#like she had to go undercover. that dude was going to finish the job.

[squilfmybeloved]

if i had a nickel for every time a character came back from the dead and a character immediately reacted with anger instead of wondering how unsafe they were that they had to go undercover, i'd have 2 nickels which isn't a lot but its weird that it happened twice!

[loveinhawkins]

The RV careens out of the trailer park and hits the open road with what pretty much amounts to ‘all speed, no grace.’ The turn Steve makes is, quite frankly, abysmal; he’s sure that if his driving instructor could see him now, the poor man would be weeping in distress.

Yet his passengers erupt into cheers as they pass the Leaving Hawkins sign, like he’s pulled some kind of James Bond move.

And, for all his insistence on being the absolute antithesis to so-called ‘jock culture’, Eddie rushes over to the driver’s seat, starts squeezing Steve’s shoulder with decidedly jock-like exuberance.

“Holy shit, holy shit, that was so fucking cool, Harrington.”

Oh, he’s definitely broken through the depression stage of the ‘finding out there’s an alternate dimension in Hawkins’ journey—landing firmly in the fuck it, might as well have some fun stage.

Steve could tell they’d reached that point even before the goddamn ‘big boy’ comment, when Eddie had taken one look at the Michael Myers mask, looked Max dead in the eye and said, “This is gonna be. So fuckin’ stupid. Let’s do it.”

Steve goes through a few seconds more of having his shoulder pummelled before saying, “Dude, you’re doing a shitty job at being undercover, stay down.”

“Like, do you have any idea,” Eddie says breathily, as if Steve hasn’t spoken, “just how perfect that was? That was, God, a childhood dream fully—”

“You dreamed of stealing an RV?” Steve says dubiously.

“Not in such crude literal terms, no. C’mon, Harrington, you must’ve had an imagination once—”

“Hey!”

“—didn’t you ever dream of, like, daring escapes, pulling the sword outta the stone, all that shit?”

Steve thinks about it. “I mean,” he says, “when I was a kid, I just kinda… climbed trees and stuff.”

Eddie sighs as if he can’t decide whether Steve’s done something especially annoying or endearing. “Of course you did.”

They reach a stop sign and Eddie finally flops into the passenger seat, facing Steve like he’s sitting side saddle on a horse.

“So,” Steve says, “I take a right after this, yeah?”

“Mm-hmm, well remembered, Mr Getaway Driver.”

Steve scoffs, glances over—finds Eddie framing him with his index finger and thumb, like a director trying to capture the perfect shot.

“James Dean,” Eddie says authoritatively, dropping his hands.

“What?”

“Was tryin’ to figure it out, your whole look, you know? Very Rebel Without a Cause.”

“Okay,” Steve says, “but I have a cause, we all do.”

Eddie just blinks at him, and Steve chuckles.

“You, idiot.”

“Oh.”

Steve has a moment to appreciate the way Eddie’s eyes go all soft and maybe just a little shiny, before he has to set off again. He takes the right turning.

“We should watch it,” Eddie says eventually. “Hell, I’ll take any movie. Just gimme, like, two hours of not having to think.”

“Tell me about it.”

Steve’s sure he’ll never complain about double VHS tapes ever again. Then a thought occurs to him.

“Shit.” He calls to the back. “Rob?”

“Yeah?”

“Y’know when we left Family Video, did we even lock up?”

“Yes,” Robin says followed immediately by, “No?”

Steve snorts. “God, we’re so fired.”

He hears Robin making her way up to the front, then Eddie saying, “Oof, Buckley, that was right in the ribs.”

“Why the sudden concern about our jobs, dingus?”

“I’m not concerned, I just got reminded of—Eddie was mentioning—”

“—Rebel Without a Cause,” Eddie finishes.

“Oh, Steve, I know you’ve seen it, I put it on last week!”

“Uh, maybe I was preoccupied doing, I dunno, my job.”

“It’s the one with—”

“James Dean,” Eddie cuts in.

“Yeah, I gathered, thanks,” Steve says sarcastically, but he can’t help smiling as he does so.

“—and it’s, you know,” Robin goes on, “troubled kid moves to a new town, and—”

“Aw,” Steve says, “you think I’m troubled, Munson?”

“It’s all in the eyes, Harrington. Such depths.”

“Right?” Robin says, and she’s laughing, tongue-in-cheek, “I’ve always said so.”

“You ever considered wearing a leather jacket?”

Steve laughs, too. “Tell ya what, Eddie, why don’t I just wear all your clothes?”

“Well, we know denim suits you.”

“If only you saw his last car-stealing outfit, Eddie.”

Steve sighs. “Robin, shut it.”

“Excuse me,” Eddie says, “d’you have form, Harrington? Grand theft auto form?”

“Literally once. Crazy circumstances.” Rest in peace, Todfather. “It was a Cadillac.”

“A Cadillac.” Eddie sighs dreamily. “Do you have any photos?”

“Uh, no, I was kinda busy.”

“I shall mourn the loss.”

“Take the next left here,” Nancy calls, which Steve is grateful for—the directions had gone completely out of his head.

“Wheeler, come up to the front,” Eddie says, “it’s a party.”

She must do, because her voice sounds much closer when she says, “Shit, I think I forgot to lock up, too.”

“Don’t worry,” Steve says, “no-one’s gonna ransack The Weekly Streak.”

Another stop sign—Steve looks over, smirks at how Eddie has ended up squished between Nancy and Robin, all of them sharing the one seat.

“They better not.” To Eddie, Nancy adds, “I think I gave your uncle the impression that I’m doing a big piece on you. Like, testimonials for an innocent man, stuff like that.”

For a flicker of a second, Eddie looks nauseated at the thought—Steve spots the shift, the decision to make a joke about it.

“Well, Wheeler, you better make me sound good.”

“Oh, I was going more for journalistic integrity.”

“Hey.”

Steve hears a couple of thumps behind him; without even glancing in the mirror, he says, “Sit your asses down, shitheads, don’t make me turn this thing around.”

“Don’t make me turn this thing around!” Lucas parrots.

Max scoffs playfully: “Nineteen going on forty.”

“Eddie was standing before!” Erica points out.

Steve rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, Eddie’s a law unto himself. Look, just sit down and, like, make a list or something, I’ll stop off for food after we’ve—”

Dustin laughs. “You really are forty.”

“Uh-huh, one more wisecrack and you’re not getting any chocolate pudding.”

Steve’s hamming it up, he knows he is—smiles to himself as he hears a quartet of giggles.

“Can you believe they used to think I was cool?” he says.

“I dunno, Harrington,” Eddie says warmly, “at least one of them doth protest too much.”

Nancy stands in search of a pen, Robin following, insisting to Dustin that, “We’re getting one of those camp stoves, if I don’t eat something hot soon, I’m gonna die.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. Maybe it’s because they’ll soon be arriving at The War Zone; his levity slips just a little when he says, “It’s probably, like, a proximity thing. Henderson’ll have a scientific term for it.”

Eddie chuckles. “What, the Steve Harrington effect?”

Steve shrugs. “You get too close, the shine wears off eventually.”

He doesn’t realise until he’s said it that the joking, perhaps, has stopped somewhere along the way.

“Huh,” Eddie says. “I’m no scientist, but that doesn’t sound like the Steve Harrington effect to me.”

“No?” Steve says.

He can see the parking lot in the distance, and he gestures for Eddie to duck.

“Nope,” Eddie says. Steve can hear him moving, crouching to hide behind the driver’s seat.

He parks and everyone’s abruptly all business, deciding who’s staying in the RV, who’s going into The War Zone.

Steve hates it, has a sudden intense longing to keep talking about movies, to just be stupid.

And maybe Eddie can tell, because just before Steve heads out, he catches his eye, smiles.

“Hey, don’t worry, Harrington,” he says with a tiny, fleeting wink. “You’re still my leading man.”

[capsironunderoos]

I Told You So

Sergeant Hunter X Female!Reader

Request: @mandos-crest​ Sergeant Hunter is absolute putty around the reader. He denies it to his brothers, but it’s totally obvious. He’s over protective and whipped for them, and the reader is completely oblivious too! The Bad Batch think Hunter is being super nice.

Word Count: 1,413

Warnings: None! But there is a suggestive scene with a bad dude in a bar...

Author’s Note: Hey hey! Sorry this took me so long to crank out, I really wanted it to meet your request! I hope you like it! 

Also, italics mean past tense, and some of this is in Omega’s POV!

Here’s a link to my masterlist: capsironunderoos masterlist

“There it is, that look I was telling you about,” Hunter hears mumbled behind him, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. 

He’s too busy watching you play with Omega. You’re sitting cross-legged on the ground, nodding along with Omega as she tells you a story. You idly hold her stormtrooper doll as she holds Lula, both of you fully engrossed in the story Omega is telling. 

“He looks like he’s about to burst into song,” he hears someone else mumble, and he rolls his eyes as he casts one last glance your way before turning to see Echo and Tech standing behind him, arms crossed in front of their chest as they stand in identical positions. 

“What is this, an intervention?” Hunter asks, missing the way your gaze now shifts to watch him speaking with Echo and Tech. 

“Of sorts,” Tech starts, and Hunter huffs. 

“I told you we’d leave as soon as we gathered some more supplies and made a few minor repairs to the ship,” he starts, referring to the dreadfully hot planet the crew had to make a last-minute landing on. 

“As good as that would be, we’re actually referring to… something else,” Echo clears his throat at Tech’s wording, and he sighs before correcting it. “Someone else,” he amends. 

“Oh no, no. We’re not talking about this again,” Hunter counters, and you continue to watch him as his arms swing as he speaks, his hands emphasizing his words. 

A smile plays on your lips and Omega looks up from Lula when she notices you’ve fallen quiet. Her eyebrows furrow as her mind begins to work. 

“I think we need to,” Echo responds, and Hunter’s shoulders drop. “You can’t go five minutes without asking where she is, without being near her. She even took a nap in your quarters last hyperspace jump!” Tech adds rather factually, and Hunter sends a pointed look his way. 

“Omega…” he mutters and shakes his head. “Listen, I see where you’re coming from, but I worry about all of you. And yes maybe I worry about her a little bit more, but it’s because of what she means to Omega.” 

“And to you,” Wrecker adds from behind him, and he sighs again. 

“Not you too,” he responds, turning to send a somewhat disappointed look to Wrecker. 

Omega has pieced it together. 

You like Hunter! 

She’s not entirely sure what that means, but she knows that you don’t look at the others the same way you look at him. She knows that he looks at you the same way, and that it means something... important. The two of you take care of everyone that’s true, but the care you share for each other is… different. It’s sweeter, softer, and she’s noticed it. 

She’s not the only one. 

“Okay that was one time!” Hunter argues, hands thrown up in aggravation and growing defeat. 

“It definitely was not! I can point to three different scuffs on your armor right now that are from you jumping in-between her and a blaster bolt, and those are just the ones I witnessed.” Echo counters. 

“I would take a blaster bolt for any of you, although that sentiment weakens each time we have this conversation,” Hunter retorts. 

“Fine, what about our last job for Sid hmm?” Hunter knows what Tech is referencing. 

You had volunteered to go undercover at a seedy bar, and Hunter was adamantly against it. He’d pulled you aside just before the mission, hand gripping your arm as he pulled you into a shadowed alley, eyes searching yours for even a hint of doubt. Any inkling that it wasn’t what you wanted and he would call it, no questions asked and credits be damned. 

“Hunter,” you whispered, hand coming to rest on his armor-covered chest, “I’ll be fine. I made my way through the galaxy before I met you. I can handle one womp rat in a bar, okay? And if not, you’ll only be one comm call away.” 

He still searches your eyes as he begins to speak, “What if you can’t get to your comms hmm? What if I’m too late? What if something happens and I can’t get to you?” He whispers, a strain in his voice. 

You smile softly and shake your head. 

“That would never happen. You always keep me safe.” 

“That creep had it comin’,” Hunter counters, albeit weakly. 

“He was walking right into our trap, you know, that we set up as a group, that we all agreed on? You definitely cost us those credits, and you know why.” Tech adds, still upset about the loss of credits from that particular mission. 

Hunter watches from a booth across the bar, eyes never leaving your back as he watches you flirt with the Twi’Lek saddled beside you. His body is turned to face yours, legs braced on either side of your stool so that you’re somewhat trapped with him. His left arm rests against your lower back, and his right is braced on the countertop of the bar. He leans over every so often to whisper in your ear and your shoulders shake with giggles. 

It’s enough to make Hunter want to punch him into the Outer Rim, but he stays seated. He watches for a few more minutes, telling himself to trust you, to trust the plan. 

The Twi’Lek moves again, this time his left hand moves from your lower back to brush your hair off of your shoulder before leaning in and beginning to press kisses to your bare shoulder. 

Hunter swears under his breath.

He watches as the Twi’Lek’s right hand grabs your chin, his left resting once more on your lower back. He’s pulling you into him, and Hunter is grinding his teeth so hard that his jaw will be sore for the next few weeks. He notices your hands bracing against his chest, slipping against the material of his shirt as you try and push him off of you. He pulls harder, suddenly showing enough strength to pull you completely into his lap. His left hand wraps around your stomach, pressing you into him, as his right hand begins to trail up your thigh. 

Hunter sees you struggling and is out of his seat so fast that he briefly registers the sound of his chair hitting the floor. He sees red as he knocks people out of his path, not hesitating to grab the shoulder of the Twi’Lek. 

“When a lady says no, she means no,” Hunter growls, pulling you behind him before throwing the Twi’Lek onto the floor of the bar. 

“I had him,” he hears you yell over the sound of his fist connecting with the Twi’Lek’s jaw. 

“I know you did,” he sighs as he lands another punch. 

“Okay,” Hunter agrees, nodding slowly, “that was my fault. But none of you saw what I did.” 

“Fine. What about your last few rations?” Wrecker brings up, and Hunter’s stomach decides to growl on cue. “We’re running low on food, but she always gets a full portion. And I don’t know the last time I saw you eat!” Wrecker yelps, and Hunter shushes him. 

“Let’s circle back to the nap, shall we?” Tech starts. “You let her sleep in your room, Hunter. In your room. The room that you specifically picked because it’s the farthest away from everyone on the ship. I don’t even know how to get to your room, if I’m being quite frank with you.” 

Hunter stands rigidly still as Tech talks to him, and Omega continues to watch you watch him. She smiles as she stands, handing Lula to you. 

“Here, I’ll be back,” she says, and you nod, still watching Hunter, mind not fully focused on the current conversation. Omega almost laughs at you as she begins to walk towards Hunter. The closer she gets the more their conversation becomes audible. 

“You like her, Hunter. You look at her differently, and you protect her in ways I’ve never seen you protect anything, or anyone for that matter. Yes, you look out for us, but not in the same way, and you know it.” Echo is finishing softly as Omega walks up, the conversation falling silent as they notice her appearance. 

They all look at her for a moment before she lays a hand on Hunter's arm, patting it reassuringly. 

“It’s okay Hunter, she likes you too!” Omega says, a large smile on her face. Hunter's eyes widen as Wrecker laughs. 

“Told you so!”  

[butwhyduh]

If you're doing the writing prompts then could you do a dick grayson x reader for 'Betrayal by a lover to the enemy' but it isn't actual betrayal and she's just going undercover?

Warning: cursing, alludes to sexual activity, angst.

You ran as fast as you could on the rafters of the building. If you could just get to the window, you could escape. If luck was on your side, you could leave before Dick ever saw you. Batman, Robin, and Nightwing were fighting thugs down low. Your legs and lungs burned as you moved.

But you weren’t lucky. Far from.

You were yards from the edge when you were yanked to the foot path on your stomach. You groaned and tried to scramble away. Instead you were roughly flipped. Nightwing pinned you down and you struggled to free yourself.

It was all but useless. His legs were on either side of your legs holding them down. Dick’s hands grabbed your wrists and pushed them above your head to the concrete floor. You yelped in pain and wiggled and strained.

“You can’t get away. You’ve been working for Deathstroke. It’s time you get put away,” he said shifting your hold both wrists in one hand. You gasped and shook your head as he moved his hand down to your domino mask.

“No,” you moaned, trying your best to shake him off. It was no use. He was much larger, stronger, and, frankly, madder than you were. You knew you were going to have bruises on your wrist from his tight grip. He was going to know your identity.

Dick peeled the mask off and gasped. He froze but his grip never lessened. His eyes widened and his brow creased in confusion followed by pain. Your lips parted to speak but nothing came out.

“You? No...,” he said completely shocked. “Can’t be. Why... why would you hurt me?”

You had cut him shallowly a few weeks earlier because he got too close. You hated yourself for it but he hadn’t needed any stitches or anything. But at this moment, he probably meant the other pain you had caused, betrayal.

You closed your eyes and looked away. You couldn’t tell him. There was too much on the line. This mission was too secret. Not even Batman knew.

Dick stroked the side of your face and you quickly turned to look at him. “I loved you and you hurt me,” he said and the grip on your wrists tightened. You whimpered.

“You’re hurting me,” you gasped. His grip loosened slightly.

“I can’t believe you. I loved you,” he said and you noted the past tense of his words. This job just lost you your boyfriend. You clenched your jaw to stop from crying. It wouldn’t help anything to speak when you couldn’t say the truth.

“I love you,” you couldn’t help but say. Dick turned away and his jaw clenched in anger. His fingers tightened enough to hurt around your wrist. You whimpered.

“Not when you’re working with him,” he said. Dick reached for his pockets and pulled out cuffs, meta cuffs, and cuffed your wrists to the metal bar on the rafter. The use of meta cuffs showed that he had no trust in you any more. You had never shown any powers.

“You don’t understand,” your voice cracked.

“Tell me,” he demanded.

“I- I can’t,” you said, feeling defeated. Dick nodded roughly.

“Enjoy prison. Blackgate is nice this time of year,” Dick said but his usual quip sounded more angry. There was malice and pain in his voice and his eyes looked at you through rage.

“No,” you whispered. You pulled on the cuffs but knew it wasn’t going to help. They could tie up Superman if they needed to.

Dick climbed off of you and stood above you. You could see why Nightwing was an imposing looking hero now. There was no love, no happiness in his face. You were never going to get that back. You yanked at the cuffs with tears coming down your face.

“Don’t bother. GCPD will take care of you,” Dick said coldly.

“Dick, please,” you whimpered. “Please let me go. Please.”

He stared at you with his jaw clenched and face screwed up for a second before flipping off the rafters. You breathed a quick “no” before feeling terribly alone.

It was about a half hour later that police made it up to arrest you. They roughly shoved you in a cop car and to jail. You were placed in general population for 2 hours before finally getting pulled out. You were brought into a private room with the head in charge of the mission.

“What the hell? You make me go to the warehouse and get arrested? You knew they were there. I was identified by Nightwing,” you said bitterly. The officer shrugged.

“Get better at hiding your identity. You made bail and got out,” he said with a shrug. “Your mission is fine. Complete it and you can go back to a normal life.”

“No. I quit. I could have died. What if it was Red Hood and not Nightwing? I could have been shot,” you said furious.

“Sure. Your information might accidentally get leaked to the press is the only issue. And that might get you killed. You know? By Deathstroke,” he said nastily. Your mouth gaped. You were being blackmailed by the police. You understood why people said the police were worse than criminals. You thought they were the same.

“That’s what I thought,” he said with a satisfied sneer. “Get the fuck to a safe house tonight. And get the information on Deathstroke or you might end up dead. Also.... don’t get arrested by a dude in tights. It’s a shit ton of paperwork. Get the fuck out.”

He motioned to the door and you left. It was useless to argue. You should have compromised the mission. Dick should know. You should have told him. But the police would definitely snitch and you’d be on Deathstroke’s kill list and he didn’t get that name for nothing.

You scampered to your safe house where you changed and cried in the shower. You noticed small little bruises around your wrist from Dick and the cuffs. You wanted to call him, tell him what happened but Dick would have found you that way. And you weren’t sure he would believe you and might arrest you again.

Over the next 48 hours, you saw very little. They were worried that you were a snitch since being arrest. But GCPD didn’t seem to care. You got an angry text.

If you don’t have anything new within 24 hours, count your protection as cancelled.

You gulped as you read it. You didn’t want in this anyways. You’d have to be more dangerous, take more risks. It was truly going to be bad.

“Can I come?” You blurted. Deathstroke looked you over and you shivered. His helmet gave away nothing of his thoughts.

“Why?”

“I- I want to learn more. How to be better,” you said.

“You have your training,” he said dismissively.

“But can I come?” You asked. You were wanting to die, hu? No one questioned him. He turned completely back to face you.

“Fine. Clean up duty,” Deathstroke said. You nodded quickly but your heart sank. Clean up duty was usually helping to cut up and burn the bodies and you had been lucky to stay far away from that.

And that’s how you ended up, once again, in the rafters of the same building you have been caught by Dick only 3 days before. You weren’t a superstitious person but this felt bad. Deathstroke was somewhere else waiting for his target. You were watching and reporting. To Deathstroke and GCPD.

You sighted the target. But another worker was with him so Deathstroke didn’t take a shot. This target was a nasty guy. His ex wife’s boyfriend put out the hit and from what you read, you couldn’t blame him. Harassed the wife, hit the kid, and had a domestic violence rap sheet that was long. This guy liked to hit women and children.

As you lay on your stomach on the rafter, you felt a slight movement.

“I guess you like your job?” Dick said. You slowly turned. Your taser was in your hand. “But you didn’t learn your lesson.”

“Are you going to arrest me again,” you said feeling frozen. His jaw clenched again before he shook his head no.

“I should. Why do you do it? Money?” Dick said walking closer. You scrambled to your feet. Your taser was held tight in hand and you slowly backed away with every step he made towards you.

“It’s complicated,” you answered.

“Uncomplicate it. I’d like to know why the woman who slept in my fucking bed was working for my enemy.” He was white hot with rage. Dick sometimes had anger issues he took out on the bad guys he took down. He’d never done anything like that to you. But you weren’t his sweet girlfriend anymore. And his face was terrifying.

“I-“ you wavered on your resolve to the mission. Maybe he could help you.

“You what?” Dick asked and you felt cold metal of the end of the rafters against your ass. Your breathing was erratic.

“I’m-“ you started before pulling out your comms and smashing it in the ground. Dick’s eyebrows rose. “GCPD is blackmailing me. If I don’t get info on Deathstroke, they’ll release my files. He’ll kill me,” you said hanging your head in shame.

Dick froze. Despite his rage, he still loved you. He searched your face for a sign of lying but found none. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I could have helped you. Got you out. Goddamn it! I have so many connections. You didn’t trust me?” He finished with a realization. Dick looked over at you with a sad frown.

“I know your work is your life. I just... I just didn’t know. Dick, I fucked up,” you said miserably walking towards him. The distance felt so far away. He started backing away this time. “I love you.”

“Don’t,” Dick said and you stopped. Enough people had stolen his consent. You weren’t going to. “I can help you. But this,” he motioned between you both. “I don’t know.”

“Dick,” you whispered, half a second from crying. He shook his head and another step back. A week ago he looked at you so in love and now? He had a stony pained look. It broke your heart. You broke his heart.

——————————

One week ago

Dick lazily drew circles on your back as you laid on him. You both were nude, the air hot with your earlier activities despite being in the middle of a snow storm. You held his other hand in yours and you traced along scars and callouses. His palms had matching ones from swinging on a bar. He’d had those his whole life. The thumb had a ridge from training and using escrima sticks. An old divoted scar on the meat of his palm was from when he was a kid in the circus and tried to swing on an old swing set without checking it first. 7 stitches and weeks out of duty.

There was a healing cut along the backside of his hand that intersected multiple silvery healed scars. You touched along those, careful to avoid anything fresh. Dick looked down at you as you gently caressed his scars.

“What are you looking at, baby,” he said. His voice was rough with sleep. You were putting him to sleep.

“How much you’ve been through,” you said simply. He turned his head to look at your face better. “So rough but so kind.”

Dick smiled at that one and moved his hand to hold your cheek. He ran his thumb along your cheek and you leaned into his touch. “You’re thinking pretty deep, sweetheart. Penny for your thoughts?”

“I just love you,” you said, gazing into his eyes. Dick’s smile grew and he gave you a soft kiss.

“I love you too.”

It was soft, simple, kind. And to remind you that you were far from free, your phone rang. Only one person dared to call you at that hour. You climbed out of bed to answer it.

“Hello?”

“North Shore Docks. 2 hours,” came the rough voice before hanging up. You gulped before putting your phone down.

“What was that?” Dick asked.

“Wrong number. It’s nothing,” you said climbing back in bed. If you could get him to fall asleep, you could leave on time. He nodded before pulling you close. His heartbeat was slow and steady. He wasn’t nervous.

It was only 20 minutes later that he got a call. He hung up after a few minutes and turned to you with an apologetic look.

“Batman calls. I answer. I’m so sorry. I’ll make it up to you, okay?” He said. You felt guilt that you were relieved. You wouldn’t have to sneak out.

“What’s going on?”

“Down at the docks is supposed to be a meet up. Deathstroke. I’ve got to go. See if I can stop him. He’s got some new people working for him and maybe I can get some info from them,” Dick said climbing out of bed to pull on his suit. You nodded.

“Be safe. Stay warm,” you told him, knowing you were tipping Deathstroke off about the meeting so hopefully he’d call it off. He didn’t know you were dating Dick, neither did GCPD, but you could have gotten a tip from anywhere.

You stood in front of Dick without bothering to dress. He pulled your body flush against his and kissed you deeply. “I’m sorry, baby. Hopefully I’ll be back soon.”

You nodded and he flipped out of the top window of the loft. You waited 10 minutes before calling Deathstroke back.

“Batman has a tip off about the meeting. He’s coming and bringing friends,” you said. Deathstroke was silent on the phone.

“Meeting is next week. Same location. No batboys.” He hung up.

You peeled back a floorboard in your bedroom floor and pulled out a burner phone. You put the SIMs card in and turned it on. GCPD wanted a report and now was a good time. You called the only number on the phone.

“What?”

“The meeting is cancelled.”

“Why?”

“Deathstroke got spooked. That’s all I know,” you lied. Maybe you were getting too good at lying. He cursed.

“Anything else?”

“No. Not yet. I’ll call you,” you said.

“You fucking better,” he growled. You hung up and turned off the phone, taking out the SIM card and putting it back under the floorboard.

Dick came back 2 hours later. His nose was bright red and he shivered all over. You ran him a shower to warm up and he still cuddled close to you afterwards.

“Nothing. Dead lead,” he said. “Nothing but a fucking snow storm. Could have stayed in bed with my baby.” He pulled you tight to his body in a hug. Your heart clenched in guilt. You were a terrible girlfriend. The barely visible scar on his chest was glaring at you. At least Dick didn’t fight Deathstroke. “Thank god you aren’t in that life.”

You kissed his lips softly. Guilt. So fucking much. He pulled you on top of him and you had sex. You poured all of your love into it. You wanted him to feel loved because he deserved it, even if you didn’t. You kissed his scars and bruises. You fell asleep entangled with him until late morning as the snow fell all night.

———————————

A week and a 3 days later

Back at the warehouse

Dick didn’t offer any comfort. You had hurt him so badly. But he kept his word. He pretended to knock you out and arrest you. Batman and Deathstroke were fighting down below but both saw him carrying your unconscious cuffed body. Dick carried you to his bike where he placed you on and drove off. He didn’t take you back to your shared apartment. He had changed the locks already and you weren’t welcome there.

He took you to a safe house. Basic and non-descript. He didn’t uncuff you but sat you on a kitchen chair.

“Dick can you,” you asked pulling your arms cuffed behind your back.

“Not right now. Explain and I might,” he said pulling off your mask. He took off his own mask and sat both on the table.

“Dick,” you said softly but he ignored you to sit in a chair. Dick just glared at you. “I had no choice.”

“Besides me. Your boyfriend,” he reminded you.

“I didn’t know how you would react. They threatened me. They threatened you. I was scared. I swear I didn’t mean to hurt you. I know I did. I got in too deep,” you said hanging your head. Dick clenched his fists.

“GCPD threatened you?”

“They said they’d leak the press my secrets. It would be enough for Deathstroke to kill me. They’re right. He would. Kill you too if he thought I shared with you. He doesn’t know who you are. I never told him anything about you,” you said earnestly.

“So not full betrayal,” he said coldly with a dry smile.

“Dick,” you breathed.

“No. Don’t. You don’t get to act like that with me. You know,” he said roughly pulling his suit down his chest before running his finger along a silver mark. Your Mark. “You cut me and left a scar. I guess that’s why you always kiss my scars, hu? Because you helped to make them. I thought about marrying you. And you cut me.”

“Dick... I’m so so sorry. I didn’t want to. I hated it. But if I didn’t...” you said crying at this point. Your hands were starting to tingle from the cuffs.

“Deathstroke would know you weren’t loyal. Guess I’m lucky you didn’t cut my throat,” Dick said. You gasped and sobbed.

“I would never. I love you so much. I promise, it wasn’t what I wanted. Please understand,” you said wetly. He looked away clenching his jaw before sighing deeply.

“We’ll pay off Deathstroke and GCPD will loose all of your info. But I want you the hell out Gotham. I don’t want to see you ever again,” Dick said and you felt your world crumble.

“No,” you whimpered. “Please.”

“Do it or I won’t help you.”

You were shaking and sobbing uncontrollably at this point. Dick could barely look at you. You tried to control yourself before nodding. If you had known. If you had known that single kiss was your last. You would have changed everything.

“Dick. I love you so fucking much,” you pleaded and it was too much. He left the room. It was a full ten minutes before he came back. His face was stony but his nose and eyes were red. He didn’t look you in the eyes.

“Deathstroke won’t bother you. Bruce paid him. And it’s like you never existed in Gotham. Babs made sure of that,” Dick said and you winced. He had gone to his ex to help you. God, what had he told her?

“Thank you,” you said. Your voice was raw from crying and your hands were numb. You tried to move them around. Dick grabbed his keys and de-cuffed you. You moved your fingers and grimaced at the blood returning tingle.

“Stay here tonight and leave tomorrow. I’ll pack up your stuff. I know someone in metropolis that can get you a job and temporary place,” he said all business. You wanted to run into his arms, kiss his face, tell him that you love him. But that wasn’t an option any more.

“You’re a good guy. Helping me. I don’t deserve it but you’ve been nothing but good to me. I hope I can make it up to you someday,” you said quietly. He closed his eyes for a second before nodding. Dick had his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched, protecting himself.

“I’ve got to go. I can’t stay here,” he said after a minute. He couldn’t stand to be in the same room as you. A week ago, the look on your face would have had him doing anything to make it go away. Today he caused it. He couldn’t handle it.

“I’m sorry. Be careful in the weather,” you said unsure what to say. It was too late. Far too late.

————————————

The morning before Dick caught you

Your apartment

“Morning, baby,” you said, running a finger along the bridge of Dick’s nose. He mumbled and moved a little before opening his eyes with a smile. He caught your hand before you could touch his face again.

“What are you doing there, sweetheart,” he said and you giggled a little.

“Bothering my man. He’s too pretty to let sleep,” you said pulling him closer.

“Hmm, haven’t you heard of beauty sleep? We were up half the night and you want to wake me up. What if I’m tired,” Dick said. There was a glimmer in his eyes.

“I wore out Nightwing? That’s something to be quite proud of,” you said grinning. He chuckled.

“Well it isn’t every night that we do all that. Something got into you and I’m not complaining,” he said kissing your cheek.

“I think it was you. Four times,” you said with a smirk. He definitely chuckled at that. Dick looked over at the clock.

“Shit. I’m late. I guess it’s good you woke me. I should have been at work an hour ago. I’ll have to blame the storm,” he said trying to get up. You wrapped your legs around his waist.

“What if I won’t let you go?”

“I’d probably be fired and be a little sad,” Dick said playfully. He held your jaw and gave you a lingering kiss. “So I have to go. But I’ll make it up to you tonight.”

“Counting on it,” you said finally releasing him. He threw on his uniform and left. You stretched in bed, ready to lounge the day away when your phone rang. It could have been anyone but your heart clenched. You know who it was.

“North Shore Docks. Tonight. 2300. Be early,” Deathstroke said.

“I can’t,” you said. It was way too early. That was only 11 o’clock. Dick would definitely miss your presence.

“.... if you aren’t up to task then you can be replaced. Do you want to be replaced?” He asked. You had a nasty feeling replaced meant murdered.

“No.... I- I can make it,” you said.

“Good,” he said hanging up.

You wracked your brain with what to say. What to do. You couldn’t just leave at 10:30 at night. Dick would flip out. You had to lie to him again. A friend was in town.

“Hey Dickie,” you said giving him a call at work. He was always half distracted when you called him there.

“Hi sweetheart,” he answered and you heard a keyboard clacking.

“A friend came into town so I offered to take her out,” you said.

“It’s supposed to snow pretty bad. Just invite her over,” Dick said. Shit, that was a good point.

“She’s staying at the Grand Mariners Hotel. We’re just hitting the hotel bar and then her room,” you said. It was a nice hotel in the Diamond District that was plenty safe. “I’ll stay over with her if it’s bad enough.”

“Okay. Be safe. Call me if you need anything. Love you,” Dick said.

“Love you too,” you answered. You didn’t know it was the last thing you’d say before he found your betrayal. The last lie too.

2 years later

Metropolis

You thought about Dick Grayson all the time. You hadn’t come back to Gotham since. But you tried to move on. Even tried dating that failed horribly. Who could compare to Nightwing?

You walked downtown. You worked for the paper as an assistant. You got coffee and changed the printer paper. You’d made friends with the other office assistant who was a local of Metropolis.

Besides the fact you lost the love of your life, Metropolis was nice. Crime was much lower, it snowed and rained way less, and your apartment building had a pretty nice coffee shop across the street. Deathstroke and the Joker didn’t make news. No more Batman and Robin. People weren’t instantly distrustful. There were billboards with pictures of Superman saying things like “safest city in America” and “rated best family friendly city 3rd year in a row.” You had to change your attitude and walking habits because you were too scary for the friendly city. It was the Gotham way.

Today you were in a hurry. Your skirt whipped in the wind and a piece of hair stuck to your lip gloss. Your heels made obvious clacking sounds as you overtook others on the sidewalk. You got a lot of looks. Who runs like that? Especially with coffee in their hands?

You practically jumped out of the way as a dog got in your way. This pushed you right into a man walking the opposite way. Your coffee, thank god it was iced, smashed directly into the crisp white dress shirt on his firm chest.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” you gasped. You tried to swipe off the icy pieces that clung to his shirt.

“It’s okay,” he said grabbing your wrist. You looked up and almost dropped your bag. It was Dick. He looked good. A little taller maybe, his hair a little longer. You gulped.

“Dick,” you said softly. You didn’t dare say anything else. He stared at you back. “What are you- what brings you to Metropolis?”

“I’ve got a job for Bruce. You look good. I didn’t expect you to stay here,” he said rambling. You didn’t know where to look. At his chest covered in coffee with a now see through shirt that clung to every defined muscle. Or his face that you weren’t sure even wanted to see you.

“Well, I liked the job,” you almost whispered. Your voice betrayed your fear. Dick smiled a little.

“Good. That’s good. We should talk,” he said and your eyebrows rose.

“We should?”

“Yeah. Can I buy you a drink later? Tonight?” Dick asked. You could only nod yes. You were terrified. Clearly you were still in love with him.

—————

You fretted with the hem of your skirt on the cab ride to meet him at his hotel bar. Wayne Enterprise owned half share of it. The last time you saw Dick he told you that he never wanted to see you again. He sat at a table in the corner with a great view of every door. You smiled shyly as you walked over.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” he said motioning to the open chair. You sat down and fiddled with your bag before looking up. You were stalling.

“How is Gotham,” you asked, regretting it instantly. It’s a shit hole.

“Bad. But not out of the ordinary. I thought about calling you. A lot,” Dick admitted. He gulped before continuing. “I overreacted. I shouldn’t have banished you. Hell, I shouldn’t have been allowed to. You were- you thought you were protecting me in your own weird fucked up way.”

“I was wrong. You were mad and you should have been....And Metropolis is nice. Low on assassins and freaks,” you said and he nodded in agreement. “I missed you though,” you blurted out. You probably shouldn’t have said that. Dick’s eyes softened and he looked at you.

“I missed you too. A lot. I- I wanted to see you. But I didn’t know how to talk to you and the Titans got busy,” he said.

“I heard. You guys did some good work,” you said, admitting you followed Nightwing’s career at the least. The truth was that you stalked his admittedly quiet Instagram and any Nightwing news despite yourself. You had to search it out. Metropolis had Superman and didn’t care much for the Titans doing work in another state.

“Thanks. Yeah. I- can I take you out? On a date?” He asked suddenly.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, why- what? Why are you smiling?” Dick asked feeling lost.

“Dick, we’re at a restaurant right now,” you teased. Your heart felt a little warm despite the fact that you should definitely be cautious.

“Right. I mean, a proper date. Or whatever,” he said. It was weird to see Dick look nervous.

“Of course. Always. But I’ve got to ask why,” you said and he grinned before registering your question. “I betrayed you, Dick.”

His smile fell a little. “I know. I know. But I’ve made some mistakes too. Let myself fall into the grey between black and white. I’d tell you about it some other time but I’ve come to learn that it’s not easy. Not always good and bad. And if I can’t get you out of my head 2 years later.... it must mean something, right?” He sounded a little desperate. Like he was holding on to this idea of love.

“I’d like to think so,” you answered quietly. He offered a shy smile.

“How about we start over? Can I hold your hand?” He asked and you nodded. His fingers slowly slid over to yours he softly gripped your hand and you both smiled.

You were both a little scared. Could this work? Things were not the same. But there could be 2 little broken birds holding hands full of hope. Maybe it could. Maybe it could work.

[refinedbuffoonery]

Looking Through A Window (2)

macriley married undercover au

masterlist.

Oh man. My dudes. I received so much love and support and excited feedback on the first chapter that I thought my heart was going to explode. Y’all are so wonderful. Keep it up. <3

*****

Luckily, Matty lets them take the Phoenix jet to Houston. Flying commercial would make today even more tortuous than it already promises to be, albeit for a different reason. 

No matter how hard he tries to distract himself, Mac cannot stop staring at the diamond ring on Riley’s finger. The princess cut gem is stunning and ridiculously large, but it suits her cover as a lucrative arms dealer. A white gold wedding band sits below it. Riley left her usual assortment of rings at home, and Mac can’t help but think her long, delicate fingers look bare without them. 

He tears his eyes away from the rings again and again, both on the plane and while driving to the safe house. Riley drives with just her left hand, her right elbow resting on the center console. Mac likes driving, but there’s something relaxing about riding shotgun while Riley drives instead. He’s never been able to put a finger on it, but the sense of ease washes over him all the same. Admiring the way sunlight illuminates her engagement ring is simply a bonus. 

He doesn’t let himself imagine what he might give her, in an alternate future where she reciprocates his feelings and one day wants to marry him. 

Harley obediently lays in the backseat, staring out the windshield. She's been on her best behavior the entire twenty four hours Mac's known her, ever the professional. 

Which puts her completely at odds with Mac and Riley's shenanigans—cracking jokes, dancing on the plane and in the car, doing purposefully bad impersonations of Russ. These are the best parts of going on ops alone with Riley. They can let loose in a way they just couldn’t when anyone else other than Bozer was around. Everyone else is professional all the time; Mac and Riley are only professional when they have to be. 

Riley taps the steering wheel in time to the classic rock song on the radio. “What do you want for dinner?” 

“Dinner? We haven’t even had lunch yet!” 

“True.” Riley chuckles. “Can you tell I’m hungry?” 

Mac gives her a sly look. “Not at all.” 

They settle on Texas barbecue for lunch on their way to the safe house, because that’s what Jack would choose if he was here. If only the old man could see them now, all grown up and getting sent to take down terrorists unsupervised. 

Seated in a booth in the far corner of the restaurant, Mac raises his brisket sandwich in a toast to Jack, in whatever afterlife he found himself in. Hopefully it’s the one with an endless supply of good barbecue. 

“Oh man, Jack would’ve loved this,” Riley says through a mouthful of food. She sneaks Harley a piece of brisket. 

Mac smiles. “Yeah, he would’ve.” 

It’s easier, now, to talk about him. At first, Mac hadn’t been sure he could ever get to a point where talking about Jack didn’t make him want to hit something or just curl up and sob. 

But here he is, on the other side. Him and Riley both. 

Their safe house is another twenty minutes away from the restaurant, in a nice neighborhood full of trees and children playing on the sidewalks. It’s so much greener than a California neighborhood could ever dream of being. There’s even a park across the street from their apartment complex. It’s exactly the sort of place a young, affluent couple would want to live. 

Riley parks in their designated space, and the pair ascend the stairs to apartment number 202. Outside of the car, they don’t dare use each other’s real names until they’re sure the apartment is free of bugs. The place was furnished earlier that week by other Phoenix agents, but Mac and Riley do a thorough sweep of every room just in case. 

It’s a nice apartment. Wood flooring, granite countertops, matching cabinets throughout. There are pictures on the walls, but Mac doesn’t bother to stop and check what they are. 

Riley clears the space from back to front, so Mac does the opposite. He clears the kitchen first, frowning at the absence of any sort of food, before moving on to the living room. 

Mac stops dead in his tracks when he enters the bedroom. The singular bedroom. With a singular, queen-sized bed. 

Oh no. This is not happening. 

Mac shakes his head and rubs his eyes, hoping his mind is just playing tricks on him and that there’s actually two beds. Or a whole other room he missed before. 

The one and only bed seems to mock him. 

He walks back out, finding Riley already sitting at the kitchen table, turning on her laptop. “Uhh, Riles? There’s only—”

“One bed,” she finishes, not bothering to look up. “I know.” 

Oh god. He can’t do this. He can’t. Not with his dignity still intact. Mac stammers, “I’ll, uhh, sleep on the couch. You can have it.”

That gets Riley’s attention. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re going to be here for weeks. You’ll hurt your back sleeping on the couch that long. Just sleep with me.” Riley’s eyes widen as she realizes what she just said. “In the bed,” she quickly adds. 

Mac ducks his head to hide his blush. 

“What are you working on?” he asks in a feeble attempt to distract himself from their sleeping situation. Because it will definitely be a situation if Mac’s not careful. 

“Connecting to the Wi-Fi,” Riley says in a slow, “What else would I be doing?” sort of way. 

“Right.” Mac silently curses himself. Of course that’s what she’s doing. “Anyway, I’m assuming you already know this, since you probably opened the fridge too, but we have no food.” 

“I saw.” She’s multitasking again, manicured fingers flying faster across her keyboard than Mac can keep track of. “Why don’t you unload our bags while I finish this, and then we can go.” 

Unable to help feeling like he’s been dismissed, Mac complies without protest. 

Soon they’re back in the car, headed to the grocery store, and the whole thing feels ridiculously domestic. Mac’s never been a fan of grocery shopping, but Riley makes it almost...fun. For starters, she’s not methodical about it the way Bozer and Desi are. But more than that, getting to spend time with her doing mundane, non-work stuff is a nice reminder that their relationship is more than just the job. They’re friends too. 

Mac wishes there is a way to tell her all that without it sounding weird. 

They come home, unload the groceries, and take Harley for a long walk, and that feels easy too. It feels normal, even though literally nothing about this situation is normal, and Mac already knows he’ll miss this when the op is over. 

But normalcy ends when Riley beckons Mac to sit beside her at the kitchen table, and together they write an advertisement for their arms dealing business. Once they’re satisfied with it, Riley sends it off into the dark web, and there’s nothing to do but wait, like a spider after spinning her web. 

The waiting is the worst part. 

Mac is contemplating taking Harley for a second walk when Riley asks, “Want to help me make dinner?” He takes one look at her hands on her hips and the “you don’t actually have a choice” look on her face and knows he’ll be left to fend for himself if he doesn’t help now. Mac learned that the hard way back when he and Riley lived together. 

“Sure.” 

They work in comfortable silence. Mac chops vegetables and grates cheese for their quesadillas while Riley does the actual cooking part. Even though they are doing separate tasks, Mac is acutely aware of every move Riley makes, no matter how insignificant. Flexing her long, thin fingers around a knife. Itching the back of her calf with her foot. Dancing in place, spatula in hand, while she waits to flip the quesadillas sizzling in the pan. 

Mac smiles softly. Her random little dances are cute. He’s noticed them more and more since realizing he has feelings for her, but if Mac is being honest, he’s always thought the dances are cute. 

Riley hisses as she peeks under the tortilla, checking to see if it’s browned yet. 

“You good?” Mac asks, frowning. 

“Yeah, I touched the pan by accident.” Riley runs her thumb under cold water. 

Her laptop dings while they eat. Wide-eyed, Mac glances at Riley. That was fast. She grimaces before sliding the laptop closer and checking the notification. 

“Is it them?” he asks tentatively. That’s the hard part about this; in order for their business to look more legit, they had to just put an ad out and hope for a response, rather than target the terrorist organization directly. 

Riley exhales. “No, it’s not them. It’s someone else.” 

Swallowing another bite of quesadilla, Mac says, “I don’t know whether I’m relieved or if that’s worse.” 

“Same.” 

There are no more responses that night.

*****

Mac wakes up in the same position he fell asleep in—on his side, facing outward, with as much space between him and Riley as possible. When they crawled into bed the night before, Riley did the same. 

Harley spent the night on the couch. 

She’s a very guarded dog, Mac is slowly realizing. Tolerating, but not trusting. Mac supposes he would be like that too if he was a dog and he got stuck with a bunch of strangers after his human suddenly disappeared one day. 

He makes coffee, feeds Harley breakfast, and takes a shower, all before Riley loses her battle with the snooze button and finally gets out of bed. While she showers, Mac takes Harley for a walk in hopes that the cool, spring air will ease the anxiety that took root the moment Riley released their ad into the void. 

It doesn’t. 

Dark, puffy clouds loom on the horizon, and the few birds Mac hears shriek at each other in warning. It looks like a storm is coming. 

When Mac returns, he’s met with a grim expression, one he understands without Riley uttering a single word. “They answered,” she confirms. 

“What did they say?” Unclipping Harley’s leash, Mac moves to stand behind Riley, resting his hands on the back of her chair. The scent of her shampoo tickles his nose, and he forces himself to ignore it and focus on what Riley’s saying. 

“They want to meet. Today.” 

“Time or place?” 

Riley points at a small box on her screen. “Just an address.” 

“What’s there?” 

“A warehouse,” Riley says. “Owned by the same shell corporation other Phoenix techs already tied to the organization.” 

“Not very clandestine, are they?” 

“No, they’re not.” Riley looks up at him, her head bumping his sternum, and butterflies ricochet inside Mac’s rib cage. There’s something soft in Riley’s expression that makes Mac want to kiss her. “Are you ready for this?” 

Mac sighs. “As ready as I ever am. Are you?” 

“Yeah,” she says, but her confidence falters. Without thinking, Mac squeezes her shoulders in reassurance before walking away to change.

*****

The warehouse is located on the edge of the city, in an industrial area that has certainly seen better days. Even from a distance, Mac can see cobwebs decorating the warehouse windows and rust creeping up the roller doors. Aside from Riley, there’s not another soul in sight. 

As per the directions the organization sent after Riley confirmed the meeting, Mac parks on the south side of the building, near the only functional-looking door. He doesn’t look at Riley as they get out of the car, instead desperately trying not to cringe at the cold, heavy weight of the gun holstered at his side, hidden beneath his jacket. 

High-end arms dealers couldn’t walk around unarmed, unfortunately. 

Although her hands are occupied with holding Harley’s leash, there’s a gun hidden beneath Riley’s suit jacket as well. Mac’s stomach churns. The second Riley emerged from their bedroom earlier wearing that jet black suit, she was a different person. She was wholly Genevieve Turner, and no matter how hard Mac tried, he couldn’t find even a single trace of his best friend beneath the icy exterior. 

Locking their SUV, Mac smooths the lapels of his own black suit and slips into character as well. 

The dark clouds Mac noticed earlier are directly overhead now. Mac has never believed in omens the way Jack did, but he can’t help hearing Jack’s voice in his head, warning him that black clouds are a sign of certain doom. Or something like that. 

There’s no one inside the warehouse, at least as far as Mac can see. “Hello?” he calls, the word echoing slightly in the open space. Aside from a few random wooden crates, the room is empty. 

A door slams, and then an older man comes into view. He’s probably in his late fifties, with graying hair and a beer belly his shirt doesn’t quite cover. The man swaggers like he owns the place, although Mac doubts the leader of a terrorist cell would deign to play tour guide. 

No doubt there’s a quip on the edge of Riley’s tongue about entitled white men, but she doesn’t share it. 

The man extends a hand to Mac in introduction. “Conrad.” His sneer doesn’t reach his eyes. 

Mac frowns, keeping his hands at his sides. “Last name?” 

“Doesn’t matter.” 

What he’s about to say might screw everything up before it even starts, but Mac says it anyway. In his gut, he knows it’s the right call. “If it doesn’t matter, then we’re done here. My wife and I have no interest in entering a business relationship with someone too inexperienced to understand that trust is integral to any transaction.” Mac spins on his heel and strides toward the door, Riley falling into step beside him. 

“Wait!” the man calls. They pause, turning around slowly. “Deacon. Conrad Deacon.” The man seems to know he’s already lost. Good. “Welcome to the cause.” He gestures for Mac and Riley to follow him. 

Mac stands his ground. In his peripheral, Riley stands utterly still, the perfect mask of cool, collected neutrality. Almost bored, even. It’s scary how easily she becomes her cover. 

“Come on now,” Conrad says, taking a single step forward. “We have much to discuss.” 

That’s enough of the power play, Mac thinks, but just as he’s about to give in and follow Conrad, Riley utters a single, sharp command that rings through the room. “Sit.” 

Harley obeys. 

Riley’s lips curve in a cruel, taunting smile. “Then enlighten us.” Mac suppresses a shiver; he’s seen this side of Riley plenty of times before, watched her hone it over the years, but it’s still unnerving. Admittedly, it’s also kind of hot. 

Conrad ignores her entirely. He croons, “Why don’t we start with your names?” It’s phrased like a question. It sounds like a question, but Mac sees the demand for what it really is. 

Mac gestures to Riley. “This is my wife, Genevieve Turner. And my name is James.” His father’s name tastes like ash on Mac’s tongue. 

“And the dog?” 

“Killer,” Riley sneers. Mac isn’t sure if she’s kidding or not. 

Again, Conrad doesn’t acknowledge her. “James, why don’t I give you the tour and explain what we do here.” 

“We’ll go on the tour, but we are not here to join your cause.” It takes every ounce of Mac’s willpower to maintain his neutral tone. “All we care about is what you’d like us to provide and how much you’ll pay for it.” 

Conrad doesn’t hide his displeasure. “Fine. Follow me.” 

Mac and Riley are led through the open warehouse. The layout is straightforward and nearly impossible to get lost in. But after Conrad shows them a room full of rifles—countless hung on the walls, floor to ceiling, the rest in half-open crates—Mac finds himself counting the number of wooden shipping crates scattered around the building. 

He doesn’t like his final number. 

Arming terrorists doesn’t sit well with Mac, even if it serves a purpose. It makes him sick, knowing he will likely be indirectly responsible for their next attack. 

Especially because those crates are no doubt full of the kind of rifles designed to kill people most effectively. The ones hanging on the wall are military grade, probably cutting-edge. Desi would know exactly what they are and how they work. 

Trusting Riley is paying close attention, Mac only half listens to Conrad babble about the cause. But then the older man says something that stops Mac in his tracks. “Our country is being run into the ground by whiny do-nothings,” Conrad asserts, “who waste our money and spew garbage that some people matter more than others. Well, you know what? Hardworking, everyday Americans matter. But no,” he scoffs, “those damn liberals don’t like it when we remind them of the truth. Once we’re rid of them and the insufferables who elected them, this country will be better off.” 

The ground sways under Mac’s feet. He knows these people believe this, read it in Matty’s extensive briefing notes. But it’s another thing entirely to hear someone say it to his face. 

He can only imagine what Riley must be thinking. 

Clearing his throat, Mac tries to redirect the conversation. “Like I said, we don’t care about your cause. Just tell us what you’re looking for, and we’ll be on our way.” 

Conrad eyes him suspiciously, but complies. “We’re looking for something a little more than what you can get at the store, you know?” 

Mac doesn’t, not exactly. He’ll have to ask Desi later. “I do,” he lies. 

“Good. Here’s what we’re willing to pay for it.” He hands Mac a folded piece of paper, and Mac does a double take when he reads the number. There are a lot of zeroes. “And as a show of good faith, we’d like it delivered tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow?” Riley splutters. Mac feels it then, the broiling rage slipping through a crack in her persona. He needs to get her out of there. Now. Not just to preserve the op, but for Riley’s wellbeing. Some audacity Matty has making Riley play nice with men like this. 

Mac slides his hands into his pockets, using the movement as a cover to brush his knuckles against Riley’s fist. I know. I’m here. I’m sorry. 

For the first time, Conrad addresses Riley directly. “Yes. Tomorrow. Unless that’s something you can’t do?” 

“We can do that,” she replies calmly, and the difference between her reactions is like night and day. As quickly as that crack appeared, it was gone. 

“Excellent.” Conrad takes another step toward Riley, offering to shake hands, but Harley’s low, menacing growl keeps him at bay. Rewarding the dog with a quick scratch on the head, Riley closes the gap and shakes Conrad’s still-outstretched hand. 

“It’s a deal,” she says. Following suit, Mac shakes Conrad’s hand as well and follows Riley out the door, neither of them uttering another word. 

Mac drives. One look at Riley’s trembling fist decides for him. 

By the time the warehouse disappears from the rearview mirror, he can’t take the silence anymore. “Hey,” Mac starts, but Riley cuts him off with a hand. 

“Not until we’re inside.” 

They hit every single red light between the warehouse and the apartment, and Mac anxiously taps the steering wheel. Raindrops land on the windshield. They’re small at first, but soon the drops are large and numerous enough to refract the streetlights, and Mac struggles to see where he’s going. He adjusts the windshield wipers over and over, never landing on the right speed. 

Too slow. Too fast. Too slow. Too fast. 

Mac settles on a setting that’s slightly too fast, and the squeak of rubber on glass nearly matches his heart thudding in his chest. 

Riley stares straight ahead, unmoving, unblinking. Mac wants to reach out, to let a gentle touch say what he verbally can’t, but the road is slick enough to make him keep two hands on the wheel. We’re almost there, he reassures himself. 

By the time he parks, it’s pouring hard enough that the ten second walk from the car to the door soaks them to the bone. Riley’s hands shake as she unlocks the apartment door. 

Once they’re inside and Mac unclips Harley’s leash, Riley turns to him with pained, pleading eyes. His heart breaking all over again, Mac draws her in for a long, tight hug. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. 

Mac just cradles the back of her head and sways gently, wishing he could fix the world for her. 

Neither pulls away, even when Riley suddenly says, “If Conrad was smart, he would’ve had someone bug our car while he paraded us around the warehouse. I don’t think he’s actually smart enough to do that, but we should check first, just in case.” 

Mac curses himself for not thinking of that. “Good call.” He rubs Riley’s back, hoping the gesture is soothing. “I hate the way he treated you,” he snarls. “Like you weren’t even worth acknowledging.” 

“Welcome to being a woman.” 

It was more than that. They both know it. But neither say it.

*****

“You need what?” Matty shrieks over the phone. 

Mac winces. “Sorry.” He’d called Desi first, to ask what kind of guns Conrad meant with his innuendo, and received a verbal lashing for not asking any follow-up questions. But she made her best guess anyway. Now on the phone with Matty, it doesn’t take even a single brain cell to know that her reaction will be much, much worse. 

“He wants us to prove ourselves,” Riley adds. “As a show of good faith.” The words come out dripping in venom, but their boss doesn’t comment. Mac takes a second to study her; Riley changed into leggings and an oversized flannel shirt, and there are still remnants of dark makeup smudges under her eyes. Now, she’s sitting on the kitchen counter with her knees tucked into her chest. It’s weird to see her take up so little space. 

Matty sighs, deeply and loudly in a way conveys her annoyance more than words ever could. “Fine. A few weeks ago, Border Control confiscated a huge shipment of smuggled guns near El Paso, so I’ll see if we can borrow those. But next time, Blondie, don’t make promises you can’t keep.” He doesn’t correct Matty in that it was Riley who made the deal. That would only add fuel to the fire. 

“Thank you,” he says, and Matty hangs up. Mac runs a hand through his damp hair. “That went well.” Riley’s lips twitch, but it’s not the amused reaction he hopes for. He’s at a complete loss regarding what to say to her, so Mac gently asks, “What can I do?” 

Riley slides off the counter, and Mac reaches for her automatically, although he doesn’t actually touch her; his hand hovers just beside Riley’s elbow. She doesn’t shrink away, but she makes no move to touch him either. 

“Help me put him and everyone like him in a deep, dark hole where they can’t hurt anybody. And then just…” she trails off, taking a deep breath. “Keep being you.” 

With that, she walks away, leaving Mac alone in the kitchen, racking his brain to figure out what that last part means.

*****

Later that night, Mac tosses and turns, replaying Conrad’s words. Once we’re rid of them and the insufferables who elected them, this country will be better off. They seem off-kilter, like what the man said and what he really meant are misaligned. Mac sighs, rubbing his face. 

Another bolt of lightning illuminates the bedroom, and Mac automatically counts the seconds until he hears thunder rumbling in the distance. The storm is moving closer. 

Beside him, Riley lies on her back with her eyes closed, although her breathing is too light for her to be asleep. Mac wonders if her mind is just as loud and chaotic as his. 

For Riley’s sake, he hopes it’s not.

*****

Sleep never finds Mac. 

The storm rages all through the night, but by the time dawn arrives, the thunder and wind dissipate, leaving just the steady downpour. The clouds are dark enough that Mac can hardly tell the sun even bothered to rise this morning. 

When Riley’s alarm goes off, it’s like the shrill tone is mocking Mac for being awake. Riley groans as she shuts it off. 

“Morning,” he mumbles. His throat hurts. He needs water. “Did you sleep well?”

Another groan. “No.” 

“At least you slept,” Mac mutters.

Riley rolls onto her side, drawing one of the extra pillows into her chest. “Do you always toss and turn that much?”

It was his fault, he realizes, that she didn’t sleep. Mac suddenly feels guilty. “Sorry. And no.” 

He expects Riley to be upset at being kept awake, but she isn’t. With a look that just might be understanding, she softly asks, “What were you thinking about?” 

Mac can’t say that his thoughts whip around his mind like raindrops in last night’s storm. Not without sounding crazy, at least. So instead he says, “I don’t even know. I just have a bad feeling about this.” 

“Me too,” Riley admits. “It feels off.” Her eyes are heavy, and Mac’s had enough early mornings with Riley to know it’s not just the lack of sleep weighing her down. 

“Go back to sleep. I can handle the delivery.” 

Riley rolls her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not letting you do that by yourself.” 

He doesn’t argue. “Okay.” 

A moment passes between them. It’s been happening more and more lately—holding eye contact a little too long, sharing smirks when no one else is looking, stealing moments where it’s just the two of them and nothing else matters. Each one gives him hope that there’s not a wall between them, but instead, a door. Someone just has to be brave enough to open it. 

Sitting up, Riley quipps, “Just don’t make me regret letting you sleep in the bed with me.” Mac snorts. 

“No promises.”

.

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[imaginesbymk]

“Find Me Under The Giant Rabbit.”

Reservoir Dogs/Pulp Fiction One Shot

SUMMARY: I read a Reddit fan theory that Mr. Pink survived, escaped the cops, got arrested and was then put on parole - leaving behind his old life and lying low as a waiter at Jack Rabbit Slims. What happens when you show up to the restaurant one night?

PAIRING: Mr. Pink/Buddy Holly waiter x Reader

TAGS: swearing, smoking + mentions of basically everything that happened in reservoir dogs which is the heist, violence, etc

NON REQUESTED

WORD COUNT: 2,870 (it’s long i’m sorry)

AUTHOR’S NOTE: this is probably the cheesiest thing i’ve ever written, and it’s nothing tarantino would ever put in his films, also there’s no way PF and RS can legitimately tie in together 100% even though there are some factors to support otherwise, but i wanted to write this and see something lol :( leave a like/reblog + feedback!!!

[gif credit]

YOU put your car in park, shutting off the engine, and observed it from afar. It was one hell of a big restaurant, almost a bit too cartoon-like. There was a giant anthropomorphic rabbit on top, and the lights claiming the name were glowing a bright red and yellow. Mind you, this was in Los Angeles, so who wouldn’t blame you if you took one look at Jack Rabbit Slim’s, and mistake it for a restaurant at Six Flags? 

Dozens of bikers came in with their motorcycles, yet their engines couldn’t even overpower the chatter coming from newcomers left and right. You ignored a heavy tattooed biker dressed in all leather and denim catcalling you from afar, and you reached the front desk. 

A man dressed in uniform, most definitely in character, tipped his hat at you and led you to a table with only two chairs. You weren’t expecting anyone to join you in the other seat across. So what if you went for dinner by yourself? You didn’t bother asking anyone to join you for that matter. Not anyone you could think of at the top of your head would be any less boring.

You began tracing your fingers around the rim of the ketchup bottle when not even five seconds after sitting down, a lady approached your table with ruby red lips. 

Of course, you thought. Servers were dressed up as icons from the 50s era.

“Marilyn,” you say in awe.

“Close enough,” Instead of being seated in the Marilyn Monroe section being served by a Marilyn Monroe-looking Marilyn Monroe, you were greeted with a tall Mamie Van Doren, who is just as breathtaking as Marilyn refilling everyone’s coffee mugs from the other side of the restaurant. “How about I get you started with drinks?”

Ricky Nelson’s performance on stage came to an end when Mamie arrived with your food. You looked around the place while eating. People weren’t eating by themselves. Families, friends, dates, all of them occupied their seats. Now that you’ve noticed, you sort of wished you brought someone with you, otherwise the seat across from you is used as a footrest. 

So there, you propped your feet on top, and relaxed… then you sat upright. Your eyes fixated on the waiter in his section, which were the cars back in the 50s used as booths. You watch him walk towards one of them. The couple was a young woman in a blunt bob cut with bangs, and a man wearing a black suit with long black hair tied back.

You squint your eyes. It couldn’t be...

“Hi, I’m Buddy. What can I get ya?”

You blinked, dropping the half bitten French fry from your mouth. Holy fucking shit.

It was all coming back to you. The news broke out about the heist going wrong at the wholesale, all dead except for one, a cop who laid dead on the ramp inside the rendezvous was identified as Mr. Orange. Since he wasn’t supposed to know where you were from, Mr. Pink never turned up to your door as an emergency hideout, or to drag you with him on his getaway because he never had one. You never heard of him ever since. 

Here he was, Mr. Pink, alive and well, wearing glasses. What the hell happened? How long has he been working here? Is he supposed to be Buddy Holly?

“How do you want that cooked? Burnt to a crisp or bloody as hell?” you hear him ask the man in the suit who ordered a steak.

“Bloody as hell, and oh, yeah, look at this- vanilla coke.”

You noticed the irony. He left you in a black suit - and he comes back in white. Like he’d ever want to be caught dead in white, or pink.

“What about you, Peggy Sue?” he asks the woman, jotting in his notepad. You recognized the pun.

“I’ll have the Durwood Kirby burger, bloody. And… the five dollar shake.”

Were you about to laugh? Call out his name? That was enough for you to get antsy in your seat, but you didn’t want to draw attention. You saw him again while finishing up half of your meal, giving the couple their drinks and disappearing back into the kitchen. He was doing his job, but it wasn’t like he was giving his one hundred percent. For someone who preached to the Gods about professionalism, Mr. Pink sure lacked work ethic. Every employee was on point with their character impersonations as if you had travelled back in time. Meanwhile, he acted like himself and seemed bored while wearing an emotionless face, as if he hated his job and epitome of his existence. It was never a dull moment for him whenever he was with you, though.

You got up to use the restroom.

“We’re lucky we got anything at all. I don’t think Buddy Holly’s much of a waiter,” you heard the man at the booth tell the woman as you walk past them, spotting their food from the corner of your eye. It’s no surprise hearing that. Mr. Pink never looked like the type to work at a job like this.

You sat back down and soon, Mr. Pink reappeared, standing over to the side and watched the announcement of the twisting contest, smoking a cigarette. You see him eyeing two pretty blonde women walking past him, and he looked back his way, now in your direction.

He finally did what you wanted him to do, and he stares at you for nearly a solid minute.

You waved awkwardly. 

Mr. Pink tosses the cigarette in a random person’s ashtray and disappears behind the door once again. You darted out of your chair, and marched your way to where he headed, just as the couple he served got up on stage to participate in the twisting contest.

A Zorro waiter jumps in front of you. “Stop right there, mi amor!” his eyes darted at you through the cheap black mask he was wearing. “I believe the bathroom’s on the other side of the bar.”

“Where’s Buddy?” you ask Zorro.

“I’m afraid Mr. Holly is taking a quick break from unenthusiastically serving love birds in their cars.”

“Can you tell him I’m looking for him?”

“Once I see him.” Zorro then took out his sword and pointed it at you, a grin plastered on his face. “Now, shall I escort you back to your dining spot?”

Although you were aware this guy was only in character, you didn’t wanna risk getting kicked out, or having a realistic looking sword ripped through your body. You sighed and turned around, heading back. You noticed at your table a folded napkin beside your empty plate. Mamie Van Doren was last seen there, her back facing you with her heels clicking away on the tiles.

“Excuse me!” you called after the waitress. She ignores you, smiling down at new customers at an umbrella table.

Cocking an eyebrow, you used your finger to flatten the crease and read the note in bold handwriting.

FIND ME UNDER THE GIANT RABBIT. - BUDDY 

You threw the door open and ran outside, precisely under the giant rabbit of the Jack Rabbit Slim’s sign, just like he said on the napkin. You felt like an idiot checking every direction to find no one. Not a lot of the bikers were seen riding or hanging out around the parking lot, some people were coming and going, but you couldn’t find Buddy Holly.

Defeated, you turn to walk back inside. 

Mr. Pink rushed out the door and caught his breath. It looked like he was chasing you down before you could take off. A song used for the twisting contest kept playing from inside.

You didn’t run up to him and jumped in his arms or anything dramatic in that matter. You both stared at each other.

A few days before the heist you two stood across each other waiting for Mr. Brown and Mr. White inside the hideout. It was a quiet moment, not an awkward one. He just took that opportunity to study you, as you did him. It took him that moment to realize he was warming up to you. 

“Well hello there, Buddy,” you smile smugly.

YOU and Pink loitered at the side of the eatery, where the back door to the kitchen was located. He had taken off his fake glasses, showing his full frame.

“Okay,” you watch him lean against the wall, lighting his cigarette. “Talk to me. What happened to you?”

“What the hell do you think? Cops tagged me when I tried driving away. I was put behind bars, and by some fucking miracle this place took me in when I needed money.”

“You didn’t know any other crime bosses looking for a lanky dude?” Pink rolls his eyes at your joke. “I know the heist went terribly wrong, I saw the news. Everyone’s dead as Dillinger.”

“That briefcase had a shit load of two million dollars worth of stones,” Pink blew smoke out. “I swear, if that asshole undercover cop was never sent to set us up, I could have been enjoying a cocktail in Santorini. You’re lucky you called in sick that day.”

You shuddered, remembering how god-awful the illness was. “Never again. I felt like I was being hot glued to a sauna.”

You remembered the day of the heist. In fact, you mentally prepared yourself for something that you’ve never done before. You braced for what was supposed to go smoothly as Joe promised. Instead, you were woken up by the worst case scenario above 38 degrees. You were thankful Joe took it easy on you and promised another job next time. 

“All right, your turn. What did you do after that shit show went down?” Pink asks you.

“Just did my own thing. I wasn’t there so the cops never searched for me.” Pink took a slow drag, staring at nothing. He didn’t really look the same as before. Still lanky, except his hair was a bit more darkened and styled in curls, possibly because Buddy Holly had it permed that way. But his face read that he had been through a lot. Normally you felt zero pity for assholes like him, but you managed to blurt out, “I missed you.”

Pink, blowing out smoke in the air, eyed you up and down and furrowed his brows. “Likewise.”

Not only did it suck not being able to make money, you also couldn’t do it with Mr. Pink. As much as he kept his professionalism to a T, he squeezed in time to get along with you. It was no wonder Joe hired you - you were different than the guys, you moved differently and never felt small. Mr. Pink was drawn to that. 

Maybe that was just an understatement. He grew intimidated by something he expected to experience the least from in the job, and of course, straight out of a fairytale, you had to stop and ask yourself if you felt the same way, and if what you felt was right. Neither of you had any idea. It was against the rules to give out personal information to each other, and Mr. Pink took those rules very seriously, even if it was just one job that he most likely wouldn’t come back to unless a higher pay was involved and Joe Cabot liked him enough to recruit him again. 

If Mr. Pink grew too attached, if he let his guard down for one second, God forbid something would have happened to you. Without a doubt, he would have heavily blamed himself and walked away from the job without saying another word. 

His options were to wait until after the robbery to make a move, or do his job, get paid and leave. Whether or not it was out of selfishness was out of the question. Mr. Pink is already selfish in an intuitive kind of way, he’d rather avoid spiraling into a wave of emotions for one person - so he chose the latter.

“What?” Pink looked at you, feeling a bit tense. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

“Huh? No. It’s nothing,” you blinked, realizing you were staring at him longer than you should have. You shook your head, most likely shaking off the intrusive thoughts. Maybe this wasn’t a good time to tell him what’s on your mind. 

If anything, he’s most likely sleeping with the Marilyn Monroe waitress. “It’s just… you shaved the goatee.”

Pink nodded, looking a bit annoyed that there was no facial hair left on his chin to rub. “Buddy Holly had a clean face. For the record, the only advantage of this job is that I’m under disguise. Other than that, this place is a circus. I’m zooming back in time whenever I clock in.”

“It’s a 50s themed restaurant,” you state. “Working here sounds like fun. At least you get to dress up and experience pop culture.”

He scoffs. “No, fuck the 50s. Shit was all I Love Lucy and those puffy ass dresses.”

“They’re called poodle skirts, Pink.”

“Like I give a fuck what they’re called.”

“You know Buddy Holly smiled. He was a singer and a guitarist. If you keep up the attitude, no one’s gonna tip you. Nice Guy Eddie told me about your rant on tipping.”

“Ha! And? You will never find me up on that stage performing That’ll Be The Day, moving like a fucking animatronic.” Halfway finished, Pink tossed his cigarette aside and looked at you. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

You felt your cheeks flushing. Fuck. “I am?”

He nodded, putting his Buddy Holly glasses back on his face. “Yeah. It’s a breath of fresh air seeing you here.” He stares down at his wristwatch for a moment.

“Your break’s done?”

“It’s been done,” he says. “Fifteen minutes ago.”

You shook your head, chuckling. “You’re so fired.”

“This isn’t the first time I stopped caring, so my boss isn’t gonna bat an eye.” He had his hand wrapped around the back door which was supported by a wooden block to keep it open. “Look, I’ll see ya arou-”

“Pink?” Your heart rose up to your throat.

He turned back to you. “Hm?” 

You just had to do it. You reached up and kissed him softly. Pink didn’t shove or curse at you. His features softened, pulling you close to him and kissed you deeply. Even when you two pulled away, his arms didn’t unwrap from your waist. His forehead was pressed against yours now.

“My name’s Y/N,” you tell him.

He stares at you, no snarky, sarcastic comment left for him to give.

“I know you’re not willing to give your name up just yet, you can’t fully trust me, and I get that, but I won’t tell anyone what happened. You got lucky, I think… but I’m really glad you’re okay.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I’m serious.”

“Y/N,” he says your name for the first time. “You don’t have to go all sappy for me. Karma came in hot. Jesus Christ, I mean, I left you.”

“Not really. You didn’t know me. The cops had the place staked out the entire day, there was nothing you could do.”

He looked down at his shoes. “All right. But still, I feel shitty. Can I at least make it up to you?”

“How?”

Pink shrugs. “I get paid tomorrow.”

“Good for you,” you reply. “Save it like you’re gonna lose it.”

“I’ve had this job for a while now, I got enough to last. But once I win the lottery, I’m gone.”

“To Santorini?”

“With a cocktail in my hand. But that’s besides the point, right now I got enough to take you out on a date… if you’re down.”

“Where would you plan on taking me? Here?” you laugh.

“You’re funny. How about the movies? Overruled, I’m taking you to see a movie. I gotta know where you live first. It’s okay to know now.”

You nodded, you couldn't argue with that. Besides, you two would just be making out in the dark the entire time.

His hand was back on the handle of the back door. Pink pulled it open, looked back at you and smiled for the first time tonight. That warmed your heart, and you were certain it warmed his. He watched you stuff something inside his pocket square as you told him your address. He went back inside, shutting the door on you. You walked back to the front of the restaurant to pay for the bill, and went straight home. 

Mr. Pink shuffles past the chefs in the kitchen, feeling through his suit pocket to pull out his notepad and whatever you stuffed inside just moments ago.

I didn’t even serve them. Is this supposed to be for Mamie Van Doren? He stares down at the dollar bill crumpled in his hand. His frown suddenly transitions to a small but genuine smile. 

Fuck it. Nothing could stop him now. He definitely owes you a date night. He quickly stuffs the tip back in his pocket square, and comes out the sliding door. 

THE END

—

TAGLIST: @locke-writes​ @aryn-the-bearheart​

[plaidbooks]

Hi! I love your work and I’m in serious need for some hurt/comfort..Can you do prompts 9. “Did it mean anything to you? Did I mean anything to you? 11. “I loved you.” “Then why did you let (her/him/them) get in between us?” with Sonny please? Thanks!!

Assaulted

A/N: Oof, this was a request! The first part was based off of that one episode (I think when they find out about Noah’s dad) where Sonny’s undercover at a sex trafficking party and focusing on asses...I mean, same dude, but come on. There wasn’t a whole lot of comfort at the end of this, but assume that they work it out.

Tags: sexual assault, mentions of sex trafficking

Words: 2317

Taglist: @the-baby-bookworm @beccabarba @thatesqcrush @itsjustmyfantasyroom @stardust-fray @permanentlydizzy @infiniteoddball @ben-c-group-therapy @glowingmess @whimsicallymad @reading--mermaid @averyhotchner @mrsrafaelbarba @detective-giggles 

You grit your teeth, nostrils flared as you watched the video feed in the NYPD van. The feed was zeroed-in on a woman’s ass, a tight dress pulled across her curves, as she danced with a john. Amanda, who was seated at the controls in front of you, subtly glanced at you, then at Olivia.

“Maybe we should remind Carisi that we’re seeing this, too,” Amanda suggested in a soft voice. Olivia nodded, shooting you an apologetic look. But you were still glaring at the screen, your arms crossed over your chest, fingers digging into your arms. You and Sonny had disclosed your relationship to the department, and while you knew he’d never cheat on you, he also had a wandering eye that you weren’t fond of…and this wasn’t the first time you’ve caught him staring at another woman’s butt.

The camera feed moved down to Sonny’s phone, Olivia’s message on the screen telling him to stop taking in the sights. He quickly tucked his phone away, going back to scanning the johns at the party.

“When can we move in?” you asked tersely. You wanted tonight over with, partly because you wanted to bust this sex trafficking ring, but mostly because Sonny now knew he was in the doghouse, and the make-up sex would be mind-blowing.

Olivia glanced at you before her eyes returned to the screen. “We need just a little bit more,” she replied. But you never got to find out what else Liv was looking for, not when a scuffle broke out and a gun was being brandished. You, Olivia, Amanda, and an army of officers stormed the party, making arrests and getting the girls out of there.

Olivia gave you the pleasure of arresting Sonny, who rose his hands and said a very sincere, “I’m sorry,” to you as you cuffed him, leading him out the door.

 *********************

Once at the station, Sonny apologized profusely, begging for your forgiveness, and promising to go to confession for it.

“Look, Son, what’s done is done.” You sighed, closing your eyes. “As long as it’s only looking, and nothing else—”

“Of course! I’d never cheat on you, doll. I love you, and I’ll prove it to you when we get home, just how much I love you,” Sonny replied, giving you a heated kiss. You resisted a moment before melting into his touch, kissing him back just as fiercely. It wasn’t like you didn’t look at attractive people as they walked by. Besides, you trusted Sonny with your life.

Slowly, you pulled out of his embrace. “Come on; we gotta go interview the girls,” you said, pulling him towards an interrogation room. You opened the door, Sonny following close behind you, but you paused for the briefest moment—the woman you were interviewing was the one that Sonny had been checking out at the party.

She seemed surprised to see Sonny there, no longer in his baggy, undercover attire, but in his crisp suit he normally wore to work. “What’s going on here?” she asked.

You gave her a warm smile, despite the anger that you were shoving down. What did she have that you didn’t? “We’re going after your pimp, and we’d like your help,” you explained. She looked doubtful, and you continued, “we can keep you safe; you never have to go back to that hell.”

“You can’t keep me safe,” she replied in a small voice. Then, louder, “and besides, I liked my life just how it was. Now let me go…before….”

“Before your pimp beats you?” you finished for her. You sighed; this was getting you nowhere. “Look, why don’t you tell us your name, first? I’m [Y/N], and this is Sonny,” you gestured to Sonny, who was still standing next to you, watching the interaction, waiting for an opening. Either this woman would be completely against talking to a man, or she’d do anything he’d ask…and Sonny was still trying to gauge her. But you noticed how her eyes sparkled when they slid over his tall form, and you clenched your jaw.

Finally, she looked back to you. “I’m thirsty. Got pepsi or something in this place?” she asked with an annoyed voice.

You gave her a hard look, and Sonny said, “yeah, we do.” Not taking his eyes off the woman’s face, he suggested softly, “[Y/N], why don’t you grab her a drink, eh?”

You told yourself over and over again that this was simply an interrogation tactic, that Sonny was playing her. But you were still seeing red as you left the room, heading for the vending machine.

“He’s just doing his job,” Olivia said as you came back, leaning against the glass and watching, listening.

“I know,” you replied, coming to stand next to her. Sonny had moved to lean against the table in the middle of the room, standing directly in front of the woman, close enough to touch her. You took this time to really look at her; her long, straight, brown hair, her small, perky breasts, her impossibly long legs, and her butt that Sonny had been so enraptured by. All of this was wrapped in a skin-tight, black dress that barely covered her chest and ended mid-thigh; though, the material was hiked up since she was sitting.

“We really can protect you,” Sonny was saying softly to her.

She looked up at him through her eyelashes, with her big doe eyes. “I bet you could protect me…but I don’t trust the police, Son….” She ran her fingertips over his thigh, and you’d seen enough. You made your way to the door with her soda, ripping it open. Sonny had the decency to look embarrassed, standing up straight from the table, but the woman just smiled knowingly at you.

“Here’s your pepsi,” you spat, placing it down hard in front of her. But before you could say anything else, Olivia was at the door, pulling you and Sonny out, but you could hurt your chances for information because of your anger.

“What the fuck was that?” you half-yelled at Sonny as the door closed behind him.

He put his hands up in surrender. “What? I got information from her, something that wasn’t happening with both of us, there!”

“Oh? And what information did you get, huh?”

Sonny went on the defensive, his voice rising to match yours. “I got her name, I got the name of her pimp, and I got when and where the next party is!”

You glared at him, pissed he was able to seduce information from her. “How do you know she’s not playing you—”

“Enough you two,” Olivia ordered, her voice cutting through yours. She waited a moment before continuing, “we’ll look into what Emma told you. We’re also going to put her in protective custody until we get her pimp, which Sonny found out is named Clayton.” You nodded, trying to let your rage and jealousy drain from you, but it wasn’t going away so easily. “Now go home; it’s been a long night. I’ll see you two in the morning.”

 ********************

It had been a week since the bust at the party, since the night Emma had come into the precinct. You and Sonny had worked through it; it was an interrogation technique, to flirt for information. And Sonny reassured you—with his words, his mouth, his fingers, and every other part of him—that he loved you and only you.

But nothing, nothing, could prepare you for when you had left for the day, realized you had forgotten your jacket, and rushed back in, only to find Emma pushing Sonny against the lockers, kissing him. His hands were on her shoulders, and as you watched, she wrapped a leg around his waist.

“What the fuck?!” you screamed. Turning on your heel, you headed for the door, needing fresh air, and to get that image out of your head.

Sonny pushed Emma off him, his voice calling out your name as he followed you. “[Y/N]! Come back, please! Talk to me…let me explain—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” you retorted, your voice venomous. You made it outside, Sonny right behind you.

“Please, doll, let me—”

You whipped around to glare at him, pointing a finger into his face. “No Dom! Just, no. I’m done, I’m….” Tears appeared in your eyes, and you cursed yourself for crying. You didn’t want to waste tears on him when you were fuming. In a soft voice, barely audible above the hustle and bustle of NYC, you murmured, “Did it mean anything to you? Did I mean anything to you?”

You watched Sonny’s heart break in his chest, his face falling and tears appearing in his own eyes. “Of course, you did—you do. You’re…you’re everything—”

“Well, you have a funny way of showing it,” you replied, waving down a cab. Sonny could do nothing but stand and watch as you got in, the cab pulling away from the curb.

 *******************

Sonny texted and called you a few times over the next few days. You ignored him, trying to work through your anger so that you could at least be levelheaded when you talked to him next. But not being able to go to work, and living in a fucking hotel room, wasn’t helping your rage. You had thought about going to your shared apartment when Sonny was at work, but the thought on packing things up filled you with dread. So, you waited, trying to work through your emotions.

Suddenly, there was a knock at your door, Sonny’s voice coming through it. “[Y/N], I know you’re in there. Come on, let’s talk.” You folded your arms across your chest stubbornly, not moving from your bed. You could hear him sigh, then say something muffled to someone else. There was a beep, and then your door was opened, the hotel manager having let him in.

“Fucking really? Take a hint, Dom—”

“Please, just…please listen,” Sonny said, coming into your room and closing the door behind him. You glared daggers at him, ignoring the way your heart strained at seeing him. He looked haggard; his face scruffy, his eyes bloodshot, his hair a mess, his Henley untucked and stained.

“Fine. What do you want to say?” you spat, trying to hang onto that anger that was quickly fleeing at the sight of his defeated form.

“I—I loved you, still do, with all my heart—”

“Then why did you let her get in between us?” you asked softly, and the fight drained from you as he winced, as if you had hit him.

Sonny looked crestfallen. “I—I didn’t, though. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you; Emma…she—she assaulted me…not that I’m pressing charges, but I swear to you—”

“And you expect me to believe that? After you were ogling her? Flirting with her?”

He cleared his throat. “I can prove it. There’re security cameras in the locker room…. I—Liv already showed me the footage.” Sonny’s shoulders slumped, and he looked at the floor. “Ya know, we’ve had so many victims tell us that they…that they freeze. And I never really understood that until now…. When—when Emma pushed up against me…when she kissed me, I—I froze. I couldn’t bring myself to shove her….”

You scrutinized Sonny, trying to see any trace of a lie, but you only found a sad, remorseful man. “Fine. Show me,” you said, getting up.

 ********************

The ride to the precinct was quiet, the wait for TARU to pull up the footage even quieter, tension thick in the air. You watched with wide eyes as Emma entered the precinct, just after the elevator doors closed behind you—she had taken the stairs. She had quickly found Sonny, started touching him: his arms, his chest. Being the good detective he was, Sonny tried to gently stop her, push her away. You watched as he led her to an interview room, then he left to go to the vending machine, presumably to get her a drink. On his way back, Emma had cornered him in the locker room, which you had to pass through to get to the vending machine. She reached out to touch Sonny’s chest, but he gave her a little shove, obviously losing patience with her. And that’s when she flung herself onto him, kissing him, and he stumbled backwards from the force of her body colliding with his. He was pressed against the lockers, and he dropped the can of soda, his hands hanging limply for a moment. Then his hands went to her shoulders, and he tried to push her, but she latched on tighter, pulling herself closer.

You watched, tears in your eyes as you appeared in the doorway, catching Emma sexually assaulting your boyfriend, and blaming him for it. You could feel Sonny’s gaze on your face as you watched the screen, even as TARU stopped the playback. Your heart was in your throat, and you tried to swallow past the lump.

“D-Dominick…I’m so…” you started, but he cut you off with a hug, his arms pulling you tightly to his chest.

“I know—I get it, okay? I understand,” he murmured into your hair. You hugged him back, sobbing softly into his chest.

“I love you, Dom…I’m so sorry, baby. I love you,” you whispered, tugging him impossibly closer.

“I love you, too, sweetheart; I would never cheat on you, ever.” Sonny’s long fingers stroked your hair. “Come on, come home with me, please. I’ve missed you so much.”

You were already nodding against him. “I’ve missed you, too.” You both headed out of the precinct, an arm wrapped possessively around each other. “I’m gonna punch Emma in the face next time I see her,” you promised.

Sonny laughed. “That’s fair…. At least she gave up her pimp.”

“Yeah, but I don’t share.”

[prouvaireafterdark]

All I See is You

Written for the Joe/Nicky prompt: Naz (Urdu) - assurance/pride in knowing that the other’s love is unconditional and unshakable.

“Come on, it’ll be easy—like Bruges, ’68,” Andy says.

Nicky and Joe share a look. Neither of them has to remind Andy that Bruges, ’68 was considerably different: For one, the seduction was a distraction tactic, not meant for intel gathering, and for another, it was Booker who did the seducing.

***

Joe is asked to seduce someone during a mission, and after nine hundred years of commitment, Nicky isn't even a little bit worried about it.

Also on AO3!

***

Nicky is reading at the kitchen table while Joe chops parsley beside him when Andy walks through the door of their safe house and drops a thick manilla envelope on the wood in front of them.

“What’s this?” Nicky asks, placing a worn leather bookmark between the pages before he sets the book aside.

“A gift from Copley,” she says, plucking an overripe plum out of the fruit basket at the table’s center. Joe sighs when she takes a bite. “What?” she asks, mouth still full.

“You’ll spoil your dinner,” Joe scolds her lightly, pointing his knife in her direction.

Nicky misses the exchange that passes between them, the echo of banter they’ve had a thousand times before grabbing his attention less than the envelope sitting before him. The time they’ve spent lying low in Bergamo since their last job has been wonderful, but he cannot deny that the chance to get back out there and do some good is a welcome one.

“What’s the job?” Nicky asks.

“Human trafficking ring,” Andy answers before taking another bite. Juice runs down her arm, so Nicky reaches for a napkin and hands it to her. She thanks him as she takes it before she looks around and asks, “Where’s Nile?”

“Studying Russian, I think,” Nicky says, looking to Joe for confirmation.

Joe nods before adding, “On the patio.”

When he looks back to Andy, he catches her grinning, though why he cannot say.

“I’ll get her,” she says, already walking toward the back of the house. “We should get started.”

“Can it wait an hour?” Joe interrupts, setting his knife down on the cutting board before he wipes his hands off on the kitchen towel he has thrown over his shoulder. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

Andy shakes her head, not looking back as she answers, “We’ll talk while we eat.”

Joe lets out a soft sigh as the back door closes, his hopes of a nice family dinner dashed. Nicky reaches across the table for his hand, the earthy scent of fresh herbs hitting his nose when he presses his lips to his skin.

Joe smiles at him, a soft and tender thing, and Nicky feels a surge of love for him so strong he can’t help but lean forward in his chair to kiss him. Joe meets him eagerly, his hand rising from Nicky’s grip to brush his fingertips along the edge of his jaw.

“Would you like me to set the table?” Nicky asks when they part, his eyes still closed as Joe rests their foreheads together.

He feels the curve of Joe’s smile as he presses his lips to the corner of his mouth.

“Per favore, amore mio,” Joe tells him.

Nicky steals one final kiss before he stands and sets off in search of utensils.

“You want me to do what?” Joe asks, twenty minutes later with a spoonful of tajine halfway to his lips.

Nicky hides his grin in his own steaming bowl. This is going to be an interesting job.

According to Copley’s intelligence, the trafficking operation is run by a man named Victor Cross, who’s so dangerous and well-connected that most witnesses to his crimes clam up the moment the Feds come knocking, and those who don’t tend to wind up dead or vanish before they can reveal anything useful.

Well, almost.

Before an assassin claimed his life, an informant revealed to Copley’s source that Cross keeps meticulous records of all his sordid dealings at his home in Malibu. With those documents in their hands, they could expose his whole operation and save a lot of innocent people.

The catch is that these documents are, predictably, very well-guarded, and a direct assault on his home runs the risk of drawing too much attention, which would likely trigger a failsafe that would destroy the documents before they could be reached. Nicky has faith in their ability to fly under the radar, but with so many lives at stake, scattered in places they don’t yet know, he agrees they should find a safer plan.

Luckily, Copley has a suggestion. Cross appears to have one weakness: his only son Tyler, who just so happens to be throwing an extravagant party for his twenty-fifth birthday at his father’s mansion. Even better, according to his social media activity, he just so happens to be gay and have a strong attraction to older men with dark, mysterious eyes.

Which brings us to Andy telling Joe that he’s going undercover on a honey pot mission this weekend.

“Come on, it’ll be easy—like Bruges, ’68,” Andy says.

Nicky and Joe share a look. Neither of them has to remind Andy that Bruges, ’68 was considerably different: For one, the seduction was a distraction tactic, not meant for intel gathering, and for another, it was Booker who did the seducing.

Andy seems to sense their train of thought, and adds, with a touch of exasperation, “Just look at the kid like he’s Nicky and feed him drinks until he starts talking. Even if he’s not involved, he’s got to have an idea about where exactly Cross would keep those documents and anything else we might need to know about before we try to take them.”

“How do you know he’ll even take the bait?” Joe asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Oh, he will,” Nile pipes up from where she’s been looking over some of the papers Copley sent at the other end of the table. “According to his Twitter, he’s thirsting hard over some actor named Marwan Kenzari. Dude looks just like you.”

She holds up a paper with a screenshot of what must be Tyler’s social media profile. In it, there’s a photo of a handsome, shirtless man who does indeed bear a striking resemblance to Joe. Nicky spots the differences easily though; this man has more muscle definition than Joe does, likely won through a combination of targeted workouts and dehydration, and his beard is cropped much closer to his skin. He also has a small tattoo on his chest, but the picture is too far away from him to read it.

“Huh,” Joe says, leaning in to get a better look. Nicky is so distracted by trying to parse out the meaning of the “Hot Jafar can get itttttttttt #MarwanKenzari” written above the photo that he nearly misses Joe wondering aloud, “Should I shave?”

Nicky lets out a low, mournful sound when Joe’s words catch up with him. The weeks it would take to grow back would be a drop in the bucket of their long, long lives, but Nicky loves the feel of Joe’s beard against his skin and he isn’t prepared to give that up without a fight.

“Va bene, tesoro,” Joe assures him with a wink, sensing Nicky’s thoughts as if they were his own. “Non devo radermi.”

Nicky smiles gratefully at him.

“Anyway,” Andy interrupts. “I’ll infiltrate the catering company to do some recon before the party. Nile, unless you’ve got any objections, you’ll go in as Joe’s plus one to run interference while he pumps Tyler for information. You’ll also be his exit strategy if we need to leave unexpectedly without drawing too much attention.”

“Really?” Nile perks up.

Nicky smiles at her eagerness. “Makes sense,” he tells her. “You’re their age, you’ll fit right in.”

“And Nicolò?” Joe asks.

“Well, Copley can hack into Cross’ CCTV to guide us through the halls when we’re inside, but we’ll need someone keeping an eye on what’s going on outside. You up for it, Nicky?“

He shares a look with Joe, his eyes drawn to the subtle, downward quirk of his lips that tells him he doesn’t love the idea of Nicky being on his own out there. Nicky isn’t surprised to see it—he knows Joe has grown accustomed to being in the sniper’s nest with him to watch his six while Nicky has his attention trained on his scope—but there’s little that can be done about that now, so he nods, dragging his eyes back to Andromache.

“Si. I can set up my rifle here,” Nicky says, pointing to the best vantage point he can see on the satellite photos. “I’ll have a view of the front of the house and the backyard. If anyone suspicious enters or exits the property, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Hey, speaking of cameras: should we be worried about that?” Nile asks. “I’m sure people will be posting pics of everything if the scale of this party is as big as it sounds.”

“With Copley covering our tracks, I think it’s a risk we can afford to take,” Andy says.

“Alright,” Joe says. “When do we leave?”

Before they pack up and head to California, Joe and Nile need new clothes. The next morning, Nicky wakes up extra early to make them coffee before they take a train into Milan.

“Where’s Joe?” Nile croaks, her eyes still weighed down by sleep as she stumbles into the kitchen.

“In the shower,” Nicky answers. “Andy?”

“Still sleeping,” Nile explains.

Nicky nods, recalling that she took the first watch last night. He’ll wake her up in an hour or so, once he finishes packing their belongings for the flight to California.

In the mean time, he pours Nile a cup of coffee from the Moka pot on the stove, the sugar bowl and a small carafe of milk already on the table waiting for her. The moment the smell hits her nose a grateful smile breaks out on her face.

“Bless you,” Nile says, accepting the cup and sliding into a seat at the table.

“Prego,” Nicky says in response before pouring himself one and joining her.

They sip their coffee in silence, until Nile asks suddenly, “Hey, how are you feeling about the plan?”

“Good,” Nicky answers over his cup. “Why, are you having second thoughts?”

“No,” Nile says quickly. “I just thought maybe part of it might bother you.”

“Which part?”

“You know,” she says, like it’s obvious.

Nicky looks at her blankly.

“The part where Joe has to seduce someone and I apparently have to be his wingman?” she says expectantly.

Nicky laughs as understanding sets in, which only seems to confuse Nile further.

“No, I’m not bothered by that,” Nicky answers honestly.

“Really?” Nile asks, sounding surprised. “Why not?”

“Because if there is one thing I can be certain of after a millennium of sharing a life with Yusuf, it is that his heart is mine and mine alone,” Nicky says, feeling the truth of those words as they leave his mouth. “He will do what he must to get the information we need, and afterward he will come to bed with me like he has every night since we first cast our swords aside and allowed ourselves to love each other.”

Nile blinks at him in stunned silence. Nicky smiles as he takes another sip of coffee.

“Damn,” Nile says at last. “You two really invented love, huh?”

“I like to think so,” Joe says as he wanders into the kitchen, his curls still damp from his shower. He looks more alert than he did when Nicky left him in bed, but soft around the edges like he always gets whenever Nicky talks about how much they love each other.

“All lovers do,” Nicky agrees.

That’s certainly what it had felt like that first time they surrendered to their passions, when Nicky was Nicolò di Genova and Joe was Yusuf al-Kaysani and they’d spent the whole night mapping each others bodies with hands and lips and tongues. Each kiss was a revelation, every gasp, moan, and sigh, a shining new discovery, and in that moment, as Yusuf took him into his mouth with the vault of heaven twinkling above them, Nicolò could not have fathomed that anyone else in the history of the world had ever felt so worshipped by another—save perhaps God himself. After nine hundred years of loving this man, of bleeding and dying and living beside him, Nicky is as happy as he is unsurprised to report that he still feels exactly the same way.

Returning Joe’s soft smile, Nicky gets up from his seat to fix him a cup of coffee from the pot on the stove. He hears Joe’s footsteps approaching from behind and sighs contentedly when he feels Joe’s hands settle on his waist and his lips brush the back of his neck.

“So I will have no jealousy from you this weekend?” Joe asks, sounding a touch disappointed.

Nicky’s smile grows. “You are a very beautiful man, Yusuf,” he answers, turning in Joe’s arms to hand him his coffee. Joe accepts it and takes a sip as Nicky adds, “If I got angry every time you caught the eye of another, madness would have consumed me centuries ago.”

Joe laughs softly at Nicky’s words and sets his cup back down on the counter.

“Do you hear this?” Joe asks incredulously, throwing a look at Nile over his shoulder. “My Nicolò flatters me too much.”

“No,” Nicky disagrees with a fond smile. “I speak only the truth.”

Joe’s eyes soften before he leans in to kiss him, slow and wet and so very distracting. Nicky sighs into the kiss when he feels the warmth of Joe’s palm against the side of his neck, keeping him still as he licks into his mouth, bitter notes of coffee on his tongue.

“Oh my god,” he hears Nile mutter to herself before her chair scrapes against the broken tile. “Y’all are too much. I’m gonna grab my shoes and then we have a train to catch, Joe.”

Joe hums in acknowledgement, but only presses Nicky back into the counter more firmly once Nile’s footsteps fade. Nicky gasps as tendrils of heat stoke low in his belly, but he manages to find the will to put his hands flat against Joe’s chest and ease him back. Joe looks betrayed when he does it, but there’s a brightness in his eyes that tells Nicky he’s only teasing.

“As much as I want to keep kissing you, Nile is right,” Nicky says, knocking their noses together. “You have a train to catch.”

“I know,” Joe says, raking his fingers through Nicky’s sleep-tousled hair, “but you are just so tempting first thing in the morning, I don’t know how you expect me to resist you.”

Heat sparks inside Nicky once more as Joe’s nails scrape gently against his scalp, and his eyes slip closed, his own self-control dangling by a thread. They’d been too tired to have sex last night and Nicky curses their former selves for not taking advantage of each other while they had the time.

Nicky’s eyes flit back down toward the smug curve of Joe’s mouth, but before he can make a questionable decision, the door to Nile’s bedroom creaks open.

“Ready?” she asks.

“Yeah, just a sec,” Joe says, and for a moment, Nicky thinks Joe is going to kiss him again, but instead he reaches for the cup of coffee he left on the counter. He drains it in one go before he steps aside to place it in the sink, leaving Nicky unpleasantly cold without the heat of his body to warm him.

“Thank you for the coffee, habibi,” he says, dropping a kiss on Nicky’s cheek as he passes him. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Of course,” Nicky says, offering Joe a smile as he folds his arms across his chest. “Have fun in Milano.”

“Without you?” Joe asks, shooting him a look over his shoulder. “Never.”

The next night finds them at a hotel in Malibu, not far from Cross’ mansion. Nicky reclines on the bed he’ll share with Joe tonight if all goes well, dressed head to toe in black, while Joe gets ready for the party in their ensuite.

Nicky is resting his eyes when the bathroom door swings open.

“How do I look?” Joe asks as he steps into the room. Nicky pushes himself up onto his elbows to see, swallowing as his eyes travel the length of him.

Joe’s suit is of Italian make and exceptional quality, its rich burgundy hue eye-catching without being garish. The button down beneath is crisp and white, in stark contrast to the plain black bowtie that circles his neck. As he adjusts his cufflinks, Nicky’s eyes catch on the silver rings glinting on his fingers and the expensive watch on his wrist—a gift Nicky picked up for him the last time they were in Geneva. He looks like sin standing there, the well-tailored fabric clinging to his waist and thighs in a way that would have sent Nicky to his knees were he not already lying down.

“Bellissimo,” Nicky answers, and when Joe smiles brightly in response, Nicky beckons him closer with a gesture, unable to stop himself from playfully adding, “Tyler will not be able to resist.”

Joe scoffs and continues his approach toward the bed.

“And you?” he asks, eyes darkening as he pushes Nicky gently back until he’s lying against the mattress again. “Could you resist me?”

Nicky lets his thighs fall open in answer as Joe moves to settle in the cradle of his hips. The moment Nicky feels the solid weight of him rest between his thighs, Joe rolls his hips forward, a tease that pulls a soft moan from Nicky’s lips. Joe stifles the sound with his mouth as he moves in for a greedy kiss, nipping Nicky’s bottom lip between his teeth before soothing the bite with his tongue.

It never ceases to amaze Nicky that, after all the lifetimes they’ve lived, Joe’s kisses still have the power to steal his breath and make his heart pound against his ribs, that they still feel so fucking good. Nicky melts against him, any coherent thoughts that remain slipping away with every press of Joe’s mouth against his, leaving him dizzy and warm and utterly lost in the feel of Joe’s tongue delving into his mouth and his beard brushing against his skin.

It’s not until Joe snakes a hand between them to rub against Nicky’s rapidly hardening cock through the thick fabric of his tactical pants that Nicky remembers they have a job to do.

Nicky pulls away from Joe’s mouth with a soft gasp, but Joe just fits his mouth against the side of his neck instead as he continues to palm him through his clothes.

“We will be late,” Nicky pants, reaching down to cover Joe’s hand with his own—to stop him or urge him on, he isn’t quite sure.

“It’s a party,” Joe mumbles before tugging the neckline of Nicky’s shirt down with his free hand to suck a fleeting mark onto his collarbone. “We’re meant to be late.”

“You’re going to wrinkle your suit,” he tries weakly.

“I don’t mind,” Joe counters, unbuckling Nicky’s belt. Nicky makes no move to stop him as he unzips his pants and gets a hand on his cock, his thumb swiping through the pre-come gathering at the tip. It occurs to Nicky that Joe better be careful if he doesn’t want a stain on his new suit. He opens his mouth to say so, but Joe must sense his thoughts because before he can speak, he adds, “Don’t worry. I’ll finish you off with my mouth so you don’t make a mess.”

“Oh?” Nicky asks, flushing at the thought even as he teases, “Do you think Tyler will be able to tell where your mouth has been when he kisses you?”

Joe groans and sinks his teeth into Nicky’s skin, making him gasp as a heady mix of pleasure and pain washes over him. He moves up toward Nicky’s ear then, tracing the path up his neck with his tongue.

“Would you like that?” Joe asks in a low whisper before he nips his earlobe between his teeth, his hand still working Nicky’s cock in steady strokes. “For him to taste you on my tongue and know that I am yours, body and soul?”

Nicky lets out a shuddering breath and rolls his hips into Joe’s touch.

“Would you?” Nicky asks.

Before Joe can answer, there’s a sudden, harsh knock at the door, startling them both.

“Joe? Nicky? We’ve gotta leave in like ten minutes so make yourselves decent,” Nile calls from behind the wood before her footsteps quickly retreat.

Joe huffs in disappointment.

Nicky cannot help but share the feeling when Joe releases his cock, leaving it hard and aching against his belly. Just as he’s resigning himself to jerking off while Joe finishes getting ready, he feels Joe start to pull his pants down his thighs.

“Joe?” Nicky asks, the question obvious on his lips.

“We still have nine minutes,” Joe explains, shuffling down his body until Nicky can feel his breath on the tip of his cock.

“That’s not much time,” Nicky comments, reaching down to cup Joe’s cheek.

“It’s enough,” Joe says, pressing a kiss to his palm, and before Nicky can even think to argue, he leans down to lick a long stripe up his shaft, from base to tip.

Joe seals his lips over the leaking head of Nicky’s cock when he reaches it, sucking at it softly in that way that drives Nicky mad. He hums at the taste before taking him deeper, eager to make the most of their time. Nicky has to bite down on his lower lip to stifle a cry, his hips twitching forward to push himself deeper into the welcoming, wet heat of Joe’s mouth.

Nicky’s eyes stay fixed on those plush pink lips, watching his thick cock disappear between them again and again and again, the tip edging closer to the back of Joe’s throat with every bob of his head over Nicky’s lap. It’s a sight he’s seen countless times before, but it never fails to make the liquid heat pooling in his belly simmer to a boil, and Nicky is writhing against the mattress in no time at all.

Joe anchors his arm across Nicky’s hips to keep him from moving too much, and the confining pressure somehow turns Nicky on even more. Nicky squirms in Joe’s hold as he keeps working his cock just the way he likes it, the movements second nature after nearly a millennium of practice—Joe knows just when to take Nicky deep into his throat, when to slide his fist up and down his length while he gives the flushed head a little more attention, and, finally, when to slip his hand between Nicky’s thighs to rub slow, agonizing circles into his perineum until Nicky doesn’t have a prayer of keeping quiet anymore.

Nicky moans high in his throat at every pass of Joe’s fingers against his prostate, the pleasure mounting inside of him making his thighs tremble. His orgasm is so close he can taste it, and Joe must sense it too because when Nicky locks eyes with him again, he slides his cock deeper into his throat and presses his fingers more firmly into his perineum.

Nicky cries out as his orgasm hits, his cock pulsing between Joe’s lips as he fills his mouth with come. Joe swallows every drop, humming as his hand continues pumping his shaft, wringing every drop of pleasure from him that he can.

He lies there boneless as he comes back down, his chest heaving with every breath. His eyes slip closed as Joe tucks him away in his tactical pants, and a moment later he feels it when Joe climbs up the bed to seek out Nicky’s mouth with his own.

Joe crowds him even closer against the bed, and Nicky offers no resistance as Joe deepens the kiss, relishing the taste of himself on his tongue with a quiet moan. The weight of Joe on top of him is more than welcome, and when Joe’s hips roll instinctively against his stomach, he can feel how hard he still is. Without a second thought, Nicky reaches between them and unzips Joe’s pants.

“Do we have time?” Joe asks as Nicky pulls him out through his underwear and licks his palm.

“Ti importa?” Nicky asks, rucking his own t-shirt up to expose his stomach.

Joe huffs a laugh against his lips. “Credo di no,” he says before Nicky feels his lips on his once more.

Nicky swallows the precious sounds Joe makes as he jerks him off, fast and rough. Between how worked up he got sucking Nicky off and the adrenaline coursing through him as Nile’s ten minutes wear thin, it doesn’t take long—it must be barely three minutes before Joe grunts and spills over Nicky’s fist, painting the pale skin of his belly with streaks of white.

As soon as he comes, Nicky pushes him gently to the side so he won’t collapse right into the mess he’s made and reaches for a tissue on the bedside table. Joe pants beside him in a post-orgasm daze while Nicky cleans himself up with practiced efficiency before putting Joe’s cock back in his trousers.

“I didn’t get any on me, right?” Joe asks a moment later, still sounding winded.

“No, tesoro,” Nicky answers after he gives him a once-over. “Your suit is clean for now.”

“Good,” Joe sighs in relief, and then raises his head to look at Nicky as he asks, “Wait, ‘for now’?”

Nicky only raises an eyebrow coyly in response. Joe laughs and rolls onto his side to kiss him.

By the time they pull themselves out of bed and into their hotel suite’s living room, their ten minutes are long over.

They find Nile waiting on the couch, dressed head to toe in a sparkling gold gown and playing a game on her phone. She looks surprised to see them when she glances up.

Nicky is about to apologize for their tardiness and unprofessionalism when she says, “Huh. Thought you’d be in there at least another ten minutes.”

“We can come back later if you like,” Joe quips, but Nicky’s still stuck on his confusion.

“I thought you said we had to leave in ten minutes,” he says, head tilting to one side.

“I lied,” she answers simply.

The thought that their sweet, innocent Nile would lie is somewhat scandalizing, and Joe and Nicky share a look.

“Oh, come on, don’t be so surprised,” Nile says, sounding amused as she stands up and brushes the fabric of her dress down her thighs. “Joe looks stupid hot in that suit and you two are the most predictable people I’ve ever met, immortal or not. If I told you thirty minutes, I’d be sitting here for an hour.”

“That’s fair, I suppose,” Nicky says at the same time Joe asks, “You think I’m hot?”

Nicky laughs and nudges Joe with his shoulder. “Save your flirting for the mark, Joe,” he says.

“If you insist,” Joe sighs. “Though I’d rather save it for you.”

Nicky smiles, ignoring Nile’s dramatic sigh in the background.

“Can we go now?” she asks. “This guy’s burn book isn’t gonna steal itself.”

“Si,” Nicky says, and goes to grab the rifle case he left sitting on the table.

“I just have one question,” Joe asks.

“Yeah, okay, what’s up?” Nile asks, pausing by the door.

“What’s a burn book?”

[give-me-back-my-rhodey]

Make ME

Title: Make Me Creator: Purple_ducky00 Rating: Teen Warnings: none applicable Relationship: Sam/bucky Square Filled: O3 – Undercover Mission for @samwilsonbingo Summary: Sam and Bucky get under each other’s skin, and neither of them can stand the other. How long til these idiots learn that it’s not hate, but love between them? Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29754915

Prompted from this post by @rambeaus

“Who died and made you king?” Bucky grumbles.

 Sam throws up his hands in annoyance. “For fuck’s sake Barnes! You know this is the best way to do this!”

 “No, I don’t! This way has many flaws. The slightest movement could set off a chain reaction of…” Bucky’s tirade is cut off by Natasha walking between them with sterile gloves and picking up the mouse trap, sticking the remains of the mouse and the trap in a plastic bag.  She rolls her eyes at them and walks out of the kitchen.

“Do you see what you just did there? This could have all been taken care of if you just listened to me!” Sam growls.

 Smirking Bucky turns away. “Bite me.”

 Sam’s temper flares as he watches Bucky walk away. What is it about the soldier that makes Sam’s blood boil? Every interaction they have ends in an argument… And for some reason, Rhodes had put them on the same team! When a few deep breaths don’t calm him down, Sam heads to the gym. Might as well let out some aggression on something he can’t hurt.

 ++++++++ “What were you thinking putting those two on the same team?” Tony laughs as he lays down in his husband’s lap. “The UST is off the charts. They are going to finally snap and either kill or fuck each other.”

 Rhodey shakes his head. “I know. And that’s why I put them on the same team. I’m sick and tired of them skirting around the issue. No use delaying the inevitable. They both have too much of a sense of duty to not complete the mission, and I’m going to assign a mission leader to go with them to keep them on track. Now, who should that sucker be?”

 ��I would tell you Steve because I love trolling him, but he would only stop them from doing either. Give the job to Sharon. She deserves it after the whole blow-dryer incident.”

 “Tony, that was five years ago.”

 The retired superhero sits up to glare at Rhodey. “I’m still not over it.”

 “Ok, ok. I’ll send Sharon. She’s close with them anyways. Hopefully, she knocks some sense into them.” Rhodey concedes.

  +++++++++++++++++

Sam and Bucky are seated across the table from each other in the conference room, listening to Sharon’s plan. “So, we’re going undercover as actors in the Bachelorette.  We have intel that the host of the show is somehow funneling contraband drugs and black-market arms for HYDRA. Bucky, Tony made you a flesh-like sleeve for your arm, and we are all going to be using holomasks to cover our identity. Do you both have your characters memorized?”

 “Yes. I am Tucker Acktenbee. Raised by my mother and her sisters, I know how to appeal to the feminine side. Growing up in Massachusetts, I love seafood and cranberry jam and pies. Before I applied here, I graduated from LSU with a bachelor’s degree in English. I am twenty-six, and my birthday is October 19.” Bucky says as he pulls the holomask over his face. He looks like a completely different person.

 Sam rolls his eyes and does the same. “Hey, baby. My name is Joshua Perkins. Born and raised in New Orleans, I also share an affinity for seafood, but my insides can handle the spice. No one’s going to want a bland piece of white bread like Tucker when this bombshell is available. With a master’s degree in psychology, I’m here to help with whatever emotional needs a woman has. I’ll be twenty-seven on April 15th.”

 “Good. Good.” Sharon nods. “Just so you remember, I am going to be in the camera crew so my ears will be open for any rumors. Pack your stuff. We have to be on set in 24 hours to rehearse.”

 “I don’t know about you, Barnes, but I’m going to win that Bachelorette’s heart.” Sam nudges Bucky with his shoulder.

 “Better a fake relationship than none for you, I guess.”

 This man makes him so angry! “Fuck you.”

 “Nah, better leave that for Miss Bachelorette.” Bucky sends him a syrupy grin and walks out of the room before Sam can reply.

 “Arrrgh!” He groans, and Sharon looks at him strangely. “Sorry, Shar. He just gets under my skin so easily. I just want to strangle him sometimes!”

“Yeah… strangle him…” She nods slowly.

 “What are you implying?”

 Raising her hands in surrender, Sharon backs up. “Hey, I’m not kink shaming. You do you, my friend. Just don’t tell me about it.” She picks up her clipboard and tablet. “Wheels up in nine hours.”

  Kink shame? What the fuck? Needless to say, Sam is very confused.  There is nothing kinky about his and Bucky’s relationship. They clash at every turn. If he slammed the door when he stormed out of the room, he’ll never admit it.

 ++++++++++++

“Hello and welcome to The Bachelorette! I am your host, Chris Harrison. Join me as we find this year’s Bachelorette a husband. At age 28, Penelope Darnea previously worked in insurance but is looking to branch out to another occupation. She loves baseball and the beach and is always down for a margarita. Now, let’s take you to our woman of the hour as she greets the contestants!”

 Bucky is one of the first contestants to the mansion. Penelope Darnea is a beautiful woman with societal “perfect” features. As he walks up the stairs to the mansion, she greets him. “Hello, welcome to the mansion! Tucker Acktenbee?”

 “Yes, it is.“  Bucky leans down to kiss her hand. “Can I tell you just how ravishing you look? The man you choose will be incredibly lucky indeed.”

 Blushing, Penelope waves him on. “I can tell that you’re a charmer.” Bucky is escorted to a room in the mansion as Ms. Darnea greets the next contestant. He uses the time he has to think about the mission. Somehow, they have to act as contestants for the Bachelorette and figure out how they are funneling the money without the network realizing. And he has to do it with Sam.

 His therapist once asked him “What does Sam do that gets on your nerves?”

 “The better question is what does he do that doesn’t get on my nerves?” Bucky had replied. They always have the stupidest of arguments about the most meaningless things. Both of them hate to lose. His head perks up when he hears someone in the hall. “Here is your room, Mr. Perkins. If you need anything, please ring the bell.” The host goes through everything as he did in Bucky’s room.

  “Thank you, sir. Much appreciated.” Oh fuck. That’s Sam’s voice. Bucky understands why they would put Sam beside him in case a quick update to the mission is needed, but to hear that voice at all times of the day? He can only take so much torture. Thankfully, a host comes to get him for an “exclusive” interview. Bucky stays true to his character but does not miss Sharon manning the camera.

 After the interview, he is told that he can fraternize with the other contestants, but he cannot use someone else’s set time with the Bachelorette for his own. That is an instant disqualification. Bucky confirms his understanding and returns to his room. Changing into a new outfit, he decides to take a walk through the house. He’ll let Sam come to him first.

 ++++++++++++++++++

A week goes by, and the second rose ceremony is coming up. Both Sam and Bucky make sure to spend time with Ms. Darnea, but also meet up in Bucky or Sam’s room every night to see if they’ve seen anything suspicious.

 Bucky has kept a close eye on the host but so far nothing looks fishy. Sam has been scanning other cast and crew members and has come up with nothing. They are quickly running out of options, but there are still a good portion of contestants left.

 “Why don’t we check the host’s quarters? He has to have something there.” Bucky suggests. That was the dumbest fucking thing Sam has ever heard in his life. “Dude. There are cameras everywhere. If we get caught, our cover is blown. We have to just wait for some kind of shipment to get here. The set can’t have had enough food stocked for a month.”

 “But what if we can’t wait that long? What if he’s getting stuff out another way? Then HYDRA has supplies, and they’ll hurt more people. We can’t let them do that.”

 Sam scoffs. “What do you think they have? Air ducts under the mansion?”

 “Go fuck yourself.” Bucky gives him the finger.

 “Make me.”

 Bucky’s eyes darken in anger. “I just might….” He cannot finish his sentence before there’re is a knock on the door.

 “Mr. Perkins, your date is set up.”  Someone calls through the door.

 “Now if you’ll excuse me,” Sam smirks and straightens his collar, “I have a woman to seduce Tah tah! Have fun!” And then he sashays out, enjoying the look of pure anger on “Tucker’s” face.

 He walks down the hallway with the camera crew following him to the porch outside where Penelope is waiting. “Well Joshua, what date do you have planned for us tonight?”

 “Well, my lady, you say you like excitement, correct? I have bought us tickets for skydiving. Does that sound enjoyable to you? Once done, we will grab dinner at that new Italian restaurant, Sal’s, I think? They serve the best tiramisu.”

 “Oh, that sounds lovely.” Penelope purrs, rubbing his arm with her hand.

 Crooking his elbow, Sam offers his arm. “Shall we go?”

 It is long after midnight when the couple returns from the restaurant. Sam looks up and sees the curtains are halfway open in Bucky’s room. That means he has some news. “I dd not realize they like you stay the entire night.” Penelope marvels. “Wow, Joshua, you are so cultured.”

 “Oh, it’s nothing. “Sam waves it off. “Just something I’ve picked up in my travels. Have a good night Beautiful. I hope to see you again tomorrow. Water aerobics class?”

  “Why yes. I do love water aerobics.” The bachelorette pokes his shoulder with hard, bony fingers. It hurts! Taking his leave of the lovely Bachelorette, he goes back to his room until the cameras leave. Then he walks over to Bucky’s, who updates him on the next shipment coming in. They will be ready then.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++

It is the day after the latest Rose Ceremony. There are only five contestants left. We have gathered these remaining contenders to give another “exclusive” interview. “So how are you feeling about the contest?” The host asks each participant in their interviews. Here are the responses.

 “I’m feeling pretty good about it. Ellie and I have had many a good date together. I do think she will choose me in the end.” Carlton Hayweather comments.

 Nathan Abbey snorts. “Well, there are five of us left, so she can only pick one, right? And the amount of time Perkins and Acktenbee spend in each other’s rooms, we really don’t have to worry about them. So basically, there’s three of us.”

 “I’m feeling confidant,” Joshua Perkins leans back in his chair. “I believe I have made her laugh the most, and I do believe humor and friendship are major keys in a relationship.”

 Terrance Filippo tilts his head. “Eh, if I win, I win. If I don’t, I don’t.”

 But it’s Tucker Acktenbee who wins the hearts of most watchers. “Penelope is a very strong woman. I trust that she knows who is best for her. I do hope it is me, of course, but should she choose another, we must all concede fair and square. We have to stop assuming we know what women want or need. She is capable of knowing it herself, and I wish her the best.”

 Are you excited for the next round? I am!

 ++++++++++

“Tucker, Joshua? The producers of the show would like to meet with you.” An event manager pulls them from the pool area.

 When they arrive in the office, the head producer, Carole Teller, claps her hands. “Great acting out there! Have you seen this interview?” She shoves a tablet in front of their faces. Nathan Abbey’s face is centered on the screen.

 “Oh, he thinks we’re gay?” Bucky asks.

 “Yes, and if you are, we don’t discriminate, although I wonder why you’re here if you are. But it doesn’t matter. The question is, would you be able to pretend at least for the screen? I don’t mean a full make-out session, but maybe the camera catches a glimpse of you two in the corner. Ratings will go up, and there will be added drama.”

 Bucky is about to object when Sam shrugs. “Sure. We can do that. Is that all you need?”

 “Yes. Thank you for coming in. Good work out there!” She chirps and then turns her full attention onto something else.

 “I guess we’re dismissed.” Sam shrugs. “Come back to my room. We have to strategize.”

 Once they get back to Sam’s room, Bucky pushes Sam up against the wall. “What the fuck did you agree to that for?” He hisses. “First of all, that means the show is queerbaiting and I don’t like that! Second of all, how is this going to help us?”

  “We can hide in little alleyways and closets. Who knows what clues we could find there? Do you hate me that much that we can’t play nice and kissy for a week or so?”

 “I can kiss you. I am a great actor, thank you very much.” Bucky leaves go of Sam.

 “Then do it. Kiss me.” Sam challenges. “Make me.” Bucky thinks the conversation would be ended there, but Sam grabs him by the face and plants a deep kiss on this lip. Caught off guard, Bucky is not ready for that, but quickly kisses Sam back.

 “Wow. That wasn’t so bad after all.” Sam says, wiping his face with his sleeve.

 Bucky scratches the back of his head. “Not… too… bad, I guess.”

 Now that one kiss has been made, many more are to come. Bucky and Sam take advantage of their “hidden relationship” to sneak into closets and hallways. They find that the next shipment will be coming in early the next morning.

 Bucky is taken away to get ready for his date. The dinner and show are quite enjoyable, and Penelope asks him back to her room. Bucky agrees. Once inside the door with the cameras off, she pushes him to a machine and flips the switch. The electricity runs through him and holds him to the machine. Tsk what am I going to do with you?” Penelope asks. “You shouldn’t have come, Asset.”

  “You can’t…. control me. The words don’t…. work anymore.” Bucky forces out through his pain.

 “True that might be, but I can break you. My mother broke you the first time. Don’t think I don’t have her notes.” She smiles wickedly. “Too bad you had to snoop in places you just didn’t belong. Now I’m going to take you and all my goods< and I’m taking you back to base where we can finish our experiments. How does that sound?”

 “Like we got it all on tape!” Sam bursts through the door. “Hands up Lady. We’ve got you.” He rips off his holomask, showing his face.

 “Drop the gun, or I electrocute him.” Penelope warns.

  Sam puts the gun on the floor and slides it halfway over to the villainess. As she bends down to get it, Bucky summons his strength to break free of the current and kicks her. Immediately, Sam tackles Penelope to the ground and wrestles the switch from her, accidentally setting it on high. Bucky convulses and screams. In panic mode, Sam clicks off the current and frees Bucky, who falls to the ground, unmoving. Quickly chaining the Bachelorette to the machine, Sam works on reviving Bucky. “Bucky! No! You can’t die. I just realized that I love you, and if you don’t wake up and get up, so help me I will kill you myself.”

  Bucky’s lips move minutely, and he whispers something. Sam leans down to heard Faintly, Bucky whispers with a grin, “Make me.”.

[snowdice]

Rats, Pizza, and Supply Closets (Part of the Cuffed Universe Series)

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Logan/Remus/Virgil (a bit more Logan/Remus focus)

Characters: Logan, Virgil, Remus

Summary: Logan is very surprised by the fact that Remus did not come to this pizzeria with the goal to capture him, and now that they’re both here, it turns out their objectives align far more than expected.

AKA: The First Truce

This is a Cuffed Universe fic.

Previous fics in this series:

Tea, Cookies, and Handcuffs

Matboards and Subway Sandwiches

Espionage and Iced Coffee

Popcorn and Podcasts

Extras:

Moving Day

Notes: Non-consensual drug use mentioned, morally grey Logan, cop Remus, being restrained, one theoretical mention of eye injuries, human trafficking mentioned

Look at the boys! They’re getting along! Well.... Remus and Logan are getting along.

One would think, that is, one would think if one had even a single iota of sense in one’s monkey brain, that it would be difficult for a new hire to so quickly gain access to the location that one’s underground drug dealing operation ran out of. Particularly, one would think one would be cautious after having recently refused to pay for services from a cybercriminal.

Luckily for Logan, it seemed Haynes had a few disconnected synapses in his brain, and all it had taken was a fake ID and some forged paperwork to get hired on as a handyman for the business he used for money laundering. In addition to his work dolling out controlled substances, Haynes also owned a local rip off of a Chuck E Cheese called Cheeezeee the Cheese Rat. It was a dirty establishment with questionable food offerings and even more questionable decor.

Many times this week, Logan had found himself distracted by the large mural of a rat made out of cheese who was holding a smaller hunk of cheese as though he planned to eat it. Logan couldn’t help but stare at the image in horror, his mind desperately searching for some meaning in the piece. Was it meant to be a visual representation of pantheism wherein all things no matter the way humanity views them are ultimately the same and are god? That god is the creator, consumer, and consumed and god is reality itself. Was is a commentary on thoughtless, damaging consumption whereupon in one’s hunger and lust one eventually consumes themselves thereby destroying the vessel which one seeks to feed? Was the commissioner just deranged?

“Dude, for the 50th time, it is just a mural of a dumb character for kids,” the woman standing at the counter in the middle of the kitchen said as she sprinkled what could maybe pass for cheese on slabs of glorified cardboard the establishment called pizza crust. “I don’t know what to tell you. Just stop thinking about it and fix the sink.”

Logan tore his eyes away from the monstrosity he’d been staring at through the kitchen food window for the past minute and turned his attention back to the tool kit he’d been provided. He selected the correct tool and climbed back under the sink. He listened to the sounds of the woman continuing to make the “pizza.” Honestly, even if Logan did not know they were selling drugs out of the back, he still may have reported them to the authorities based solely on their food handling practices. In fact, perhaps the food was a worse offence considering that those buying their drugs knew they were purchasing and consuming harmful substances.

The underside of the sink he was under was disgusting, but the work wasn’t difficult. He’d learned enough about being generally handy from his father when he was young, and he had brushed up on those skills in the first apartment he’d shared with Virgil as that landlord did not care enough to fix things in a timely manner.

He still had his head under the sink when he heard footsteps enter the kitchen. He recognized Haynes’ voice as soon as the man spoke. He was explaining a few things about how his operation ran to whoever else was there. He used vague terms, but it was still a rather risky move with Logan and the “chef” in the same room, though it was quite possible she was in on the drug selling as well.

Logan finished fixing the sink without paying the conversation much mind; he already knew why he was here, and it was not to glean information. Logan intended to swipe what the man owed him as well as a steep amount of interest for his trouble. Then, he planned to send all of the information he had acquired about the business to the local law enforcement and let them deal with the rest.

He slid out from under the sink and glanced up. Immediately, he met the eyes of one of the room’s occupants and froze. He and Officer Remus Royal stared at each other for a few long moments before Remus tore his gaze away and looked back at Haynes. Logan breathed a sigh of relief that he wasn’t stupid enough to attempt to confront Logan in front of the drug dealer. That would have very likely ended badly for them both.

No longer being directly watched, though he imagined Remus was still tracking his movement from the corner of his eyes, Logan cleaned up his tools slowly and stood. His next task was to change a few lightbulbs behind the stage of the animatronic show, and while things had inevitably just changed, he still planned to at least keep up appearances until he could come up with an escape plan. He left the kitchen and moved towards the supply closet. He stored the toolbox there and his hand hovered over one of the screwdrivers for a moment, but he ultimately decided to leave it be. Remus was an inconvenience, but he couldn’t see himself stabbing the man through the eye socket with a screwdriver. He turned to the box of lightbulbs, wondering if he should take them with him or just completely throw out any pretenses of still intending to complete his handyman duties. That decision was made for him when the closet door suddenly opened.

Logan tensed for a fight, mind analyzing the situation. He didn’t have the element of surprise and Remus was bigger, but it was a smaller space that was more familiar to Logan. For most opponents, he’d want to try to angle them away from anything that could prove a fatal or extremely harmful improvised weapon, but in all the times Remus and he had fought in the past, the man always gentled his touch before it could do any true harm and never applied excessive force. Logan had found himself extending the same courtesy. So, in this case, the strategy would be to try to push him towards more deadly weapons which he would be unwilling to utilize. Of course, Remus still had the advantage as he was nearer to the door and Logan was more pinned into the back of the closet, but there was also a light switch right next to Logan and if he could turn it off…

“What are you doing here?” Remus asked the second the door closed behind him.

Logan hesitated. “You seem surprised. Are you not tracking me?”

His body language seemed to communicate that he didn’t intend to jump at Logan in the immediate future, but Logan still eyed him suspiciously. “Believe it or not,” Remus said. “I do have other jobs to do besides chasing you. I honestly did not expect to find you fixing a sink in a crappy pizzeria.”

“You’re truly not here for me?”

“You sound hurt,” Remus teased. “Apologies, I thought you knew this was an open relationship. I see other criminals all the time. Don’t you see other cops?”

“You’re the only one who’s ever been able to even partially keep up with me.”

“Well, I’ve been told I have quite the stamina,” he said, eyes sparkling.

Logan shifted slightly to the side but stilled again when Remus’s eyes immediately tracked the movement. “Stamina doesn’t provide much advantage when stuck in a closet with your opponent,” Logan said idly.

“Oh, I’d beg to differ,” he said lowly.

“So why are you here?” he asked instead of engaging.

“I’m undercover to help bring down Haynes,” Remus said. “He’s into some even skeevier stuff than his rat-infested restaurant”

“I’m aware,” Logan said. “I was actually planning to send an anonymous tip to local law enforcement when I was finished here, though it seems that will be unnecessary now.”

“You were?” Remus asked. “Why?”

“He owes me money, and besides that, he’s an asshole.”

“Asshole might be an understatement for a human trafficker.”

“A what?” Logan asked.

Remus raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you know?” he asked, and suddenly the rat themed restaurant for kids took on an even more dark nauseating tone.

“I wouldn’t have done any work for him at all if I’d had even an inkling that he partook in that business as well,” Logan spat. “I’m taking him down even harder now.”

There was a moment of silence where Remus considered him, eyes unreadable and head slightly tilted. “So, we’re both here for the same reason,” he said.

“I guess we are.”

“Huh.”

“If you attempted to arrest me, it would blow your cover,” Logan pointed out and tilted his head, “and it would make my objective more difficult as well. Considering the severity of his crimes, would you be willing to make a temporary alliance just to make sure Haynes gets what he deserves?”

“Are you going to drug me at the end of it?” Remus asked.

“We’ll institute a 20-minute grace period after we’re finished. You don’t attempt to arrest me, and I don’t attempt to incapacitate you after we complete our objective.”

Remus took a moment to think through the offer, and then shoved his hands in his pocket. “Deal.”

“Very well,” Logan said. “So…”

The closet door was opened suddenly by a figure in one of the restaurant’s uniforms. “Wha-?” he started, but Remus reacted quickly, grabbing the person and slamming his hand over his mouth. Logan leaned forward and shut the door once Remus has wrestled him inside.

“Virgil?” Logan asked.

“Oh! Hey Virge,” Remus said in surprise. “You’re working at a pizzeria now?” Virgil tried to respond, but whatever he said was muffled by Remus’s hand. “Oh, right,” Remus said. “I’m going to uncover your mouth, but you have to promise not to scream.”

Virgil nodded vehemently.

“Wait,” Logan said, his eyes narrowed on Virgil. “He’s lying. He’s going to scream.”

Virgil shook his head in denial.

“I know you Virgil,” Logan said. “I can tell when you’re lying.” There was always a crinkle between his eyes because he overcorrected on trying to look earnest.

Virgil made a muffled whining sound in the back of his throat.

“Look,” Remus sighed. “I’ll take my hand off your mouth. Don’t scream, and we’ll talk it out, okay Virgil?”

Virgil nodded again, crinkle still prevalent between his eyes, and Logan pressed his lips together to watch.

Remus slowly removed his hand from Virgil’s mouth. There was a short moment of silence. Then… “AAAAmphpmphmpmphpm.” Logan slapped his own hand over the man’s mouth when he started to yell.

“I told you he was going to scream,” Logan commented idly.

“Mphfmkr,” was the angry reply as he tried to fight against Remus’s hold.

Remus sighed. “I was trying to be nice to you, Virge. Now we have to gag you.”

Virgil’s struggling increased, but Remus was easily able to hold him. Logan and Remus awkwardly managed to exchange their hands, so Logan was able to turn around and search the shelves for something to gag him with.

“Here,” Logan said. “This rope is still packaged so it should be clean.”

Virgil whined it protest.

“Well it’s that or duct tape, Virgil and I don’t relish in the pain that would doubtlessly result from the process of removing it.”

“Fmf. Ff.”

It was a struggle to get the rope between his teeth, but they managed it after a bit of wrestling. “Can I borrow your handcuffs?” Logan asked Remus.

“This time he asks,” Remus snarked, but handed them over.

Virgil made muffled irate noises behind the rope as he was cuffed to the metal shelving unit; Logan imagined whatever the man was trying to say was quite inspired.

“Sorry Virge,” Remus said, patting him on the head. “See you later.”

They shut the closet door behind them, and Logan locked the door with the keys he’d been provided. He handed the keys to Remus. “You’ll let him out after?” he asked.

“Of course,” Remus said. “I’ve got the emo.”

Logan nodded and turned from the closet. “Let’s go get a rat,” he said darkly.

Want to read more? The next installment is:

Kisses and Thai Noodle Leftovers

[origami10]

Ajin ch 86 thoughts

Okay, it’s been a little bit! Thoughts and spoilers under the cut! (Warning, this is very long)

Writing this in a word doc because a) I don’t want to risk going on tumblr and b) I don’t want to risk the post getting deleted in the middle  [note from the end: this ended up being four pages long in a Word document, so I’m sorry]

Ahhhh, last time buying the digital magazine ><    Until... if... Sakurai starts publishing something new...

It seems kind of unfair not to have Ajin be the cover feature if it’s ending DX I guess they’re just starting with a new series, though. Is that how that works? (It has a main character with white hair so I might be interested...) It’s at the beginning of the mag.

Okay, yeah, pages 111-175.  Aggghhhh I’ve always put off reading the end of series, but I think this is the first one I’ve been up to date with when it actually ended. Promised Neverland was close.

ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

ooh completely new characters...?????? whoops overshot the starting page by a few ughhhh it’s definitely the last one... I mean we knew that, but still..... OMG NO IT’S IZUMI AND TANAKA ISN’T IT??    jeez woah  I can’t wait to hear other readers’ reactions    [edit: yes this was about clover, and she recorded her reaction, which was beautiful ;u;] also omg they’re at least appearing together

omg Sakurai’s author’s note: “It’s very cold, isn’t it. Everyone, I hope you don’t catch a cold.”       YOU’RE NOT EVEN GOING TO ACKNOWLEDGE IT’S ENDING?

okay, so at least some time skip Tanaka: New identity, who dis Ooh, Izumi called Tanaka “anta” – the rude/familiar version of ‘you’, rather than the polite one. Honestly I don’t remember but it’s probably what she called him previously. And then turns around and called him anata the next page X’D  Okay, I’m glad that not being consistent is okay in Japanese, I always worry/wonder about that ooooh so Tanaka doesn’t have a new identity YET. I wonder how long it’s been?? omg Tosaki prepared it??    Was he thinking that far ahead? Or is he not dead....   ???  okay so he made it ahead of time     oh, and Izumi was the one who asked him for it??? Oh wow, Izumi has yet another change of identity. I wonder if she’s back to (omggg I forget D: her original name... Tainaka [hah]) Also another great shot emphasizing their height difference X’) lmaoooo I always love when there manages to be some humor oh, they’re only about three years apart! I wonder if that helps pin down the timeline at all??

Aw, Izumi still respects Tosaki lmao  “I’m going home.” “You really have places to be?”  Oh I guess that wasn’t quite it- she really was wondering if he was had a living location... so he has been kinda on the run ><    [Sakurai. Sakurai, happy ending. There is, right? Right?]

Oh dude I really didn’t think we’d get any resolution on that ship and like, idk if this counts as resolution but it sure looks like it does right now okay I’m really sorry but part of me is like ///we’re using so many of the remaining pages on this///  although oh I guess it’s only been 10 pages... it feels like so many since the chapters have been so short lately...

heyyyyy  I mean we kinda knew the U.S. ajin would be back or else what was the point of introducing them Ogura not being dead at the end of the series is extremely impressive (also hopefully Kai :prayer hands:  as in I think he survived) so Ogura didn’t tell them he was coming back huh ... with the crew??? :eyes emoji: lmao AND they thought he was dead, I’m cackling oh okay so they had heard he wasn’t dead the close up of Jim’s face reminds of Kai somehow I guess this manga isn’t so long (and the U.S. ajin left enough of an impression) that at least we’re not like WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE “I’ll kill you!!” “Go ahead!!”  HA Winnn I think the people in this series need to get their idea of ‘fun’ checked I don’t really understand what he says in the bubble after that... I’ll have to check the English did he like, metaphorically die because he’s out of FKs? I’m not up on my cigarette brands enough to know if that’s an FK or not... I think it’s what the brand turned into...? oh no what’s this omg    is it gonna be Kai? Are they all gonna be in there? Kotobuki??   also this is already super sad that not everyone got out of jail free... unless they did and I’ll see... but also it’s realistic so all for the best I guess?  i have no idea OH HA I thought it was the juvenile detention center but it’s Takahashi !  o_o not entirely sure I understand what Takahashi says to the guard either at least everyone’s having... fun??? KAI KAI KAI    gahhhh this looks exactly like how ch 69 started and agh they’re both in juvie but ahhhhh they’re together??         I’m already scared to read and actually find out –o- oh wait they have dates to get out!  and they said plural ‘we’ “That was fast”  I feel like that panel represents what this chapter means to me somehow lmao they just want them to be not their problem anymore... that really wraps it up nicely, hilariously, and realistically I’m glad I’m not translating this because there are really a couple lines where I don’t completely understand them “something happened that day”  um, yeah WOW I did NOT think we were going to get an answer to whether Kai was an ajin now or not, but I feel like that definitively answers that question?????     also that’s terribly funny HE DOESN’T EVEN KNOW KEI REVIVED HIM??       -punches a wall-  Kai’s whole personality is  ‘I don’t really remember that happening’  >_____________________________> Kei... gave Kai a reason to live... because he almost died...?      I still kinda have faith in this wrapping up well but GOD Kai is not a character to invest all your emotion into, laughs cryingly Kotobuki: “You literally never make any sense, man.” oh no “ano natsu” GAH

I just realized that this almost certainly means Kai and Kou never met. There isn’t enough keysmashing in the world to express my desire to throw my laptop at a wall right now

In no way shape or form did I ever expect to get closure on Akiyama, even on him getting out of the barrel

Manabe definitely stole whatever it is he’s holding but it was probably some kind of personal effects...?  [my powers of prediction suck most of the time] he really looks beat up now ;u; Izukyū-Shimoda... Win, that’s not where you traveled, is it?  Maybe I saw it on the Sunday NHK travel program... but it’s also the end of the train line and has ferries going out into the ocean islands.  Is he getting away, or going home.......? or to Hirasawa or something...?

well that was an extremely abrupt shift are they really shooting Satou up into space they’re not using him as a test subject are they that sounds like an even more awful idea than I ever could have come up with okay... oh jeez can we please please not have Satou be Captain America you just KNOW he’s going to make trouble again, ,, , , ,!!

oh jeez Eriko! I didn’t expect to see her but it’s nice! it’s really sinking in that that’s all the closure we’re going to get on Kai isn’t it Eriko tsundere as if that needed confirmed okay cool, so she’s out of the hospital (for now)

It does seem appropriate? Likely? That Kei didn’t go home. WE BETTER SEE KOU THIS CHAPTER oh, it’s fall   (or winter? Izumi said it was cold...) oh phew

Sakurai said RIP KeiKai shippers I guess....  but they still influenced each other so that’s still shippable even though they’re not together?  sigh not everything is so straightforward and I guess it’s good it reflects that

Kei looks happy enough was Kei working a blue collar job with Kou or something? That’s 100% unexpected Kou adorable omg what is his new name gonna be Also ;-; so they’ve giving ajin rights but everyone’s still staying undercover...? or Kou isn’t I guess, that’s sweet oh wow we admit Tosaki’s great     I guess last chapter’s statement that they found his remains must have settled whether he’s alive or not ‘iroiro atta na’  YOU THINK    also pretty sure that’s Kai’s line from the drama CD what’s with that Kei face??? OMG PERF       also that is scarily close to what I wrote in a fic, but also pretty much to be expected crap I guess at least Tanaka and Izumi are with each other? KAI’S MOON JACKET   WITH THE SMILIE       we really messed up characterizing Kai as the sun haha he’s out he’s out he’s out is he going to meet someone literally zooming out on everyone (like at the end of last chapter too) is kinda messing with me Like they’re still around and doing stuff but we aren’t (don’t get to) watch them anymore Kou saying ‘let’s all meet again’... my heart is warm ;0; LMAO

we can at least rest assured that everyone stayed in character

I can’t I can’t I can’t  [note, this was when I thought Kei saying ‘nah’ was the last page]

O MM FRICKING GODDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD

omg Sakurai you’ve done it again bwahahaah a coworker hit him and is like ‘oh cool fine nevermind’ this is WAY more hilarious than I was expecting for this chapter How do I always forget that Ajin has so much comedy not remembering what page number the chapter ends on is nice

Tankobon releases May 7th in Japan Elizaaaaaa Kei’s got a Shion coat

alright uh well I guess that’s good, in a way, we still get to imagine whatever we want

Finishing it hasn’t sunk in yet, I’ve have to get back to you on that one.

[dcforts]

[monday 9: undercover]

Something went wrong.

Dean’s got his back against a wall and a knife at his throat and the girl that’s holding it seems like she knows exactly how to use it.

“Who are you?” she asks.

He raises his hands in surrender and kind of regrets ordering a sixth round on a hunt night.

“Hey, hey, easy now. I told you, I’m just a tourist.”

“Bullshit.” The hand that pins him to the wall presses deeper into his shoulder. “A bit too many question for a tourist.” He feels the cold blade press on his throat. “So tell me.”

“Okay, okay, I’m FBI. I’m an agent, undercover.” She’s still unconvinced. “See for yourself. Left pocket.” She slips a hand in his jacket, takes out his fake badge and holds it up towards the dangling lightbulb that lights the backroom of the pub they are in. Her confidence falters. She takes a step back and frees Dean’s throat from her knife. He takes a deep breath.

“So you’re an FBI agent?” she says as she hands him back the badge.

“Yes, and you just attacked me.”

“Sorry.” she says, but doesn’t sound sorry. “You are here about the missing people, right? Look, I know it’s gonna sound weird, but trust me on this, this is not your regular case.”

“How do you know?”

She looks hesitant for a moment, then says: “I hunt monsters. And I think what we are dealing with is -”

“Wait, you’re a hunter?”

“The FBI knows about us?” she asks bewildered.

“No, it’s - uh, I’m a hunter too.”

She tenses up and holds up her knife again. “You gotta decide what you are, dude.”

“No, I’m – I’m a hunter, I swear. I pose as an FBI agent to ask questions without raising suspicions.”

“Good job there.” She deadpans. “So you are a hunter, pretending to be an FBI agent, pretending to be a tourist?”

“Y-yeah?”

*

He and Castiel had rolled into that little town in Michigan that morning. They read about the people reported missing during their annual town festival and they are pretty sure it’s due to a wendigo waking up from his hibernation period.

The victims were all last seen at a pub conveniently surrounded by thick woods. The wendigo just had to wait for someone to come out after a rough night and without much effort drag them into its lair.

So Dean and Castiel had stepped into the pub three hours before, dressed as civilians, pretending to be tourists in town to enjoy the festival. 

And then… well, they- okay, Dean may have gotten a little distracted. It had been the cheery atmosphere, the people drunkenly singing at karaoke, the beers and - Castiel.

Mostly Castiel.

In only his white shirt, with his cheeks flushed, and the lights dancing on his face.

Dean had been painfully aware of their knees pressed together under the table. At one point Castiel had rested his hand on Dean’s forearm to get his attention and leaned closer to talk above the loud music and Dean had turned his head and kinda forgotten how to breathe so close to his lips and his eyes.

Castiel had blinked slowly and Dean’s heart had done things in his chest. He hadn’t heard one word he’d said and he is quite sure his mouth was hanging open. And for a moment, a tiny, hopeful, bright moment, he’d believed the night was going to end in a way that neither of them had planned.

At least, until he’d remembered that they were actually on a job and they were supposed to look for clues and ask around and only act as they were having a night out and not actually having it.

And that maybe this was all in his head, and Cas was actually doing what they were supposed to be doing and it was only Dean who was building up imaginary castles. Castiel was not flirting with him.

He’d wished he hadn’t told Sam that he didn’t have to worry and could stay behind for this one

Finally, he’s made an effort to pay attention to their surroundings. They’d talked to a few patrons and then stopped Denise, their waitress, to ask a few questions and the vagueness of her answers and the clipped tone in her voice had immediately aroused their suspicions. She definitely knew more than she wanted to let on.

So Dean had walked up to her when the pub was half empty and done his usual seductive dance – “Oh, really? That’s so interesting. Maybe we should talk about it later, say, when you finish up here?” complete with wink and all – and Denise had been easily convinced.

Only, well, cause she was playing him. 

She’d thrown him against the wall as he’d entered the backroom where they’d agreed to meet. 

*

Dean and Denise are still standing facing each other when the door slams and Castiel appears.

“Dean? I heard - ”

He scans the room and his eyes zeroes on the knife in Denise’s hand. Dean sees the glint of the angel blade sliding in his palm.

“Cas, wait.” he says, stepping between them. “It’s okay. She’s a hunter.”

“Oh. My apologies” says Castiel leaning on one side to look at her behind Dean’s back.

“You’re a hunter too?”

“He’s an angel,” Dean says at the same time Castiel says “Yes.”

She raises her eyebrows. “An angel posing as a hunter posing as an FBI agent posing as a tourist. Wow, way to complicate your lives guys.”

*

Denise has got a fair idea of where the lair of the wendigo is. They gear up with flamethrowers and silver equipment. Dean feels pretty good about this. He’s splashed his face with fresh water and he’s now sober enough to be able to tackle a seven feet humanoid cannibal. Just another day on the job.

As they are about to head out Denise stops Dean on the door. “He gave you away, you know that, right?”

Dean’s eyes flicker towards Castiel who’s just stepped outside the pub. He’s aware that they are still within angelic earshot.

“You mean the fact that the first thing he asked you was ‘Do you know any of the missing people?’ Yeah.” he huffs a laugh. “He’s still working on the interrogation side of the job. You know, thousands of years of ‘smite first, talk later’ do that to a guy.”

“No, I’m not talking about that. I mean, I figured you out because of him.” She studies his confused face as if she’s deciding if she should say more or not. At last, she takes pity on him: “You’ve been all over him all night, barely spared at glance at anyone else. Then you come chat me up at the end? Come on.”

Well, that is embarassing. Dean feels his cheeks burning. “Oh. I was - We are not -  ”

“Look, I don’t care. I’m just saying - if you go undercover as an available guy, don’t bring him.”

“I just - was it that obvious, uh?”

She just looks pointedly at him and then takes off without another world, jogging up ahead towards the tree line to lead the way.

Dean follows after a moment, falling in step with Castiel.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“You heard what she said, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Castiel says. Dean doesn’t know what to add. Thankfully, Castiel does. “We were not... professional.”

“Yeah. Sorry. ‘t was my fault.” he says and it sounds like a confession. 

“It was my fault too,” he says with a quick glance in his direction. Then, after a moment: “Maybe we should talk about it later, say, after we finish up here?”

Dean stops in his track. What’s even happening to him?

“Did you just use my line on me? Are you chatting me up?”

Castiel stops too, a few feet ahead. He shrugs. “Did it work?”

“Course it worked, it always works. I invented it.”

“Well, then I look forward to this conversation.”

“Yeah. You should. It’s gonna be a very long conversation.”

“Good.”

“Get ready.”

“I am.”

Denise’s pissed off voice comes from someplace in the dark ahead of them. “Alright, lovebirds, what it’s going to be? You gonna help me or you gonna chitchat a little more?”

Dean and Castiel smile at each other and resume walking.

I am participating in the spnstayathomechallenge by @bend-me-shape-me @pray4jensen @helianthus21 

[thewidowsghost]

Fox - Chapter 20

Previously on Fox:

"What am I supposed to say?" Natasha asks. "That sucked and your powers suck and you suck? Nope, because none of that is true," Nat adds and (Y/n)'s eyes widen slightly. Realizing that the rain was ruining the mood, (Y/n) snaps her fingers again and the rain stops, the clouds dissipating.

(Y/n) summons another chair and sits down beside Natasha. "Hey, so, we're supposed to leave tomorrow night," (Y/n) begins. "What do you say we go on that date on Saturday?" Natasha looks up from her lap and smiles.

"That sound's nice," Natasha says, a soft smile spreading across her face.

The two sit there for a while before (Y/n)'s phone rings. She pulls it out to answer, "Hello?"

(Y/n)'s POV

"Captain," Fury's voice comes from out of the phone. "Are you still with Romanoff?"

"Yes sir," I put the phone on speaker so Nat could listen too.

"Good, we need you and Romanoff to come in, ASAP," Fury orders.

"Yes sir," Natasha responds.

"Where do you need us? Back at base?" I ask, the two of us standing up, and I wave the chairs away.

"Yes Captain, you have four hours," Fury says, ending the call.

"Guess we're not going on that date anytime soon," Natasha says as the two of us sprint towards the house and up the front porch stairs. I grab my sketchbook, tear a piece of paper out.

"Go pack our stuff," I order, and Nat nods, darting inside.

I scribble something to the Bartons'. It says:

Dear Clint & Laura,

Fury called us in for a mission. Hopefully, we'll be back soon. We love you, see you soon. Tell the kids we said bye. Love, (Y/n) and Nat

I take the note and set it on the dining room table before darting upstairs to help Nat.

"Leave the guitar," I tell Natasha as she goes to grab it.

"Are you sure?" she asks and I nod.

"Just grab the bare minimum," I say, throwing my sketchbook and pencils haphazardly into my suitcase and zipping it up.

"Let's go," Natasha says and I nod, grabbing each of our suitcases.

The two of us jog down the stairs and sprint out to the field where we had landed the Quinjet a few days previously.

We get in and throw our suitcases into the storage area before heading for the pilot and co-pilot's seats. We sit down and I pull the Quinjet into the air.

3rd Person POV

"We're never going to get there in time at this rate," (Y/n) mutters, staring at the time till destination: 5 hours. "Only one way," (Y/n) says and Natasha looks at her.

"What?" Nat asks.

"You'll have to see," (Y/n) answers, closing her eyes. She summons a jet of wind and the Quinjet speeds up. She opens her eyes to see that the time has gone down by half an hour. "Jeez," (Y/n) mutters. She grabs the stick and begins to pull the Quinjet up to an elevation of about 20,000 feet. Once at the elevation, she pulls the stick gently back down so the Quinjet is flying level. (Y/n) relaxes when she sees that the time has gone down to three and a half hours. "That's a lot better," she murmurs.

"Nice job," Natasha says and (Y/n) smiles.

"Hey, since we can't do that date Saturday, how 'bout we do it now?" (Y/n) offers.

"Sounds interesting, I'm in," Natasha says and (Y/n) stands up from her seat.

"Sounds good, I'll be right back," (Y/n) darts back to where she keeps the coffee maker and opens a cabinet. From the cabinet, she pulls out a few bags of chips. "This is all we've got now, but here," (Y/n) says, setting the chips on the middle console before running over and grabbing some sour cream and onion dip.

"It works," Nat says, opening a bag of plain Ruffles.

"So, Miss Romanoff," (Y/n) says, opening the dip, setting it on the middle console then sitting back down. "Tell me a little about yourself."

Natasha takes some of the dip and eats a chip before starting. "I was born on November 22nd, 1984 in Russia. I wasn't a great human being until a few weeks ago," Natasha continues and (Y/n) frowns slightly. "What about you?" she asks.

"My birthday is October 5th, 1985. I was born in Malibu," (Y/n) begins. "My mother died when I was 17 then I went to live with my dad until I was old enough to join the Air Force. During my time in the Air Force, I went on a couple missions for the US government. While I was in Sokovia, one of my partners died, I still keep in touch with the the other though. After that, Clint and Fury recruited me to work for SHIELD," (Y/n) pauses and Natasha nods encouragingly for her to continue. "Clint brought me to the farm to meet Laura and the kids, then about a week later I left and Clint flew me home. That evening Fury called me for an urgent mission," (Y/n) smiles at Nat, "you, of course," Natasha rolls her eyes playfully. "Clint and I spend a couple of weeks trying to find you, and well, you know the rest." (Y/n) meets Natasha's emerald gaze, "And you're not a bad person. From what I can tell, you're smart and brave and it seems like you are willing to do the right thing at whatever the cost." At (Y/n)'s words, Natasha looks down.

"How can you be so sure?" Natasha asks softly.

"Well, it's the fact that you decided so quickly to leave for a fresh start. The fact that you and Clint came to help me with those evil dudes that attacked me back in Belarus. The fact that you're here, on this jet right now, ready to go on a mission to help change what happened in the past," (Y/n) finishes and Natasha looks up, seeing the serious look in (Y/n)'s (E/C) eyes. "And like I said, I don't judge people on their past mistakes, but what they do in the present. Whatever you did in the past doesn't matter to me, it's what you do now that counts."

"Thanks, (Y/n)," Natasha says. "That means a lot. Since I was little, I was told that I had no place in the world," sensing that (Y/n) was about to speak, Natasha holds up her hand to keep her from interrupting. "But since I met you, I realized that you helped me find a place in the world, and I will always be thankful to you for that."

"You don't have to thank me for anything," (Y/n) says, and Natasha meets her gaze.

"Yes, I do. If not for you, I might still be in Russia -" (Y/n) cuts Natasha off by grabbing her hand.

"Don't, don't do that to yourself," (Y/n) says.

"But-" (Y/n) cuts her off again.

"Don't," Natasha meets (Y/n)'s gaze and relaxes a little.

"Okay," the redhead murmurs. "I won't," she vows.

"Good," (Y/n) says, still holding Natasha's hand.

"You can let go of my hand now," Natasha says, not really wanting (Y/n) to let go.

"I'm trying to figure out if I want to let go," (Y/n) says and Natasha smiles. "I'm leaning towards no," Natasha entwines her fingers with (Y/n)'s.

"Good," Natasha says and (Y/n) smiles.

The two sit there for a while, talking about random things until they hear someone from SHIELD radio into the jet. (Y/n) gently removes her hand from Natasha's and pulls on her headphones.

"Captain Stark? Agent Romanoff? Come in," A man says.

"This is Stark," (Y/n) answers. Go change into your uniform, she tells Natasha and the redhead nods.

"Good, we thought it was you two. You have clearance to land," the man says.

"Right," (Y/n) pulls back on the stick, the Quinjet hovering in the air for a moment. She gently makes it so the Quinjet will auto-park and she jumps up from her seat. She runs over to the storage area, opens her suitcase and pulling out her SHIELD uniform before quickly pulling it on. Natasha walks in from the bathroom in her jet black uniform as (Y/n) is tying up her combat boots.

"Let's go," Natasha says and (Y/n) nods. The two jog back to the front of the Quinjet and (Y/n) presses a button as the Quinjet lands on the ground. (Y/n) nods to Natasha and the two jog off the Quinjet, matching each others' steps.

"Stark, Romanoff," the two stop in front of Agent Coulson.

"Agent Coulson," (Y/n) and Natasha say in unison.

"Follow me," Coulson says and (Y/n) and Natasha exchange a look before following the brown haired man into the SHIELD facility. "Enjoy your break?" Coulson asks as he leads the two women to the briefing room.

"Yes actually," (Y/n) answers for her and Natasha.

"Good, because you might be gone for a while," Coulson says and (Y/n) and Natasha exchange a look before walking into the briefing room.

"Stark, Romanoff," Maria Hill says.

"Agent Hill," Natasha answers, and Hill signals for the two to sit down.

They settle down in chairs across from each other.

"We need you two to escort a nuclear engineer out of Iran. It will need to be an undercover mission. Leave the Quinjet about a hundred miles from the facility, and drive the engineer back to the Quinjet," (Y/n) nods. "You need to get there as soon as possible, but tonight if you can," Hill says. "Try to have him here by Sunday."

"Yes, ma'am," Natasha and (Y/n) say in unison, standing up.

"Good luck," Hill says, nodding to dismiss the two women.

With a nod from (Y/n), her and Natasha run back outside to their Quinjet and pull it into the air.

Word Count: 1630 words

This chapter is a little shorter then the past few chapters, but if y'all have seen Captain America: The Winter Soldier, you should know what happens. BTW the next chapter will have violence in it, but not extreme, rivers of blood kind of things.

Anyway, Nat and (Y/n) are still so cute!!!! I love it!!!

See y'all!

Love,

Kaitlynn 😍❤

Imma tag peoples now: @confusinggemini612​, @gay-disaster826​, @thelastavenger-3000​, @osugahunnyicedtea​, @night-howl199​, @minicastle​, @happilyeverafterfantasybooks​, @billiebanner​, @me-and-sweatpants​, @scottjudah​, @scarlet-raccoon​, @whore-for-charlynch​, @nyx-aria, @night-howl199​, @brittanyrenne2004​, @juegamiri29​, @minicastle​, @peggycarter-steverogers​, @gay-disaster826​, @guitargodme, @avengers-avenging

[schweeeppess]

walk slow through the fire

__

Dick walked down the alley, hood pulled over his head, hands in his pockets, lollipop poking out between his lips, gun holstered on his thigh. 

He hummed as he walked, ignoring the water that would splash on his shoe when he stepped in some of the countless puddles in the alley. 

After twenty minutes of walking through the winding and crossing back-alleys of Gotham City, Dick paused next to an abandoned building and craned his neck back to look up at a window several feet above him. It was closed, like it always is, and there were no possible ways of entering the building through it aside from rappelling from the roof.

Unless you’re Dick Grayson.

Spitting out the lollipop stick, Dick double-checked the holster at his hip to make sure the gun was secured, then looked back up at the window and rubbed his gloved hands together. 

“Up I go,” he mumbled. He walked a few steps back, then took a running start at the wall under the window, jumping up to kick off of it onto the wall of the brick building directly across from it, which he kicked off of with his other foot. He repeated the kick-off motion until he could reach the window. 

Once he was grabbing onto the windowsill, he let his legs dangle in the air for a few seconds, then leaned his arm completely on the small sill to free his other hand up to push the window open, then once it was open wide enough, he pulled himself inside the rest of the way and fell a few feet onto the walkway under the window. 

Smiling, he grabbed the pole resting against the wall they used to close the window whenever they came in through it.

After the window was closed, Dick set the pole back down, dug a hand into the pocket of his jeans, grabbed a lollipop, took the wrapper off, stuck it in his mouth, then turned to start walking down the walkway for his room.

Dick admired the holiday lights that were strung on the walls and hung off the exposed rafters of the high ceiling to the outwardly decrepit building, shining bright even though it was the middle of February, that he’d put up years ago when they first moved into the building. Gradually, as the years passed, and when they returned to the building for work or vacationing, he’d added more of different kinds. 

Now it looked like a teenager’s aesthetic dream. 

Tim walked out of his room, apparently reading a book in his hands, and started walking in the direction Dick was coming from. He paused three steps in and turned to face the railing, putting a finger in the book to keep his place as he closed it, then swinging himself over and to the main floor of the building with a “Welcome back, Dick,” as he did. When he hit the ground, he rolled once then stood and resumed reading his book as he walked to the kitchen area. 

Dick smiled and lifted a hand in a half-hearted salute to his brother, who wouldn’t have seen it even if he weren’t reading the book since the kitchen was perpendicular to Dick’s position.

Tim was smart, and incredibly so. His nose was always buried in a book. Whether it was about psychology or three teenagers taking a spaceship for a joyride through the galaxy together, Tim would read it. He had a sort of fascination with fictional stories, almost obsessing over the skill a writer must have to create an entire world for others to enjoy and play in; to create an entire universe several thousands of people could visit whenever they wanted. He liked to balance his reading of fiction with his reading of education, though, buying—or stealing, whichever was most convenient—books about criminology and psychology whenever he had the chance to. 

Tim was as avid with his training as he was with his reading, spending hours in the training room with several different weapons and practicing different fighting styles. There were times where Tim was a normal young adult, early into his twenties—and, therefore, adulthood, though he’d technically been an adult since his third kill—when he would talk and ramble about a subject for hours or days. He could tell you three facts about disassembling a car’s engine in minutes without pausing to catch breath.

Killing people, for Tim, was just as impersonal as it was for Jason. They didn’t care about what they were doing. Tim was the youngest to be sent to complete field training, assigned to be instructed by Rose through it. He’d been groomed for this practice since early childhood. It made sense that he would be the youngest at nine years old. 

His choice in weapons mattered as much to Tim as it would to an elephant if you put a wide array of them before it. Ranged or not, Tim didn’t care. He would work with whatever he was provided, be it a pencil, a stapler, or a metal baseball. The job was in the end, just a job. Nothing more, and nothing less.

On the way to his room, Dick passed Jason’s. The door to his brother’s room was open, so Dick paused outside of it to poke his head inside to check on his brother.

Jason was in the middle of securing the straps of his uniform and raised a brow when he looked up and saw Dick standing there. 

“Back already?” he asked, returning his attention to his task and kneeling down on one knee to secure his boots. 

“Yep,” Dick replied casually, popping the ‘p’ as he spoke around the lollipop and leaned on the doorframe. “Going out so soon?”

Jason nodded, straightening and turning to his weapons drawer. 

“Yeah.” He selected two katanas, a handful of throwing knives, and a hunter’s blade, then tucked the weapons in their respective holsters strapped to his person. 

Dick took notice of the weapons type and inquired, “Political deal?”

Again Jason nodded. “Apparently, the dude paid a generous amount of cash for this to be done perfectly. It’s some judge’s… something, I don’t know, maybe a rival. He or she wants us to make sure that the kill isn’t traceable to them. I have to make it look personal, like someone in the guy’s inner circle did it.”

Humming, Dick nodded this time and left to let his little brother finish prepping for his assignment.

Jason was the one to go to if you needed a professional kill of a political or high-order business caliber. He could manage any kind of undercover op like he’d been raised in the environment he needed to infiltrate. If it was a crime organization deal, he almost was raised in the environment. Really, they all were, Dick supposed.

Out of the three brothers, Jason was second youngest to be allowed out for training, having been only ten when he went out to begin field training with Grant. If asked, his brothers would tell you Jason had no styles or weapon of preference, but they knew otherwise. Jason’s favorite weapons were his sniper rifle, that he’d been customizing himself since he was thirteen, and his kris blade, that he’d been gifted at sixteen. 

He, like Tim, didn’t have any sort of personal preference for ranged or melee weapons. Their jobs were impersonal no matter the details of them. In the end, for Jason and Tim, they were just assignments. As far as they were concerned, there was nothing to hesitate over. They weren’t killing people. They were earning money.

It was a dangerous mentality for anyone to have, but it was a realistic one for their line of business. Get too involved in a job and it would be your downfall.

Stopping by Damian’s door, Dick decided to check in on his youngest brother and knocked on the teen’s door.

“Enter.”

Twisting the doorknob and opening the door, Dick walked into the room and sat in the chair to Damian’s desk, arms leaning on the back of it and chin resting on his folded arms.

“Welcome back, Richard.”

Damian was sitting cross-legged on his bed, swiping through whatever screens he was looking at on his tablet. On the nightstand beside the bed was a steaming bowl of noodles with chopsticks resting on the lip of the bowl. The food didn’t look touched, and Dick knew his little brother would continue to neglect the meal unless someone reminded him it was there.

“Thanks kiddo,” he said, reaching to move the lollipop in his mouth between his molars, then biting down hard until he felt it break. Dick continued to chew loudly on the lollipop until Damian huffed and shifted the tablet to an acceptable position in his lap, then reached blindly for the bowl of noodles until he grabbed it and brought it close to his chest.

Brow furrowed and eyes scanning the page his tablet was on, Damian started eating his food.

Satisfied, Dick nodded and stood, walking to the trash bin in Damian’s room and depositing the stick of the now-eaten lollipop into it. 

“Your task passed without hindrance?” Damian asked between bites. 

“It did,” Dick answered. He walked over to the bed to ruffle Damian’s hair—earning a half-hearted tsk—before heading to resume the walk for his room. 

Damian was a good kid. If he didn’t have his eyes glued to the tablet reading up on their past completed assignments, he was either on the phone with a friend or his contractor, or in the training room perfecting his strategies and further honing sharp skills. He had a few sketchbooks lying around, almost more than half of them filled with menial little nothings that he found interesting. Damian drew with an artistic skill that he translated over to his fighting style, almost surgical with the brushes and strokes of his swords.

Unlike Jason and Tim, who were both skilled with both guns and blades, Damian’s primary weapons were bladed ones. He had a double edged sword among a wide variety of other, much rarer blades. The weapons were far more personal than any gun could be, and those were the only kinds of jobs Damian did, even since he was twelve and first allowed out to begin field training with Joseph. 

Dick admired his brothers and their unique preferences. 

In the hall he saw Jason stepping out of his room, black domino secured to his face.

“You eat yet?” Dick asked, pausing.

Jason scoffed. “I’m the only one with normal eating habits here; ‘course I did, you dunce.”

Dick nodded and Jason jogged off to leave for his job.

Now that he’d checked on all three of his brothers, however briefly with Tim, Dick could go to his room and be at peace. 

Opening the door and stepping into his room, Dick looked around briefly to make sure it was empty before closing the door behind him and removing the gun at his thigh—the only weapon he’d chosen to take with him for the short and easy job of taking out some random street thugs. The assignment had taken five minutes to complete once Dick had arrived at the designated location. Normally it would be called embarrassingly quick, for seven gang members, but it was almost expected since it was Dick who had killed them—not that anyone but him, his brothers, his trainer, and his contractor would know it.

He deposited the gun on his dresser and began to change out of the casual street wear, dropping the clothes into the hamper by the bathroom door as he headed to take a shower and wash Gotham off of him.

Dick wasn’t as secure in his identity as a killer as his younger brothers were. If you asked Tim why, he’d tell you it was a psychological matter; a hesitation in him that he’d gotten from his eight years living with acrobats in the circus. They’d raised him to be a good man, a good person—had taught him good civilian values and morals.

But his time with them had been cut short by a man by the name of Tony Zucco. Maybe if he’d stayed with them into adulthood, Dick would’ve been different. He wouldn’t have gone down the route he had, would’ve stayed with Haly’s Circus and become a master acrobat there.

It just wasn’t how his story had played out, though.

His weapons of choice were all guns. Blades made kills personal in a way Dick could never handle. Guns were impersonal. You could kill someone from fifty feet away with a gun, you didn’t need to get up close and be a foot away from the victim.

Victim. Even the word he used to describe the people they killed humanized and personalized them. To his brothers, they weren’t victims, they were assignments. 

But in Dick’s grey-stained eyes, they were victims.

As the warm water washed his sin off in red rivulets, Dick closed his eyes to the blood, like he always did. He couldn’t watch the blood drip from his hands—which were only stained because he always dug the bullets out of any bodies they got caught in. He couldn’t answer the question of why he did it if he was asked honestly. He’d lie. It was just his job to now.

His shower ended fifteen minutes later, and Dick stared up at the ceiling, thinking about meaningless hypotheticals. Like how different his life would’ve been if he’d stayed with his parents, how different his life would be if Haly had paid the protection money, how different his life would be if he hadn’t been taken in by the men he had been.

Maybe the multiverse is real, he thought to himself, staring at the lights hanging above him like they were stars. And maybe in one of them I’m a hero.

Two seconds later he scoffed at the idea.

His hands were made for killing.

....but what if they weren’t?

And what if fish were made for flying?

[katehuntington]

Title: In Bad Waters - part seven Word count: ±5570 words Episode summary: Still in possession of the Winchesters’ belongings, Zoë meets up with the hunters on her next case. When it turns out to be a little more complicated than anticipated, she accepts their help in order to make an important deadline. Part seven summary: Zoë goes undercover to find out more about the murder she saw in her dream. Little does she know, that Sam and Dean do the same. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Descriptions of domestic violence/child abuse. Drug use/addiction. Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures/resuscitation. Swearing, alcoholism. Supernatural creatures/entities, mentions of demon possession. Descriptions of torture and murder, drowning. Illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks. Author’s note: Beta’d by @winchest09​​​​ and @deanwanddamons​​​​. Thanks, girls!

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist

S1E02 “In Bad Waters” Masterlist

     Confident, Zoë bends down in order to fit under the yellow ‘crime scene - do not cross’ ribbon. She takes out her federal agent ID and flips it open before the officer guarding the perimeter can ask her about it. He steps away respectfully and lets her through. 

     It’s about 10 AM and the sun is already out on this relatively warm November day. Marching up the driveway with her heels clicking rhythmically on the concrete, Zoë unbuttons her black suit jacket to let in some air. The Stars and Stripes hasn’t been taken down yet and still flutters from the top of the mast, located in the center of a perfectly landscaped garden. The fallen leaves drape parts of the neatly mowed lawn in different tones of orange and brown. Not only does this particular estate look amazing, the entire street is brochure perfect. It is obvious that the families living in these homes on Reynolds Park Road, are wealthy ones. However, the ambulances and police cars blocking the street and the officers scanning the area, indicate that something is terribly wrong. What would seem like the last place on earth for a murder, is indeed a gruesome crime scene.

     Two officers are having a conversation by the front entry. They pause the discussion once they notice the unfamiliar face approaching them. She captivates them instantly. Determined strides, head held high, clearly a woman who stands her ground in the men’s words that is law enforcement. There’s not a single trace of doubt noticeable when she flashes her ID once more.      “Agent Evans, FBI,” she states.

     “Detective Lee. This is officer Sanchez,” a tall man, with a serious case of a receding hairline, introduces his colleague a little reluctantly, clearly not happy about the presence of a fed. He holds out his hand anyway and Zoë makes eye contact, giving him a powerful handshake.      “I didn’t know the Bureau was involved,” he comments with an Upper South accent, common for the region.

     “Well, if you had paid attention while investigating the crimes in your own county, detective,” the specialist returns without missing a beat, facing the two man with enough arrogance to shut them down immediately, “- you might had noticed that there has been a murder similar to this one, making this a serial killing.”      “Still don’t make this a federal case,” Lee returns, standing his ground.      “What does, is the fact that there’s a whole string of deaths leading from Alabama up to your lovely little town.”

     Of course she just made that up on the spot, just to back up her reason to be here, but no one would be able to tell without doing some solid digging first. She is so convincing that the two men fail to counter her.      “Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do. If you could be so kind to show me the way, that would be neat,” she requires, throwing them a fake smile while narrowing her eyes.

     The two officers glance at each other, it being clear as day that the detective is not amused by the way he’s spoken to. Nonetheless, he gestures to the FBI agent to get into the house. She seems like a person not to be messed with.

      They enter the villa with Zoë in tow, who nods approving while taking a look around. She glances up to the high ceilings, which are decorated with beautiful alto-reveilo, carved into the white plaster. Roman pillars support the level above, and in the back two staircases circle up to the second floor. Every square inch of the floor underneath their feet is made from marble. Renaissance paintings, portraying country sides in the 19th century and battles from the Civil War hang from the walls, a gold plated chandelier floats overhead. Flower pieces, amongst them an expensive bouquet placed on the mahogany round table in the center of the main room, gives the house a finishing touch. Zoë knows the lifestyle of the rich and famous, but this place looks more like a palace than a principal’s home in a town called Paragould.

     “As you can see, Mr. Van Dyke lived the good life. His father owned a Dutch shipping company and made millions,” Officer Sanchez explains, having noticed the federal agent’s impressed expression. “We believe the fortune he passed on to his son might have something to do with Van Dyke’s death.”

     As they climb the stairs, Zoë chuckles, but doesn’t say a word. These oblivious bastards... they have absolutely no clue, do they?      “You think something else is going on?” Lee questions, noticing the sarcasm in her little laugh.      “Money is not the motive,”  she returns, curt.

     An awkward silence follows and Zoë can feel the hostility between her and the two police officers. She has experienced it before, especially in smaller communities. Most cops despise the feds, simply because the cases they work quite literally hit close to home. The FBI is no stranger to barging in and taking over entire investigations, without sending a ‘thank you’ card. A lot of hard work for the local coppers, without any credit. Zoë can’t say she blames the police for being reluctant.

     “This way.” Sanchez beckons them after climbing the stairs to the second floor, where he turns left on the vestibule.      The closer they get to the crime scene, the more crowded it gets. The Crime Scene Unit has already arrived and forensics dust for prints, take pictures and search for evidence. When Zoë enters the room and finds Mr. Van Dyke, she frowns. 

      In the corner lies a man, probably in his mid fifties, half into a shattered exhibition case, his eyes open, death evident. It’s not the first time Zoë has seen a dead guy, but she wasn’t expecting such a violent killing committed by a ten year old. Apparently his head got smashed into the showcase; glass is scattered all over his body. He has bruises and cuts on his arms and face, but most peculiar is his probable cause of death. His neck is broken; the head at a 90° angle. 

     Zoë scans the room, which shows several signs of a struggle. One thing is certain; Van Dyke really got his ass kicked before he died. As she takes a look around, a woman wearing white latex gloves updates Lee and his partner. Zoë glances over, notices the CSU logo on her jacket, and walks over to tune in.      “- time of death was between 6:30 and 7 AM. No prints found so far,” the forensic states.      “Look at this place. There must be something,” Detective Lee ponders, his gaze panning over the crime scene.      “Not even a fiber,” she sighs. “I have to admit; I’ve never seen anything like this.”

     “Seems like the suspect has left no trace,” Zoë intervenes, mixing into the conversation.      “Someone just did a good job covering up,” Sanchez scoffs, not finding her remark relevant. “We’ll find something.”      Dude, you have no idea, Zoë thinks to herself, the corner of her mouth twitching in amusement. She doesn’t cut in on him, although she has about a dozen smart curve balls ready. Never get too smart around cops, who knows what she might need them for later on.

     “There’s one thing, though, but it adds more confusion than it clears up.”      The forensic walks over to the body of Mr. Van Dyke and points out the way his sweater is pulled down. It uncovers his left shoulder, the sleeve seems too long at the end by the force that was used.      “Looks like someone pulled him down. As if the killer wanted to level his victim with him or her,” she clarifies.      “The murderer was shorter than the victim,” Lee concludes.      “Not just a little shorter, I’m talking about round 4 ft. 5 here, looking at the angle and location of the bruising,” the forensic adds up.      “About the height of a ten year old, right?” Zoë fills in, as the clues sum up.      “Yeah, that would be correct, but that’s impossible. Even if a ten year old could be capable of doing such a thing, they wouldn’t have the strength,” she rules out.

     Impossible isn’t in Zoë’s dictionary, but she has seen enough. The forensics might be on a dead end, Zoë is a hundred percent sure of who Van Dyke’s killer is. She is dealing with one furious ghost child here, but two questions remain unanswered: why isn't Laura at rest and how is she able to relocate?      A cursed object is the first thing that comes to mind. Being on the clock, Zoë decides to leave and have a talk with the family.      “Thanks very much, I’ve got everything I need.” She gives both the forensic and the members of the PPD a nod, before she exits the room.

     While Zoë walks down the corridor towards the staircase, the undercover huntress goes through the things she just learned. It almost seems like Laura is trying to put her victims through the same horror she experienced before she died. She simply shows them who’s boss, just like her father used to teach her. It’s violent, not suited for viewers under the age of eighteen, and yet a girl of only ten years of age, is behind these murders. 

     Back on the first floor, Zoë can hear soft wailing coming from the dining room. For the third time this morning she shows her ID, this time to the officer guarding the shielded off private space. The door is slightly ajar, when she pushes it open further in order to enter, the investigator finds the Van Dyke family, gathered together. A woman in her early fifties with blonde pixie hair has her arms around a teenage girl, who Zoë presumes to be the principal’s daughter. The son, a few years younger than his sister, stares outside, his empty eyes gazing out over the lake, quietly grieving in his own way. Instantly, Zoë feels sorry for the family. She wouldn’t wish this upon anyone.      “Mrs. Van Dyke?”

     The woman looks up with tears in her eyes and lets go of her daughter, but not before sweetly stroking her hair. Zoë shows Mr. Van Dyke’s wife her identification.      “I’m Special Agent Evans, you can call me Sharon. I would like to ask you a few questions if that’s alright.”      The mother of two nods her head as she wipes away her tears. “Of course.”      “Your husband’s passing took place between 6:30 and 7 O'clock this morning. Where were you at this time?” Zoë questions calmly.      “I was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast,” Mrs. Van Dyke replies, having crossed one arm over her chest, her hand covering her mouth as she breathes out with a shudder.      “And you heard nothing?” the huntress wonders, her voice gentle, not wanting to upset the poor woman even more.      “Not a sound,” she shakes her head. “Heather was in her room next to Bill’s office, she didn’t hear a thing until the dog started barking, that’s when she found him.”

     Zoë nods at that, aware that dogs have a better sense of the supernatural than humans have. She glances past the woman before her, noticing the kind Australian shepherd, who has laid his head in Heather’s lap, watching up at her with worried eyes while trying to comfort his owner. The dog seems calm now, a good indication that Laura isn’t anywhere near.      What the huntress does find strange, though, is that their daughter didn’t hear a thing. The article in the newspaper yesterday about Robert Shire’s murder comes to mind. His family was home during the incident as well.

     “That will be it for now, thank you for your time,” Zoë notifies, smiling sympathetically. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”      Mrs. Van Dyke turns back to her family with half a nod, still in complete shock after this morning’s events which turned her world upside down. Zoë would like to take more time to talk to the children, but she simply doesn’t have a minute to spare. Hastened, the huntress exits the house, stepping out into the warm sun as she takes out her shades and puts them on. 

      It all makes sense now. Laura isn’t just getting even with the people who are directly or indirectly connected to her death. She’s recreating how she died. What Zoë remembers from her flashback, the poor girl was a punching bag for her father’s fist on a daily basis, but it’s not just that. No one around heard a thing, not even a single sound, like the victims were isolated from the outside world. The vision of Laura’s mother stoically continuing her dinner while her older brother watched TV. As if they couldn’t bear the abuse and therefore shut out the sounds that came along with it. 

     Pondering, Zoë strides down Reynolds Park Road, back to her bike, which she parked near the water. Unlike the police, the huntress is everything but stuck, she knows exactly where she needs to go. Next stop; The Shire residence.

     “I can’t believe we’re actually doing this.”

     Dean has been complaining ever since they pulled away from the In-N-Out, when Sam came up with his newest masterplan. Their usual jeans and several layers of plaid have been replaced with black suits, the sharp dressed men now approaching Arkansas Methodist Medical Center, leaving the Impala in the parking lot.

     “We are doing this, so get used to it,” Sam returns, getting tired of his brother’s whining. “You have the ID’s?”      Dean takes out two leather wallets and flips them open, showing him the fake identification. Sam stares at the ID’s, his jaw falling open.      “FBI? Are you nuts, Dean?”      “Dad and I do it all the time. No sweat,” Dean shrugs, not that worried about getting caught.

     “What if they look up our badge numbers? This is suicide!” Sam hisses, keeping his voice down when they pass people at the entrance of the hospital.      “You wanna know what’s suicide? Meddling with Zoë’s case,” Dean counters.      Sam huffs. “Oh, come on. How bad can it be?”      “You should have seen her in Rochester when she found out we rang Cliffer and blew her cover. That wasn’t even intentional, and now you actually choose to get involved?” Dean argues.

     He gives his brother his new identification, which Sam studies carefully as he mumbles his fake name. Dean watches his brother closely, curious if he will detect the little gimmick in their aliases, them being Angus and Young. But Sam doesn’t know enough about rock music to notice that the two names combined is the full name of AC/DC’s lead guitarist. Nonetheless, Dean is proud of the inside joke.

     “She might get a little annoyed, but she won’t get mad. We’re helping her,” Sam assures, hoping his brother will stop being dramatic.      “Exactly! I’m dressed like a fucking penguin while I know she won’t ever thank us, even if we have a major breakthrough.” Dean loosens his tie a bit, smothered by the tightness of his collar.      “Look man, we can sit on our ass and waste this day or--”      “- I prefer that actually,” the oldest intervenes.      “Or--” Sam continues, sternly, “- we can do something useful.”

     With that being said, he walks through the revolving doors of the governmental facility, followed by Dean, who mutters something unintelligible; stubborn fucker. Dean might be the older sibling here, but when Sammy has got his mind set on something, he can’t be reasoned with.      Heading straight for the main desk, the Winchester brothers get into character. Sam especially looks somewhat young to be a federal agent, thankfully his height makes up for that. They both need to sell this in order to gather new information on the case.      Confidently, Dean flashes his FBI identification to the woman behind the counter. “Agent Young, this is my partner Agent Angus. We’re here to see a dead body.”      “You came to the right place,” she comments, apparently not impressed by their badges.      She calls for an older physician in a long white coat who just passed by.      “Dr. Hughes? Could you escort these two agents to the morgue?” she asks him.      “Of course, I’m heading over there anyway,” he agrees, beckoning Dean and Sam to walk with him.

     The hunters follow the doctor through the long hospital hallways. White ceilings, mint green vinyl floors and random photos and Picasso rip offs on the walls every now and then; the typical hospital decor the Winchester brothers are more familiar with than they would want to be. They’ve been inside medical centers plenty. To investigate a case, but also as a visitor whenever someone in their close circle got hurt on the job, but also as a patient. Hunting isn’t just a profession prone to injury, it’s worse than that. It’s a profession prone to death.

     Dr. Hughes eventually breaks the silence when they reach an elevator. “Who are you here for?”      “Ronald Shire,” Sam informs.      Unpleasantly surprised, Hughes looks up at the tall agent. He halts by the elevator, calling it down to the first floor. It takes a second to arrive, the doctor uncomfortably shifts from one foot to the other. Dean and Sam have noticed it, however, exchanging a look.

     “I’m sorry,” the physician apologizes when he realizes how his behavior might come across. “Ronald was a colleague of mine, but he was also a close friend.”      “Our condolences,” Dean says, knowing all about Shire’s death after Sam filled him in earlier.      Hughes pushes the button to call the elevator down, accepting the sympathy offered by the agent. “Unbelievable, isn’t it? We see death every day and yet when it hits close to home, you never see it coming.”

     Wise words, applicable to everyone. He has been there on many occasions when the final hour struck; of hunters, of people they were trying to save. One would expect all this experience to give him thick skin, since he’s used to the violence and killings. But when Jess was murdered, it hit him harder than a wrecking ball.

     The younger Winchesters train of thought is interrupted by the sound of the bell, announcing that the elevator has reached their level. He clears his throat and directs his attention to the doctor again. “Do you have an idea what happened to Mr. Shire?”      “I did the autopsy myself; it left me stunned,” Dr. Hughes tells them as they enter the elevator.

     Again the doctor presses a key and the doors close. As they slowly move down to the basement, Dean tries to find out if Hughes knows more about the case then he’s willing to let go at this point.      “We think his death might have something to do with the murder that took place in the Van Dyke residence,” he fills in.      “I heard about that on the news. CSU is still on that, though”, the physician says.      “We have one of our agents at the scene,” Sam returns, with the short statement explaining their suspicion.

     The doors open and the three enter the morgue of the hospital. It’s cool in this section and an unpleasant scent fills the area, chemicals almost masking the lingering smell of the dead. The doctor walks over to the furthest wall of metal drawers. He pulls out one of the many trays and puts on a pair of latex gloves before he zips open the body bag.      “What’s so stunning about this case?” Sam wonders.      “See for yourself.” Hughes unfolds the bag and both boys raise their eyebrows.      “Ouch,” Dean comments.

     The body of Laura’s father is badly bruised and battered, as if he got beaten up by a street gang in a bad neighborhood. His jaw is demolished, his neck broken; this is some serious abuse. The ‘Y’ shaped incisions on his torso indicated that a full autopsy has been performed on Ronald Shire, but the large stitches barely stand out between the black and broken skin.

     “That’s not all,” the doctor adds as he takes out the file. “I searched every inch of his body on the in and outside, but there is not a print, not one single fiber on him that  could point you fellas towards a suspect.”      Dean gives Sam a look without the physician seeing it. Dr. Hughes might have never seen this before, the hunters certainly have. Ghosts never leave any trace on their victims, unless they want to.

     “This caught my attention, though.” The doctor points out the bruises. “See how they run out upwards? That indicates that these injuries were caused from a lower angle. Or the killer was on its knees - which would be most unlikely - or the injuries were inflicted by someone shorter than 4 ft. 7. Someone with a growth defect, dwarf syndrome. That’s the only way I can clarify this.”      “Have you considered a child?” Sam questions, carefully.      “I have for a brief moment, but it’s theoretically impossible for a child to throw punches like this, even when it would use an object to create some kind of leverage, which I found no indication of,” the doctor explains. “Honestly, I’ve never seen damage done like this, not even by trained fighters. The evidence doesn’t add up in the slightest. This shouldn’t be possible.”

     The boys exchange another glance; the evidence adds up just fine for them. Sam tilts his head and nods to the door, giving Dean the signal that they are leaving.      “Thank you for your time, doctor.” he rounds up their visit. “If there is anything else, let us know.”      “You’re welcome, I hope you’ll get this one,” Hughes mentions while he cleans up.      “We’ll do our best,” Sam ensures.

     The two hunters leave the morgue and step back into the elevator. As soon as the doors close, the oldest of the two turns to the other.      “Laura, definitely,” the youngest brother states, determined.      “Unless this town is haunted by two frustrated mini spirits, yeah, it’s Laura.” Dean agrees, watching Sam take his phone out of his pocket as they arrive at the first floor again. “Who’re you gonna call?”      “The other Ghostbuster,” Sam replies, as he looks up Zoë’s number and presses the green button as soon as they step outside the hospital.      “Shouldn’t we get to the bomb shelter first?” the oldest suggests, snarky.      “This information could be useful”, Sam replies, but before Dean can respond to that, Zoë answers her phone.

     “Sullivan.”      “Hey Zoë, it’s Sam. Listen, I’ve got some info on Ronald Shire for you,” Sam cuts to the chase.      “Why would you have info on Laura’s dad?”      Sam cringes slightly, detecting the suspecting tone in her voice. Oh well, here goes nothing.      “We went to the Medical Center to see Shire’s body.”

      Complete silence, but Sam can almost hear Zoë’s blood boil on the other side of the line. Dean pulls his sleeve and gestures at him, frustrated.      “What are you including me for?” he hisses, making sure Zoë can’t hear him.      Sam waves him away, without making a sound he hushes his brother to be quiet, turning away from him in order not to get distracted. He takes a breath, gathering his courage. 

      “Zoë?”       “I’m sorry, I think I misunderstood you. Did you just tell me that you deliberately messed with my case, even though I told you VERY clearly not to get involved?”      The huntress’s voice trembles with anger, Sam can hear she tries to keep calm.      “We figured we could spare you some time by going ourselves--”      “- You FIGURED?!”

     Sam cowers, her voice so sharp and loud that he doesn’t have to put her on speaker for Dean to pick up on the conversation. He did move closer to his brother, invading his personal space in order to tune in.      “Better take cover,” Dean advises his brother.      Annoyed, Sam pushes his brother away and focuses on Zoë again.

     “We didn’t mess anything up if that’s what you’re worried about”, he states defensively.      “I wouldn't give a flying fuck if you solved the fucking case! You didn’t listen!”      “You’re not my boss!” Sam makes clear, not having her raging attitude, no matter how intimidated he feels by the fiery woman.      “I am the boss when it comes to MY cases, damn it! This is not a fucking candy store I’m running, Sam! You can’t go do my job without telling me, you almost got me killed last time!”      “It was an innocent morgue visit!” Sam exclaims while making a wild gesture, even though Zoë isn’t there to see it. “And honestly, would you have said ‘yes’ if I asked you first?”

     “No of course not, you fucking asshat! That’s the fucking point!” she returns, clearly furious. “I swear to God, Sam, if you and your brother cross my path again…”      “What? You’ll kill us?” Sam huffs. “Listen, Zoë. Ronald Shire was attacked by Laura, without doubt. He was a mess, his jaw was wrecked and his neck was broken, all injuries inflicted from a lower angle. That’s all the info I’ve got for you, you do with it whatever the hell you want.”

     Before Zoë can return an answer, Sam ends the call. It’s only now that he notices Dean opposite of him, his arms crossed in front of him. He nods, appreciating.      “No more Mr. Nice Guy. I like it,” he comments, then continues his way to the Impala.      Without responding to his notification, Sam follows and catches up with him, still angry with the ungrateful attitude of the huntress. He cannot believe he saved her at least an hour and a half and this is what he gets in return; so much for gratitude. 

     Together they walk over to the classic Chevrolet without speaking about it further. Yet Dean can’t help but  smile as he opens his door. Sam notices the grin and rolls his eyes.      “Just say it,” he mutters.      “Say what?”      “You know what.”      Dean looks at him over the top of the black Chevrolet and ponders, still deciding if he should say the words which he longs to say. He can’t help himself, he has to enjoy the moment and rub it in.      His smirk grows even wider. “Hate to say I told you so.”      “No, you don’t,” Sam sighs, sits down and closes the door.

     Dean does the same and turns the key, starting up the Impala’s V8 engine, which lets out an enthusiastic roar. People Are Strange by The Doors is playing on the radio while Sam stares through the windshield, still bummed about the call.      “Why doesn’t she just drop the act?” Sam wonders.      “I’m not sure if it’s an act, Sammy.” Dean checks in both directions before steering his precious car onto the road. “I sincerely think her soul is pitch black.”

     But Sam shakes his head, not buying it. “This can’t be her persona. You said it yourself; she was different when you first met her.”      “So? People change,” Dean simply declares, shrugging his shoulders.      “Maybe, but this is just stupid. We’re in town, bored out of our skull while she is working her ass off to finish up on time. It can’t be that hard to accept our help.”      “Apparently she’s socially disturbed, Sam. Let it go already. If she can’t appreciate a helping hand, she’s not worth the effort,” the older brother suggests, not wanting Sam to be bothered by the matter. “Let’s go to Texas and hunt some wolf, huh?”

     He considers the advice for a moment as they drive by Linwood Cemetery. As soon as he spots the place, he glances across the road at the Hampton Inn, but there is no sign of Zoë; she must be at the crime scene.      As they pass through, he decides he wants to stay. “No. We agreed to stay in town till tonight. Zoë will leave, case closed or not. It’s almost midday, so what difference will it make if we leave now or tonight?”      “Half a day,” Dean answers smartly.      “Denise? Or did you completely forget about the fact that you are meeting up with her later?”

     The driver of the black car raises his eyebrow at that, contemplating, because Sam is right; he did forget about his ‘date’ later today for just a second. Dean doesn’t like to admit it, but Denise is a very big plus to stay in town just a little while longer. A silence follows after Sam’s mention while his brother thinks through his options.

     “Point taken,” he gives in. “But I’ll tell you one thing. Zoë is not gonna come around.”      “She will, believe me. She’s not as bad to the bone as she pretends to be,” Sam states, sure of his words. After all, last night she was friendly for letting him crash in her room and transferring all that lore to his computer.      “I know her better than you do,” Dean weighs up.      “I don’t believe that's true,” Sam counters, shaking his head.      “Wanna bet?” Dean looks aside as the argument is starting to turn into a ‘do not, do too’ fight. “Burgers for a week.”      “I rarely eat burgers. How’s that gonna benefit me?” the younger sibling brings to mind.

     “Okay, well… If I win, you buy me burgers for a week. If you win, I won’t give you shit for ordering a salad in every fast food joint we eat at.” The green eyed hunter wiggles his eyebrows, his arrogant grin confident, spread wide on his lips.      “I’m not settling for that.” Sam huffs and shakes his head. “You can buy me whatever I order for the next seven days if I’m right.”      “Deal.”

     Before Dean can assure him that this is a bet he will win, his brother’s Blackberry rings. Surprised, he checks the screen for the number, his long chestnut hair falling in front of his eyes when he looks down, then he raises his eyebrows and smiles. Victoriously he shows the screen to Dean; it’s Zoë. Sam picks up his phone and puts her on speaker.      “What?” he snaps, still mad at her.      “What are you up to?”      The youngest of the Winchesters isn’t sure if she’s asking him if he’s still intending to mess with her case or that she’s asking if he has some spare time.      “Depends,” he answers, curt.      “You said Shire broke his neck, so did Van Dyke.”      “So?”      “Might be something.”

     Sam keeps his mouth shut, warning Dean to do the same with only a look and a slight shake of the head. An unpleasant silence follows. Obviously, it irritates Zoë.      “C'mon, Sam. Knock it off!”      “No, Zoë! We’re helping you out and this is what we get?” Sam returns.      “You two nosey dickwads went behind my back! How can you expect me to be--”

     They can hear her sigh and swallow down the rest of the sentence as she collects herself, trying to keep her temper in check.      “I don’t like working with others and I certainly don’t want to abandon this case. I’ve never passed up a job, it’s not my style. But if I don't finish up by tonight, I don't have another option.”

     “I get that, but wouldn’t it be better if we just work together now and make sure that you’ll make your deadline?” Sam suggests, calmer than a moment ago, now that the woman on the other end of the line has done the same.      “Look, Zo,” Dean interrupts, adding his two cents. “I know you’re not particularly happy about teaming up - and hey, neither am I - but you’ll be able to cover more ground that way. You can’t expect us to leave town knowing you might have to face a dilemma. The sooner you close this case, the sooner we can go our separate ways.”      “I don’t know...”      Again a sigh while Zoë considers her next move. Sam allows the silence, granting her the time to think it through. The way he sees it, she doesn't have much of a choice. The Winchesters are the best option she’s got.      “Okay, fine,” she eventually gives in. “But this is still my case. I call the shots and might we stumble on trouble, we stick to the plan. I can’t settle for anything less.”      Dean has already opened his mouth to object, but Sam elbows him hard, shooting him a warning glare.      “Agreed,” the youngest quickly answers, ignoring the quiet muttering from his left.      “Dean?”

     The older Winchester brother grinds his teeth. Shit, he does not want to bow down to her, because he knows the second he does, she will without a doubt step up to become Evil Queen Bitch. He’s never going to live it down. One case, he tells himself. One fucking case and he will never have to deal with her again.      “Fine,” he utters, barely audible.      “One other thing. I need to leave town tonight, case finished or not. We have to try or take care of this today, okay?”      “We will,” Sam assures. “And if we run into trouble and can’t manage to wrap up, you don’t have to worry about this case. We’ll make sure to have it covered and that Laura will be put to rest.”      “So, do we meet up or what?”      “Yeah, sure.”      “Where are you at?”

     Before Sam answers he checks the name of the road they are on.      “W. Kings Highway, going west. We’re staying at the Ramada Inn,” Sam tells her.      “Shit motel.”      He scoffs a chuckle, glad the tension has lifted. “Tell me ‘bout it.”      “I'll see you at In-N-Out,” the huntress decides. “I want an Animal Burger.”      “Have you had that 4x4 burger?” Dean says, his mouth watering. “The amount of meat, hmm.”      “Are you kidding me? I grew up in California; In-N-Out is my jam!”      “Their food is fuckin’ amazing, ain’t it?” Dean agrees.      “Oh my God, yes! How they grill their cheese—”

     Stunned, Sam stares from the phone to Dean and back. Did the unthinkable just happen? Did Zoë and Dean actually agree on something? Remarkable, but truly, here is the one subject they can’t fight about; food.      “Zo?” he interrupts.      “Yeah?”      “See you at In-N-Out.” He chuckles and hangs up.

     The Ramada Inn shows up in front of them and Dean pulls up into the parking lot, turning off the ignition once he has found a spot close to the entrance. Before he gets out of the car, he registers Sam, who’s wearing a boyish grin on his face. His eyes sparkle through the curtain of his bangs, his pearl white teeth on display; it’s clear he’s very much amused.      “Hate to say I told you so,” Sam nags victoriously, and pushes the passenger door open.

     With a confused expression upon his face, Dean gets out of his car himself. He then glares at younger Winchester over the top of the Impala, the words sinking in. Fuck, he lost a bet; Zoë came around.      “No, you don’t,” he mutters, following his sibling inside. Looks like he’s going to have to live through the embarrassment of ordering and paying for salads the coming week. Oh well, at least he doesn’t have to eat them.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to like or reblog my work, shoot me a message or buy me coffee (Link to Kofi in bio at the top of the page).   

Read part eight here

[captawesomesauce]

I got Tagged!!!

by @brokennecksfeatherweights​

last song: if y’all have been noticing, i’ve been playing a lot of shoegaze lately. Just been in a mood for 90s wall of sound and fuzz. The last song though would have to be Drive Blind by Ride.... but for those looking to get into Ride, start with Vapour Trail if you want “pretty” music. Drive Blind is one of their harder tracks. 

last movie: The Blues Brothers!!! Such a fucking classic. So funny, such great pacing, so many great elements and the music and cast is top notch. Seriously, just sit down and read about the band and the people in it. It’s so worth it.  currently watching: CALFIRE.... which is... ok... but I think the whole trying to personalize the firefighters and add drama is really irking me. I never once met any firefighter who whined like these guys are doing.... It’s so fucking cliche ... best job in the world man... but i miss sniff sniff... my daughters birthday sniff sniff... but best job in the world.. Fuck dude... there’s a reason why most firefighters get divorced... the fact is, and I hate to say this... but... we don’t really give that much of a fuck. We have a job to do, we’re gonna go do it and we love it. When we’re done we’re exhausted, proud, and it’s a trauma/stress in and of itself... the whole.... “why weren’t you home/there for the family?!?!!?” ... it’s like... noise. Sorry... we try... but... yeah... it’s a juggle and when fire season hits, that’s just how it is.  I remember an old girlfriend who got SOOO pissed because she was excited that her birthday was in the “off season” and we ended up popping a 3,000 acre fire over it and I got called up on the Incident management team. I tried to be sensitive to her feelings, I told her that I understood how big of a deal it was to her, and i listened to her talk and vent and this and that, but at the end of the day I wasn’t going to NOT go to the fire and I wasn’t going to change anything. She could vent all she wanted but it wasn’t going to change the situation and that just made her more angry... Relationship ended fast and I moved on just as fast. *shrug*

currently reading:  I’ve been reading a lot, and genre hopping because I am trying to keep my head in a good place and not get burnt out. I’ve also stopped highlighting/tagging my books. As much as I’d love to have a good system.... I just can’t right now. Life Undercover by Amaryllis Fox is the book I just started today and it’s about a female CIA agent, I finished a book on a pilot who got stranded in Corregidor in WWII and swam/sailed for australia, and another on a Peacekeeper in Timor, and before that, a book on the 1989 Coup in Paraguay. 

I hear you saying but MIKE!!!! thats all boring history shit!!! but really, it’s not... it’s really interesting to read about who she was just a college student and got swept up by current events and ended up in the CIA after Pearls death. It’s a 1st person account of current events. The Corregidor one had very little history, and was more about a guy who was just really caught in the wrong place at the wrong time and had to survive and had all of the wrong skills to do so, but didn’t quit! The peacekeeper in Timor was about a topic I have such little knowledge about and I want to expand my base of info regarding Oceania and the pacific, especially the troubles and political/climate issues. And the paraguay one was just by a favorite author so I had to read it and it was really fascinating. South American politics is always nuts. 

currently craving: Normalcy... and covid to be over. I miss the old times. I see no path to returning to that any time soon. sigh.