop in front of Bucky and waited until she had his attention, a hint of the expression on her face something Peter recognized to be heart wrenching. When he put his phone down and sat up slightly, looking almost concerned, Penny immediately tucked herself into his lap—of her own volition. Bucky was visibly in disbelief, arms snapping up to help settle her, tucking her close when she rolled even further onto her hip and pressed her chest against his. She went so far as to press her face against the slope of his neck, arms tucking around the back of his neck and shoulders tightly.

Bucky had followed all of her movements valiantly, helping her adjust and tugging her knees to rest between his thigh and the arm rest. Steve even crept further into the corner of the screen, looking at Bucky with raised eyebrows and signing something with one hand while absently holding up a pitcher with the other.

There was something crawling under Peter’s skin; he could feel it slithering over his muscle tissue and insinuating itself into his being. A sharp tremble ran down his back and he pulled away from Tony, pretending to turn to wipe away tears when instead he was trying to get a handle on his shaking. He couldn’t identify it, didn’t know what was going on, it felt like his blood was bubbling in his veins and he tamped down the shiver fiercely before Tony could tug him back into his chest.

“See baby, Penny’s fine, she’s just waiting for us,” he murmured gently against the side of Peter’s head—Tony didn’t know, didn’t recognize how sad she looked— “I know this is going to be hard. It’s gonna be hard for all of us, but Penny won’t be gone long baby. They’ll be back before we know it.”

Penny would break before they knew it. Penny would break. Penny would shatter. Something viscous was festering in his chest, constricting his organs. His heart was pounding but blood was oozing rather than pumping through his veins, it felt thick and congested—he felt sick, he was going to puke but Tony was shuffling him towards the elevator already. Peter swallowed hard, allowing himself to be ushered inside while the man followed behind.

“Soldiers’ floor, J.”

“Of course, sir.”

Tony cursed before the elevator doors closed, sticking his arm out, “I forgot Penny’s present, wait here baby.”

And all of a sudden the blood was rushing through Peter’s veins. He didn’t even think—the moment Tony was out of sight he ripped the piece of tech from his pocket and opened the tiny pocket that allowed whatever little physical maintenance that was necessary for an AI enhanced elevator. He couldn’t have imagined such a pristine opportunity, hadn’t had any idea how he was going to execute his plan.

“Mr. Parker, I do not—”

“Sorry JARVIS,” he gasped, on the verge of a panic attack as he hastily connected the circuit board to the elevator system and, by proxy, JARVIS’ system.

Peter had just closed the panel before Tony returned and the teenager found himself gasping for breath, leaning against the railing in the elevator. Tony sighed upon seeing his distress, obviously believing it was a result of Penny’s impending departure—it wasn’t like JARVIS could explain otherwise, Peter glanced towards the red dot in the corner of the elevator, once again apologizing to the AI in his mind.

When the elevator stopped and the doors opened, he stepped into the foyer where the soldiers’ front door was located and waited, shaking, to see what happened when Tony stepped off. He let the man shuffle him along, listening for the sound of the elevator doors behind them. Tony didn’t seem to notice that it stayed in place, open, an anomaly for either of the tower residents’ personal elevators.

The front door opened and Penny burst through, immediately jumping up to wrap her arms around Peter’s shoulders to tug him into the biggest hug she was capable of. He could feel her shaking, Tony’s hand rested on the small of his back and the soldiers were standing inside the apartment, waiting to welcome them in. Peter reeled with scenarios, looking to the side at Tony’s face, his eyes. He let his eyes trail over him for just a few seconds before shifting.

He made eye contact with Steve for all of four seconds before sweeping Penny up and darting back to the still open elevator, “JARVIS! Down, now! Fast!”

He slid through the doors with Penny clutched to his chest just before the door closed and the elevator started to descend at the fastest rate that was safe for unaided, standing human transportation.

“PALTI CHAYIM WHAT DID YOU DO?!” She was screaming in Hebrew, words flying from her mouth so fast he couldn’t even keep up—something about stupid, why, what they’ll, safe—

“PENNY—Fuck! You have to run! Stop screaming, listen! When we get to the floor you run!” He shouted back, trying not to shake her too hard while they continued to descend uncomfortably fast, “I don’t know how long it’ll work!”

“Peter why did you do this?” Penny was sobbing into his chest while he struggled to get them both to their feet, “Palti Chayim, I—Fuck! Fuck­—”

Her hands dug into his shirt roughly and she shoved him into the back corner of the elevator, falling against him just a moment later. Peter’s arm lashed around her waist when she almost fell while trying to turn, her back pressing him further into the corner and he realized the elevator was starting to slow. Penny’s hands gripped the railings to each side, trapping him in the corner. His eyes snapped to the blue dots over the doors and his heart seized in his chest—they were only on floor 35, for the elevator to have slowed so much they would’ve needed to be on the 20th floor minimum to stop on the 1st floor at the current rate of deceleration.

JARVIS was back in full control, carefully dropping their speed until it came to a complete stop on the 12th floor. Penny’s body locked up like she’d gone into rigor mortis when it started to ascend again, her breathing coming in frantic pants. It was going up at the usual clip and Peter realized that every second it took made his heart beat faster in his chest. He was light headed, dread setting in.

Tony had told him multiple times that anticipation was the real punishment sometimes, the overwhelming paranoia and fear and desolation. His thoughts immediately began to spiral and his knees weakened slightly.

“When it stops you stay in here,” Penny’s voice shook as she spoke.

“Wha­—”

“Shut your mouth!” She screamed, once again defaulting to Hebrew, “Be quiet. Do as I say. Do. Not. Move.”

“Penina—”

“Stop.”

Peter swallowed down a sob, head dropping to rest on her shoulder. The passing of floors was marked by a soft tone and between the two of them, they were barely able to remain standing when the silence between beeps started to lengthen. Penny’s grip on the railing slipped, her hands sweaty from sheer panic, her knees just barely holding up the extra weight. His arm was still slung around her waist, but his hold was too slack to keep her up despite the strength with which he clenched her shirt in his fist.

“Stay.” Penny managed to choke the order out just seconds before the door opened, a panicked sound escaping her lips when she realized her legs weren’t moving the way she needed them to.

It just amped the anticipation, Penny’s brief but agonizing hesitation before she forced her limbs to react and lead her out of the elevator. He nearly gagged on a sob, watching as she put her hands up and out to her sides, just slightly. Penny was vibrating with fear, her fingers almost blurry from a distance.

“P-Please—” Peter couldn’t see them, they must’ve been standing to the side of the doors, in front of the second elevator, “it’s m-my fault.”

“No—!” He launched himself forward, only for his sister to turn faster than he thought she could move.

Penny had never laid a violent hand on him, but the way she shoved him back into the elevator bordered on it, “SHUT UP!”

He’d never noticed the way Penny’s voice cracked when she screamed before. It had always been there, he was aware in the back of his mind, but he’d never really noticed. It hurt in a special way, when the bottom seemed to fall out of her words until she could rally through the rasp. Penny had been smoking some combination of weed and cigarettes for almost as long as he could remember—had she been fourteen or fifteen? He was only eight, maybe nine at the time. Did her voice crack like that before?

His thoughts spiraled once again while Penny turned forward again, putting herself between his seated self and the three men’s towering forms, “I’m his guardian. His actions fall on me, not him. I should’ve stopped him, I shouldn’t—if I had stayed inside t-to wait, it wouldn’t have—”

“Babydoll,” Steve sighed, shifting to step closer but stopping short when a full body cringe racked her form and her hands lifted to cover her face, just for a second before she clasped them tightly in front of her chest, “Penny…”

“You—you can just… p-punish me, okay?” Her voice was shaking as badly as her body, hitching every few words and she shuddered violently for a moment before lowering herself onto her knees, “H-He’s just a k-kid, I should’ve—”

“Okay, precious, come here,” Tony scooped her up under her arms, bringing her back to her feet before tucking her into his chest, “I know that this is just what you do. It’s a compulsion, trying to take the blame like this? But we both know nothing you did could’ve stopped him. He grabbed you and ran before Steve could get to you, sweetheart.”

“N-No, I—”

“We had audio and video in the elevator the whole time, doll,” Steve cut her off gently, “JARVIS was translating to Tony’s phone. We know what you said, and we know what he said.”

A choked sob escaped Penny and her fingers dug violently into Tony’s old t-shirt, her nails scratching him through the fabric. Bucky immediately darted forward and snatched her out of Tony’s arms, spinning them around until Peter couldn’t see her around the bulk of his body. It had been preventative—if they got to her before she did damage, there didn’t have to be a punishment. He could see her legs kicking and the sound of her crying but not much else.

“Peter,” his attention snapped to Tony, who’d stepped directly in front of him, “we’re going to go inside, everyone is going to calm down, and we’re going to have a good night. Do you understand?”

His breath froze in his chest for just a moment, whooshing out when the man crouched to look him dead in the eye, “are you willing to calm down so that you can be with Penny this evening?”

It took him a half second longer than he intended to nod, murmuring a quiet response. He was rewarded by a small smile and Tony helping him up, the older man immediately wrapping an arm around his waist once he was on his feet.

There wouldn’t be any opportunity for escape, of course, whether Tony was physically holding him or not. He’d give the kid one thing: he never thought Peter would get so close. Never thought Peter could get so close. He wondered how long he’d been working on that particular piece of tech—something that overrode JARVIS’s response to his orders. It only worked in the one elevator and it was corrected within two minutes of the breach, but it was still incredibly impressive. Especially considering Tony had been very careful not to provide him with any parts or pieces that could facilitate a runaway attempt.

Inside the apartment, Bucky was still cradling Penny tightly to his chest but now in the same position that they’d seen on the security camera. Tony could feel Peter tremble against his side at the sight, his chest jumping with a suppressed sob. There were a pair of kittens worming their way around Bucky’s ankle, the little white one particularly loud in its’ efforts to be noticed.

“It gets upset when Penny’s upset,” Steve stated from behind, startling Peter for just a moment when he walked around the pair and towards the chair, “here you go, doll.”

The super soldier scooped the tiny cat into his hand and deposited it right against the exposed crook of Penny’s neck before swiping the orange one up as well, setting it on the arm of the couch a few feet away.

“That one doesn’t?” Tony questioned, guiding them over to the couch and pressing Peter sit before sitting next to him.

“It doesn’t like to be touched as much,” the blond answered, already walking towards the dining room again, “food should be up soon.”

Tony knew that Steve was doing his best to distance himself at the moment, lest he lose his temper on Peter. He was pissed, practically steaming in irritation and honestly Tony appreciated the lengths he was going to. The orange cat let out a squeaky meow from where it sat, looking hesitant to be on the same surface as other people. It very carefully hopped from the arm of the couch to a seat cushion, toeing the very edge before backing away nervously.

“Here, I’ll put you down,” Peter murmured quietly, reaching over and carefully picking the kitten up, relieved when it didn’t protest and sat it on the ground gently.

“Do you need a cat too, baby?” Tony nosed his temple gently before pressing a kiss there, watching Peter smile when the orange cat went up onto its back legs to knead its little paws against his ankle.

The teenager reached over and picked the kitten back up when it continued to meow and scratch at him, obviously looking for attention. As soon as it was on his lap it started to squirm, but only until his hands weren’t wrapped around it. The little thing was sniffing around him curiously, stumbling across his lap on unsteady paws.

A tone sounded near the front door, alerting them that the food had arrived. Steve was quick to respond but Penny didn’t even shift and Peter certainly didn’t look much inclined to move while the kitten was, adorably and painfully, clawing its way up the front of his shirt.

“How about we eat around the coffee table,” Steve suggested as he walked into the living room with two large, brown paper bags full of food, having evidently read Tony’s mind, “Tone, can you get everything out? I’ll go grab plates.”

Tony started absently digging through the bags and pulling out the styrofoam containers. He was definitely checking what was in everything and stacking it around the table depending on who’d be eating what, but his eyes were mostly locked on Peter. The kitten had made its way up to his shoulder and was furiously rubbing its face against his cheek, purring up a storm.

“It usually only lets Penny touch it,” Bucky’s voice rumbled from the armchair, his eyes also focused on Peter and the cat while his hands absently roved over Penny’s still form, “even then not for long.”

“Maybe it has discerning taste,” Tony reached out and tried to scratch it under the chin, only to jerk back when it lashed out with sharp little kitten claws, “exquisite tastes, I guess.”

“It’s cute but those claws are sharp as hell,” Steve returned with plates and silverware, two six packs balanced on top and a few bottles of soda tucked under his arm, “Bucky would be covered in scars if we didn’t heal.”

“I was trying to play with it, I didn’t think it would turn into a psycho killer and go for the jugular.”

“Says the psycho killer who regularly goes for the jugular,” Tony muttered under his breath, making Steve and Bucky both snort in amusement while Peter wondered if an actual ice cube going down his spine could make more goosebumps than that statement, “why not get it declawed?”

Steve and Bucky exchanged looks, both cautiously glancing towards where Penny’s face was tucked into the brunet’s neck, “it’s not—”

“Declawing a cat is cruel,” Penny’s voice was watery and angry, “they’ll be in pain for the rest of their lives. You want them to stop scratching but all it does is make them angry and mean and they’ll spend the rest of their lives hating you. Making your life as miserable as possible until you give up and either euthanize them or give them away. It’s what you get for ruining their fucking lives.”

[vennilavee]

the soul of a flame - ch 2

ignite

the soul of a flame masterlist

pairing: levi x reader of color

summary: levi sees you a few more times at the silver sapphire, where you’re in your element.

warnings: alcohol, cursing

word count: ~4000

a/n: mostly a filler chapter to establish characters and the setting. also i might be adding several chapters in between, after further outlining LOL. enjoy! plz reblog and leave a comment if you liked this 

***

You were definitely not expecting the bar to be this busy tonight. Neither you nor Misaki had known that the Survey Corps were about to go on a big expedition, which explained why anyone with a green cape who was old enough to drink was in your bar.

The expedition was in a few days, far enough in the future where it didn’t feel like it was looming just yet. The grim truth is that you’d see fewer and fewer of those green capes every time they’d come back. You wonder what exactly happens on those expeditions, but it can’t be anything good. You have a soft spot for them- they’ve treated you kindly for the most part. 

It’s those damn MP’s that grate on your last nerve. The number of times that some of them, especially the older ones, have barged into your bar. Demanding free alcohol as some kind of payment for “protecting” the citizens of Wall Rose.

The number of times you’ve forced them out. It’s one too many.

You’re working up a sweat as you try to keep up with everyone at the bar. There’s dirt on your navy blue blouse and it’s bothering you every time you glance down but you haven’t had a chance to rub it away. You’re also certain that there is dirt on your face as well but you pay no mind to it. There’s no time, after all. Not when there’s dozens of soldiers who are desperate for a drink and a good time.

You fleetingly wonder if you’ll see any familiar faces. You’ve met some members of Squad Mike, Squad Levi and Squad Hange at least once. You’re the most acquainted with Squad Levi. You’ve even met some members of the Garrison regiment, including Hannes and Rico Brzenska, who reminds you somewhat of someone you once knew a long time ago.

Your thoughts flutter to Levi. You’ve seen him two or three times so far, and you would be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy his company. As rare as it was that he came by. He’s so easy to tease, and sometimes he gives it right back to you. That makes you smile when it happens.

Drinks are flowing, your arms beginning to get tired from the tumblers of ale and mixed drinks you’ve been refilling over the last hour. It’s bustling and noisy, just how you like it. Misaki’s in the same boat as you, carrying two trays filled with snacks and drinks.

Squad Levi is at their usual corner of the bar, but Levi isn’t with them. You wonder if he’ll show up later, but your thoughts are pulled away from the grumpy Captain when Squad Mike saunters into your bar with Mike himself leading the charge. The tall man sticks out from the rest as he generously sniffs around the bar. You’ve heard from Oluo that the man has a few interesting habits.

They look incredibly happy for a team about to embark on a potentially fatal mission. You suppose this is the territory that comes with being in the Survey Corps.

And where is their Commander? Erwin Smith. It’s been years, over a decade since you had last seen his piercing, blue eyes. You doubt he remembers you. It’s a memory even you have to reach into the depths of your mind for. 

But still. If anyone should have a drink tonight, it’s him.

You manage to sneak in a shot or two to steel your own nerves when you see Erwin walk in with Levi right next to him. You meet Levi’s eyes and wave at him.

“Commander Erwin,” You nod, “Honored to meet you, sir.”

He’s as intimidating and commanding of respect now as he was back then. You watch his face for a flash of recognition but there is none. Seemingly.

You offer both him and Levi a drink and excuse yourself to help Misaki out with the new orders that have come through. 

You’ve slowly come to realize that the Survey Corps really knows how to drink. When you deliver a drink to Erwin and his table members, you wryly tell him that the Survey Corps budget must be bursting at the seams. If they’ve got enough money to splurge on alcohol like this.

“We only splurge like this once in a while. When we know that many of us won’t be returning,” He replies and you nearly shrivel up from his icy gaze.

You can’t help but feel like you’ve been scolded like a schoolchild. You leave them to their devices, deciding to work on the growing pile of dirty dishes in the back. The flow of orders has slowed down and you’re hoping you can keep up with the cleaning.

“Loosen up, Erwin,” Levi says easily, after a sip of his whiskey, “Maybe that stick up your ass will loosen up, too.”

Erwin rolls his eyes at his Captain and takes a drink of his earthwater. It had been the recommendation of Hange, Moblit and even Levi himself.

He’s pleasantly surprised. 

Levi leans back in his chair, crossing his arms across his chest. He watches you and Misaki flit around quickly between tables, almost like a dance. You both work together synchronously to fulfill orders and even have the time for small talk with the patrons of the bar. His gaze is unwavering, maybe even harsh. He sees a few specks of dust on your cheeks and your forehead. 

It bothers him more than it should. 

The next time you circle back to their table, he can’t help himself-

“Oi. You’ve got some dirt on your face,” Levi points out, looking up at you from his seat.

Your cheeks heat up and you haphazardly rub your face. In an attempt to clean your face, you end up smudging the dirt around even more and Levi shakes his head. At this angle, Levi can see a stain at the collar of your navy shirt.

How annoying. 

You walk away from them after taking their orders and Levi watches you head to the back supply room. Levi waits a few beats before following you inside.

You nearly let out a screech when you come face to face with him. He moves so quietly and he raises an eyebrow at your jumpiness. 

“You made the dirt worse,” Levi says plainly, pointing to your cheeks.

The bar is filled with people, noise bouncing and echoing off of the walls. You can hear the bustle even in the supply closet. Your cheeks are hot again, your throat dry and you grip the box in your hands tightly. The chatter of conversation is somehow drowned out by the intensity of Levi’s silver eyes. 

“So you followed me in here?” You joke nervously.

“It’s bothering me,” Levi murmurs and steps closer to you. 

He’s only a breath away from you, and the quip that was on the tip of your tongue dies on your lips. Your dark eyes are wide, and god, has it always been this hot in here?

“You mind?” Levi asks quietly, taking a handkerchief out of his pocket. 

He knows how this looks. But you shake your head immediately, words seemingly stolen from your throat. Levi presses his clean handkerchief to your cheek, rubbing gently against your heated skin. And then your forehead, and above your eyebrow. He sees your scars once more, just above your eyebrow and his eyes flicker to the one below your clavicle.

Levi pulls his hand away and you wonder if he can hear the sound of blood rushing to your ears. The lamp behind Levi somehow both illuminates and casts shadows on his striking features, his eyes melting silver into yours.

He tucks the handkerchief in his pocket and notices your eyes flicker to his lips. Then back to his eyes. 

But he takes a step back and has a hand on the doorknob.

“Your collar is stained, too,” Levi mutters.

With that, as if he hadn’t almost touched your face with his bare hands, he exits the supply closet and heads back to his table. Levi downs his drink quickly and tells everyone at his table that he’ll be leaving. And that they should do the same.

It takes you a few minutes to regain your composure.

***

Levi is alone tonight. It’s the first time he’s heading to the Silver Sapphire without his squad. It’s eerie, he decides, kicking a stray rock out of his path. It’s quiet, and yet he can hear the muffled sounds of conversation in the night. A light breeze dances through his hair and he looks up, seeing that the moon is nowhere in sight.

He stands outside of your bar and leans on his cane, hesitating for a moment but ultimately making the decision to pull the door open and go inside. There are a few people scattered across the bar, some in quiet conversation with each other and others sitting in silence. He recognizes a few faces from the arrival parade from earlier this morning. Perhaps they are drinking their sorrows away. 

Perhaps he should, too.

Levi doesn’t see you at first glance. He sees a tall woman behind the bar, with long, dark hair, sharp features and piercing, green eyes. She makes her way over to him with a notepad and a pen in hand.

“I’m Misaki. Can I get you something to eat or drink?”

“Just an earthwater.”

And she’s gone as quickly as she came.

Levi allows his eyes to wander, subtly searching for where you might be. He sees you emerge from the backdoor, your arms filled with new glasses and tumblers. You carry them with ease, without a worry of shattering even a single one.

He leans back in his seat, peeling his green Survey Corps trench coat off. He folds it and places it on his lap as he murmurs a soft thanks to Misaki when she brings him a full glass of earthwater.

It’s as bitter and sweet as he remembers it, and he downs the glass in less than a minute. Levi passes a glance at the other end of the bar, the end that he knew Oluo and Petra liked to sit at. They said it gave them the best view of the main street and that it was quieter on this side of the bar, where they could hear each other speak.

Well. They were dead now. The thought makes Levi want another drink. How annoying.

As if reading his mind Misaki comes by once more, asking him if he’d like another drink. He nods, and Misaki is sure to add a little more alcohol in his earthwater. He looks like he needs it.

A flash of Petra’s bloody face lights up in his mind. Then, a flash of her father telling him that she’d chosen to dedicate her life to him. 

Another long gulp.

Then, a flash of Eld’s fiancée. Pleading, needing to know where Eld was. And then her bright eyes flooded with tears, asking if he had died valiantly.

And the truth was, even if Levi himself wasn’t present… He is certain that he did.

Another even longer gulp. The alcohol burns in the best way. He isn’t one to do this, to lament over fallen soldiers much less, lament over fallen soldiers over alcohol.

But it feels different this time. It’s his team.

Levi doesn’t realize how tightly he’s gripping the glass in his hands, and he doesn’t flinch as he finishes off the rest of it.

***

Your curiosity is piqued when you see Captain Levi sitting alone at the bar of the bar, clutching his drink like his life depends on it. You see a cane poking out from the bottom of the table. Is he injured? You wonder where his team and his friends are. Then you recall that there was an expedition recently.

You swallow dryly. Had his team perished outside the walls? An unwelcome pit of dread buries itself in your belly. You cast a wary look at Levi, wondering if he’s planning on drinking himself to oblivion like so many of his fellow soldiers do after a loss.

Though, he doesn’t seem the type to do so.

You wonder if you’ll ever see Petra or Oluo ever again, though you feel as though you have the answer already. A familiar sort of melancholy settles in your bones, one that you’re all too familiar with. One that you’re certain Levi is familiar with, as well. Busying yourself with restocking and attending to other customers, you can’t help but glance at him every so often. He’s staring into nothingness, his gaze shifting from the floor, to the other side of the bar, to his glass, and finally you.

You hadn’t been expecting that, but you hold his steely, grey gaze. It’s empty and stern, making you want to look away. But you don’t. You hold your ground and watch as he brings his glass to his lips and takes a hearty sip.

You wonder if he’s thinking of that moment in the supply closet. And yet, it seems so trivial now. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t think of that moment often.

You’re pulled away from his enthralling gaze by Misaki, asking you to remind her where the new washcloths you had ordered were. You tease her before telling her that they’re in the supply closet, next to the plates.

You’re unable to stop yourself from glancing over at Captain Levi once more.

***

It’s getting late, and Levi is the last one in your bar. You don’t want to usher him out. It’s clear that he’d come here as a last reprieve. Trying to catch a memory of his team from… before.

You’ve already told Misaki that she can go home. She casts a look at Levi but nods, gathering her things and leaving.

You pour a steaming cup of tea for yourself, and for Levi. Probably not a great idea, considering the time it is. But you do so anyway, and sit across from Levi at his table.

He doesn’t react, only casting you a look of acknowledgement. But he continues to gaze at you, in his piercing way. Your hair is pulled away from your face, he notes. Your gaze is just as piercing as his and he finds himself unable to pull away from your dark eyes. The shadows illuminate the highest points of your cheeks, especially when your lips pull apart and you offer him a smile.

“You can kick me out. Don’t have to give me special treatment just because I’m Captain Levi,” Levi drawls.

“You’re not my Captain,” You raise an eyebrow, “Besides, I’m not giving you special treatment because you’re Captain Levi. I’m giving you special treatment because I think you need it.”

“Here,” You slide his cup of tea to him, “It’s on the house.”

“You give everyone drinks on the house this often, or is it just me?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” You grin and Levi catches a flash of your pearly, white teeth. 

He scoffs.

“Doesn’t seem like a lucrative business practice,” Levi mutters.

“Well, The Silver Sapphire’s still standing, isn’t it?” You ask dryly, “It’s not bad for business when those fuckin’ MPs and Garrison soldiers tell their friends that the pretty girl with the bar gives out free drinks once in a while.”

“Those fuckin’ MPs,” Levi rolls his eyes, “Shit for brains.”

To his surprise, you laugh, “Yeah. We’ve got a history. Me and the MPs ”

Levi looks at you with the same bored look and says nothing. But he wonders what that means.

“You usually don’t come here alone. In fact, none of you do. You come as friends. It’s why I like the Survey Corps so much more than them,” You say, crossing your arms across your chest. Levi catches a glint of the gold necklace around your neck and narrows his eyes. It has a gold pendant, with a pale green stone embedded in it.

There’s no way that a bar owner could have a jewel that intricate and rare. There’s a story there, he’s sure of it. You clutch the pendant as if it’s a reflex, or a nervous habit.

“My team’s dead. Died during the last expedition,” Levi says bluntly after a few minutes, not missing the way your eyes fill with sorrow and how your smile falls.

“I’m sorry, Levi. I’d heard it was a tough one,” You say softly, “Cheers to them. May their souls rest in peace.”

You raise your glass and he does as well, the clink of the cups echoing in the silent bar.

“They were good. Had good hearts,” You murmur, “I didn’t know them very long but I knew that much.”

“Yes, they were. They died with no regrets. As good people. Good soldiers.”

“And you? Do you have any regrets, Captain Levi?” You ask boldly, watching him through your eyelashes as you take another sip. The tea warms you from the inside out, and you hope Levi is enjoying it as well. But you can’t tell, his face as impassive as ever. 

“Only fools have regrets,” Levi says easily, “Nobody is sure of anything in life. We shouldn’t waste our limited time on thoughts of what could have been done.”

And yet, his thoughts flutter to Isabel and Farlan, before reeling himself back into your thoughtful eyes.

“I suppose,” You murmur, “People can waste their lives dwelling over the things they regret doing. Or not doing. But I guess… there’s no wrong or right choice. We have to feel what we need to feel in order to move on.”

You have a faraway look in your eyes, and it’s mirrored in Levi’s own eyes. You tug the sleeves of your loose shirt past your knuckles, seemingly sinking into your memories. Levi thinks that this has become a habit. Of seeing you up close like this. There is a deep scar along the hollow of your shoulder to your clavicle, and he sees the shallow one on your forehead. The one he had noticed the first time he had come to your bar.

Despite the gold on your neck, the rings on your fingers, the silk of your clothing… You weren’t born to it. You probably crawled your way through, as evidenced by the scars. He idly wonders if there are more.

You rub the back of your neck before downing the rest of your tea.

“Tea’s not half bad,” Levi says, and you know that’s the most you’ll get out of him. You also know it’s the end of your night with him.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” You scoff.

Levi stands from his seat, shaking his trench coat of any dirt before fastening it over his shoulders. Before he can fix his collar, you step forward and fix it for him. Your fingers are light over the nape of his neck, eyes never leaving his. Dark brown mixes with gunmetal grey, and for a moment you’re transfixed by the way the moonlight strikes his eyes. Making them look like a molten silver.

“I’ll see you soon, Captain,” You say softly as you walk him to the front door.

“Thought you said I wasn’t your Captain,” Levi drawls, amusement outlined in the upturn of his lips.

You laugh, “I’ll see you soon, Levi.”

***

The next time Levi comes by, a few weeks has gone by. In that time, Stohess District had become a titan battlefield resulting in many civilian casualties. You’re wise enough, and selfish enough, to acknowledge that that could have been Trost. Again.

You’re glad that your entire livelihood is on the edge of Trost District, bordering the next town. It had been mainly avoided during the Battle for Trost, save for minor property damages. But still. It’s never a good sign when there are these many civilian casualties.

You wonder what the hell is going on with the Survey Corps, the Garrison and the MPs. Are you all just fodder for their grand plans?

What a life worth living, in these three walls.

It’s one of the few times that Levi comes by when the sun is still in the sky. He seems to only visit at night. Probably because that’s when it’s easiest for him to leave the Survey Corps headquarters. That’s probably when he has the most free time.

It’s a breathtaking sight, seeing the sunlight against his dark hair. You wonder if he even knows that there’s a halo of light on top of his silky hair.

You suppress a shudder. He’s ethereal, everyone in your bar turns to look at him in awe and curiosity. His white sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and the top two buttons of his shirt are open. You swallow, trying to lubricate your dry throat. And yet he’s walking towards you as if he was created on the same plane of existence as you. Levi’s face is stoic, betraying no emotion as he leans an elbow against the bar. 

“Haven’t seen you this early in the day before. Almost didn’t recognize you,” You joke and he rolls his grey eyes. When they catch in the dimming sunlight, they almost look blue.

“Don’t get used to it.”

“No need to be mean,” You scoff, “Want a drink? You look like you could use it.”

Levi doesn’t reply, only offering you a grimace.

“I’m here because Erwin’s asked a favor of you,” Levi says in his usual bored drawl, “He wants you to be our supplier for alcohol. For any and all pre-expedition send offs.”

Despite Erwin sending his soldiers to their deaths as often as he did, Levi considers it a small reprieve that they are happy for at least a night before.

“Tell your Commander that nothing I do is for free or out of the kindness of my delicate heart,” You say, leaning against the bar. You’re close enough to him that you can see amusement in his eyes even as he narrows them at you.

“Delicate heart?” Levi scoffs, “Yeah, right.”

“Tell your Commander to stop by again, huh? I’m sure he could use a drink. Especially after dealing with you all the time,” You tease. You can’t help but want to prod him, to see if he remembered you from all those years ago. You highly doubted it. 

Something flickers across his face and you’re almost worried for a second that you’ve offended him. But then you see the small upturn of his lips and your heart nearly bursts in your chest.

“I could say the same. About him and Four Eyes,” Levi rolls his eyes, “And about you.”

“Me? I am a delight to be around,” You say easily and wink at him.

“Is this how you are with all your bar patrons?”

“And how am I, Levi?”

“Insufferable,” Levi says without batting an eyelash and you push his drink towards him.

“Only with you, honey,” You wink at him again and step away from the bar to tend to your other patrons, “Only with you.”

You cast a look at him from over his shoulder, only to find him already looking at you with sharp eyes. 

The evening crowd begins to filter into the bar and you’re unable to stray from your bar patrons. Levi wonders how that smile of yours, as genuine as it is, can remain painted on your face for as long as it has. Your eyes shine with mirth, and you greet your patrons as if they are all long lost friends of yours.

Levi finishes the remainder of his drink before fastening his coat and taking his cane. He winces as he stands to his feet, his leg not quite healed yet. He leaves without saying goodbye, and asks himself when he allowed you and your bright smiles to burrow in his mind. Your flirty words and teasing are annoying to say the least. And yet...

Truth be told, he didn’t really fight this feeling from twining itself inside of him to begin with. And that’s not something he’ll lie to himself about.

[novus-ordo-seclorem]

Remember

Fanfic time! Will continue this after I’ve gone to work and had sleep etc.

Fandom: Hitman

Ship: Lucasx47, A/B/O dynamics thrown in.

Rating: Mature

-

The shadows lengthened, climbing the ancient wallpaper across the opposite wall.  Dust motes drifted in the icy stillness, the Romanian wilds beyond the broken windowpanes silent, a void of sound.  Something called, however. Something echoed from the cathedral of his mind.

"You don't remember,"  the stranger said, "but I do."

The pistol wavered a moment, before slowly lowering.

"Who am I?"  the Shadow Client insisted.  "What did they call me?"

It escaped the hitman's mouth in a gush of warm breath, a revelation.

"Subject 6."

-  -  -  -  -

47 peered at the red-brown prescription bottle, lips pulled tightly between his teeth.  The collection of little yellow tablets within rattled as he turned it to read the sideways instructions in bold, black type-face.

"CAUTION: TAKE WITH FOOD AT THE SAME TIME DAILY. LIMIT EXPOSURE TO ALPHA-CONTROLLED SPACES FOR FULL EFFECT."

He uncapped the bottle and tapped out one. The offensive taste was terrible enough, which was why he chased it down with liquor.  But it was a necessary evil - chemically cauterizing the one thing that made him feel anything.  Even the pleasure of listening to beautiful music was robbed from him.  Connecting with other people was useless - he'd never be able to empathize.  To understand.  Burned all away to keep his omega instincts at bay.

To keep him from being reduced to a drooling,  desperate omega in the throes of heat, aching for any cock to fill him, he must cut away all the pieces that made him remotely human.

He thought about Grey. Subject 6.   The strange muted, undeniable pull of want.

Making the slightest face, he tossed the pill under his tongue, and cupped his hands under the faucet for water to drink it down.

He emptied the rest of the bottle down the toilet.

-----

He remembered what Lucas had said during the long drive to the hotel with him.  What Providence had done to all of the Alpha clones. They had tried to run away once.  Lucas had gotten away, only because 47 willed it. He gave himself up so that Lucas could live.  Any other Alphas were euthanized like dogs and burned to ashes.

Then Ort-Meyer had erased Forty-Seven's memories of anyone or anything so he would never attempt such a daring escape again.  His prized specimen to control, admire. Use.

"You were the last, and only," he explained.  "An army of willful Alpha assassins would have been useless to him. You were the key.  Your blood would have been their template.  Obedient, medicated, disciplined Omegas to do their bidding."

"And now?"

"They still can't control you.  And they never will."  He smiled then. "They're going to pay, Forty-Seven. We're going to make them pay."

While Lucas drove them through a quiet Romanian suburb, he closed his eyes and tried to clutch at sleep.  The timber of Grey's voice thrummed within him long after he had gone silent.  Bassy, deep, and filling his head like a warm, dark cup of rich sound.  It was achingly familiar and kept him from truly lulling into slumber.

Everything yearned for Grey and he couldn't begin to understand why.  He was determined, terrified, to discover what this feeling meant.

---

Three nights later, underneath Grey's scrutiny, he couldn't stop his palms from sweating.  He was the unflappable agent and yet he felt like a school boy in the principal's office.  Whenever he met his forest green eyes he did not find judgment or malice, only calm warmth... and sadness.

Grey held a glass of amber liquid on his thigh, the picture of repose as he relaxed.  The security of the location permitted him a sense of personal agency - jacket thrown over the back of a dining room chair, shirt untucked from his trousers,  the sleeves of his sweater rolled up to reveal the structured wiry muscle in his forearms, veins and scars in stark relief.

Forty-Seven was desperate not to stare at them.

The hitman busied himself with preparation;  idle hands were the devil's playground.

He disassembled the two firearms he brought with him when he went to the asylum and with his usual meticulous manner he cleaned and assessed them, polished them again.  All the while feeling the measure of the Alpha's gaze on his shoulder.

Lucas drained the glass at last, sliding the empty tumbler to the coffee table with extra care.  "How much can you remember?  Anything at all, besides my name?"

47 pressed the firing pin back into the slide carefully, using a small narrow tool until it clicked into place near the other side of the stock.  Click.  "I remember... that room. Vaguely.  As if it's all underwater.  Voices... garbled.  Faces are blurry."  He paused, an imperceptible crease at his brow with a frown.  "I'm sorry.  I can't."

"But you remember me.  Our promise."

"Yes.  I remember you with absolute certainty."  

"Good."   Lucas found some sense of relief and satisfaction in this.  But nothing quite touched the distant quality of his gaze.  He exhaled slowly.  "You take suppressants?"  

The intrusive question was so jarring, he dropped the next piece.  He fumbled to pick it up again.  "I choose to.  Even if it wasn't mandated by the ICA, I can't work efficiently unless..."

He let the idea finish itself, and Lucas didn't elaborate for him.  Instead the silence fell comfortably again.

47 finished at last.

He felt Lucas standing then.  The creak of the chair and the soft footstep as he closed the small distance between them.

He put his hand softly onto the nape of his neck,  light as could be.  The warmth of his body built and occupied the small space between skin and skin, radiating.  For a moment Lucas Grey left his hand there, until each of his digits relaxed and he caressed the back of his neck.

Ice water seemed to flood the hitman's belly.  He sat, rigid-backed, paralyzed by the sudden advance.  Rather than recoil, however, he stayed where he was. It wasn't fear that held him fast.

"I remember the first night you had your first heat.  By the time I knew what was even happening, the others... had you.  I fought them off you.  I took you away and we hid anywhere I knew they couldn't reach us."  The hushed quality of his voice almost broke him.  There was the slightest pause before Forty-seven leaned closer to him.  "Do you remember?"

"No,"  47 whispered.

"I knew then, I'd kill anyone who would hurt you.  You trusted me.  I'd rather die than break that trust."  

His warm skin whispered against his, until he cupped his cheek, thumb against his cheekbone.  

"I've spent years searching for you."  Lucas's demeanor crumbled next, and his voice shook with unbridled, tumultuous emotion.  His breathing deepened and then hitched, as his olfactory sense hooked on something.  It hit him solidly, the intrusive hyper-awareness of an omega in the room.  His familiar scent was heavy and aromatic. Like clove cigarettes, spicy and pungent. "Forty-Seven."  

The softest murmur of apology escaped the hitman's lips, even as he canted his head to the hand against his cheek.  Nose to his wrist, gathering every particle of Lucas Grey into him. He looked up then with a dazed, mystified quality to his arctic blue eyes.  

"What have you done?" Lucas hissed.  

"I want to remember."

"You- by not taking your suppressants? How long have you--?  When was the last time you had them?"

"Three days ago."

Lucas stepped back away from him, eyes vividly bright.  "Where are they?"

"Gone."

"What? What do you mean ‘gone’?"

"I threw them away."

"Jesus Christ."    Grey's hands covered his face, rubbing at his closed eyes with the heels of his hands.  Emotion, whatever it had been, now boiled down into earnest desperate concern. "You can't do that. You know what happens. Cold turkey like that, you'll..."

The hitman cringed from him.  He knew. Of course he knew.  It was a calculated action and a very stupid, stupid risk.  His fingers clung into the edge of his seat.  Cold sweat crept along his flesh, growing more feverish by the second.   Then he looked up to level his gaze at the other male, heavy with conviction.  "Help me. Please."

Lucas' hands fell to his sides. His jaw slackened. His mind flooded with those sweetened memories he clung to so dearly, and the boyish face of their teenage years became the man who sat before him now, entreating him with that look.  He hardly had to look to know that by now the hitman was hard for him, drenched in sweat and urgency, waiting for him.

He peeled his eyes away from his lower belly and focused. He held out his hand.  Shaking 47 reached to take it, and he drew in a second lungful of him.  Heard that his childhood friend was doing much the same as he stood up and stepped into the circle of his arms.  He smelled so good.  He drew him in and felt the omega's hands shift to cling to the back of his shirt.  Through his chest and shirt, he felt his heart slamming.

"Help me remember you,"  he heard him say.  

"Like this?"  

"Is there any other way?"  

"There could be."    Lucas fought to keep his hands still, to keep from tearing 47's silk shirt from his skin. As it was, he found himself marveling at his muscular back, pressing against sheets of sinew and muscle.

"But you want this,"  the other noted, his words slurred now, drunk on the power Lucas now held sway over him.  Even so, he was shaking.   He was terrified.

Lucas's heart broke a thousand times over again. He wanted too much, too quickly.  He wanted to ravage and claim him for himself all over again.  He drew back a step, blinking for clarity.  "Come with me.  I won't hurt you."

He pulled at his wrist, and 47 resisted a moment longer before he obeyed, unshrinking from the crashing realization of what was to happen in the next room, in the bed-too-large-for-one.  

[takadasaiko]

Truth in the Lies: The Box

FFN II AO3

Summary: Liz and Tom unpack their new apartment and find Tom's old go-box. Set in S4.

The Box

It was quiet, the lights turned down low and Agnes finally tucked away and asleep in her crib so that her parents could continue the arduous task of unpacking their lives from the piles of boxes that filled the living room. Originally they had been packed away with the understanding that Kate would have them sent along to Cuba after things died down, but they never made it that far. Instead they'd gathered dust, waiting through their search for Agnes, the exhausting battle with Kirk, and finally until the Keens found their way out of Reddington's windowless safe house.

Somewhere along the way they had found Tom's old turntable in one of the many boxes. Soft music played out - not the Ramones, but just as good - and Liz leaned back for the partially-emptied bottle of wine that was sitting barely in reach to refill her glass. They hadn't found the appropriate glassware just yet, but the tumblers were doing the trick. She tilted a little too far and toppled off balance, straightening only enough to shoot Tom a faux-irritated look as he stifled his laugh.

"Yeah, what was that?"

"Nothing," he offered, holding his hands up, palms outward, as if he were surrendering before the battle began. Smart man.

Liz snorted and resumed her reach for the bottle.

"You need some help with that?" Tom asked, his tone more amused than not as she found far less wine than she expected left.

"Yeah. If we have another bottle that would be great."

"When have I ever let our wine supply run dry?" he teased as he stood.

Liz came back to sit cross-legged on the wooden floor and watched him as he moved to rifle through the bags of groceries he'd picked up while she'd been at work. "And that's why I married you. Twice."

"At least I know my worth," he laughed and returned with a bottle of Pinot. He shoved another box between them with his foot before taking a seat and starting in on opening the new bottle. "And the second time we didn't technically get married. We should probably fix that."

"Not sure we're going to find a reverend willing to meet us at eleven o'clock at night."

"Wine and unpacking it is then."

He refilled her glass and handed it over. Liz took a long sip before setting it aside and looking at the box between them. "I guess we should do at least one more?"

"You're the one that wanted this done by the end of the week."

"That's tomorrow."

"It's Friday, Agnes is asleep, and theoretically you don't have to be at work tomorrow. We've got this."

Liz watched as he took a box cutter down the center of the tape, expertly splitting each side and pulling it away. She leaned in, finding more packing material than she expected, and started to pull at it until she found something solid. A picture frame with the photo of her and her mother on the swing set behind the glass. A small smile tugged at her lips as she let her fingers roam across it, touching Katarina's hidden face and feeling a strange sense of warmth settling over her with it.

A soft breath from her almost-husband drew Liz's attention and she looked over, finding Tom holding his own prize that he'd found packed away. Paper lay abandoned to the side, loosing the old, familiar go-box from its hold and she watched him run his hands across the wood almost nostalgically before opening it. It was empty. She knew it was. He'd stored his various passports and less-than-legal documents in a folder that he'd had with him on his flight with Agnes to Cuba. That didn't stop his fingers from running across the edges of the lid or down into the crevice of the symbol. There was something strange about the movement. Something she'd never seen before when he handled it.

"I didn't know if it'd made it," he confessed softly.

"How long have you had it?"

"As long as I can remember."

There was something in the words that stopped her. Liz's head tilted to the side very slightly as she studied the man she loved, his focus on the box in his hands. The box that had been a symbol of her own blindness. It had housed lies and sheltered his secrets for so long. Buried down beneath the floorboards and the carpet of their dining room, if Reddington had never come into their lives, she might never have known it was there at all.

Funny thing, in the dim lighting of their new living room she felt like she'd seen the symbol on the lid somewhere other than on the offensive box before, and as she reached her free right hand out to touch his, she saw where on the burn scar on her wrist. Strange that she'd never noticed just how similar the two marks were before.

Dark blue eyes met her own and Tom's lips pulled into a thin, awkward, and questioning smile. "What?" he asked, uncertainty pulling heavily at the question.

Liz pulled in a breath, her mind working through the response. "I never knew you had it before… I guess I just thought it was a place to store fake passports."

He shrugged. "Yeah. I guess."

"But you've had it a long time," she pressed.

His smile faded to a thin, even line and he pulled his hand away to run it through his dark hair. "Yeah. I mean, as long as I can remember. I used to…" She watched his jaw clench and filed another one of his signs of discomfort away. "I used to take it from house to house. I don't know how many before I landed at the Phelps household. I didn't own much. A couple of comics, a baseball card that someone told me was worth something…. A photo that I thought was of my family. No clue what put that in my head. Turned out it was a magazine clipping or something." He tried for an other smile, his lips tugging at one corner lopsidedly. "I was six."

"Kids have held onto stranger things," Liz murmured, tightening her hold on the photo of her mother. Adults too, if she were honest. She cleared her throat. "You said you were adopted, but you never said much about them. The Phelps'."

And just like that the smile was gone again, his expression closing off and he looked away. "Not much to say."

"Were they that bad?"

She watched the struggle, the promise of open honesty that he'd given her just the night before hanging heavily in the air and he swallowed hard. When he finally spoke, his voice was tight. "The Phelps' adopted me when I was seven. I think I went to the ER five times in the six years before I finally got away."

Liz felt her chest tighten and her eyes held his. "They hurt you?"

"We don't need to talk about this."

"Tom."

He cringed at the sound of his name and she hated how he almost flinched. She shouldn't push, she knew she shouldn't push, but something in her said this was important.

"I told you I'd try," he acknowledged. The lines on his face deepened as he tucked his chin and clenched his jaw, every inch of his demeanor screaming discomfort. When he spoke again, his voice was rushed, as if he were trying to get the words out before some long-instilled precaution stopped him. "He was drunk, she was complacent. I was… a little bastard, according to Frank. Sarcastic, ornery. I don't know. I just didn't like being shoved around."

"How did you get out?" Liz asked softly, almost regretting it as she did. Almost.

Tom shot her a look like she was asking him to confess to a series of crimes. Maybe she was, but it sounded more like he was the victim. "Yeah, I uh… He cracked a beer bottle over my head," he said as he ran his hand across the scar covered by his hair. She'd seen it when it had been buzzed short for his op in Germany, even if she hadn't given it a lot of thought at the time. "I think there might have been an argument. I don't know, but I got a couple things together and ran far enough that they couldn't send me back. This is the only thing I still have from before then. Thought about throwing it away more than once but just… never have."

Liz sat for a long moment as she let the story wash over her. She'd had her fair share of pain, but at least she'd had Sam to show her what it was like to be on the receiving end of love. Tom hadn't. All he'd known was pain and abuse and manipulation. It was no wonder he'd spent the better part of his life trying to be anybody else. Somehow, though, he'd come out on the other side of it. He could be violent and dangerous, but there was a gentleness that had managed to survive through it. She saw it in the way he held Agnes and felt it in how he loved her. He had said that his biological mother had abandoned him, but there had to be something buried in his past that had made it possible to love as deeply as he did despite everything life had put him through.

"Do you think the box is a link to your past?"

He settled back, glancing at it as he did. "Maybe. Doesn't really matter."

"Maybe your mom could -"

"We've been over this. I don't want anything to do with her. I know your past means a lot to you, but mine doesn't to me. This. Here. Now. That's what matters to me."

Liz swallowed the argument. There was no point when he dug in like that. Maybe someday she could convince him, but it wouldn't be tonight. Instead she set the photo still in her hand down and shifted to stand. She could feel his gaze on her, his voice hesitant. "Liz…?"

"Just a sec," she answered, moving into the kitchen. She checked two drawers before finally finding the one with the screwdriver in it and moved over to the vent in the wall. She crouched down, starting in on loosening the screws.

"What are you doing?" Tom didn't move from his place, but at least some of the tenseness had finally eased from his voice. It was almost amused, like he knew exactly what she was doing, but wanted verification before believing it.

"Well we're four flights up and we're just renting the place for now, so carving a secret hole in the floor probably isn't the way to go." She pried the tin screen loose and looked over her shoulder. "Passports are in the bedroom, aren't they?"

"Yeah."

She shot him an expectant look and he chuckled as he stood, disappearing long enough to retrieve them. He crouched down with her, handing over his go-box. She took it, fingers brushing across the old wood, and slid it into its new hiding place.

"I know I push you about looking into your past," she said softly as Tom handed her the vent covering to put back into place. "And if you're ever ready, I'm right here. With you."

He didn't say anything and she turned to look at him, finding the man she loved staring at her with wide, glassy eyes as if he didn't know what to make of the promise. She rocked forward, her hand sliding around to the back of his neck to pull him in. He met her halfway so that his lips pressed against hers, and when they finally broke the kiss neither were in a rush to put any distance between them. "I love you," he breathed, his voice trembling a little.

"You too," she answered softly and looked up, a glint of mischief in her eyes. "I don't know about you, but I really need a shower."

His lips tugged outward in a real smile. "That an invitation?"

"Sure hope so." She pressed one more playful kiss against his lips before popping to her feet, Tom following immediately behind her, leaving the box from his childhood stored safely away. The past could wait.

------

Notes:

So... it's been a while. Hi! lol

I've been sliding down a slippery slope and back into the Blacklist fandom full-force between working on my original scripts lately. The episode where Liz pulled Tom's go box out of the hideaway in the wall cut the breaks on it I think. I've been doing a full rewatch and I'm hoping to pick a multi-chapter Tom Lives fic up again during the hiatus. Who knows? I haven't had a ton of time for fic writing, but we'll see. I definitely have ideas for it.

This one came about in part from that episode and also a conversation I had with @tessabltheorist about how long Tom has had his box. She had the fantastic idea that it might have been something he had with him when he was taken and I love it. I happily blame her for helping to spark this idea.

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Is Cry Me. A River done? I thought there was more coming or did I read something wrong?

Not done, nearly though

Part Five:

The tingle of something altogether too pleasant ran along the inside of her thighs, bringing Claire out of her slumber. Two hands gripped her, keeping her gently in place as Jamie nestled himself neatly between her legs. She opened her eyes, squinting but unable to lift her head enough to see him clearly.

“Oh...God…” She moaned. Her lip caught between her teeth as her back arched off the mattress, one hand fisted in the sheets whilst the other sought out the confines of his hair, her fingers twitching against his skull as his tongue worked some sort of magic against her needy flesh.

It wasn’t long before she found herself shaky and spent, her head resting solidly against his chest as he kissed her forehead.

“I think we should finish it...together,” she whispered. The thought had been rattling around since the funeral. WIth all of Lamb’s friends gathered under one roof, Claire had been asked on numerous occasions whether his manuscript would be forthcoming and, although she couldn’t give an accurate response, she hadn’t been able to say no. “I don’t think I could do it by myself, and you have the better insight. But I would hate to see it languishing on our computers - unread.”

“When do we start?” In all honesty Jamie was excited by the prospect. It didn’t mean Claire had committed to a life in Glasgow, but it meant he would have more time to silently convince her.

“Later,” she mumbled, turning quickly in order to catch him unawares, “right now I think we have some unfinished business of our own.” Pinning him to the bed, she kissed him once on the lips, keeping him still with her hips as she began the painfully slow trip down his neck and along his chest.

-- --- --

With a fresh cup of coffee in her hands, Claire peeled open her laptop, drumming her fingers against the wood of the desk as she waited for it to load.

“So, I think we should discuss where we take this from, aye?” Jamie began, blowing the steam from his hot tea. “We’d been sort of sticking to a chronological order, ye ken from what ye’ve already read that most of the early years tales have been written, the middle too. It’s mainly the later years we have to finish off.”

“I have some of his letters, if that helps?”

Lamb, like clockwork, had written to Claire. Being caught up in her own life, she had read them -replied to a couple- though had never gone into the sort of detail he’d hoped for. But she had kept them safe, read them over and over until the ink had begun to fade from some of the pages. She had treasured them when she’d been so down that she had wanted to take him up on his offer and leave Oxford. Now, it seemed, they might be all the more useful to them.

The scent of toast wafted into the small lounge as the buzzer beeped in the kitchen. With breakfast nearly ready, she left him to finish off the food while she rushed upstairs to collect the tin. Clutching it tightly between her fingers, she placed it delicately on the table, leaving it for Jamie to open.

“He certainly covered all of his bases, didn’t he?” Jamie chuckled, taking a bite of toast and passing Claire a plate of her own. “Now we can just interpret them, I can help fill in some of the blanks and we can get a great end - something Quentin would be proud of.”

They spent the rest of the day surrounded by paper, trying to reorganise as many letters as possible, finding some semblance of an order to the stories told within them. By the time the sun was setting, the automatic lights turning on in sequence around the small room, they had already found a few that could be discarded as well as some incredibly valuable *new* anecdotes that Jamie had loosely remembered Lamb talking about but hadn’t been able to fully add to their timetable of events, not until he’d read and re-read the words a few times.

Standing, an envelope in her hands and a biro tucked neatly through her messy bun, Claire scratched her head with the end of the paper. “How long do you think this will take to finish?” She asked, knowing he might have a better idea now they’d finally completed the task of skim-reading most of the letters. “Not that I’m in a rush, of course.” A distinct red blush coated her cheeks as she smiled across at Jamie, her memories of their mornings adventures flashing before her eyes as her stomach clenched.

“Ach well, that all depends on how fast I can type.” He jested, winking -both of his eyes closing for a brief moment as his inability to do so reared its head. It looked rather like an extended blink rather than a wink which caused Claire to bite her lip as she held back her laughter.”But in all honesty I reckon we might have a good rough end in a month or two. That includes a couple of draft reads and edits.”

“Two months? Max?” A bolt of fear shot through her at the prospect of an end. After their first encounter, she had grown fond of their daily interactions. Whether it was the agonising lust that seemed to set her on fire from the inside out, or the little touches of his hand on hers as he past her on the stairs, there was something otherworldly about the way his body called to hers and the idea of another few guilt free months in his company made her heart race and her toes curl.

“What will ye do when we’re done?” The question fell from his mouth without him really thinking about it, but he could tell by the widening of her eyes that she wasn’t really sure.

In the week after the funeral, neither had really made any steps in returning to their proper routine. Jamie had made sure the shelves were stocked with good food, he had called his bosses and kept them abreast of the ever changing situation, putting their minds at ease as him and Claire had discussed some varied details of what Lamb might want in the wake of his death. Other than that, though, both had just basked in the quiet company of the other.

Claire had a few things in mind for her immediate future, she had been dreaming vividly and the more she delved into the early life of her uncle, and his days lost with her in the wilderness, the more she wanted to pen her own version of events -though she had no idea where to start.

“Maybe I’ll become like Mary Poppins,” picking up the much abused video box of the classic movie from Lamb’s shelf, she ran her finger over the front cover and smiled, “and go where the wind takes me.”

“Are ye feeling the need for an adventure now?” Tapping against one of the smaller piles, he cocked his head to the side. With the tales fresh in his mind, he could almost feel the intoxication, the lure of travel from the stories Lamb had woven into the very fabric of the paper.

“Maybe,” she sighed, a very basic plot forming in her mind, “but there’s a chance I’ll need your assistance with it.”

-- --- --

Days turned into weeks and before either of them knew it, a whole month had passed in a blur. Working day and night, powered by caffeine and the company of the other, Jamie and Claire began to put the final words down on the biography. They barely spoke of what would happen once they’d finished, but on the days she wasn’t working on Lambs memoir, Claire was thinking of her own novella.

“I think we’re ready for this version to go to the publishers now. What do you think?” Pulling his glasses from his nose and placing them beside his laptop, he stretched his legs beneath the table and suppressed a yawn.

“I agree, I think we’ve done all we can with it -- I think he’d be proud.” Gazing out of the window, the dulled glass caused the passers by to appear disjoined as they walked by. She was in a world of her own, the words swirling around her as if Lamb were here himself. His voice seemed to speak to her and it wasn’t until a flurry of activity caught her off guard and brought her out of her daydream that she realised Jamie was still talking. “C-can you repeat that, sorry…”

“I just agreed wi’ ye, he would be.” A slow smile spread across his face as she turned back to him. “He’d be so proud of you too, Claire.”

“It was a while back now, but do you remember the phone call you took for me, from Frank?”

A cold shudder ran down his spine but he nodded as he tried to hold back the vitriol. Though no more had been said about the man, he knew from the way she occasionally reacted to him that nothing good could come from her mentioning him. “Aye, I do.”

“Before you I had little to no knowledge of proper *human* relationships. I met him, Frank, in Africa when I was there with Lamb, though the two never really crossed paths. He was my first kiss and when we finally bumped into one another again back home I sort of just found myself gravitating towards him. When I was away, in the desert, in the jungle, anywhere really with Lamb he had an unconscious way about him. He kept me grounded in some way. But alone, I was useless. I was trapped, wrapped up in this elevated world hidden from mere mortals where people like Frank are completely untouchable.”

Pouring her a wee dram, Jamie walked Claire to the sofa, sitting her down before handing her the tumbler.

She took a swig before continuing. “I’m so scared.”

“Of what, lass?”

“I don’t even know!” She sighed, exasperated. “Of finishing this and having nothing. Of staying and then this turning to dust. Of going home and falling straight back into old habits - but those are the ones I know. It’s daft. I know which the terrible decision is, but you represent something infinitely worse.”

"Aye, worse am I?" He tried to joke, but it fell flat the moment the words left his mouth.

"No- harder."

"Which is it Claire?"

"I don’t know, I don't know how to explain, I’m sorry, Jamie,” she spluttered, passing the glass back, her hand shaking as she stood quickly, “I think I just need some space.” Rushing from the lounge, she headed straight up to her room and slammed the door shut.

It was the first night in a long time that she spent alone. Jamie, still shocked and flustered by her fast exit, sat for a while by himself before gathering some of his belongings and returning to his own flat for the night. Claire heard the front door slam, her hand covering her mouth as she cried almost silently. Curling up on her bed, she kept her eyes on the case she had never quite unpacked as if it’s half-filled mass was indicative of where she was always meant to end up.

There were a couple of letters she had held back from Jamie, ones that had more personal comments that she wasn’t comfortable sharing. Yet.

Morning arrived, the sun streaming in through her open blinds. She’d slept on and off and rubbed her red-rimmed eyes as she crawled out from beneath the thin blanket that she’d pulled over herself sometime during the early hours.

“Claire?”

She jumped a little, shocked that he had somehow managed to sneak back in without her hearing him. The first reply barely left her mouth, her throat dry as she swallowed and tried again. “Yes, Jamie?”

The door opened slowly, the hinges creaking as he popped his head around the wood. “I have somewhere to take ye, will you come wi’ me?”

Nodding, she plucked a piece of stray fluff from her creased jeans. “Yes, sure, can I change first?”

“Of course,” he replied, “I’ll wait downstairs.”

Quickly, she used her en-suite to wash and re-dress in clean clothes before placing her purse and notepad into her small bag. Making her way downstairs, she felt a heaviness cross her chest. He was waiting, his car keys resting between his fingers.

“Driving?”

“Aye, ready?”

“Yes.”

-- --- --

The motorway wasn’t too dissimilar from the train ride, though the sound of the wheels on tarmac were slightly more relaxing than the chug of the metal wheels against the tracks. “Do you want to tell me what surprise you have in store for me?” She tried to sound light, but somehow she still sounded worried.

“Ye’ll see.” He returned, a tight smile lifting his lips slightly.

“Have you sent the manuscript off?”

“I emailed the first PDF this morning before we left. I’ll hear soon and I’ve cc’d you into it, so ye should know the moment they respond to me.”

As they drove over each county line, a new sign popping up to indicate their direction, Claire started to feel more and more nervous. As Dumfries and Galloway came into view, she felt this almighty lump forming in her throat. Just before the Gretna junction, Jamie pulled off the motorway just as the sun peaked high in the sky. Small villages came and went until a borders train station came into view, giving her a glance at the side of a carriage as it sat quietly on the partially hidden platform.

“Will you tell me now?” She asked calmly, though she had an idea of what was about to happen.

“It isn’t due to leave for another thirty minutes,” he said, pointing at the ScotRail service idling beside them, “I’ll wait, to make sure ye get away alright, and I’ll make sure the rest of your belongings get back to Oxford safely. But I think ye might need something more than I can offer ye here.”

“You think I should go back?”

“That’s what ye’ve been thinking about, aye? Yer home. The one you’ve belonged in.”

“Home.” She mirrored, the word seeming foreign on her tongue. “What about the rest of Lamb’s biography?”

“We can email. And I can phone. It’s written, no’ much will need completing on it now.”

“...and there’s nothing for me here?” Her voice was steadily lowering, getting more inaudible as cars started to pull in and park around them.

“Only ye ken that.” Opening the car door, he gallantly walked to her side and held out his hand for her to take. “I’ll wait until yer gone, to make sure you’re safe and ye can call whenever you like.”

Finding her voice seemed impossible and she couldn’t help but replay their last conversation over and over in her head. Having confessed to him that he was the more terrifying option, she had fled and hidden in her room. Walking over to the entrance, she turned only to find him hunched over, his back facing towards her as he rested against his car bonnet. Her feet kept moving, though every step increased the stabbing pain in her chest.

Hauling himself back into the front seat, Jamie let his head flop onto the steering wheel. It was highly likely that his plan could backfire massively, but from the moment he’d mentioned the end of the book he had felt an immediate disconnect from Claire. It was fear, that much was clear, and he didn’t want to send her back to somewhere she was deeply unhappy. However, something in his gut told him that her misplaced sense of self was too fragile to be convinced to stay with words alone. At the first sign of trouble, she would run. If she wanted to stay, to make a life here with him, she needed to make this choice herself.

Sitting with her hands wrapped in her coat, Claire watched as various passengers wandered up and down the platform, the guards opening and closing the doors for them. Though it wasn’t freezing cold, she couldn’t help but feel chilled. Though she hadn’t picked up on it before, reading back through Lamb’s letters it had suddenly become clear about his intentions for her. Clearly he hadn’t voiced those opinions to Jamie but it had been silly of her to think he didn’t know of her situation in Oxford. A man in uniform raised his brows as he walked by her for the tenth time. Standing, she brushed the creases from her trousers. This wasn’t a choice between Jamie and Frank because that would have been an impossibly easy decision, but a choice between who she’d always been and a new variant of herself. As the clouds of steam cleared from the front of the train, the sight of the car sat stoically in the car park made her stumble backwards and she sighed loudly as her bottom hit the warmed wooden seat once more.

A loud horn echoed through the trees surrounding the station as the engine pulled out and disappeared off into Cumbria. As promised he waited, long enough to watch as the car park emptied and the lights dimmed in the entrance to the platforms.

Closing his eyes, he inhaled, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel as he tried to calm himself enough to turn the engine on and drive away.

A knock on the window made him sit bolt upright, sweat running down his back as he twisted to see who’d disturbed his pity party.

“Claire!”

She stood, tears in her eyes as she stepped back from the car. “Take me home, Jamie, please. To Glasgow”

Taking her hand, he bought it to his lips and kissed her softly. “Aye,” he replied, watching as she sniffed, shaking her head as she made her way to the passenger side and climbed in. “Home it is.”

[angelaiswriting]

Jealous | Arthur Shelby x reader

[original picture from pexels]

✏️ Pairing: Arthur Shelby x fem!reader

✏️ Summary: Arthur is eaten alive by his jealous thoughts. (Requested by Anonymous)

✏️ A/N: this is probably not what the requester was thinking about, but I couldn’t bring myself to write angst for Arthur just yet, so it’s just him and his worries here haha I hope you’ll enjoy anyway, though!

✏️ Beta-read by @sweetvengeancee

✏️ Warnings: just mild jealousy + talks of war (I finally realized it could be triggering to someone)

✏️ Word-count: 1,912

The ticking of the clock is deafening – each tlick and each tlock are like bullets flying past him, grazing the lobes of his ears as his fingers stiffen in their hold on his still-full tumbler.

It’s extenuating, waiting for her to come home – for Y/N. He shouldn’t even be in his living room right now, but down at The Garrison to celebrate another good deal with the latest fixed race. And yet, here he is – eyes fixed on the wall in front of him, stomach too knotted to stand any of the whiskey in his glass, muscles too tense and locked to even allow him the slightest movement.

He is… jealous.

It costs him all he has to admit it, but he is – he is fucking jealous of his fucking Y/N. But he is also scared and while he should’ve proposed to her a long time ago, he still has to make his move. And the lack of a ring on her finger is what stops his mind when she goes out.

It’s heavy – the world, the struggle of keeping a smile on his lips when all he feels is animal jealousy for something – someone – he can’t call his yet.

It’s also stupid, to be feeling like this at his age – and just three years after the end of the war – that same war that has turned him into yet another kind of beast. It’s stupid and yet, inevitable: she could be doing so much better without him – she could have so much better, a man he can’t be anymore. She deserves the world and yet she’s tied down to him, she can’t fly away like the freedom-starved bird she’s always used to be.

He can’t set her free, however – his jealousy won’t set her free, not when she’s the only thing, the only person keeping him sane – or as sane as he can be as he walks in a dream-like world half-way between the past and the present. If she goes, if she leaves him, he knows he will go back – back to where everything is brown and blue like exploding ground meeting the sky, back where everything tastes like dirt and smoke and blood. And death.

Death scares him shitless, but the idea of losing her is even worse. It eats him from the inside as all kinds of jealousy-induced worries swarm in his brain like maggots in a carcass.

Y/N with another man.

Y/N with another man because Arthur is just a burden – because she’s with him just out of pity.

He doesn’t know why he thinks this, doesn’t know where this thought comes from because a look at her as she glances at him and everybody knows she’s smitten – head-over-heels in love with him and therefore, off-limits. But Arthur Shelby knows he’s a difficult person to deal with – he can’t leave what he left in France just as he can’t stop himself from snorting cocaine like the white powder were fairy dust, the only promise that manages to take every evil thing away.

She hates it when he’s high. He knows she used to love it at first – the first two, three times – four if he’s lucky, but he never is. But Tokyo turns him into a machine gun and he shoots a thousand bullets a minute. And it scares her. He’s so fast he can’t stop and he has to run to keep up with his brain – he laughs like the war never existed, he feels the world slow down around him, and by God, he fucks like an animal. He fucks so wildly and messily that she’s always covered in bruises the morning after and she’s so sore he has to carry her in his arms to the bathtub.

There’s never violence, though, just desperate, desperate will to live. To feel alive as the drug works its burning magic in his veins. And to love. And to feel loved.

He’s twitching now – twitching to stand up, cross the living room and open the tiny wooden casket of divine magic sitting proudly on the mantelpiece. A few, precious grams of snow and he knows his jealousy will be gone, incinerated by the only thing that helps him cope when she’s not around.

But he doesn’t move – he can’t move – he loves her too much. He loves her too much to subject her to the presence of his drugged-out-of-his-mind self.

And he trusts her, he does.

Who he doesn’t trust, though, is everyone else – the men back at her old camp, ready to greet her as she goes back home for the seasonal celebration, whatever it is today. She’s unmarried – unclaimed – and he doesn’t want to allow himself to think of her as an easy target. Firstly, because she’s not easy at all; secondly, because the idea of her being someone’s target makes him shiver and squirm inside.

Johnny Dogs is there – there’s a faint voice in his head whispering these words in his ear. And whether it is the residue of the cocaine in his fried system or his rational mind, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because, in his jealousy-induced trance-like state, Johnny Dogs is just as bad as everyone else.

It’s a fight for who lives and who dies in his mind, between the desperate need to stand up and drive to her camp and the will to be a good man – the only good man she’ll ever need.

And it’s hard. It’s so fucking hard he finds himself sobbing behind tight fists as his teeth bite down into his flesh. He doesn’t know why he’s suddenly crying and fuck, does he hate it. Fuck, does he hate this weakness, hate the way she’s squeezed her way straight to his heart, his brain, his fucking core – but fuck, does he also love the way she makes him feel. Alive. Breathing. With a living heart and a living mind and a living future right ahead of him and all he has to do is reach a hand out to grasp it, for it’s never out of reach, never too far from him.

And he cries in silence because the war has eaten him alive just to then throw him up an insecure shell of what he’s once been. He cries because his heart loves her and he only wishes his mind could jump on the same wagon. He cries because while his heart wants her to spend her life by his side, his mind is telling him he’s just a cage – and she’s spent her whole life trying to escape the cage her family and Birmingham built around her one bar at a time.

Then, not even five minutes later, the sobs cease and there’s no more heavy breathing in the living room, just the incessant tlick-tlock of the clock on the mantelpiece. Arthur’s back is straight once again against the seatback of the chair – he’s not slouching anymore and his right hand is wrapped around his glass of whiskey once again.

He’s calmer.

He doesn’t realise he’s stood up, crossed the living room and sniffed some snow, though. He realises it too late, when he’s sitting back on his chair, his sobs quietened, his tears dry on his cheeks.

And it’s too late.

His mind is always a minute too late – that’s one of the many souvenirs he’s brought back from the French wasteland he never truly left behind. He’s slow – his body is slow, and his thoughts always too fast and he has to sweat and pant to keep up with them.

Time passes – quickly, slowly, then quickly again. Tlick, tlock. Tlick, tlock. And then, tlick, tlock again. It’s placid and he feels like he’s floating in petrol. And the more he sits there, the more his brain floats in the confinements of his skull, the more the ticking clock lulls him.

Cocaine gives him the illusion of being able to see the hands of the clock more clearly than he truly does. It quickens their movement and then it slows it down. And it’s like being on a swing.

He’s a kid again and he’s swinging and he can hear his fucking aunt scold him because he’s swinging too fast, he’s going to fall and hurt himself.

His eyes close for a moment and he swears it’s just that, one fucking moment. He needs to take his mind off of everything and Tokyo is helping him do just that. But somehow, the white powder warps time tonight and when he opens his eyes again, it’s six thirty-seven in the morning and the entrance door is quietly closing.

His mind swims in cotton wool and it’s hard to wake it up, to convince his brain to order his hand to grab the revolver lying on the table and point it in the direction of the intruder.

“Arthur?”

His eyes meet hers and she’s standing in the doorframe, caught in the middle of taking her scarf off.

She’s back, he thinks and it’s like being ridden of the weight of the world, until that moment perched like a bird of doom on his shoulders.

“What are you doing up already?”

There’s a frown settled on her features and as he stares at her, he finds himself still swimming in confusion.

He’s slowed down once again.

She sighs, then, and she sighs again when she lets her overcoat fall into a heap on an armchair. Another sigh as she rounds the table to stop next to him. “You didn’t go to bed last night.”

It’s not a question, it’s an affirmation. She reads him like she reads tarots, like he holds no secrets in front of her.

He swallows – and it’s like swallowing a bullet and he can feel its knot sink down into his stomach and pull him down to the centre of the Earth. “Some thoughts kept me up,” is all he can say. And his voice is lazy, slow, and it tastes like lies. It tastes like jealousy has eaten its path to the very centre of his being.

“There’s always some thoughts keeping you up when I go out.”

It’s another affirmation. She’s turned the tarot and she’s put it back down onto the table, its face looking up at a dull ceiling.

“And you always worry about the wrong things, Arthur.”

Another affirmation, another card.

And he can’t look at her – he never can when she works her witchcraft.

“I know,” is what he forces himself to respond. And he does know, he truly does, it’s just – it’s easier to swallow a lie than the truth.

“Your jealousy has no reason to exist with me.” Her voice is a whisper in his ear as she kneels down next to him. She pries his hand from around the glass and she presses a kiss to his cheek – and she finds it coarse as her lips brush against his stubble. “I only want you.”

“I know.”

She chuckles and the sound makes him smile. “One day your mind will catch up with your heart and you’ll laugh at this silliness.” It weighs like a promise and when he turns to look at her, he knows it is. “Let’s go to bed now.”

I am not exactly super proud of this, but here I am anyway. Feedback will be super appreciated; I’d like to know what you think of this fic if you feel like dropping by with a message ❤️

TAGS (to be added to or to be removed from any list, shoot me an ask)

Everything: @idhrenniel @saibh29 @fuckthatfeeling @aya-fay @pebblesz892  @mblaqgi​

Peaky Blinders: @whimsylavender​ @thethyri​ @friendleyneighbourhoodvillain @oddsnendsfanfics​ @medievalfangirl 

People that might be interested: @sweetvengeancee @flowers-in-your-hayr @kellydixon01

[siribear]

just want to say a quick thank you to anyone following this self-indulgent little thing. i hope everyone’s staying safe and healthy. love you guys

alice enters valentine’s office for the second time in the very early morning, morning dew still glistening on the weeds growing around diamond city. not even ellie is present; instead, nick takes her place in pacing around the office, sorting through papers and case files. now, folders are stacked high on the desk in front of her. one folder lies open on the desk, alice scribbled on the tab in sketchy penmanship.

‘i talked to piper last night,’ nick says from across the room. ‘got some of your history, here.’ her life story condensed to bullet points. he gestures for her to sit in the nearest chair. ‘it’s all very interesting, but doesn’t tell me what lead you here.’

she sits, and so does he in the chair opposite. he brings his hands together over her file, skeletal over plastic skin, layered and intertwined. she looks down to her own hands, technically two hundred years old, nail polish still flaking on her cuticles.

if she wants to get any part of her life back, she has to give up another. her history.

‘i assume this doesn’t leave this office?’ at his slow nod, she takes a deep breath. ‘my husband was murdered. my child - my son - was kidnapped. he’s-he’s not even a year old.’

valentine makes a note - missing person’s case, she reads upside down. ‘describe everything you remember.’

she closes her eyes, forces herself to remember. to put herself back in that moment, in that pod, hands pounding against the metal door that separated her from her husband’s killers. ‘there was a man and a woman. they were dressed in-in hazmat suits.’ she frowns, stomach turning. the memory plays itself out. ‘nate wouldn’t let them have shaun.’ tears burn the corners of her eyes. ‘god, he wouldn’t let go - ’ i’m not giving you shaun! ‘ - so they killed him. they just - ’

she puts her head in her hands, tries to will the tears away, but one sniff and it’s - it’s over. that cold envelopes her again, threatens to pull her under, but when she looks up it’s just nick. just nick with a tissue in his hand and his other on her shoulder. she takes it with a nod and pulls herself together. puts claire to sleep again and wears alice like armor.

‘a two man team for an abduction,’ nick says smoothly, pulling out details she hadn’t considered. ‘there are few groups in the commonwealth that could accomplish something like that. we’ve got raiders, gunners, super mutants and, of course, the institute.’

‘not raiders.’ her voice comes out watery. ‘the man was too well armed. i don’t - who are the gunners?’

‘high profile mercenary group. they’ve got the guns to pull that off, but child stealing isn’t exactly their M.O.’ he strokes his chin. ‘super mutants aren’t sophisticated enough to pull something like that off, either. which leaves - ’

‘the institute.’ alice swears.

‘it’s a start,’ he says with a sigh without breath. ‘describe the man.’

‘he had this... deep voice. rough, like being dragged across gravel. he was bald, with a scar, here.’ she drags a finger down across her left eye.

unblinking yellow eyes widen. he picks up a file next to him, then another, and another, until he finds what he’s looking for. ‘i knew that sounded familiar.’ he turns the file toward her. it’s a rough sketch of a man, and it could be him if she squinted, but the features - no hair, distinct scar - are undeniably the same.

‘that’s him,’ she whispers. ‘that’s the man that killed my husband.’

nick drops the file on top of the stack. ‘you didn’t hear the name kellogg, did you?’

‘no - ’ just nate yelling, the man threatening, the gun shot. ‘but i remember he called me the back up.’ face right in front of hers, grinning, not caring that she was screaming -

‘the back up?’ he shakes his head. ‘maybe they were supposed to come back if something happened.’

‘i don’t know,’ she responds lamely. ‘but if he took my son, if he knows where he is...’

nick stares at her. ‘actually, we have records that put him in a house in the west stands.’

stands. like - ‘wait. here? in diamond city?’ is that what mama murphy had meant?

‘it’s been years since he was last seen - ‘

the chair screeches across the floor when she stands suddenly. ‘nick, if he’s here, if there’s any clues we could follow... please. i have to try.’

‘well, you saved my life. let’s go get yours back.’

she’s halfway out the door before he even rises from his chair.

-

piper catches up to them as the sun rises over diamond city. she’s still rubbing at her eyes when she rounds the corner and literally almost runs into alice and nick. alice looks grim and wan and nick looks - like nick, though there’s a tension in his jaw she can see through his broken plastic skin.

barely seven in the morning and the mood is already dour. she should curse herself for sleeping in, but she didn’t.

‘what’d i miss?’ she falls into step with nick when alice only gives her a tight smile.

‘might have some clues to the whereabouts of her missing person,’ nick replies.

‘that’s... vague.’

‘client confidentiality, piper. this doesn’t go in your paper.’

‘come on. i know i’m pushy, but i’m not intentionally an asshole.’

nick hums, and piper gives up, following in alice’s wake as she storms up to the abandoned west stands. ‘hey, isn’t that - ?’ she points at the singular house up in the stands.

‘it is.’ alice’s response is colder than the morning air.

‘well - damn.’

-

alice watches nick fiddle with the tumbler. she taps her fingers on her leg, keeping time with the beat of her heart. it’s been five minutes since piper left to get the key to the house. five minutes nick has been trying to pick the lock. five minutes she’s had to wait. it’s five minutes too long.

nick grabs her arm when she moves away from the wall. ‘be patient. piper will get the key. that elevator to the mayor’s office isn’t the fastest.’

‘i can’t keep waiting like this.’

‘here, then.’ he pulls away from the lock. ‘you give it a shot. keep your hands busy.’

‘i - ’ she takes the bobby pin out of his hand. ‘okay.’ she grips it tighter to keep her hands from shaking. ‘right. h-how?’

nick does his best to teach her, she knows. but by the time piper comes bounding up the stairs, alice has broken three bobby pins and hadn’t made any more headway than nick had.

‘thank you,’ she says, and stalls with the key in the door.

piper draws her gun, and nick does the same. alice turns the key, takes the handle, and pulls open the door.

-

nick steps forward first, gun drawn. piper follows. alice stands in the doorway, stomach lodged in her throat. piper flips the light switch on the wall, illuminating the small house. her stomach falls through the floor. dread numbs her arms.

kellogg’s house is empty.

not even just unoccupied. she could live with that. but wholly and entirely empty. the only thing in his house is the thick layer of dust coating a lone desk in the center of the room.

alice drags her fingers across the surface, watching the lines appear with a disinterested stare. nick comes down from the loft, declares that empty too. but she finds a button, red and too-obvious under the desk; she pushes it anyway. the wall shifts near the door, sliding away and revealing a secret room.

still nothing. the weapon racks on the wall are empty, the shelves are empty, the chair in the center - empty. nick said it had been years - she’s far too late. kellogg is long gone and shaun - shaun -

‘oh my god.’ alice covers her mouth with her hands.

-

piper dismisses herself awkwardly, squeezing alice’s shoulder as she walks past. alice hardly feels it. hardly hears nick’s words over the rush of blood in her ears, the dull throb, the echo of her own breathing in her head. he leads her, slowly, back to the office, avoiding the waking city residents and waving off anyone that comes too close.

what does she do? where does she go? kellogg was her only lead, the one directly responsible and he’s - gone. like shaun, like nate, like -

‘oh god,’ she whispers again, stifling a sob.

‘breathe. ellie, water, please?’ nick asks his confused assistant, but she does as she’s told. ‘it’s not over yet, kid. don’t give up on me now.’

no matter what. she had said that once, hadn’t she? to piper, for the newspaper.

alice forces herself to drink, to breathe. ‘what now, then?’

‘the institute has plenty of enemies. someone’s got to know something.’

she shakes her head. ‘the brotherhood patrol i met didn’t know anything. they might have been able to contact their superiors by now, but who knows how long it’ll take for them to reach the commonwealth.’ she sets her cup down on the desk. ‘the minutemen - we don’t even have people to gather intel.’

‘hm.’ he pulls open a drawer and removes a holotape. join the railroad is written on it in marker. ‘they may be your only shot. the trouble is finding them.’

‘the railroad?’ a woman’s voice plays from the tape. the pitch is not one she needs convincing on - synths are people, this she knows, with nick valentine sitting in front of her. join with us in fighting the real enemy: the institute. join the railroad.

when you’re ready for the next step, don’t worry, we’ll find you.

‘i’m just supposed to... wait until they contact me?’

he places the holotape back in the drawer after she ejects it from her pipboy. ‘there are rumors that float around diamond city. the railroad is hidden, but people have mentioned the freedom trail.’

‘are you serious? the freedom trail. the one that starts - ’

‘just outside park street station, yes.’ if he could narrow his eyes, she imagines he would. instead, he just tips up his chin, his voice growing suspicious. ‘i’m sure you remember the way.’

too well. ‘i do. can’t forget that swan boat.’

‘ah, yes, swan. you need any help out there?’

alice stands, wipes off the collected dust from her fingertips. ‘i think ellie would have a heart attack if you disappeared again.’ the assistant in question rolls her eyes. ‘the way will be clearer now. i’ll be okay.’

‘well, all right, then. i’ll see what more i can dig up around here. mayor owes me a few favors.’

hand on the door, she turns. ‘what do i owe you for this?’

‘you saved my life. we’re calling it even.’

[uzumaki-rebellion]

“Wet Sugar” [Part 2 of 30]

Summary: Erik opts to keep his distance from Yani and focus on Klaue and getting to Wakanda. Erik also meets his new temporary roommate...

NSFW. Mature audience only. As always, thanks for reading and please comment/reblog if you enjoy the series. Hi new readers, happy to meet you on this new Erik journey. Part 3 on the way....

"To every hundred niggas that came and gone missing Only a handful will go the distance I swear I seen this shit coming as if I was living up under the plumbing While niggas was riffing and mumbling 'bout, what they could do I was cooking gumbo whipping the voodoo I was in the jungle running with Zulu's We was looking past the struggle while life was moving so fast You had to be shopping at Ginsu To the top of the food group Doing what I want and how I should too

Stepped in the waters The water was cold Chi in my body But it didn't touch my soul Stepped in the waters The water was cold…"

Anderson.Paak – "The Waters"

He tells her his name, his real name, and the girl who talked to animals allowed her big wide eyes to ease up on their sharpness.

Yani sat back and allowed the water to catch her back as her body disappeared under the small wave of balmy liquid that lifted her away from him. Erik stayed put, watching her backstroke away from him and further out into the sea. He wanted to follow her, felt his toes grip the sand under his feet to cast off after her, but he felt stalkerish and remained where he was.

She was real.

Yemanjá.

Erik felt the blood in his body coursing through him, the thrumming of searing red in his veins making him clench and unclench his fists.

Disǎ.

He sat back in the water and let it buoy him up, his eyes following the path of Yani's body swimming. He found it odd that he could look at this woman and think of his ex-girlfriend Disǎ who he left behind in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

No, maybe it wasn't odd, because the way he was reacting to this young woman treading about in open water was the same way he reacted to his first love…Disǎ.

The voice.

Like Yani, Erik had only heard Disǎ's voice before he met her, and something about the tone, the lilt, the inflections, the sonic soothing he received from it made him weak for her before he even saw her face. He felt a weight drift down on him. He put Disǎ through hell, denied her things that she wanted, made promises he couldn't keep, and she left him. Refused to connect with him ever again. Walking into that relationship had been an exercise in self-flagellation. Love was something he never sought out because he knew he was not made to love and settle down.

He was a mover, a nomad…he had no real home, not really, no place to lay his head and call his own. Rootless. He had to be rootless in order to finish the path that had been laid out for him. A path that started when he found his father dead in his apartment. Dead and alone.

Erik had to keep himself emotionally dead inside and alone too. All that love ever did for him was rend his body in half and grind his bones into dust. So he knew something was wrong when he heard Yani's voice speaking to a damn lizard in a tree, recognized the tell-tale signs of that dangerous pursuit into madness. He had only ever felt that way before with his ex. All that fucking back and forth with Disǎ when he graduated from M.I.T., joined the Navy, made Special Ops, and then headed into the work of a mercenary for a greater good…it stripped away a relationship he held dear and couldn't hold onto because he was never around. And that feeling, that feeling of wanting someone was seducing his conscious mind as he watched this girl swim.

Life was about choices.

And sometimes choices meant letting things be.

The heat and the dazzling sunlight and the beauty of the pale blue sea were probably just fucking with him anyway. Plus, he hadn't gotten his dick wet in a long time, and to come across a woman with a body like that…naked, on an isolated beach…well shit, no wonder he was feeling punch drunk with lust.

Nigga, get your shit together.

Yani wasn't feeling him anyway, every time she looked at him it was like she had an extra sour lemon in her mouth.

Erik dragged himself out of the water and put his trunks back on.

He didn't bother to look back at her when he left.

###

After lunch, Klaue left a message on Erik's cell to meet him in the third house. His private abode.

Erik meandered down the compound walkway toward the house. It was perched closer to the edge of the hillside overlooking the sea. Erik caught breathtaking views and when he entered the house after a retinal scanner cleared him, he felt like he was entering an ancient Zulu enclave. Nothing in the house matched the light-colored airy Caribbean theme of the other houses. The dark shadowed interior of dark-grained wood and dark furniture enveloped South African artwork, with a plethora of large carved wooden masks, and plenty of drums. Djembes, dunduns, a three drum bata set, bougarabous…

Erik stepped in front of a djembe and rubbed his fingers across the skin. His fingers ticked up and he began beating out the rhythms he learned as a child from his Uncle Bakari when he used to drum for his grandfather and mother when they taught capoeira back in Oakland. The heel of the palm, then his fingers struck the skin harder, faster, and the acoustics picked up the sound and drowned the room with the ferocity he slapped down.

Erik rocked his shoulders and let his head droop forward, his locs flopping over his eyes as he allowed the drum vibrations to move through him. He let his head bob as he remembered days back in Oakland on school lunch tables, pounding out beats with his fists when there were no drums, or finding the hollow parts in his chest or thigh when he would strike his own body with his open palm to create the percussive boom bap to help his childhood friends spit bars in ragtag cyphers. He felt the moist sensation in his mouth as he shaped his lips to beatbox in time to his drumming. It all came back to him vividly, joyfully, and he couldn't help the curling of his bottom lip as he bit into it, thinking of his days running the streets, just being hood wild and free.

He ended the cadence with a slowing down of his hands until only his fingertips were caressing the edges of the drum.

"Well look at you."

Klaue's voice brought him out of his reverie and Erik stepped away from the djembe.

"Hope that wasn't some artifact," Erik said.

Klaue shrugged and headed over to a round old-world wooden globe. He pulled the top back and inside of the globe was a hidden bar filled with various liquors and libations.

"Share a whiskey?" Klaue asked.

"Sure."

Klaue poured them healthy amounts in crystal tumblers and handed one to Erik.

"Interesting décor."

"I wanted to have a bit of home away from home. Of all my hideaways, this place is my favorite."

"It's pretty sweet. Quiet too."

"Not for much longer. Once everyone is here, I'll need you to keep your foot on their necks."

"Newbies?"

"Most you know from the Kabul job. Is your man Tahir still a no show?"

Erik took a deep drag of the whiskey. It was aged to perfection. He let a bit of it linger over his teeth before swallowing.

"They still got him on that no-fly list. He's chillin' in Damascus. He can do any other jobs you got, but Africa is a no go."

"Too bad. Good man. And that is what we need. Good men."

Erik studied Klaue's face.

"What's the problem?"

Klaue glanced at him.

"You can always read me so quick. It's Huntsman. I really don't want to use him, but I can't find anyone else with experience on the borders."

"Tahir will probably be tied up the next six months—"

"Too long to wait."

"W'sup with Huntsman?"

"He has issues…with you."

"That's his problem. He don't even know me."

"Ah, but he knows your reputation. Something about you sticks in his craw."

"You don't have to use him."

"With no Tahir available, I'm afraid I do. Unless you have someone else."

"Nah. I culled away my last team. I only have three that I stick with now and we freelance for DynCorp most jobs. Those guys are already under contract."

"Timing is key with these next two jobs."

"You still toying with using submersibles?"

"I will need our pretty blue metal for that."

The holy grail. Vibranium.

"I got some leads that I hope will pan out soon," Erik said. He could sense Klaue chomping at the bit.

He really did have some leads.

One was from a friend of his mother's who worked with the British Museum. She had passed on some information about some museum exchanges up on the horizon, a collection of fifteenth-century West African armaments and masks. It wasn't the collection he was looking for, but it was part of an exchange program originating out of Benin. Erik and Klaue would be heading to Angola in a month to set up an arms deal and then slip into the Northeastern part of Nigeria to covertly meet with some members of Boko Haram and the Nigerian government. Klaue played both sides of every deal he made. Erik planned on slipping into Benin and checking out the newly constructed Royal Benin Museum. His research uncovered plans for the museum to start receiving indigenous stolen art on a rotating basis from European museums that held plundered artwork from an 1897 British invasion in Dahomey. Erik needed to see for himself if any pieces contained vibranium.

His tongue gently tapped against his tattoo inside his lower bottom lip. He could feel the irritating cutaneous sensation tickling his gums from the traces of vibranium used in the vibram tattoo ink. The itchy tickling only happened when he was near pure vibranium. Like the pure vibranium emanating from Klaue's prosthetic arm.

Klaue picked up the whiskey bottle again and Erik took another half tumbler of the dark amber liquid.

"I want you to move down here in this house when all the men are here. There are some conversations we need to have in private."

Erik didn't question him. It took him this long to be invited to stay at any of his safe houses. That meant that he was now part of the trusted inner circle. He would just have to watch out for Huntsman. He was Klaue's boy for the last seven years, but Erik was aiming to be the only righthand man. Getting to the safe house was the culmination of meticulous, deliberate, and patient planning. Their first meeting in Iraq gave the man an intro to who Killmonger was. They didn't meet again until an arms deal in Kosovo proved fruitful when Erik's new team was able to assist Klaue through a mutual trustworthy middle man. It was then that Erik first showed Klaue a small amount of vibranium he stole from some arms dealers he tracked down to a small forgotten village in Iraq.

Erik ignored Klaue after that, turned him down for several jobs before Klaue started hinting that he may need to return to Wakanda and steal again. Then and only then did Erik drop word that he was down for any excursions into his father's country. The two men teamed up within months to help one another scour the earth for any pockets of vibranium they could find. On those missions, they only worked with each other and two other men, Tahir and one of Klaue's boys, a fellow South African who asked very little about the blue magic. A year later, Erik was now sipping brown liquor in the man's private home.

"Let's take a walk," Klaue said.

Erik followed him down a pathway that led to another section of beach hidden from where Yani's cove jutted out.

Klaue took off his sandals and his feet touched the sand.

"Hot!" he said slipping the sandals back on.

Erik's flip-flops felt too thin for the sand in this particular area that was littered with a few broken seashells.

"What do you want out of life, Killmonger?"

Erik stared at Klaue. The whites of the man's eyes were a little pink, and there were tiny spiderwebs of broken blood vessels cresting his nose. The man did like the sauce a little too much. Erik had personally witnessed him overconsuming alcoholic beverages to the point of falling over and having to be carried off by Erik or his other men.

"Money. What else?" he answered.

Klaue let his eyes trace the horizon of ocean before him.

"You know, at one time I was a billionaire."

"Really? How you fuck that up?"

Klaue guffawed and his laughter made him rock back in his sandals and clutch Erik's arm for balance, spilling a little of his drink on the sand.

"I sold my entire cache of vibranium to a Tony Stark creation."

Erik's eyes fixed on Klaue. He had a history with Tony Stark himself, but he didn't let on about it.

"I was operating out of an old shipping tanker in Johannesburg. Had my entire supply of vibranium warehoused there. Perfect set up. And then these fucking enhanced bastards show up with this thing…"

Klaue's right wrist rubbed his left arm while still holding his drink. His eyes grew course looking and his accent flared up.

"I'm no fool. I make a deal and billions are dropped into my offshore accounts. I'm set. Ready to retire and live out the rest of my life here. But then Sokovia goes down, and fucking Stark goes back and…."

Klaue's jawline clenched tight and his left arm closed up his mechanical fist.

"Billions wiped out. Like it never happened. And I'm left to start all over again."

"You kept your entire supply in one spot?"

Erik wanted to laugh at the man, but Klaue was tipsy, and a tipsy Klaue could get agitated and rachet up to bastard behavior in mere seconds.

"I had a fortress set up on that tanker. It was safe. After everything was taken away, I learned of a small portion hidden away in what I thought was a discreet location…"

"The Mosul statues…"

"I still don't know who really took it. S.H.I.E.L.D. maybe. The Pentagon. Perhaps even that ass Stark…fucking Iron Man…Iron Prick."

Klaue raised up his tumbler toward Erik's face.

"When I ask you what you want, Killmonger, I need to know the God's honest truth, because when I finish off these next few jobs, I'm going back to the source. With your skills and mine, we could steal even more vibranium than the first time I went in. I'm the only person who went into Wakanda…and lived to tell the story."

Erik's jaw clenched.

The first time Klaue went in.

With the help of his father, Prince N'Jobu, a man who only wanted to bring the vibranium out to help his woman and her people. All those in the diaspora.

Erik gulped down all of his whiskey.

Focus.

Erik fought back the whispers in his mind to kill Klaue where he stood. Because of this cretin, his father was killed. Because of this shit stain of a human, his father was unable to save his mother. Because of this devil, his family had been destroyed.

"What's the story on that place?" Erik asked.

"It's my white whale. But that's a story for another day. I want to talk Angola logistics now."

Erik wrenched his eyes away from Klaue and gazed out at the water. He had to hold onto his mental acuity. His own temper could carry him over the edge and destroy all of his plans. This was the long game. He had to hold on and not give in to the rage festering in his belly. He couldn't wait to crush this weak maggot. And like his Uncle, King T'Chaka, Erik would take great pleasure in destroying Ulysses Klaue.

###

Yani stood by the intercom at the front gate. The guard on duty, Jamie, watched her try her best to carry on a discreet conversation with her cousin Kendall who stood on the other side of the gate.

"Twyla just said she couldn't watch her today. C'mon now Yani, take your baby!"

Yani could hear her Sydette babbling a mile a minute behind the thick metal divide.

"Can you keep her for me, just for a couple of hours? I have to finish one more house and then I can leave," Yani said, the pleading in her voice not moving Kendall one way or the other.

"I would if I could, but I'm going to hang out with Bunny and Gregory. They might let me record some things at their place. I can't have a baby there with me. You know they smoke—"

"Kendall, please—"

"Yani, I can't watch you pickney. Sir, please open the gate."

Yani and Jamie could see Kendall on the security viewscreen holding Sydette in her car seat with her baby bag slung on his shoulder.

Yani's eyes glanced at Jamie.

"Open the gate please, Jamie," Yani said, defeat and weariness in her voice.

Jamie punched in the gate code and it slid open.

"I'm sorry, Yani," Kendall said. His deep dark chestnut skin was shiny and he sported a fresh baldie cut. He shoved Sydette's car seat handle into her hand and Yani grabbed the baby bag.

Kendall ran back to his idling work truck and hopped in with gardening equipment uncovered in the rear.

"Don't be late tomorrow. Tell Freddie Mr. Klaue wants the trees and the bushes by the front and middle house trimmed."

Kendall just waved and drove off, his truck backfiring as he left.

Yani rubbed her hand gently over her daughter's soft dainty curls. Sydette was sweating from the heat, the dampness making her baby hairs stick to her scalp.

"Mommy is glad to see you, but I have to work. I need you to be a good girl today for me. Yeah?"

Jamie gave her a serious look.

"Don't tell anyone she's here, please Jamie? I don't want to cause my Auntie trouble."

Jamie nodded and Yani scurried with her daughter to the apartment under the first house.

Leona was feeding dirty sheets and towels into the washing machine. A huge stack of clean sheets waited to be folded and put away.

"Auntie," Yani said with Sydette clutching her chest.

"What she doing here?"

Yani felt her spirit sink from the sound of her Aunt's annoyed voice.

"Kendall brought her. Twyla can't watch her today and he has somewhere to be so he can't keep her for me—"

"Call your mother—"

"You know I can't do that—"

"What you expect me to do?"

"Can she stay up here with you? I need to finish the second house—"

"And I need to finish this bedding and get ready for dinner. You have to take her with you."

Yani sucked her teeth. Sydette balled up her fist and sucked on it then dropped her head down on Yani's left breast and tried to suck through the t-shirt. Leona gave a sympathetic look but then continued putting sheets into the washer.

Moving swiftly back to the middle house, Yani entered it slowly.

"Inside," she called stepping in and looking around. Thank God, no one was there. The soft bristle broom she was using to sweep the floor was leaning against the couch. She tossed the baby bag on the floor near the couch and plopped her butt down with the car seat. Sydette's saliva had soaked Yani's shirt.

"Hold on, gyal," Yani said hoisting up her shirt and releasing her left breast. Sydette latched on her nipple and Yani cradled her head and watched her daughter suckle like she was starving.

"I know I left you plenty of milk with cousin Twyla. Why you so greedy? Huh? Where you put it all?"

Sydette's cheeks puffed and hallowed as she fed on Yani. A thousand thoughts went through Yani's head. What if Twyla couldn't watch Sydette over the weekend? She had plans to go out, the first time in a long time. Her cousin Kendall was set to perform for the first time in a club that hadn't seen Yani's face since she first got pregnant with Sydette. She didn't even have to sneak into it anymore now that she was finally of legal age. It was a tourist trap for sure, but the D.J.s there were really good and played a good mixture of Hip Hop, Soca and other types of music that she enjoyed.

She couldn't be too mad at Kendall. He really wanted to make music and the local producers Bunny and Gregory were giving him a chance to record something. They helped her baby's father get his first and only record deal. Maybe her own cousin could do better and go further.

Sydette's lips slowed down, her sucking not as desperate. Yani kept an eye out for Klaue's men in case they were returning. Wednesday was cleaning day for the compound, and the regulars knew to stay busy while she and Leona worked the place. There really wasn't too much to do, in Klaue's place or the first house, but Hunstman and Polk were slobs. She hated touching their sheets or towels because she once found obvious semen stains on them. Nasty.

Yani lifted Sydette up to check her diaper. She smelled okay and was dry, so no need to change her. When her eyes were drooping and her lips fell away from Yani's nipple, she was gently burped. Yani allowed her baby to sleep in her arms for a bit. She was tired herself, still thinking of all the things she had to do. Friday morning and afternoon she was scheduled to work her third job at the Eco Tours company giving kayak tours through the mangroves. Unlike Klaue's compound, she couldn't hold Sydette to her breasts while she paddled through mangroves and oversaw hermit crab races.

Something had to give soon, she was wearing herself out. And that something was Chez. She felt her stomach knot and tension crease her forehead as she thought of Sydette's wayward father. He paid no decent child support, promised to at least help with babysitting (which he never did), promised to seek better work so that she could drop one of her jobs and care for Sydette on her own and not pass her baby girl off to various relatives. It was hard not to hate Chez, especially since he had another baby with another woman only three months after Sydette was born. Worse still, he was living with that baby's mother and paying her rent while Yani had to share a bedroom with Sydette and Twyla.

She knew it was mean, but she was so happy that Sydette looked like her and not like him at all. She would hate to think how she would feel if she had to look down at a child on her tit who had that man's face, no matter how fine he was. And Chez was fine. And selfish. And a bully. And abusive at one time…

Yani shook her head from the thoughts. She needed to get the middle house clean and vacate the premises before Klaue or anyone knew she had a baby around. She had to coat the floor tiles with a protective tile cleaner that prevented sand and grout damage.

Just get through the next two hours.

She wished she could be back out in the warm water floating on her back. Naked. At peace. Alone. Not responsible for anyone or anything.

"Oh, Sydette. I wish I had done better. I wish I had done so much better."

She kissed her daughter's sweat-laden forehead. Standing up she turned on the air conditioning and tried to focus on the task at hand.

Two hours.

###

The middle house smelled clean and was quite cool when he entered it from spending time with Klaue. Erik kicked off his sandals and left them by the front door. The tile looked polished and a less dingy from when he first arrived. He was ready to relax and maybe lounge by the pool.

His mind was still calculating all the things he had spoken to Klaue about in planning their Angola run. The base of operation that they would work from in Angola still needed to be prepped and ready, the warehouse that was to be used to house the new crop of munitions and rocket-propelled grenades had recent fire damage, and when Erik looked at satellite photos of the landing strip where they would import the black market goods, he discovered an uneven and unsafe landing zone. Large potholes and depressions peppered the ground. There was a lot to take care of in a short period of time. A political problem sprang up also because of a new governor in the province who was flexing a bit of muscle to try and intimidate Klaue. This new guy was not playing the game of allowing their crew to circumvent the regulatory and oversight systems they were used to bypassing with monetary incentives to look away like previous government officials had done. Erik already decided if the man became a problem, he would nickel his brain and keep it pushing. Klaue had no problem with that. Erik knew how to dispose of problematic bodies and loose lips. He had the scars to prove it.

Erik turned down the air and went into his room. Taking off his shirt he folded it and placed it on the dresser by the window. He was about to power dive on the bed when he noticed a baby lying on it.

The hell.

The baby, a girl by the looks of the butterfly barrettes pinned to her curls, was sound asleep on her stomach, her backside up in there air a bit as if she woke up suddenly, moved, then fell right back to sleep.

He walked over to the side of the bed staring at her. He could hear someone moving in the kitchen, there was the sound of sink water rinsing down. Leona or Yani perhaps still working.

Erik crawled onto the covers trying not to rock the double bed too much with his big body. He laid back resting his head on a pillow. When he turned to look at the baby again, her eyes were open and she was staring at him. Looking about eight or nine months old, she didn't cry when she saw that a stranger was right next to her. Instead, she gave him the biggest toothless smile, a stream of slobber falling from her mouth onto the blanket, and he saw that she had dimples like him.

"Hey, Lil Mama. What's your name?" he whispered, making his voice as soft as he could. She babbled something and more clear saliva dribbled down her chin. Her chubby arms spread in front of her and she bounced her body and grunted like she needed help.

Erik reached over and picked her up and that startled her and her fat cheeks twisted up and she started crying.

"Aww, why the tears? We was cool just a second ago—"

"Sorry! Sorry!"

Yani swept into the room and scooped the baby out of his arms.

"I didn't think anyone was using this room. It was so clean. I didn't even touch it. Give me a few minutes and I can go through here—"

"Nah. I'm good. I clean my own room. You don't have to do all that for me. I'm self-sufficient."

"I wish the other men were like that."

He watched Yani's lips get tight after she said that.

"Don't tell them I said that."

"I didn't hear a thing. She yours?"

"Yeah."

"What's her name?"

"Sydette."

"She's cute. Looks like you."

"Thanks. We'll get out of your way—"

"You can leave her in here with me if you still need to finish. I think she finds me acceptable. She's not crying anymore."

He reached out and stroked the girl's cheek and Sydette touched his finger, then grabbed it.

"Sydette," Yani said pulling her hand away from Erik's finger.

Erik found himself staring at Yani's face.

"My babysitter fell through, so I had to take her…please don't say anything to the others. I'm not supposed to have her here while I'm working."

"Won't say a word."

"I'm done, so..."

"Will you be working here tonight?"

Why the hell did he ask that?

She had a baby, so obviously she had a man too…

"No. I have another job I do at night, and I need to leave now so I can get ready for that."

"Oh. Okay," he said.

He was still sitting on his bed, and she was holding her baby in front of him. He was feeling hella awkward. Sydette stared at him, and then she smacked her lips and turned back to Yani.

"Oh…Sydette!" Yani squealed when the baby started sucking on her chest, her head moving around searching for a nipple. Erik couldn't help but laugh. Yani lifted up Sydette's chin and the baby began to fret wanting her mother's milk with urgency. Erik stood up and walked into the living room, slipping on his flip flops and heading for the front door.

"I'ma let you handle that and give you some privacy. I'll be by the pool. Before I forget, I'll take the afternoon shift on the beach if you want to keep the mornings."

"Okay," she said.

Her daughter bounced in her arms and Erik could see a mixture of what looked like embarrassment and something else on Yani's face. Weariness.

He didn't see a ring on her finger. She worked two jobs too. She was probably still just a baby herself.

"Sorry about the room," she whispered. Her eyes looked watery like she was about to cry.

"Don't even trip. Sorry for being so neat. I felt like Goldilocks for a minute there."

He tried to lighten the mood for her.

"Goldilocks?" she asked.

"Muh…muh…muh…" Sydette said waving her chunky fingers in her mother's face.

"Someone's been sleeping in my bed because it was just right…the three bears…?" he said.

"Oh!" Yani said. Her face lit up and she smiled, her dark sloe eyes no longer welling with tears.

"Bye, Sydette," Erik cooed out. The baby could only focus on Yani's face, "Bye Yani."

He stepped back out into the sunlight and tried to shake the lingering need to stay in the same room as her. Her baby was so adorable. Sydette's dimples are what sold him. That initial gummy smile. The puffy little curls mashed down on one side of her head. Her little blue t-shirt that couldn't cover her fat little belly all the way. Her little outie belly button.

It was a tough job and he wasn't cut out to do that ever. Take care of a baby? Pfftt. It was probably why his mother only had him. Too much work. And Lil Mama looked like she could be a little pushy the way she was going for Yani's breasts.

Shit.

Erik sat on a lounger by the pool still wearing the trunks he had on that morning with an added t-shirt. He felt a thickening in his trunks, his dick getting a little chubby thinking about Yani's breasts that he saw down in the sea. No wonder they seemed extra ripe. She was full of milk and those big ass dark nipples of hers were making his shit tent in his shorts. Fuck.

Erik reached down and tugged on his bulge, trying to smooth it down from being too obvious. But the minute he touched it, a spark ran down his length, making him rock hard in seconds. No one was around. His eyes scanned the area to be sure and he grabbed the towel hanging behind his head and placed it over his lap. His right hand slipped under the covering. His trunks were loose enough where he could get access to his erection by lifting up a little of the swim trunk material from the bottom.

Damn, his dick was so hard, the thick head firm between his rough fingers. He kept his eyes open and alert for others as he replayed images of Yani in the water.

"That big fat ass…fuck…" he groaned low and into his chest as he plucked at his tip as it pressed against his thigh. The warm ooze of his pre-cum dripped down his leg. He felt his right leg jerk from the sensation. He could see the slight dimpling in her ass cheeks and that layer of fleshy softness around her belly that he loved on women. That space to place his head when he wanted to rest in softness. The faint lines of stretch marks he saw on the sides of her breasts made his mouth chuff, his breath revealing the arousal he got from staring at the beauty of skin breaking to make room for more…more thighs…more ass…more stomach…more big ass titties.

He imagined placing his length in between her breasts and fucking the shit out of her tits, pinching those nipples, making his balls squeeze out a hot thick nut that would drench her neck and chin—

"Oooooh shit!" He gasped as he felt heavy spurts shoot all over his leg and the towel covering him. His eyes rolled back and he was left wondering if that big nut happened because he hadn't had pussy in so long, or if this girl put a spell on his dick. The fuck he look like beating his meat by a pool over some young baby mama he just met? Fuck outta here with all that.

He needed to get out. Go to a bar or club and be around some grown ass child-free bitches. Get his dick wet properly. Chase that nut the right way.

He wrapped the towel around his waist and headed out toward the beach again. Yani was leaving and he could have the cove to himself to rinse the cum smeared all over his leg away. His trunks were soaked with it.

Damn.

From now on he was going to focus on Angola, getting that airstrip ready for Klaue in the next two weeks, and finding a way to get Tahir to St. Thomas.

New rules: Stay the fuck away from Yani.

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]   [Part 4]  [Part 5]  [Part 6]

Tag List:

@fonville-designs​ @soufcakmistress  @cherrystainedlipsbaby @tclaybon  @thadelightfulone @allhailqueennel @bartierbakarimobisson @cpwtwot @shookmcgookqueen @yoyolovesbucky @raysunshine78 @the-illllest @terrablaze514  @l-auteuse

[clansayeed]

Bound by Destiny ― Chapter 6: The Rescue

PAIRING: Kamilah Sayeed x MC (Nadya Al Jamil) RATING: Mature

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Destiny ⥽

Nadya Al Jamil (MC) has been struggling from the day she moved to Manhattan, but her new job as assistant to the mysterious CEO of Raines Corp was supposed to turn her luck around. Until she finds herself caught in the middle of a war involving the Council of Vampires who secretly run the city. An evil from the birth of Vampire-kind stirs beneath, feeding on the conflict, and finds Nadya bound to a destiny she never asked for.

Bound by Destiny and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series and spin-off, Nightbound. Find out more [HERE].

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Nadya’s first real job as a vampire’s assistant means venturing into a den of criminals. Lily’s girlfriend is more than she seems.

[READ IT ON AO3]

Maricruz Espinoza was born somewhere around the shifting borders of Texas and Mexico in the year 1901. Her madre moved Mari and her three younger brothers to New York to live with their extended family following the death of their father. Prohibition was ratified and her cousins found her work in the rum-running business.

They worked for a man who only went by a title: The Baron.

Somewhere else in New York City, maybe while Mari was sitting down with her brothers and a home-cooked meal, the Council was being formed of six of the city’s most powerful and influential vampires at the same time. They laid down laws — pacts by which every Council member and those within their Clan were to follow… or else. But every system just starting out has flaws. Like during Prohibition; where the mass disagreement with the law gave way to speakeasies, rum runners, and corruption. In the newly formed vampire community of New York it wasn’t as easy to keep track of those being Turned.

She doesn’t remember how it happened. Probably one of The Baron’s men got her. Maybe a newbie who couldn’t control their impulses. But she remembers passing out — the pain — and waking up feeling like she’d gone forty days and forty nights in the desert.

But with no brand to keep her safe.

It’s a startling story; the kind that makes history buffs drool and gothic groupies stare in awe through their red color-contacts. But Nadya couldn’t care less. There’s only one thing on her mind.

“Does Lily know?”

Mari’s snorted laughter is just barely above a whisper. “I could ask you the same.”

“What, that I like going to costume bars?” She does her best to hide the folder from plain sight but it’s not enough. Mari isn’t impressed.

“I could smell the Council’s claim all over you the moment we met,” her nose crinkles, “with that… stench of self-importance; of power. And you wouldn’t be here without knowing the secret so how about we cut the crap and get to the part where you and I agree to keep this from Lily for as long as possible?”

Maricruz holds out her hand to shake. Something they didn’t do when they first met at the apartment and she gets why when she takes it. The coolness of her touch; same as Adrian’s, same as Kamilah’s. Once you know the trademarks of a vampire they get easier to recognize.

Why do you care so much, she wants to ask — but doesn’t. They may both be walking into a den of wolves but at least Mari is a dog in this metaphor. Making friends won’t be on the agenda.

Mari exits the coat closet first. Gives a quick look on either side before gesturing for Nadya to follow behind her.

“What if the guard told —”

“Don’t assume things you don’t know.” Hisses the vampire in reply.

Nadya frowns. “Isn’t it better to be prepared?”

“Look,” she rounds on Nadya, “this isn’t one of Lily’s Blood Suckers games. Vampires are fucking weird — and this guy’s about as weird as they come. The ones you’ve met have probably kept up with the times. That’s not the case with El Baron here. Just follow my lead.”

While she watches Mari’s rapidly receding back Nadya sticks her tongue out for good measure. Sometimes even the little victories matter.

At the end of the hall is another door with faint music and dim lighting filtering through the bottom gap. Mari reaches out for the knob but it opens unbidden. The sudden light makes Nadya wince — her eyes take a moment to adjust.

There’s no time to ask Mari if The Shrike looks anything like its forefathers. Walls lined in red brick are decorated with the heads of various trophy animals — ranging in rarity from a common stag to what looks like (but can’t possibly be, could it?) a hippopotamus with its mouth frozen open. Ready to take a bite.

The deep cherry lacquer on the wooden floors make every polished step heard — a cacophony trying to overtake the man playing a vintage piano in the back corner. Beside the piano man a bartop begins, the same wood as the rest of the place, with the old-timey feel of an unlived nostalgia Nadya gets when she sees old movies. Only this isn’t a prop — the generous layer of dust on dozens of the bottles lining the reflective back wall prove that well enough.

A few men smoking fat cigars near the entrance pause their conversation to watch Maricruz and Nadya enter. Their eyes are dark; shadowed. Indulgence and arousal bead on their upper lips.

One catches her gaze and winks; pulls back his lips in a smarmy grin to reveal yellowed teeth as tobacco smoke pours from his maw like a burst dam. Nadya hastily rushes to catch up with the hem of Mari’s dress. His amused laugh is charred and guttural.

Mari leans up against the bartop and belongs. They both do on the outside but Mari — she acts like it. Names long-forgotten smuggled gains for them to drink and doesn’t take the bartender’s grimness for a ‘no.’

She hands Nadya a tumbler of honey-colored alcohol with a cube of clear ice in the middle. Nudges her to partake silently while downing her own. The booze carves a long path down her throat and settles uncomfortably. Makes the room suddenly seem a touch warmer — which only makes the chill venting in that much worse on her bare arms.

“You’re shit at this.” Mari mutters.

Nadya accepts an unspoken challenge then. Places her glass back down and gestures for a refill — which burns possibly more the second time around. But the deed is done and Mari looks a combination of impressed and exasperated.

Probably not what Lily had in mind when she suggested her roommate and possible-girlfriend get to know one another better. But life is full of surprises.

Nadya mimics her companion; leans back against the bar with her elbows on the edge. Still keeps the envelope clutched so tight it might puncture. They survey The Shrike’s inhabitants together.

“So, which one?” Nadya whispers. She’s got her eyes on a man with a beard to rival Santa and a monocle. He looks stately enough to be in charge.

“Hm? Oh,” Mari shakes her head, “The Baron isn’t up here. If he was it’d be a sign for us to high-tail it out.”

Before Nadya can question her Mari’s blue curls bounce — she jerks her head towards a set of stairs at the back of one of the brick walls. There the lamps are dimmer still; barely casting a glow on the golden railing descending into the dark.

“Down there?” Nadya asks.

“Yup. El Baron rarely comes up from the Pit. Likes the fighting too much.”

“Of course he does.” Because why would things ever be easy for me is her unspoken complaint. She steels herself and tosses her hair over her shoulder. Ready to enter.

Then Mari grabs her by the arm.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Nadya breaks free after a quick struggle. “My job.”

“You’re a human going into the Pit. You’re gonna get eaten alive down there. Literally.”

“Adrian said —”

Mari barks a laugh that settles in Nadya’s stomach at an awkward angle. “‘Adrian said,’” she mocks, “no matter what he said there’s no way you’re leaving this place alive without sticking by me. He’s probably already looking at new applicants.”

Mari may be right — Nadya knows she wouldn’t have even gotten in the doorway without her help. But she’s still a Clanless vampire in a Clan den and from everything Adrian’s told her there’s nothing good coming out of something like that. And… and she trusts Adrian. He wouldn’t send her to her death. Not when he went through so much to save her life.

He wouldn’t.

“Maricruz,” Nadya keeps her voice low, feels the fuzziness of strong alcohol at the edges of her words, “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. But I came here to do one thing and, I’m sorry, but I can’t back down now. Not with how much is at stake.”

It makes the vampire shake her head in disappointment. “Like you could possibly know…”

“I know the Clans and your kind have their issues,” Nadya continues, “but I’d like to think getting to the bottom of the Feral crisis would benefit everyone.”

Whatever Mari was ready to say dies in her eyes as she takes in Nadya’s words. She silently mouths ‘Feral crisis?’ but nothing more. There’s a sudden consternation in her brow. Whatever it is, Nadya doesn’t know, but she does take her opening to slip out of Mari’s immediate space — heads towards the stairs to the Pit.

“Thank you again,” she’s sincere, too, “maybe we’ll catch up like Lily wanted. When I’ve done my job.”

Despite everything inside her screaming against it, Nadya turns and descends into the Pit.

Oh yeah, that’s definitely The Baron. She didn’t expect him to look precisely like the love child of the Monopoly man and the Godfather but some stereotypes just can’t be overcome.

There’s a brawl out in the middle of the floor. A couple men in a no-holds-barred brawl while onlookers jeer and trade bills with every punch and fumble. Others keep to sofas and stools littered around the walls. Nadya nudges her way through a pair of tall twins to catch sight of the fighters — and she quickly wishes she hadn’t.

One’s eye isn’t just purple, it’s bulging and crying a little blood and looks like it might’ve gotten skewered by one of the little metal shivs inside an audience member’s martini glass. One man’s suspender straps hang limp and broken around his waist near a large gash in his side. The other favors his ribs slightly and it only takes one look to understand why; she’s only ever seen internal bleeding on television but if it’s anything like real life it looks like that.

There’s a crash and a whooping cheer from a flapper on a man’s lap; Nadya and the crowd hastily step aside as a broken bottle neck-end rolls into the fighter’s fray.

They both dive for it at inhuman speeds. Red eyes and fangs may be not unlike show props but these aren’t fakers — these are vampires through and through. The one with both good eyes claims his prize; turns with the brown glass glinting in the light of the overhead chandelier.

She turns away, eyes squeezed shut, and the crowd erupts into applause.

“Can’t say I’m surprised a little treat like you ain’t got the stomach for violence. Begs the question of what you’re doin’ seekin’ it out, though.”

His mobster accent is almost farcical. If she wasn’t so near hurling up her lunch at the smell of blood she’d laugh. But when Nadya raises her head and looks into the bright red eyes of an oily patron laughter is the last thing on her mind.

The watchers have started to disperse; give Mister Oily a wide berth to reach out and slide his arm around Nadya’s waist. She struggles for freedom but this vampire isn’t like Maricruz; there’s no questioning whether he’s friend or foe. His nails threaten to tear the fabric of her dress; dig in hard enough to make her wince.

“O-Ow. Let go of me. Now.”

His grin widens. “Hey now — don’t be like that. We could have fun, you and me.”

“Yeah,” she rolls her eyes, “I doubt it.”

But her wriggling attempts at freedom seem to only excite the vampire more. He’s close enough that she can smell the whiskey on his breath. Whiskey and the same smell coming from the fighting ring.

“Seriously. Let go.” She tries again. “You do not wanna piss off the guy I work for.”

“And who would that be?” barks a gruff, angry voice from across the Pit.

Nadya feels sweat bead down her spine in a thick drop. If the callout was good for one thing it was getting the vampire’s slippery hands off her — but at what cost.

She takes a moment; steels herself against the look of sudden fear on the creep’s face before she turns bodily to face The Baron in his large booth.

The Pit is silent. The only breath — hers.

Before she can open her mouth The Baron’s beady glare darts up to the vampire behind her.

“I’m guessing you didn’t bring your own tart tonight, Arnold?”

Arnold? Nadya mouths in disbelief, but Arnold definitely isn’t as funny as his name.

“Nah, boss. Was busy finishin’ that Litchfield job.”

“That’s what I thought.” The Baron’s head turns to look around the Pit. The fact she can’t see his neck makes him look almost animatronic.

“So whose whore is she, then?!”

Whispers and mutterings travel between the vampires in a breeze. One looks ready to say something but his friend holds him back.

Her first instinct is to be extremely offended — but there’s no Kamilah, no Adrian to protect her this time — so she stays silent. Feels the presence of Arnold back off into the shadows to leave her in the proverbial spotlight.

The Baron doesn’t seem pleased he’s met with silence. His scowl deepens and he turns a similar shade of purple to his pinstriped suit. Then he levels on her.

“Well go on, kitten,” said not with seduction, but building ire, “go back to your master.”

Just before panic sets in, she recalls Adrian’s final words before dropping her off at the subway station.

“You’ll want to be brave and stand your ground. But those aren’t mutual, Nadya,” and his knuckles went white from his grip on the steering wheel, “you have to treat a Council member with respect even if they don’t deserve it. We all hate The Baron but that doesn’t mean we can treat him however we want. Bow as you approach him and announce who you are. Lies won’t do anyone any good, least of all you.”

Being brave and standing her ground aren’t mutual; that’s what he’d said. This must be what he meant.

Nadya’s careful not to step in the pools of drying blood on the concrete floor while she approaches. A pair of larger vampires step closer as if to stop her but she doesn’t falter — keeps walking with her head held high.

The Baron holds up a hand littered with golden rings. “Let her come. I wanna see who told this hussy she had a pair of balls over tits.”

In front of his seat Nadya offers the shortest and most curt of bows she can muster. If Adrian hadn’t mentioned it specifically she wouldn’t even have bothered. Not like the pig deserved it. But the display makes The Baron shake with a haughty laugh.

“At least she knows her place!”

A flapper beside him flashes a brief fanged smile. “Think you can get her on her knees? I’d like to see that.”

“Now there’s an idea.” He looks Nadya up and down with hunger and greed. “Hear that, hussy? Why don’t’cha get on your knees? Rouge ‘em up a bit.”

She swallows down whiskey-tinged bile and offers the envelope instead.

“I’m here on behalf of the Council. You’ve been served.” Thank you, Law and Order.

All eyes fall on The Baron. His upper lip curls; he swiftly snatches the envelope from between them. When he catches sight of the wax seal he his anger bloats him further.

“Adrian fucking Raines; how am I not surprised…” The Baron rips the flimsy seal — practically yanks the papers out to give them a good look.

This part she wishes she’d discussed with Adrian. Did she need to bow before leaving? Could she just take off? Was Maricruz still upstairs waiting to see if the shrieks of her untimely demise would pierce through The Shrike?

The Baron gives the contents of the summons several derogatory huffs and snorts; clenches the packet in his fist as though it were as thin as tissue. Whatever superiority he looked upon Nadya with first is now gone — replaced by loathing, spite. A desire to see pain and revel in it the same way they had with the brawlers.

“Too much of a pussy to come here himself, eh?” And because it takes Nadya a moment to realize he’s addressing her, he barks: “Speak! Fucking bloodbag.”

Hot frustration bursts in her gut. “Like you would have let him in? I’m not that stupid, and neither is he. But you’re bound to the summons now, Baron, there’s no getting out of it.”

His chest puffs up. “You come into my territory, speak to me like that… Of all the cockamamie insults Raines could pay me this is by far the worst.”

With nothing but a gesture from The Baron, Nadya doesn’t even have time to blink before she’s held in place by a vampire on each arm.

“Hey!”

“‘Hey!’” parrots the same flapper. The rest of the Pit laughs at the display.

“Pathetic,” The Baron sneers, “Raines couldn’t even send a pretty twat to wet my whistle. Still… now comes the question of what to do with you.”

Nadya struggles in vain. “Dude, if you —”

The Baron jerks to a stand and causes a collective gasp around the room. He jabs the packet in his fist at her with a bellowing roar of rage. “How dare you speak to me with that kind of disrespect! What kinda whore do you think you are?!”

“I’m not a whore!”

The word cracks in Nadya’s throat as The Baron backhands her with his clenched fist. Sends her head snapping aside and a dizzying pain to shoot through her body.

“I’ve had about enough’a your lip!” To his men, “Lock the whore up in the Cellar. Maybe a few decades down there can teach her some manners!”

“A whore’s a whores a whore.” mocks the flapper; though one brazen look from The Baron has her silent as the grave.

The vampires begin to drag Nadya — still struggling — towards a door at the darkest part of the Pit. Heart racing words choked up in her lungs fear stifling her every breath she looks around, almost on the cusp of begging for help, but the only thing she sees are dozens of pairs of bright red eyes and malicious sneering grins.

There is no help.

“You can’t—can’t do this,” she shouts back to The Baron. Tries to dig her heels into the floor and feels one snap off. There’s a blur on her right and she watches with disgust as Arnold sucks on the heel stem lewdly. “Adrian knows I’m here! He won’t let you do this!”

“Is that so, toots?” His rage quelled, The Baron resumes his seat and throws his arms around the back of the sofa. Two flappers curl up against him and flash Nadya twin hisses.

She hates to sound like a cliche but the words tumble from her unbidden. “You’re not gonna get away with this!”

One of the vampires nearly yanks her arm from its socket to get the Cellar door open. The darkness calls to her, cold and villainous. Holy crap.

“Pretty sure I already have. Who’s up for another brawl, ey?!”

The vampires of the Pit cheer. Nadya bursts into tears.

There’s nothing she can give them in trade and begging for her life just seems so… pathetic. Like somehow she’s supposed to be stronger than this just because she’s a part of Adrian’s Clan. Or because she belongs to them, more like.

The Cellar is a long row of rusty cells on both sides. Some are empty. Some have captives — vampire or mortal, she can’t rightly tell — thrusting themselves out through the bars; spurred onward by the thought of freedom. They pass one where a figure with their back turned to the door stays huddled on the ground; motionless — lifeless, thinks Nadya, and she tries to break free of their hold one last time to no avail.

“Lookie here, we gotcha a neighbor.”

Nadya looks up when she realizes they aren’t talking to her. They’ve stopped in front of an occupied cell.

A man — no, not with those eyes, a vampire — stands in the middle of the cramped space. While some of the others they had passed were wearing worn rags or clothes that didn’t quite fit with the time, this man’s rust-red leather jacket and tight jeans could very well get him on the cover of a magazine. His devilish gaze is half obscured by his mop of dark hair.

Despite the dire nature of her situation Nadya can’t help but feel like she’s being imprisoned next to a pop star.

One of her jailers nudges the other; frustrated. “Why’s he sayin’ nothin’?”

“Probably too hungry,” the thug grunts a laugh, “ey, Jaxxie? You too hungry to think right?”

But ‘Jaxxie’ keeps his vow of silence. Nadya’s heart breaks for him.

The thuggish one grunts at his friend. “Maybe cellin’ him next to a human will drive him crazy faster.”

With a rusty squeal the empty cell door to their right gives way. Nadya’s never thought of herself as claustrophobic and isn’t looking forward to revisiting the idea.

She stumbles as she’s shoved inside. Expects to hear the slam of the cell door. But instead one of the vampires looms in the doorway; transfixed.

“Oi, you comin’?” The other vampire sounds distant. Likely eager to get back to watching the fights.

“Yeah yeah,” replies his friend in a dazed tone. The longer he stares the more Nadya wishes she had been locked up with ‘Jaxxie.’ “Just wanna have a taste. Dun’ care what the Boss said — she’s awful pretty.”

“How are you a literal cartoon henchman?” Nadya spits — literally spits — and watches with brief satisfaction as it lands just shy of his eye. The vampire recoils — then snarls with fangs bared.

“Oh that’s it, I’m gonna bleed your whore neck out!”

With a cry — so much for her flash of courage — Nadya squeezes her eyes shut and prepares for the pain. She’s not spent much time considering what having her throat ripped out might feel like — so when there’s nothing but the tingle of her nerves dialed to eleven she’s almost glad death wasn’t as awful as they said.

Then a solid thud shocks her into looking where the vampire lies face-down on the concrete cell floor.

The broken-off end of a billiards cue sticks out of his back.

After she scrambles to the back wall Nadya watches the vampire’s death unfold. His skin withering, sucking in on itself and going dark, veiny gray. Then like snow under the sun he begins to wilt; flecks gathering into the air and dispersing. When she realizes he’s turning to ash Nadya sucks in a breath and holds it; cheeks puffed and nose plugged, to keep any from getting into her lungs.

The cue collapses onto the ground; the perfect (if unlikely) weapon for this particular evil.

A brief echo of footsteps spur her to action; Nadya grasps the cue and holds the jagged end out like she knows what to do with it. In theory, yes — execution however might prove to be a bit more difficult. Doesn’t stop her from trying.

She should feel relief when Maricruz appears in front of the bars with the other half of the cue dangling in one hand and a long tube in the other. But adrenaline and probably the closest she’s ever come to sheer unadulterated terror keep her on edge.

“Ma—Mari…?”

Mari eyes the sharp wood. “I’d like to see you try, chica.”

The vampiress offers her a helping hand to stand. Nadya takes it warily; wavers before practically going limp in her arms. Mari holds her up — displeased.

“Alright, I appreciate the attraction but I’m really more into geeks.”

With a strangled laugh Nadya manages to stabilize herself against the cell bars. Mari nods as if satisfied with her effort. Then, in a blur, she’s five feet away and forcing a ring of old metal keys through the bars of the cell beside Nadya’s.

“Took you long enough, Espinoza.” Grunts a deep voice on the other side of the wall. The keys jingle as they’re sorted.

Mari shrugs. Obviously nonplussed by the frustration of her companion.

“Well you weren’t the one on the ground looking like a snack.”

“You only say that because you’re attracted to her type.”

“What, women? That’s lesbophobic, Jax.”

“Yup, that’s me; your big ol’ lesbophobic boss.”

She watches as the man in leather — Jaxxie, no, Jax — twists the right key and kicks the door open with a deeply rooted sense of satisfaction. Mari offers him what Nadya previously thought was a tube, but the sparse torchlight of the Dungeon catches on the steel blade of a sword as he unsheathes it.

“Holycrap...”

Jax swings the sheath strap over his chest and looks between the women.

“You know her?”

Mari looks for a moment as though she’s debating introductions. Finally she nods. “Yeah. She’s uh… well unfortunately she works for Adrian Raines.”

If he was previously disinterested Jax’s expressive growl of anger says it all. Makes Nadya feel weak in the knees again.

“And you rescued one of the Clan’s cattle… why, Espinoza?” He rounds on Mari who, to her credit, doesn’t flinch, move, or blink.

“She’s dating my roommate.”

Both Jax and Mari look at Nadya in surprise. She swallows down her racing heart and leans on the cue for support. “What, she didn’t tell you that before? She’s dating my very human roommate, Lily.”

“She mentioned an interest… but not that she was human.” Silent words are exchanged between the vampires, but Mari doesn’t intend to let it last.

“Come on. We need to get going, like, five minutes ago. You can give me a real thank you when we’re back at the Shad —”

Maricruz cuts herself off. Both of them exchange glances and focus on Nadya.

It’s frankly frustrating as all get out.

“Listen,” she wearily gestures between them, “I don’t care. Like really — I couldn’t care less right now. Just… please help me get out of here. That’s all I’m focused on.” Then she fixates on Mari with a pleading look. “Just help me get back to Lil’.”

Maricruz definitely doesn’t seem the type to ask for permission but there’s little else the look she gives Jax could mean. And it makes her stomach drop when he seems to actually be considering leaving her behind. But, after taking in the state of her, he looks at the very least pitying.

“Yeah, alright. Lets get her up. Here, help me with her arm.”

It takes no great effort on the part of both vampires but every last drop of energy Nadya has to hold onto them during the escape. Later she plans on asking them exactly how they got out — what hidden sewage ducts they must have wormed their ways through — but that would be much much later.

“Thanks for giving me your boots.”

“Borrow. I let you borrow my boots. Next time don’t break a fucking heel so you don’t end up limping all the way through an escape.”

Nadya wiggles her toes in the roomy leather and nods. Hugs herself tighter against the night chill while Mari watches her with attitude and a cock in her hip.

“You can take them back on your next date with Lil’.”

Mari takes a moment of quiet thought; when she speaks she can’t help but be hesitant. “You’re not gonna…?”

“Tell her?”

Mari nods.

The breeze brushes Nadya’s hair in her eyes. She quickly pushes it back. “If you like her, whatever. If you hurt her, though, or get her involved in business like The Baron’s, or whatever samurai-dude’s up to —”

“Jax. His name is Jax.”

Right, Jax. He’d left them once they reached the inner city — but not without a promise to Maricruz that they weren’t finished talking. Nadya even felt a little bad for her.

Her point stands. “You keep Lily out of this. At least until I find a way to ease her into it.”

“Why you?” Mari challenges, but it’s halfhearted and without much threat behind it. “Whatever. See you around, chica.”

Mari’s not gotten two steps away before Nadya calls out to her, fumbling around her costume dress frantically.

“Hey, think you could, uh…” She gestures awkwardly to the door.

“What,” then, with raised eyebrows, “you want me to break the door lock?”

“Well my keys are at work and Lily isn’t answering the comm.” Yes, she should probably head back to the office, to Adrian, but first — a shower.

A shadow crosses over Mari’s face. The same sort of vampiric darkness that Nadya’s been forced to endure so many times tonight — it makes her cringe. “What? She’s probably asleep.”

“She had an Underwatcher tournament tonight. That’s why we didn’t go out.”

“Maybe it’s over?”

The looks they exchange carry Mari’s worry to Nadya almost telepathically. Her grip tightens on her half of the wooden cue.

It takes everything inside her to force down her building exhaustion — to follow Maricruz through the busted complex door and up the back stairwell two steps at a time. Her vampire speed wins out as she pushes open the door to her and Lily’s floor.

She’s only just made it onto the landing when Maricruz screams.

“LILY!”

Nadya rushes to the open door of the apartment and clings to the threshold — the edges of her vision going fuzzy. Mari’s on her knees over something on the kitchen tile.

Nadya’s senses have become all too familiar with the smell of blood after tonight’s trip to The Shrike. She violently heaves on instinct when the salted iron tinge assaults her nose.

“Lily, baby, come on — come on open your eyes for me — Lily! Lily! Fuckshit LILY OPEN YOUR EYES!”

Numb, Nadya watches; her world contracting into sharp clarity at the sight of Lily’s crumpled body lying in a pool of her own blood.