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doctorbitchcrxft · 6 months ago

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Something Wicked | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: canon violence, canon gore, implications of verbal parental abuse

Word Count: 4885

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The two boys were bickering over coordinates Dean had received from an anonymous number.

“Dude, I ran LexisNexis, local police reports, newspapers, I couldn't find a single red flag. Are you sure you got the coordinates right?” Sam asked.

“Yeah, I double checked. It's Fitchburg, Wisconsin. Dad wouldn't have sent us coordinates if it wasn't important, Sammy.”

“Well, I'm telling you, I looked, and all I could find was a big steamy pile of nothing. If Dad's sending us hunting for something, I don't know what.”

“Well, maybe he's going to meet us there.”

“Yeah. ‘Cause he's been so easy to find up to this point.”

You sighed. You weren’t about to get in the middle of this argument and tuned the rest of it out. Alas, Dean won the argument, as he often did.

You stopped for some coffee along Fitchburg’s main street. The town itself was small, but it was quaint. A little too Middle America for your taste.

“Well… the waitress thinks the local freemasons are up to something sneaky, but other than that, no one's heard about anything freaky going on,” Dean sighed, handing you and Sam your respective coffee orders.

“Dean, you got the time?” you asked him.

“Ten after four. Why?”

You nodded in front of you at the playground you were looking at. “What's wrong with this picture?”

It was deserted aside from one child climbing on the jungle gym.

“School's out, isn't it?” Dean questioned.

“Yeah. So where is everybody?” Sam added. “This place should be crawling with kids right now.”

You and the Winchesters walked over to a woman on a park bench reading a magazine. Dean approached her, saying, “Sure is quiet out here.”

The woman sighed, “Yeah, it’s a shame.”

“Why's that?”

“You know, kids getting sick, it's a terrible thing.”

“How many?”

“Just five or six but serious, hospital serious. A lot of parents are getting pretty anxious. They think it's catching,” she explained.

All four of you watched the little girl playing by herself, and the wheels in your head began to turn. Why would John send you all the way to Fitchburg over a few sick kids?

The three of you made your way up to the pediatrics ward of the hospital to investigate the sick children. Dean and Sam donned suits, and you wore a pencil skirt and heels. You couldn’t lie to yourself, Dean looked amazing in his suit, but you much preferred his usual leather jacket and biker boots.

“See something you like?” Dean smirked at you.

Your mouth opened and closed, unsure of what to say. He just snickered in response while your cheeks burned.

A doctor approached you and the boys before Dean could taunt you any further. You introduced yourselves and headed down the corridor with the man. “Well, thanks for seeing us, Dr. Hydecker,” Dean said.

“Well, I'm glad you guys are here. I was just about to call CDC myself. How'd you find out anyways?” the doctor asked.

“Oh, some GP— I forget his name— he called Atlanta, and, uh, he must've beat you to the punch,” Dean lied.

“So you say you got six cases so far?” you asked.

“Yeah, five weeks. At first we thought it was garden variety bacterial pneumonia. Not that newsworthy. But now…”

“What?”

“The kids aren't responding to antibiotics. Their white cell counts keep going down. Their immune systems just aren't doing their job. It's like their bodies are... wearing out.”

“Wait, but are there any signs of leukopenia?” you asked. “Any history in these kids of that?”

Dean looked over at you, confused by what you were saying. You continued to talk to the doctor.

“No, actually,” Hydecker answered.

“What about neutropenia?”

He shook his head as a nurse handed him a clipboard full of papers.

“Then, whatever this is would have to be attacking the bone marrow as well as the respiratory system… Have you done biopsies?”

“No, we haven’t,” Hydecker answered. “I’ll give that a try.”

“You ever seen anything like this before?” Sam questioned.

“Never this severe,” the doctor said. “And the way it spreads… that's a new one for me.”

“What do you mean?” asked Sam.

“It works its way through families. But only the children, one sibling after another.”

“You mind if we interview a few of the kids?” Dean questioned.

“They’re not conscious,” the doctor replied.

You were shocked. “None of them?”

“No.”

“Can we, uh, can we talk to the parents?” tried Dean.

“Well, if you think it'll help.”

“Yeah. Who was your most recent admission?”

Hydecker directed you to a man sitting on a chair against the wall in the waiting room. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. He explained to you the oldest girl was first, and then his youngest. He told you that her window had been opened, but there was no one who could’ve done so except for his daughter because her room was on the second floor.

You and the boys headed out of the pediatrics ward and back toward the car.

“(Y/N), how’d you know all that stuff?” Sam asked you, referencing your conversation with the doctor.

“I like to read,” you shrugged. Sam smiled at your response and walked a little ahead of you.

Dean came up next to you. “You were really serious about nursing, huh,” he said softly enough so Sam wouldn’t hear.

“I guess. I really do just like to read, though,” you smiled. “I think I just wanted to stick it to my dad. I always thought I’d be happier not hunting. But, uh, I just don’t think I could ever go back to being ‘normal’.”

“Yeah, I get that,” he responded.

Sam turned back to you and his brother. “You know, this might not be anything supernatural. It might just be pneumonia.”

“No way,” you shook your head, “pneumonia wouldn’t be lowering white blood cell count. It’d have to be elevated for it to be true pneumonia. Infection and all that.”

Sam hummed. “Okay, so then what’s your theory?”

“Honestly? Not sure.”

“I'll tell you one thing,” said Sam. “That dad we just talked to? I'm betting it'll be a while before he goes home.”

***

“You got anything over there?” Sam asked Dean. The three of you had climbed through the home of the last two kids who had gotten sick looking for clues.

“Nah, nothing,” the older brother answered.

“Yeah, me neither,” you chimed in. You moved over to the window and paused. “Hey guys? I really don’t think it’s pneumonia.”

The boys came over and followed your line of sight to a rotted handprint with long, tendril-like fingers.

“What the hell leaves a handprint like that?” Sam asked.

Dean seemed to get pulled away into his own mind for a moment before he began to look a little sick. “I know why Dad sent us here. He's faced this thing before. He wants us to finish the job.”

Dean raced down the stairs to the window on the back of the house you’d climbed through. You followed him close behind. You would ask him what had happened to him in the little girl’s bedroom later.

Dean explained to you on the ride to the motel what he thought you were hunting: a shtriga.

“So what the hell is a shtriga?” Sam asked as Dean pulled into a motel parking lot. This motel was a little cuter than the ones you’d visited previously; centered around a white cabin with green shingles.

“It's kinda like a witch, I think. I don't know much about 'em,” explained Dean.

“Well, I've never heard of it. And it's not in Dad's journal.”

“Dad hunted one in Fort Douglas, Wisconsin, about sixteen, seventeen years ago. You were there. You don't remember?”

Sam shook his head.

“And I guess he caught wind of the things in Fitchburg now and kicked us the coordinates,” Dean went on.

“So wait, this…” Sam paused, waiting for Dean to remind him how to pronounce it.

“Shtriga.”

“Right. You think it's the same one Dad hunted before?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“But if Dad went after it, why is it still breathing air?” Sam’s brows furrowed together.

“ ‘Cause it got away.”

Sam scoffed. “Got away?”

Dean was beginning to get frustrated, and you knew it was a cover-up for whatever was going on inside his head. “Yeah, Sammy, it happens.”

“Not very often.”

“Well, I don't know what to tell ya, maybe Dad didn't have his wheaties that morning,” snarked the older brother.

“What else do you remember?”

“Nothin'. I was a kid, alright?” Dean said defensively. You followed him into the motel lobby only to see a little boy watching TV in one room and a boy around ten or eleven walking out of it.

“A king or two queens?” The boy asked, looking between you and Dean.

“Two queens,” you and Dean answered quickly. “And one king, actually,” you added, stepping aside to reveal Sam behind you.

A woman entered smiling at you both. “Checking in?”

You nodded to her.

“Do me a favor, go get your brother some dinner,” the woman instructed the boy.

“I'm helping a guest!” he protested, but turned away under his mother’s hard stare. “Two queens. And a king.”

“Will that be cash or credit?” she asked you.

Dean took out his card. “You take MasterCard? Perfect. Here you go.”

You watched him look behind the woman at the boy pouring his younger brother a glass of milk. And there he went again; pulled into what you could only assume was memories of himself and Sam.

The woman before you held out his card to zoned-out Dean, and you took it from her instead. “Uh, thanks.” She handed you the keys, and you nudged Dean to bring him back to reality.

***

Dean explained to you and Sam what shtrigas fed off: children, most commonly. The only thing that could kill them were specially designed wrought-iron rounds while the thing was feeding. They often take the form of something unsuspecting; like an old woman.

“Hang on,” Dean said. “Check this out. I marked down all the addresses of the victims. Now these are the houses that have been hit so far and dead center?”

“The hospital,” you noted.

“Now, when we were there, I saw a patient; an old woman,” Dean continued.

“An old person huh?” questioned Sam. “In a hospital? Phew. Better call the Coast Guard.”

You giggled at Sam.

“Well, listen, smart-asses, she had an inverted cross hanging on her wall.”

You and Sam stopped snickering and looked up at Dean. He raised an eyebrow at you.

And so, you headed to the hospital. Fortunately for her— but unfortunately for your hunt— the old woman with the upside down cross on the wall was just cataract-ridden and crotchety. Upon your return to the motel after thoroughly freaking out the old woman, you pulled Dean to your motel room for a talk before bed.

“What’s up?” he asked, sitting on a chair in your room.

You sat on the bed across from him. “Where do you keep going?” you asked.

“Huh?”

“Sorry, I just realized how stupid that sounded. You keep, like, disappearing into your own brain,” you responded. “Like in the motel lobby. You zoned out looking at that kid and his brother.”

“Oh, that,” he said quietly. “I, uh, it’s stupid.”

“Dean,” you leaned over your crossed legs and rested your hand on his knee. “I’m asking you. It’s not stupid. I just care.”

“Oh, come on—”

“Dean,” you said. “You made me a pinky promise at that scary asylum. You promised you’d tell me. Please?”

He huffed out a small laugh. “You know how I said my dad hunted this thing before?”

You nodded.

“Well, I’m the reason it got away.”

“How? Didn’t you say it was sixteen, seventeen years ago? You would’ve been ten, dude,” you responded.

“Yeah, but it’s complicated. My dad left us alone in motel rooms all the time. He made me repeat to him what I was and wasn’t supposed to do every time he would go out on a hunt. Sam and I would fight over the last bowl of Lucky Charms from the groceries Dad got us for the week; y'know, stupid kid stuff,” he chuckled. “But it’d been days. I was climbin’ the walls, (Y/N). I had to get some air. I went to an arcade to just… blow off some steam, I guess.

"When I came back, the thing was over Sammy’s bed. I was frozen. My dad came in and shot it a couple times, but it got away. Dad just... grabbed us and booked. Dropped us off at Pastor Jim's about three hours away, but by the time he got back to Fort Douglas, the shtriga had disappeared; it was just gone. It never surfaced until now. Y'know, Dad never spoke about it again, I didn't ask." He looked away from you attempting to swallow his emotions. "But he, ah, he looked at me different, you know? Which was worse. Not that I blame him. He gave me an order, and I didn't listen; I almost got Sammy killed.”

“Dee, you were a kid,” you said softly. He went to cut you off, but you stopped him. “No, let me talk. I know how that feels. My parents left me with Stevie all the time. I would've done the same thing you did. We were kids. We had to take on parental responsibilities. Anybody would be going stir crazy, especially at ten years old like you were.”

“(Y/N)—”

“No,” you told him, grabbing his hand. “You cannot blame yourself. I won’t let you. Would you let me?”

He shook his head.

“Exactly.”

He held your intense stare and rubbed a thumb over your hand. The two of you awkwardly pulled away from each other, and Dean cleared his throat. “Uh, thank you, for, y’know—”

“Yeah, any time,” you said, walking him to the door.

***

The next morning, you and Sam were teasing Dean about the old woman from the hospital the night before. You were headed to the car to go get some breakfast.

“ ‘I was sleeping with my peepers open’?” Sam laughed heartily, remembering the old woman's strange way of talking.

“I almost smoked that old girl, I swear. It's not funny!” Dean grunted.

“Oh man, you shoulda seen your face,” you giggled.

“Yeah, laugh it up. Now we're back to square one.” He looked over to the ten-year-old blond boy sitting on the bench behind his mother’s office. “Hang on.” He led you over to the child. “Hey, what's wrong?”

“My brother's sick,” he replied.

“The little guy?”

He nodded. “Pneumonia. He's in the hospital. It's my fault.”

“Ah, c'mon, how?” You could tell Dean’s mind was racing just based on his tone.

“I should’ve made sure the window was latched. He wouldn't've got pneumonia if the window was latched,” the boy lamented.

You watched, frowningly thoughtfully, as Dean looked away from the boy.

“Listen to me. I can promise you that this is not your fault. Okay?” Dean assured him.

“It's my job to look after him,” the boy frowned, tearing up.

His mother hurried out of the motel toward her minivan. “Michael, I want you to turn on the 'no vacancy' sign while I'm gone. I've got Denise covering room service, so don't bother with any of the rooms.”

“I'm going with you,” he protested.

“Not now, Michael.”

“But I gotta see Asher!”

Dean responded before his mother could. “Hey, Michael. Hey. I know how you feel— I'm a big brother, too— but you gotta go easy on your mom right now, ok?”

His mom dropped her handbag in haste, cursing under her breath. You rushed to pick it up for her.

“Listen, you're in no condition to drive. Why don't you let me give you a lift to the hospital,” Dean offered.

“No, I couldn't possibly—” she answered.

“No, it's no trouble. I insist.”

Michael’s mother handed Dean the keys and thanked him before addressing her son. “Be good.”

Dean turned to you before he went over to the car. “We're gonna kill this thing. I want it dead, you hear me?”

You and Sam watched Dean pull out of the motel parking lot, driving much more carefully than he ever did when you and Sam were in the car.

“C’mon,” you said. “You got the keys?”

“Yeah,” he threw them to you. “Where we goin’?”

“Wait, you’re letting me drive?” you asked Sam.

He shrugged.

You squealed childishly and jumped into the driver’s seat. You couldn’t lie, you loved this car. You loved how the steering wheel felt in your hands and the way the engine rumbled.

“Seriously, where we going?”

“The library,” you answered. “Town records, national records, internet, anything and everything. Dean wants this thing dead, and I intend to get it done tonight. And I gotta tell you, dude, something’s really bothering me about this whole thing. I mean, I never even formally went to nursing school, but I knew it couldn’t be pneumonia immediately. Why would pediatric doctors be unable to figure that out?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know, but I get you. Something isn’t right.”

***

You and Sam poured through as many books you possibly could as quickly as you could. Sam was at his computer, scrolling with a furrowed brow when his phone rang. “ Hey. How's the kid?... We’re at the library. We've been trying to find out as much as we can about this shtriga… Well, bad news. I started with Fort Douglas around the time you said Dad was there?... Same deal.

"Before that, there was, uh, Ogdenville, before that, North Haverbrook, and Brockway. Every 15 to 20 years, it hits a new town. Dean, this thing is just getting started in Fitzburgh. In all these other places, it goes on for months. Dozens of kids before the shtriga finally moves on. The kids just languish in comas, and then they die… Ah, I don't know. The earliest mention I could find is this place called ‘Black River Falls’ back in the 1890s. Talk about a horror show.”

Your brain began to make connections between all of those events. “Wait, Sam, put Dean on speaker.”

He did so.

“Okay, you’re gonna have to stay with me on this one. This could just be me spitballin’, but—”

“Just say it, (Y/N),” Dean said through the phone.

“I’ve been thinking, why wouldn’t Hydecker immediately rule out pneumonia? If he’s such a spectacular and caring doctor, why wouldn’t he know that pneumonia ups your white blood cell count; not depletes it? And the chance of all six kids having a pre-existing condition that lowers your WBC is incredibly low. I mean, why else wouldn’t he biopsy the kids?”

“Okay, WebMD, what does that have to do with anything?” Dean asked.

“I told you to stay with me.” You began typing in your computer searching for articles on the earliest case Sam had found in Black River Falls. “The point is, I think Hydecker’s our guy. Think about it— the center of the kidnappings is the hospital. And any pediatric doctor would be familiar with what pneumonia actually does to a kid’s body.” You smiled sourly at a photo you pulled up of doctors surrounding a child’s bed in 1893. You turned the computer around to Sam. “Boom.”

“(Y/N), that is huge.” He leaned over and lightly punched your shoulder. “Good going.”

“Thanks!” you grinned. “Dean, meet us back at the motel. Don’t deck the guy in the face, please. Not yet, anyway.”

“No promises,” he grumbled.

“Dean—”

“Fine.” He hung up the phone.

“Alright, we gotta get back before Dean explodes,” you told Sam. “Can I drive again?”

“Sure, why not. Just don’t tell my brother.” He tossed you the keys and you giggled.

***

“We should have thought of this before. A doctor's a perfect disguise. You're trusted, you can control the whole thing,” Sam said.

You and the brothers were back in the motel room.

Dean threw off his jacket and paced agitatedly. “That son of a bitch.”

“I'm proud of you for not drawing on him right there,” you said.

“Yeah, well, first of all, I'm not going to open fire in a freakin' pediatrics ward.”

Sam nodded. “Good call.”

“Second, wouldn't have done any good, because the bastard's bullet proof unless he's chowing down on something. And third, I wasn't packing, which is probably a really good thing, ‘cause I probably would've just burned a clip in him on principle alone.”

Despite the situation, you found Dean aggressively grumbling about guns very attractive.

“You're getting wise in your old age, Dean,” Sam quipped.

“Damn right. 'Cause now I know how we're going to get it,” replied Dean.

“What do you mean?” you asked.

“Shtriga works through siblings, right?”

You knew what he was getting at. “No, Dean, I don’t like that.”

“What?” Sam asked, clearly not picking up where you and Dean were at.

“(Y/N)—”

“No, dude, we gotta get Michael out of here. I’m not letting you use him as bait.”

“Dean, what?! That’s out of the question!” Sam protested.

“It's not out of the question, Sam, it's the only way. If this thing disappears it could be years before we get another chance.”

“Michael's a kid. And I'm not going to dangle him in front of that thing like a worm on a hook,” Sam scoffed.

“Dad did not send me here to walk away.” Dean turned away from you and Sam and gripped the edges of the dresser.

“Send you here? He didn't send you here; he sent us here,” Sam replied.

“This isn't about you, Sam. I'm the one who screwed up, all right. It's my fault. There's no telling how many kids have gotten hurt because of me.”

“What are you saying, Dean? How is it your fault?” Sam paused, taking a moment to calm down. “Dean. You've been hiding something from the get-go. Since when does Dad bail on a hunt? Since when does he let something get away? Now talk to me, man. Tell me what's going on.”

Dean proceeded to explain what he had to you last night. Sam gave him the same lecture about how it wasn’t his fault, but Dean began to protest again. “Don't. Don't. Dad knew this was unfinished business for me. He sent me here to finish it.”

You were surprised at the tough facade he gave his brother in contrast to the way he was vulnerable with you.

“But using Michael— I don't know Dean. I mean, how 'bout one of us hides under the covers, you know, we'll be the bait,” Sam tried.

“No, it won't work. It's gotta get close enough to feed— it'll see us. Believe me, I don't like it, but it's gotta be the kid.”

***

Michael was completely against the idea and even threatened to call the cops on you. You and the boys returned to their motel room dejectedly.

“Well, that went crappy. Now what?” Dean groaned.

“What did you expect? You can't ask an adult to do something like that, much less a kid,” the younger brother sighed.

There was a knock at the door, and you opened it to reveal Michael.

“Hey,” you said, surprised.

“If you kill it, will Asher get better?”

“Honestly? We don't know,” Dean told him.

“You said you were a big brother,” Michael started, “You'd take care of your little brother? You'd do anything for him?”

“Yeah, I would,” Dean replied quietly. Your heart swelled at how much Dean and Sam cared for each other.

The young boy nodded. “Me, too. I'll help.”

Dean had hooked up a security camera to the boy’s room, and you and he watched the monitor closely. You were beginning to feel cross-eyed from how tired you were. It was around three in the morning, and your body protested against your will to stay awake.

“You sure these iron rounds are gonna work?” Sam asked his brother.

“Consecrated iron rounds, and yeah, it's what Dad used last time.”

“Hey, Dean? I’m sorry,” the younger brother said softly. “You know, I've really given you a lot of crap, for always following Dad's orders. But I know why you do it.”

“Oh, god, kill me now,” Dean groaned.

You giggled to yourself, eyes returning to the screen. “Dean, look.”

There was a bit of movement off to the right of the screen outside of the window. You and the boys picked up your guns, holding them tightly and waiting for the right moment.

“Now?” you asked.

“Not yet.”

The shtriga moved closer and leaned over the bed. You could see Michael tense under the covers and draw them closer to himself. The creature leaned over the bed, pushing the covers down.

“Now?!”

“Now.”

You and the boys burst through the door and began to shoot the creature after Michael rolled away. It flew off Michael’s bed and fell to the side you couldn’t see.

“Mike, you alright?” Dean asked the kid.

“Yeah,” came his muffled reply from under the bed.

“Just sit tight.” Dean approached the shtriga, his gun at the ready. There was no movement for just a moment, before the shtriga shot up and grabbed Dean by his throat, throwing him across the room.

“Dean!” you cried, trying to run to him. The shtriga threw you to the side against Michael’s bed. Your back protested as you tried to roll and grab your gun that had fallen out of your hand in the chaos. You noticed the shtriga leaning over the top of the younger Winchester. Sam’s body went limp and began to go gray as the shtriga began to suck out his life force.

“Hey!” Dean gruffly spat. The shtriga turned to the older brother just to get shot straight between the eyes.

“Nice!” you said. You rushed to Sam’s side and smoothed a hand over his messy hair while he tried to catch his breath. “Are you okay?”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

“You okay, little brother?” Dean called from behind you. You thought it was adorable how much he cared.

You and Sam stood and you tried to help hold the tall man up on his unsteady legs. You guided him over to the shtriga, and Dean shot it three times at point-blank range. The shtriga’s body fell in on itself, disintegrating.

You looked up at Dean, whose face was still set in hard lines.

“It's okay, Michael, you can come on out,” Dean told the boy peeking out from under his bed. He rose to stand beside you, smiling tentatively. Dean put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. You looked on, feeling your heart swell at what you knew was a full-circle moment for Dean. You knew these moments were few and far-between in a profession like yours, and you had learned to savor them in your memory.

***

You and the brothers returned to your rooms to pack now that the monster was dead. As usual, you were finished packing before the boys were and leaned against the Impala waiting for them.

You watched Michael’s mom’s car pull up in the motel parking lot. At that moment, the boys came out to join you.

“Hey, Joanna. How's Asher doing?” Dean asked the mother of the two boys.

“Have you seen Michael?” she asked him.

“Mom! Mom!” the child in question ran up and hugged him. “How's Ash?”

“Got some good news. Your brother's gonna be fine,” she smiled down at the boy.

“Really?” Michael grinned.

“Yeah. Really. No one can explain it; it's a miracle. They're going to keep him overnight for observation, and then, he's coming home.”

You smiled as Sam asked, “How are all the other kids doing?”

“Good. Real good. A bunch of them should be checking out in a few days. Dr. Travis says the ward's going to be like a ghost town,” she explained.

“Dr. Travis? What about Dr. Hydecker?” you asked.

“Oh, he wasn't in today. Must have been sick or something.”

You shot a knowing look to the boys.

“So, did anything happen while I was gone?” Joanna asked her son.

The boy looked to Dean before responding, “Nah, same old stuff.”

“Okay.” Joanna smoothed a hand over Michael’s blonde hair. “You can go see Ash.”

A wide grin spread across the boy’s face. “Now?!”

She nodded at her son, who ran into the car. “I, ah, I'd better get going before he hotwires the car and drives himself,” she told you and the boys. The three of you watched as Joanna’s car pulled out of the parking lot. Sam and Dean turned to you and placed their bags in the trunk next to yours.

“It's too bad,” said Sam.

“Oh, they’ll be fine,” you assured him.

“That's not what I meant,” he shook his head. “I meant Michael. He'll always know there are things out there in the dark— he'll never be the same, you know?” He paused. “Sometimes I wish that....”

“What?” Dean questioned.

“I wish I could have that kinda innocence.”

Dean walked to the driver’s side door. He leaned on the roof of the car and said, “If it means anything, sometimes I wish you could too.”

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atlurbanist · 2 years ago

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Little Five Points development is welcome news

I'm a fan of this new proposal for an apartment building (with hundreds of units, plus retail on bottom) on Moreland Avenue at Little Five Points! This would replace the Camelli's building and the parking lots next to it, adding some much-needed investment in new construction/housing for the area. Also, big thumbs up for the lower-than-usual parking ratio! The proposal has 200 residential units plus commercial space, and only 147 parking spaces. That's good stuff. I love Little 5 Points for many reasons, but there's no doubt that it's slipped a bit off of many folks' radar as investment has grown closer to the Beltline. Putting more feet on this street is the right thing to do. It seems to me like L5P was largely a drive-to destination for a long time, at least in contrast with the new walk-to format of developments on the Beltline. This kind of new growth could help keep the district competitive and vibrant in a city where people expect more walkability. The proposal reminds me of the growth in apartments that Decatur experienced several years ago, which put new mid-rise buildings beside the lovely older structures of the downtown. And downtown Decatur has done pretty well for itself as a result. I think good things are in the future for L5P with this kind of growth. (For the record, I was also a fan of the nixed proposal for a mixed-used development replacing the Star Bar building.)

#atlanta #little five points #development #urbanism

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sierrale8ne · 27 days ago

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40 DAY AND 40 NIGHTS CHAPTER FIVE

thought i’d be lying if i said ‘i didn’t want you to myself.’ when you look me in my eyes and, tell me that it’s mine, i…

pairing wnba!paige bueckers x singer!oc

taglist @thaatdigitaldiary @rosemariiaa @ohbueckers @makethemhoesmad @patscorner @tndaqlifwy @wbbgetsmewetter @xxloveralways14 @authentic-girl03

kalena speakss 🪽! ju and kennedy was threatening my life for this so HERE. take it! 🙄

June 2025 — Atlanta, Georgia

It’s a couple hours after my show. I sat with my back against the counter of whatever bar Julian and a few of his friends dragged me out to.

The concert tonight was something I still haven’t fully processed. Even after having shows all over the country, performing in my hometown just hours ago was unreal.

The energy was indescribable. Loud would be the closest thing to label it. But after the event, a meet and greet, and an outfit change, I find myself under flashing lights and bass booming music.

I’m all by my lonesome at the bar, a lemon drop in my hands as my head slowly bops along with the trap music that fills my ears. Julian is somewhere across the floor with some friends from college, giving me a much needed break from him for the rest of the night.

He’s a different beast when he’s drunk. Not in a bad way, but just very loud or clingy, or touchy and after the long day I had, having his tall sweaty body over mine was only going to make me overstimulated.

I finish my drink and place the glass down on the counter, switching it out for ice cold water. It’s smooth and refreshing down my throat, a contrast to the warm atmosphere I’m seated in.

The sound of another drink hitting the bar grabs my attention, I turn around and the nice bartender in front of me pushes a drink closer to me. She doesn’t speak, only tossing her head to the side. When I look over, there’s a certain blonde delivering a wide smile.

I nod in response before taking a sip of the drink. A Dirty Shirley, of course.

“Good to see you’re alive.” Paige jokes when I approach her. She wears black light wash jeans and a black graphic tee. Her stomach is tight, abs on display, arms tanned and wildly muscular, and it takes everything in me to not gawk over her body.

She pats the stool to her left, signaling me to take a seat beside her. I fix my mini skirt before sitting on the stool, scooting it closer towards her.

“Hey, P.” My voice fits together. It’s a weird feeling. I spent all week thinking about what I would do when I saw her again. Maybe give her a hug, or tell her that I did indeed miss her. But instead, I’m silent. My voice is scratchy and I feel so little under her gaze.

“It’s good to see you, angel.” Paige smiles at me, her fingers tapping along the spine of the beer bottle she drinks from. “See you got my drink.”

“I did.” I responded. “I’m not sure why you like this shit tho’. Too much vodka.” I grimace.

“What?”

“It’s strong as hell!”

“Oh please, I’ve seen you take casa straight.” She points out with a roll of her eyes. I don’t fight the grin that spreads onto my face mid conversation. It was things like this that I think I missed more than her look. The childish bickering that led to belly aching laughter.

I’m about to speak up again, send a playful shot her way that shuts her up, when Julian saunters over. I don’t miss the slight tumble in his walk. He drapes an arm over my shoulder, standing right between Paige and myself as he tells the bartender to close out our tab.

His eyes travel to me first, but when he sees that I’m still attempting to look at Paige, he turns to face her too.

Julian gives her a nod. “You’re uh,” he takes a breath to search his brain cockily, I shoot him an unamused glance. “Paige right? Play for the Sparks?”

“That’s me.” She nods.

“I’ve heard a lot about you. This one doesn’t seem to shut up about you.”

Paige fights a smirk, and the only reason I can tell is because her eyes bounce from Julian, to the floor, then to myself, and then back to Julian. “Oh for real? Could say the same about you, man.”

Just like that their exchange is over. Paige looks away and Julian looks down at me.

“The guys and I are heading to a different club. You comin’?”

I shake my head. “I was jus’ gonna get some food. I’m not really feelin’ it.” I tell him.

He shrugs passively, reaching over me to take his receipt from the bartender. “Sounds good to me.” Julian leans over, kissing my forehead quickly. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

I can’t even fight the roll of my eyes this time. In the morning is crazy , I think to myself.

“Uh oh. Trouble in Paradise?” Paige asks. Her face is genuine, but her tone of voice makes it obvious to me that she’s prodding. I want to smack that stupidly sexy smirk off her face.

“Shut up.”

“And you cringin’ when he kiss y—”

“Paige. Shut up.”

She does, throwing her hands up in defense. I watch intently as her lips wrap around the spout of the bottle, the way her head tosses back when she takes a swig and how her throat bobs as she swallows. I’m so fucked.

“What are you doing in Atlanta anyways?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Game tomorrow. You comin?”

“You want me to?”

“I mean, I need you there. I went off last time you came.” Paige says. The manner with which she looks at me when we have a conversation is distracting. Her eyes glued on mine, a slight tilt of her head, and the occasional lick or bit of her lips. I’m trying really hard to keep my composure but it’s hard.

What am I even thinking? I have a boyfriend, whom I care for very much.

“You went off the other night in Chicago. Didn’t you have 30 or sum?” My hand fiddles with the straw in my nearly empty Shirley. For someone who thought it wasn’t all that good, I was definitely drowning it.

Paige laughs. “Aneesah and Angel blocked my shot like 5 times that game. And 7 kept picking my pocket.”

“You still played good, no?” I ask with a smile.

“Do you wanna come or not, angel?”

“Okay! I’ll go, I’ll go! I’m just sayin’ you don’t need me there. You’re on a tear this season anyway.” I turn away to fight the blush on my face. She’s such a flirt it’s unbelievable.

“Yeah? You been watching lil old me?”

“Oh fuck off.”

—

The coldness of the seat sent shivers through my spine, my short sleeve top not providing any type of warmth in the establishment. I can only imagine that Maraye’s skirt and tube top combo wasn’t helpful for her either. I toss her my gray zip up from my seat across from her.

After leaving the club, I made my way out to Waffle House, with Maraye obviously. It’s early in the morning, the clock on the wall reads 1:38am.

“Thanks.” She mumbles with a mouth full of hash browns as she takes my jacket.

“Mouth full is crazy.”

She rolls her eyes at me. “Y’sure you won’t be cold?” I find it funny, because even as she asks, she’s throwing on the hoodie and zipping it up gratefully. I brush her off, ignoring the very obvious goosebumps on my skin and stabbing into my peanut butter waffle.

We were talking about her shows over the last few weeks. I always found the lifestyle she lived so interesting. Honestly, I thought of it as being much similar to my career, but playing in a court and performing her most vulnerable moments for people is not the same.

“I mean seeing people in the audience cry over the songs I sing is so surreal. Like tonight, I closed with Different Pages, and as soon as the instrumental cut on, I could see girls in the front just start crying and I’m like, they really fuck with me. Y’know?” Her eyes glaze over and I don’t miss it. I wouldn’t even dare tear my eyes away from her right now.

She looks gorgeous. Which is simply unbelievable because her hair is a bit tousled and her eyes dark with exhaustion. Yet, she’s the prettiest girl in the world to me right now.

This entire situation is messy. For a multitude of reasons but the most obvious one being the six-foot-something curly headed boundary that is between us. I know better. I know that all me and Maraye have going for us is a friendship, that when she looks at me it’s just because she looks at all of her friends with that sort of eye contact. Or that when she begs me to come out to Waffle House with her at nearly two in the morning, it’s because we were already hanging out, and not because she wanted to have alone time with me.

I know better.

Even then, all my better judgment is thrown out the window with her. She’s everything. The personality I’ve gotten to know belongs to someone that I so desperately need.

I don’t even care about hurting Julian, oddly enough.

I drink from my glass of water before drawing myself back into conversation, I’d been quiet for a bit too long.

“You’re an amazing performer from what I saw. And the music connects to people. You shouldn’t be surprised.” I complement.

Her face contorts.

“You were at the show tonight? Why didn’t you tell me?” Her voice raises as she drops her fork on her plate.

“You been ignoring me all week, Raye!” I laugh. I probably should’ve told her that I was coming, but after my calls and texts went unanswered I just stopped trying. “I called you tonight too. Shit when straight to voicemail.”

Maraye frowns at me, looking down at her plate before back up at me. “I’m sorry.” She apologizes, but what follows I don’t even expect. “I’ve been thinking so much about you and ju’ and— regardless, I shouldn’t have cut you out.”

“I missed you.” It falls from my lips before I can even register it.

Maraye smiles that beautiful angelic smile of hers. She presses her elbows to the table, looking over at me with that goddess-like head tilt that turns my brain to mush.

“I missed you too, blondie.”

It’s different. I’ve heard it from her over the phone, or from past girlfriends, old teammates, friends. But the way those three words— I missed you— hit my ears has me falling apart into a puddle of skin and bones in my seat.

Her accent drives me crazy. It wraps her words in a certain comfort and familiarity that I could only ever feel from Maraye. It carries a gentle, melodic lilt that draws me into her, I’m damn near all up in her personal space from how deep she’s drawn me into her without even touching me.

Every simple phrase she says to me sounds like sweet poetry, and suddenly I’m understanding even more why her music makes people so emotional. Because the way she’s talking to me right now is making me feel things I don’t think I’ve ever felt for any girl in my whole life.

It’s fucking terrifying.

—

The end of the night approached much faster than I’d like to admit. Mostly because I had a great time with Paige and it was coming to an end. We made a quick detour to the 7/11 for slushee’s before getting in the uber again. We exited the car pretty quickly, arriving at The Westin Peachtree where we both, coincidentally, were staying at.

Paige walks me all the way to my suite. It’s a little past 3am when I stand outside my door.

I turn around to look up at her. Her hair is pulled out of her face now, a messy bun at the nape of her neck that gives me a perfect view of her clear and tanned skin.

“Thanks for keeping me company tonight.” I told her. My hands travel to the zipper of her hoodie, peeling it from my body. I don’t mean for it to look as sultry as it does, but that’s the message that it gives off because Paige’s eyes follow the whole way down.

“Y-yeah of course. I had a good time wit’ you, Raye.” She speaks. The stutter I pick up on is so slight, barely even there, but it’s enough to make me feel like I’m about to pass out.

I hand her the thick hoodie, thankful for the warmth it brought me for the last few hours.

I find it so crazy that I could have so much fun doing nothing with a person I’ve known for barely even a month. We walked around for what felt like forever, just talking and picking each other’s brains apart. It was a feeling truly like no other.

“So tomorrow right? I’ll see you tomorrow?” I ask. My bottom lip finds its way between my teeth as I nibble on it nervously. My stomach practically sits in my ass and I can’t pinpoint why, but suddenly I’m anxious. As hell. And it’s her, she makes me nervous in a way I’ve never experienced before— and I’ve been on stage in stadiums full of thousands of people.

There’s a sort of tension between the two of us. I’m grateful that the hallway is empty, because if people were walking around and saw us they would’ve for sure gotten the wrong idea.

Shockingly, I don’t even know if it would be the wrong idea. Because I want her.

Paige, the blonde woman that has maybe 4 inches over me, the blonde that I find myself looking for in every place I travel to, the blonde who looks at me right now with a different type of look in her eye that I can’t yet figure out. I want her.

“Yeah, angel. Of course.” She nods slowly at my question while taking a step closer to me. Her arms find a home around my waist and it is then when I’m hugging her that I realize it’s my first time feeling her touch all night.

Her body is so warm against me, her neck practically setting my forearms on fire.

She smells like strawberries, which I wouldn’t have expected from just looking at her tonight. I can feel every ridge of her muscles, I spread my palm over the ones on her back and her biceps press into my side from how she hugs me. I don’t pay too much attention to how her hand travels just a bit lower, inches away from the swell of my ass and I know I should push her further. Say that we’re toeing the line, that this is too much to just be a friendly hug, that it feels so damn intimate.

I don’t want to though.

That’s when I know I’m in too deep.

I pull back from her gently, but her hands still remain in their position. I place my hands on her shoulders, looking back into her eyes. The blue reminds me of fresh blueberries, they make me feel like I’m at home. The rims are a bit reddened, expected from how long we’ve been awake. Yet, I could stand like this for hours, just looking at her and those eyes. I swear I see the pupils get just a bit bigger, and I tear my eyes away from Paige before mine do the same.

I can feel that gaze still on me, but when I look back she’s dead set on my lips.

In return I look at hers. They’re a perfect soft pink. Plump and nicely moisturized from the chapstick I caught her using earlier. I wonder what they taste like. If they mimic her strawberry scent or if they taste like the blue raspberry slurpee she downed. They could taste like nothing too, and I wouldn’t mind it.

She’s suddenly pulling away from me with a step back, her arms falling from my hips. Paige clears her throat before digging her hands into the pockets of her jeans.

“Tomorrow.” She confirms. “Get some sleep, aight?” The drawl of her voice is addicting, I could spend hours listening to her talk to me just so I could know how different words sound when they fall from her lips.

“Yeah you too, P.” I responded, turning my back to her to unlock the door to my hotel. I hear her footsteps retreating from me so I turn my head back. It was supposed to be brief, I swear it was.

But then she’s looking back at me and I want to last forever.

Just me and Paige looking at each other for as long as the universe allows us to.

#sierrale8ne #kalena’s works ୧ ‧₊˚ 🍵 ⋅#paige bueckers #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers x oc #uconn wbb #la sparks #lesbian #my fic #40 days and 40 nights

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separatist-apologist · 9 months ago

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The Sweetest Con

Summary: Nesta Archeron has been trapped in witness protection for the past five years, hiding a secret no one can ever learn. All she has to do is wait out the criminals back home determined to punish her and her sisters for a lie they told years before.

She can handle anything- even the new agent sent to keep her safe.

Read on AO3

Five years earlier:

She wasn’t used to Georgia’s humidity.

Nesta never wanted to get used to it. Standing just outside the little white house that now belonged to her, Nesta wiped sweat from the back of her neck. The town was small—no more than a couple thousand people, if that. No big buildings, no major downtown, and worst of all, no Chinese food. Not unless she wanted to creep closer to Atlanta and given that Nesta’s car was a piece of rusting junk built a full decade before she was born, she doubted she’d make it.

So much for being a hot shot lawyer.

Nesta dumped her bag just inside the white picket fence, ignoring the peeling paint and splintering wood. It was the kind of place Elain would have thrived in. With a sigh, Nesta turned her back entirely on the overgrown yard and began walking along the only road in the town to the center—aptly named Main Street.

There was practically no one out. A few older woman walked with looped arms down the sidewalks while a harried mother pushing a stroller made her way toward the only grocery store. Nesta made her way toward the marble carved library, taking the steps one at a time despite the unrelenting sun overhead.

The air inside was ice cold and empty save of two women who were quietly talking to each other. One of them—the red head—clearly worked there given she was behind the desk. The other sat perched on the counter, a book in her lap. They had been clearly talking with some animation though now that Nesta had intruded, the pair stared with wary suspicion.

Nesta hadn’t come to make friends. Lifting her chin with all the haughtiness her mother had instilled in her, Nesta marched toward the shelves lined with fantasy and romance and began reading the jackets.

She needed a distraction. All she could think about lately was what would happen if Rhysand ever found them. Surely he was irate…he’d be out for blood. They’d flat out lied, pointing the finger straight at the notorious mafioso and the feds, in their eagerness to put him away, had overlooked all the evidence suggesting otherwise.

But Rhysand would know.

And Nesta wanted to forget him. Mobsters lived short lives, besides—in a year, he might be dead and the whole thing over. She could keep herself busy for that long. So long as the library kept books on the shelves, Nesta could find something to do.

She brought them to the front desk where the red head and the dark haired woman waited. “Library card?” The woman’s name tag read Gwyn.

“No,” Nesta said, fishing out her new drivers license. Agnes Smith. Sure. That sounded real. “Here.”

Gwyn eyed it for a moment. “You don’t look like an Agnes.”

“Tell that to my mom.”

Gwyn began typing on her computer, glancing at Nesta’s ID. “Emerie,” the dark skinned, dark haired woman said with a friendlier smile. “I think you look like an Agnes.” Gwyn rolled her eyes.

“You should come by the general store,” Emerie added, glancing at the ID for Nesta’s address. “You moved into the old Brandon house.”

“Grizzly murder happened there,” Gwyn said seriously.

“Did not. He died of all old age,” Emerie said quickly. “It’s been run down for a while. I’d be happy to help you out.”

“Do you like women?” Gwyn asked suddenly and bluntly.

Taken aback, Nesta said, “Um…not really—romantically, anyway.”

Emerie sighed. “It was worth a shot.”

Nesta almost blurted out that she’d still take friends before she thought better of it. No need to be defensive or obsessive. “Where is everyone today?”

“It’s ten am,” Gwyn said.

“They’re at church,” Emerie replied when it was clear Nesta didn’t understand.

“But not you?” Nesta questioned.

Gwyn handed her ID back, along with a white library card bearing her pretend name. “We aren’t welcome.”

“Why?”

Emerie grimaced while Gwyn scanned Nesta’s book. “They think I’m a homewrecker…and Emerie likes women. Openly.”

“Fuck them,” Nesta said without thinking. It was the first smile she’d seen from Gwyn—a small, half formed thing, but a smile all the same. “We should start our own religion.”

“That sounds like blasphemy,” Emerie teased.

“It sounds like witchcraft,” Gwyn added, pushing Nesta’s stack of books toward her. “I’m in.”

Which was how Nesta found herself hosting brunch that Sunday with two strangers in a house that didn’t belong to her.

PRESENT:

“Who is that?” Emerie asked, sitting on Nesta’s front porch holding a sweating glass of iced tea.

“He’s not local at all,” Gwyn agreed, lowering her sunglasses to take a look at the tall, muscular man making his way toward Nesta’s gate. Wearing mirrored shades and a suit that was bursting at the seams, he looked like he was playing dress up as a cop.

His dark, wavy hair half pulled in a bun didn’t seem regulation, for one. But something about him seemed off somehow.

“He one of yours?” Gwyn questioned. Nesta had long since betrayed the secrecy she’d been sworn to, telling her friends everything but the most critical piece of truth in order to protect Feyre.

Nesta scratched her ear. No, this man was definitely not one of hers.

“Want us to stay?” Gwyn asked, likely thinking about the shotgun mounted in the back of her pick-up truck.

“I can handle him,” Nesta assured them. Gwyn and Emerie stood, leaving behind their cups to slip from the yard. Gwyn nodded at the man once, lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval. That left Nesta standing at the top of her porch steps wearing a butter yellow sundress, arms crossed over her chest.

“Ma’am,” he the man began as he approached, his expression unreadable. She waited, watching as he took off his sunglasses only for recognition to slam into her. Oh. She knew this man from pictures. “My name is Cassian.”

Rhysands right hand man. Nesta didn’t move, unwilling to betray she knew who he was. “What can I do for you, Cassian?”

Not even a fake name? Was he that confident she’d never done one google search? He had a mugshot, had appeared in the papers just enough times for Nesta to recognize him. They called him The Lord of Bloodshed thanks to his rumored job of handling the things Rhysand didn’t want staining his hands or his conscience.

And that man was standing at the bottom of her steps, armed just beneath his suit jacket.

“I’m here on behalf of your case,” he said like a pretty liar.

“Oh? Has something happened?”

“An indictment is coming. I’m to escort you back home once Rhysand has been charged.”

Liar.

Still, there was no reason to call him out on it. If Rhysand had found her, he must be still looking for her sisters. She didn’t believe for a minute he’d found Feyre—his bruiser would have pointed his gun at her by way of greeting had he. No, they were monitoring her.

And Nesta could watch them right back.

So she smiled, hoping she seemed innocent and sweet. “What a relief,” she lied, stepping to the side so he could come up. “I was starting to think I’d be trapped here forever.”

“Can I come inside?” Cassian asked, looking around her immaculate yard with interest. “It’s hot out here.”

“Better get used to that,” Nesta said, pulling open the screen door so Cassian could get the lay of the land. “Are you staying here?”

“If you don’t mind. The hotel is…”

Roach filled, she knew. People still went, content to carry out their clandestine affairs in filth so long as no one ever found out.

“I have a spare room,” Nesta told him. Cassian turned back for his own car—a brand new jeep that was laughably out of place in her little neighborhood. He returned with two bags slung over his broad shoulders, eyes hidden behind his glasses. The sun hit the golden brown of his skin, making it seem as if he glowed and tragically, Nesta thought he was a good looking man.

He’d kill her if she wasn’t careful…but attractive, all the same.

Nesta showed him to the smaller room she kept made up just in case Gwyn or Emerie wanted to stay the night, thinking the full sized bed didn’t seem big enough for this man. He had to duck beneath the doorway, putting him well over six foot three—maybe six six? He made Nesta, who stood tall at five nine, feel dainty by comparison.

“Should I call you Cassian, or…?”

“Cassian is fine,” he replied, sunglasses resting atop his head. “This is perfect, by the way. I promise you’ll barely know I exist.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Nesta said in a flirty voice as she eyed him. “I think it would be hard not to notice you.” He grinned, unaware that a real agent would have shut her down in seconds. “Well, Miss Agnes, I’ll do my best to keep out of your hair.”

Nesta offered him another smile, mind racing. If she survived tonight she assumed she’d survive as long as he wanted her to—and as long as she didn’t admit she knew what he was. That meant keeping it from Gwyn and Emerie, who wouldn’t be able to stop themselves from treating him like a criminal.

He thought she was prey, but Nesta Archeron was a survivor. A predator, just like this man. And she had lived in Georgia for five years��she had guns hidden all over the house. He didn’t need to know any of that, though. Nesta waited while he unpacked some of his things and peeked around her little house, mostly quiet as he cased her. Sitting on her sofa beneath a ceiling fan moving at top speed, Nesta heard him push open the back door and walk through the yard where she assumed he was testing the gate.

He messed with windows when he returned, pushing back curtains to peer out into the street. “You’re wide open out here,” he finally said with a frown on his pretty face. And he was pretty—sculpted and rough in a way that was hard to ignore. Nesta found herself noticing the green in his hazel eyes and the way stubble clung to his strong jaw. A slit cut through his eyebrow while faint scars littered his jaw and hands, betraying a man who knew his way around a fight.

He was fooling no one but himself.

“This is where you put me,” she reminded him, wondering if he understood what she was really saying.

“Maybe we’ll keep the curtains closed,” Cassian said, as if Nesta didn’t do that anyway. The sun was unforgiving and the only way to survive swampy summers was to try and keep things shady and cool.

“Do you want to take off your jacket?”

“I want to take everything off,” he admitted, shrugging out of what she had to assume was stolen. “Even my own skin.”

“That’s how I felt when I first got here,” she told him. He’d look back on all this and remember—he’d realize she knew the moment he stepped onto her lawn. “You get used to it.”

She was going to kill him, she realized. The knowledge slammed into Nesta’s chest violently, paralyzing her for a moment. She’d never killed anyone…but at some point she’d have to kill this man before he killed her. Cassian, for his part, was unaware of the slant of her thoughts. He must have already known when he came down that he planned to kill her just as soon as he was given the order. She doubted he intended to take her home…and if he did, it would be under duress.

That was future Nesta’s problem, though. For now, all she had to do was stay one step ahead of him. And that meant pretending like she believed every word coming out of his mouth and ignored all the obvious signs that he was a liar.

“Hungry?” she asked.

“Starving,” Cassian agreed. He vanished into the room she’d given him, leaving Nesta enough time to try and steady her nervous hands. By the time Cassian returned, Nesta was slicing up meat for the grill outside. There was absolutely no way she was turning on her oven.

“Can I help you with that?”

Instinct demanded she say no. She didn’t want Cassian anywhere near lighter fluid, for one. He looked so earnest and she was pretending, so Nesta nodded. “I haven’t seasoned it yet.”

“Leave it to me,” Cassian said with an easy smile. And she did, watching him from the corner of her eye while he seasoned her meat and vegetables. He vanished out the back door and when he returned, sweat glistened over his face. Nesta found herself standing there for a moment, staring as he pulled the rest of his hair off his face, biceps straining against the cuff of his t-shirts.

Cassian was heavily tattooed with black ink that crawled over his arms and up his neck, broken only by the sweaty shirt he wore.

“Why do people live like this?” Cassian asked, wiping his brow on his sleeve. “It’s horrible.”

“I keep saying it,” she replied honestly. “I would have preferred a colder climate.”

“Next time,” Cassian grumbled. “What are you doing now?”

“Cutting up fruit. Want some?”

Cassian picked a blueberry out of the bowl and popped it into his mouth. “How do you spend your time, anyway?”

“I’m the town lawyer,” Nesta informed him. “I work in a little office down on Main Street.”

“And when you’re not working?”

She shrugged. “I have friends…but I mostly read.”

He glanced toward her shelves of books in the living room, visible from the hall connecting the two. “Anything interesting?”

“Take a look,” was all Nesta could think to respond. Cassian didn’t take her up on her offer, turning instead to go check on the grilling meat. Had she not known who he was, Nesta might have thought the awkward environment was just because a stranger had invaded her space.

It felt almost normal.

Almost.

Because Nesta couldn’t forget a killer was sitting across from her, his hands soaked in blood. She kept coming back to it as they ate in relative silence. Why had Rhysand sent him here? What did he want with her? Nesta needed to figure it out.

And figure it out fast.

CASSIAN:

Nesta Archeron was beautiful.

Cassian hadn’t expected it. He’d seen a picture of Feyre only once and had kind of imposed her face on all three Archerons. Walking up to her house had been a surreal experience. For one, all Cassian could see was her tits pressed against the neckline of that sundress she wore. Holy fucking Christ, but Nesta’s body was something out of his most depraved fantasies.

But her eyes were something else. Icy blue and calculated, it was no surprise Nesta had survived five years out mostly on her own. Did she even know her sisters were guarded by federal agents while she was left to fend for herself?

It irked Cassian. Sure, he was grateful he’d been able to gain access to her life so easily, but surely someone was keeping their eyes on this woman? So the likes of him couldn’t just stroll into her home and do whatever he liked with her?

But after two days living with Nesta, Cassian learned that no one seemed to care if she lived or died. Which was just as well—because he was starting to care. Just a little, he told himself that second night as he laid in bed staring up at the ceiling fan.

His only job was to get her back to Rhysand in one piece once he’d tracked down Feyre and married her. Nesta wouldn’t even know until it was all too late and the feds would lose their pathetic case.

And then Cassian could go back to his regular life in a place that wasn’t drenched in humidity. How did anyone sleep? Even with Nesta’s air conditioner going at full blast, Cassian found himself shucking off his shirt and kicking the sheets to the floor in a desperate attempt at sleep.

Thinking the living room might be cooler, Cassian dragged his blanket with him to the couch where he found Nesta, half hidden in the dark with a piece of toast in her hand.

Her little night dress was enough to empty out his mind. Why was she so hot? Cassian could see every curve of her perfect body beneath the silken blue fabric and her hair was loose around her shoulders rather than braided in a crown atop her head.

He wanted to lick the salt off her skin.

He wanted to lick a lot of things, actually.

Cassian was fairly certain federal agents weren’t supposed to have sex with their charges—even if Rhysand was certain Vanserra had something going on with the middle Archeron. Cassian wasn’t anything close to a cop and fucking was his favorite thing to do.

“I ah..” Cassian rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly hyper aware that all he wore was a pair of loose shorts. Nesta was looking only at his face with a grim determination—as if she found it very difficult to do so.

You can look at any part of me you like.

Having sex with her would certainly pass the time.

“It’s hot,” Nesta said, flipping on a lamp on the side table. “I keep meaning to get someone out here to look at my AC, but…”

“I’ll look at it,” Cassian promised. “Before the sun comes up.”

“You’re handy?”

He was, actually. “I grew up with a single mom,” he said, flashing her a smile before making his way to the sofa. “We didn’t have a lot of money, so I learned how to do repairs.” Nesta tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. Unwilling to give her a reason to banish him, Cassian made a show of fluffing the couch cushions before stretching himself out.

“My shower doesn’t have hot water,” she finally told him.

Cassian grinned in the dark. “I can take a look at that, too.”

“I would appreciate it,” Nesta replied.

“Why don’t you make me a list? I’ve got nothing else to do all day and I feel like a freeloader sitting on your couch.”

That was true. Cassian was used to staying busy and suddenly he had nothing but downtime. It was tempting to go to the library and find his own books to read and treat the entire thing like a vacation. This would help build trust between them, he rationalized.

And Cassian liked having something to do. He liked being useful to people.

“I could do that,” Nesta said, still standing in his line of sight. Even in the dark, Cassian could see her nipples pointed through the fabric. He wanted to touch them.

“I’m here to help,” Cassian reminded her.

“Of course,” she said, her tone unreadable to him.

He nearly asked if she wanted to join him. It was on the tip of his tongue, but Nesta beat him to speaking, adding, “Well. Sleep well, Cassian.”

“You too,” he said, disappointment ribboning through him. It was absurd to think a woman like Nesta Archeron was going to crawl in his dirtbag lap.

Still, Cassian could dream. And he did, waking with a throbbing erection he had to discreetly handle in the freezing cold shower. Cassian hadn’t noticed it wasn’t hot given the air was miserable and he didn’t want to take a boiling shower for once. He could hear Nesta in her room listening to music, up with dawn just like he was.

He found tools out in her garden shed, unused and rusty. They’d likely belonged to the previous tenant, whoever they’d been. Still, they worked well enough for Cassian’s purposes. What she needed was an entirely new unit. Cassian guessed the old one was over a decade long and judging from the rattling, it was on its final legs.

He had money. A lot of money. Would she believe him if he told her the agency had decided to replace it? Nesta didn’t strike him as particularly stupid—if they’d never helped her before, she might not believe they’d help her now. He couldn’t live the way they had been, though, which was how Cassian found himself on the phone with the local repairman giving out his credit card details over the phone.

Nesta was gone by the time Cassian came back into the house, drenched in sweat and slightly sunburned on the tops of his arms. It was a relief to get into the basement and work on the water heater, and by the time Cassian finished, the service guys were there to replace Nesta’s air conditioner. It required them to turn the air off which was actual hell, though once it was back up, Cassian felt instant relief.

Nesta returned with a scowl on her face, dressed in a pencil skirt that made Cassian’s mouth dry out. How had Archeron managed to create her? Cassian had met him—he was nothing special. An unremarkable man in every way imaginable, including his appearance.

Nesta could have modeled. Could have had her face on billboards, her body in magazines. Had he met her back home, he knew he’d have dogged her steps hoping for just a look in his direction.

“Any news?” Nesta asked, sliding her keys and purse onto a side table. Cassian watched her kick off her heels and turn her face upwards toward the vents blowing cold air.

“Nope,” he said. What would Rhys do if he kept her here for a year? Kick his ass, likely. “Rough day?”

Holding up a cloth shopping bag, Nesta nodded her head while Cassian rose to take it from her. Inside he found an assortment of peppers, onions, and a rather nice steak he assumed she wanted to grill. Cassian had never grilled before he met her and found that he rather liked it. In fact, he liked the whole little game he was playing. Pretending to be the sort of man who had a house and a wife and a barbeque suited him.

In another life, Cassian would have thrived.

“I’m working on another divorce and her soon to be ex stopped by to tell me what he thought about me.”

“I hope it was to tell you you’re beautiful,” Cassian replied without thinking as he peeled stickers from the vegetables.

“No it wasn’t,” Nesta replied, her tone uncertain. “It was to tell me what a bitch I am.”

Cassian arched a brow. “Did you tell him to get fucked?”

Nesta chuckled. “Not this time…but I wanted to. He thinks if he digs his heels in, he can avoid this divorce but it’s happening either way.”

“This is why I’m not married,” Cassian said, reaching for a knife.

“Oh?” Nesta asked, an amused smile on her perfect face. “Is that the only reason?”

Cassian couldn’t help his grin. “I’m off-putting to women, of course.”

“There it is,” she said with a pretty laugh. “Want any help?”

“Get out of my kitchen, Nes,” Cassian replied, swatting her away. “Water’s fixed, by the way.”

The whole thing was warm and domestic. Nesta thanked him before sauntering off, hips swaying with each step. The only thing to temper Cassian’s hot blood was the hotter grill outside and a reminder that Nesta was off limits to him.

He was merely a guard meant to get her back home before the feds scooped her and her sisters back up again. Collateral, he supposed, for the game Rhys was playing with Feyre. Cassian was grateful for that, at least—if Rhys called him and told him to kill her, he wasn’t certain he could do it.

Cassian returned to find Nesta in a pair of tiny little shorts and a pink tank top. He wished she’d pull her hair down, still left in its braided crown, though in truth he could have stood at the backdoor and stared at her for an embarrassing length of time.

“What did I say about the kitchen?” he teased, setting his tray of meat and vegetables on the counter beside her.

“I wanted to make a little salad,” Nesta told him, showing him the bowl. “Do you even eat vegetables?”

“On occasion,” Cassian said with an easy grin. “I’ll eat whatever you put in front of me, though. I’m not picky.”

“Tell me about yourself, Cassian,” Nesta ordered once they were seated at her little wooden table.

“There’s nothing interesting to tell,” he replied. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself? I’ll bet you’re a lot more interesting than I am.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Nesta murmured.

“C’mon,” Cassian cajoled. Nesta sighed, eyes narrowed with that suspicious look he was growing so fond of. Was there such a thing as love at first sight, he wondered? Cassian was starting to suspect he was under its spell. Under hers, anyway. Nesta relented, telling him little stories he figured were probably half true.

Cassian knew the right questions to ask, at any rate. Careful not to mention her family, Cassian asked her about everything else. Nesta spoke about going to law school and living in Georgia, mentioning two friends she’d made—Gwyn the librarian and Emerie the grocer. He’d seen them on his porch when he first arrived.

He needed to do a little digging on them, but he figured they were likely fine.

“What about you?” Nesta asked, their meal long concluded. Cassian began gathering up dishes.

“What about me?”

“Are you from Georgia?” she questioned.

Cassian chuckled. “No, I’m not from Georgia. Just got unlucky in my assignment, I guess.”

“Why did you want to do this work?”

Cassian considered that. “I’m good at it,” he replied, drumming his fingers along the edge of the sink. “I kind of fell into it, actually. I guess I succumb easily to peer pressure because when one of my friends suggested I apply, I did it without hesitation.”

That wasn’t entirely true. There had been no application process—he and Rhys had become friends as boys and Rhys’s mother had been like a second mother to Cassian. He’d always wanted to repay them for their kindness and when Rhys asked him to join him as his right hand man, the answer had been obvious.

He couldn’t tell Nesta that, though. She didn’t poke, either, seemingly satisfied with his answer. While Cassian cleaned up, Nesta made her way to the living room, picked up a book, and curled up on the couch. Cassian watched her pull a blanket from the back of the sofa and drape it over her tanned knees.

“Cold, huh?” he joked.

“You fixed—”

A gunshot silenced both of them. Nesta jumped clean out of her skin, book falling from her trembling hands. Cassian frowned, his own heart racing with excitement. Finally, something interesting was happening.

His own gun was in his hand before Nesta ever stood. “Don’t move,” he whispered, motioning for her to get away from the window.

“Send the bitch outside!” a man’s voice yelled, filling Cassian with cold rage. He was at the door in a moment, flinging it open so it was his large body filling the space. On the lawn, a man stumbled forward, gun pointed at the sky. He pulled the trigger again, clearly trying to intimidate Cassian.

Cassian had been tied up before, a gun pressed against his lips while his cock was threatened with a knife. Some fucking rural drunk with a gun didn’t scare him. In truth, very little scared Cassian. He’d cheated death more times than he could count and he knew, as he stepped onto the lawn in the fading daylight, that he wasn’t going to die today.

This man, on the other hand…well. Cassian supposed it would depend on what he did next.

“Lower your weapon!” Cassian barked, his voice rough and menacing. The man jerked to look at him, eyes wide and watery. “Put your gun down or I’ll fucking kill you.”

“Send out your bitch—”

Cassian didn’t shoot him, but he did hit him in the face. Hard. Maybe too hard given the way the man crumpled at his feet as blood poured from his nose. Only the alcohol kept him from passing out which was lucky for Cassian.

Crouching in the grass, Cassian grabbed the man by his thinning hair and forced his head into an unnatural angle. “What did you say?”

“I called her a bitch,” the man spluttered through the blood.

Cassian cocked his gun with his free hand and pressed it to the man's cheek. “Try again,” he whispered, fully intending on killing this man on the front lawn. Cassian’s finger pressed against the trigger just as Nesta barked, “Cassian!”

He twisted to look at her, arms crossed over her chest. She was fury incarnate right then, marching toward the pair of them without a care in the world.

“Get out of her, Brent,” Nesta ordered, pointing her finger toward the gate. “This is embarrassing, even for you.”

“You ruined my life—”

“You ruined your own life by cheating on your wife!” Nesta spat without remorse. “And you’re ruining it by assaulting a federal officer.”

Cassian nearly choked. Did he look like a cop right then?

“He assaulted me,” Brent protested, shoving out of Cassian’s grip.

“If I see you near her again, you’ll find yourself six feet under before you can utter one fucking word. Do we understand each other?” Cassian asked, rising to his full height. Brent glanced from the gun in Cassian’s hand to Cassian himself before offering a sullen nod.

“Whatever,” he muttered, clearly trying to save face. Cassian watched him stumble off, forcing himself not to pull the trigger anyway at the man’s retreating back. Nesta came to stand beside Cassian, resting her soft, small hand on his forearm.

“That’s the guy getting the divorce,” she told him, as if Cassian cared who he was. Letting someone who threatened him walk away unscathed felt wrong and Cassian longed to rectify it. Where did he live, he wondered?

“I can see why,” Cassian muttered, turning back for the house. “I’ll sleep on the couch tonight.”

“He’s not coming back—”

“He pointed a gun at you,” Cassian growled, the memory filling him with rage.

Nesta only shrugged, proving that she was still part of the life whether she wanted to be or not. Did she know what a liar her younger sister was, he wondered? Did Nesta know it had been Feyre who killed her father? Looking at her in the warm light of the house, Cassian decided that a woman like Nesta wouldn’t allow herself to live this way if she hadn’t known. If she wasn’t protecting someone.

Who was protecting her?

“I’m fine,” Nesta reminded him. But Cassian knew all too well how differently things could have gone if he hadn’t been there. Cassian knew how quickly a bullet could end things.

“I’ll feel better out here,” he said, setting his gun on the glass coffee table. “You won’t change my mind, Nes.”

She hesitated, eyes moving from him to the window. “Fine.”

Cassian had no intention of sleeping, though. He waited until he knew Nesta was asleep, slipping into her bedroom just to check. She was so lovely even in sleep and Cassian had to resist the urge to touch her face. Not tonight. Another night, perhaps—but not this night.

The thing about small towns he found himself appreciating was how easy it was to find people. Slipping into a local bar, Cassian mentioned what had happened to the bartender, who helpfully told him where Brent lived.

He didn’t bother to slip in quietly. If he wanted to be unnoticed, he would have called up Azriel. Cassian liked when his marks were scared, for whatever that said about him. Flexing his fingers, Cassian picked through the dirty, mostly empty house. He supposed Nesta was helping to clean him out.

Good for her.

Brent was waiting in a fraying brown chair, a bottle of Jack Daniels held loosely in one hand. “Knew you weren’t no cop,” he muttered. “You got the look of a felon.”

“Have you been talking to my third grade teacher?” Cassian asked, his tone light. “She used to say the same thing.”

“You ain’t foolin’ no one but that girl of yours,” Brent told him, eyeing the gun in Cassian’s hand.

“She’s the only one I need to fool,” Cassain agreed, coming closer. “I swore an oath to protect her.”

“I didn’t hurt her.”

“But you scared her,” Cassian said in that same friendly tone. “You came to her house and threatened her and I can’t stand for that.”

“Well, I don’t really care if I scared her. Sometimes women ought to be a little afraid.”

Cassian clenched his fingers. “Is that so?”

“Make your threats and get the fuck out,” Brent ordered, taking another swig of whiskey. Cassian saw his gun on a chipped side table.

“You don’t have much going for you, do you Brent? Wife left you, took all your money…is about to take your house. You’ve got no job, no friends…anyone would lose it.”

“Yeah,” Brent mumbled, eyes glassy. “You get it.”

“If I were you, I’d probably kill myself too,” Cassian added, holding Brent’s gun in his hand. Brent’s eyes found him, big and wide with shock.

“What did you say?”

Cassian shrugged, making his way closer to the inebriated man. “I don’t think anyone will be surprised when they find you. I’ll bet it takes them days before someone comes checking.”

“Look, you don’t have to do this. I can…I can pay you—”

“No you can’t,” Cassian said with a chuckle. “And even if you could, I wouldn’t take your money. This is about honor, of which you have none because an honorable man wouldn’t try and threaten a woman for doing her job.”

“She fucked me over—”

“You fucked yourself,” Cassian interrupted, reaching for Brent’s hair a second time. “And you made a mistake coming after her.”

“I’m sorry—”

Cassian pressed the barrel of the gun beneath Brent’s jaw.

“I know you are,” he said, holding the man’s gaze. “It’s not enough.”

And then he pulled the trigger. The relief he felt was instantaneous, his blood lust slaked. It took another few seconds to arrange the gun in Brent’s hand, letting both his arm and the weapon fall lifelessly into his lap. The bottle of Jack hit the floor with a thud, spilling over stained wood floors.

The scene was practically a work of art. Textbook suicide—no one would look twice at him or Nesta. That didn’t stop him from wiping his prints on the way out, just in case. He found himself back on the couch, face washed of blood, before two am.

Cassian had been right about one thing: it took them three days to find Brent.

“Suicide,” Nesta said crisply when she learned, eyes focused on Cassian’s face.

He only smiled.

#nessian #nesta archeron x cassian #nesta archeron #cassian

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