#shaw comes in after tracking the man who is impossible to track | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

chanluster · 4 years ago

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non ducor duco | {m}

oneshot | historical! au | gang! au | 15.2k words

“The most notorious gang leader in Victorian London can gouge out the eyes of men, steal from the corrupted rich, and terrify an entire city, but cannot figure out a few complicated feelings with you.”

s u m m a r y >> the leader of the sons of seoul, the wanted criminal mastermind, christopher bang, has the courage to commit any deed save for confronting you, his most trusted accomplice, about his feelings. however, when opportunity arises, in the shape of an invitation to a grand seasonal ball, to take down his fated enemy, he takes you to the heart of a lavish estate, both of you unaware of actions that occur inside, and after the mission.

w a r n i n g s >> gonna be using chris instead of chan cause it’s set in 1860s london, chan is a dom of course, jisung and changbin are dumb and dumber, are also massive cockblockers, some cliché scenes cause i’m a sucker for them, sexual! tension!, gore, foul language, making out, dirty talk, aggressiveness, semi-public fingering, unprotected sex (stay safe homies!!), oral (f. receiving), multiple orgasms, chan has a thing for being called his korean name, whack spelling for ‘cum’ as ‘come’ cause technically that word didn’t exist in 1860s, there is a plot so there will be build up

a / n > > so i went way over the 10k originally planned lmfaoooo but i hope y’all enjoy this oneshot! i worked my ass off on it and hopefully y’all can appreciate gang leader chan in 1860s london cause honestly i’m a 100% whore for that concept

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IT WAS A UNIVERSAL LAW THAT ONE MUST NEVER FUCK WITH CHRISTOPHER BANG. EVER.

Whatever charge you may have against him, it must be withdrawn. Whatever he had done to you — robbed you, murdered your son, destroyed your entire existence — it did not matter. There were always limits, and trying to challenge this specific criminal would only result in your undoing.

It seemed the target, cornered before you and the very man himself, did not fully understand this order.

Chris Bang, in all his midnight suited glory, took a step towards the cowering man, the ends of his longcoat trailing him in the air. His gloved hands locked behind his back, a grave curve of his lips as he addressed his next victim. “Mr. Shaw, we know you have the documents.”

This said Mr Shaw hastily shook his head, raising his hands in immediate surrender. “Please, Mr. Bang,” he whimpered. “I have no inkling of what you speak of!”

“Don’t you dare lie!” You interjected, sliding out your knife, pointing it towards him. “We received reports of you. Don’t you dare forget the monthly checks we’ve sent for its safekeeping!”

“I was taking care of it, Miss!” He backed further, until the wall of his office stopped his escape. “They came to the office though.”

“Who did?!” You demanded, but the way Chris’s hand fisted in irritancy answered your question.

The Mayor had taken their shares. Once again, the tyrant had robbed them off their fortune.

“Mr. Shaw,” the man beside you started. The raw, dark matter in his voice had the owner’s eyes widening in pure fear. “Who was it specifically?”

“A really large man, about seven foot for sure…God, he had cuts all over his face, slight stubble,” he answered, knees slightly shaking. “Please, Mr. Bang, I have a family, children who have not grown—”

“Why is it that whenever man is at his weakest he mentions his loved ones?” A few stray locks escaped from Chris’ raked hair, caressing the ragged scar from his brow down to his cheek. “Why do you think that I’ll suddenly take pity because you have others who will mourn your existence?”

These questions had the man collapsing, leaning completely against the wall for support. You stole a glance at Chris, wondering if he was now capable of extracting the very souls from men. “Do not keep toying with me, Shaw,” he warned, leaning in slightly. “I know you have information.”

A soft, helpless whine escaped from the owner of the building. “Then-they'll kill me,” he mumbled, looking up at the criminal with desperation. It was a shame that never worked on a man with no sympathy.

“I can kill you too,” Chris countered, and in a flash a sleek, pocket knife appeared in his gloved hand, and hovered it right under Shaw’s chin. “So how about you tell me what you know, and I can prolong your imminent end, hmm? Does that seem fair enough?”

You almost felt sorry for the man. “H-his men…” tears formed in his eyes. “His men kept calling him Carter.”

“Brilliant,” you muttered. ‘Scar’ Carter, the Mayor’s link to the crime world, the dirty dealings of London. Carter, the lapdog of the socialites. The most irritating, disgusting son of a bitch you had ever encountered.

“I see.” The knife stayed, caressing the manager’s skin. “Now I know they’re to sell the documents. The bastard is greedy.

“Question is, Shaw, where is the transaction going to take place?”

Dear God, the man looked as if he was about to piss his trousers. “The ball.” He tried to gulp, but felt the curve of the blade. “The Mayor’s brother is holding a masquerade ball in a few days, and Carter already had a client. They’re going to do the dealing there, I swear on my children!”

A harsh scoff emitted from the criminal. “You better hope for the sake of your sons that you aren’t lying.”

“Did you get the invitations?” You asked, eyes darting around the dirtied room, the messy desks and chairs lopsided from your searching.

“Yes, yes!” He pointed to a set of drawers. “There are two in there!”

You walked towards the destination, opening the drawers and sure enough, finding the gold-edged enveloped, addressed to Shaw and his wife. “Are your names inside too?”

“No, just the envelope, but that is not important! I promise!”

You pocketed the invitations inside your coat pocket, joining your leader’s side again. Chris, after a minute of heart-wrenching silence, stood up, freeing Shaw’s neck from the knife, sliding it within his belt.

“That wasn’t so hard, now was it?” His eyes were still upon the man when he said, “Let us return.”

The both of you were ready to leave when you heard Shaw’s sudden protests.

“The Sons of Seoul, everybody!” He declared, almost hysterically. “Coming in, fucking everything up, and leaving as if nothing had ever happened!”

Chris paused in his tracks, a quiet stillness passing over his whole figure.

“What are you going to do now, Mr. Bang?” He hissed, slowly sliding up. “Are you going to infiltrate the biggest ball of the season? Create a bloodbath on the dance floor? It’s what you love to do so ardently, no?”

You heard the harsh spit smack on the office floor. “Stop meddling with the business of the British socialites. Go back to the gutter you crawled out of.” The next words overflowed with hatred. “Go back to where you really came from, you slit-eyed prick.”

Your eyes flashed in shock, swerving around to see the raging expression on Shaw’s beady little face. Fisting your hands, you were ready to knock him out when you felt the man beside you move.

Chris whirled around, eyes promising a horrifying future as he pounced upon the manager.

A yelp was heard as Chris’ fingers dug at the corner of Shaw's eyes, and relished the cries of terror as with a roar of his own, he squeezed with his thumb and forefinger, swelling the balls of vision from their sockets. With a loud pop! the two eyes tore from their origins, gooey residue trailing down his face as Christopher Bang palmed the two organs in his hands.

He observed his victim bellowing in pain as he fell to his knees, hands covering his bloodied sockets. A ghostly smirk accompanied his lips. "Better slit-eyes than none at all."

You had to suppress the severe shivers that threatened to break your stance.

Shaw broke the universal law. His undoing was inevitable.

He flung the eyes upon the owner, and turned on his heel, eerily cool as he walked out of the office, blood and goo still on his black gloves. Not a hair ruffled upon his pretty head.

You spared a look at the victim, crying out in infinite pain, hands on his sockets still. “Do not fuck with Christopher Bang,” was all you said, before following the devil out of the building.

The afternoon London heat hit you as you exited the offices, Chris waiting as he examined the filthy streets surrounding you. People of all classes strolled by, beggars on the street asking for two-pence, children selling newspapers down the corners, and carriages riding away on the wide roads. The man still did not clean his gloves from the mess, and you pointed this out as you arrived at his side.

“It does not bother me,” he waved you off, but you brought out your leather skin.

“Bring your hands out,” you ordered.

Chris scowled. “I said I’m alright,___.” He began walking forwards, towards your humble abode, not far away from your starting point. “Besides, whoever strolls past us, they’ll second guess their evil intentions against us.” You glanced over the strange looking fellows, scattered across the roads. “Shows I am not afraid to get my hands dirty.”

“Whatever,” you mumbled. “Dirty pig.”

You felt daggers glaring into you. “What did you say?”

“You heard me,” you said, turning a corner, already catching sight of the docks. “I expect this behaviour from Jisung. Perhaps even Changbin, but not from you.”

“Enough with this,” the man ordered, irritancy clear in his voice. Grumbling, you walked beside him in silence, the Thames entering your vision. You wished it would have radiated a rich, clear blue body of water, but from the stench which even reached your nose, it would be impossible. The river, a dump for the sewers, the rubbish disposed daily, was a toxic mass of water, and the cause of thousands dying from drinking its contents. When you first joined the Sons you nearly drank from the river, being saved only by Chris’ rough hand slapping the cup away. You remembered you received a harsh scolding from him that day, immediately providing you with clean water after to quench your thirst.

A small smile curved onto your lips at the memory.

“Hand it over.”

You perked your head up to see his filthy, gloved hands out. “What is it?” You asked.

“The water.”An irritated sigh escaped him. “I’ll clean the bloody gloves.”

Your smile grew as you handed him the leather skin. “But only because I don’t ever want to be associated with Jisung and Changbin,” he added, and you only laughed, watching the man rub the mess off his attire as you both arrived at the docks.

The first sounds heard were not of the boats bellowing at port, nor the waves lapping in underneath the stilts.

No, all you were welcomed with was a string of curses, spat by Seo Changbin.

“You fucking bastard, how dare you—”

“Here we go again,” you caught Chris muttering, who quickened his pace, thundering to where the two of his sidemen fought, caught in a scrap.

Han Jisung’s whines were carried through the river air, burning into your eardrums. “Bin, no, I said I’m sorry—!”

When you caught up to Chris, he opened his mouth, exasperation clear in his voice. “Boys!” He exclaimed.

Immediately the fighting ceased. The boys addressed, Changbin atop Jisung, ready to throw the final punch, turned back to see his leader scowling. Jisung let out a yelp, throwing the former from him and scrambling to his feet. Changbin followed suit, a little more slowly after rubbing his side in agony.

“Why the fuck,” Chris started, pointer finger darting between his two men, “Are you both fighting again?”

Changbin, fixing his ruined locks with his hand, shot his best friend a glare. “He took my fucking scones again.” He groaned, much too loud. “God, I specifically stored them in a place where no one would find them, but this greedy pig still managed to snuff them out!”

Jisung, a slender and more comical figure, crossed his arms, raising his chin in stubbornness. “I did not see a bloody name on them! Tell me Bin,” he matched his opponent’s stare. “Did you write down your name with blood-red ink across the scones? Because I certainly did not see the words Seo Changbin scrawled on the surface!”

“Argh!” The elder of the two turned his raging gaze towards the leader, who was watching his subordinates with slight distaste. “Chris, permission to cut off his tongue for being the bane of my existence?!”

Chris only stepped past them, heading for the big wooden table situated near the gang’s warehouse. The sounds of ships sailing in the dirty waters thrummed to the port, shouting heard all around over new, imported goods. “Another time, Changbin,” he only said, bringing out a chair and sitting down, propping an ankle over a knee. “I have encountered enough organ slicing for the day.”

Jisung’s face twisted in awed curiosity, settling himself down beside Chris. “Without me?” he let out a disappointed whine, turning to you. “I trusted you, at least!”

“I was surprised myself, Ji,” you argued, raising a hand towards the aloof man as you sat opposite your friend. “I didn’t know Chris gouged out Shaw’s eyes until they were in his hand!”

“You truly are a selfish man,” Changbin complained, plopping himself on the last seat. “Alway keeping the fun for yourself and ____.”

You did not really know why your face flushed a little at his charge, but you made sure to whack Changbin in the gut, earning a pained groan from the boy.

Chris locked his hands upon the table. “Well, gentlemen, then it is time for you to join in on the entertainment.”

The two boys exchanged confused glances. On cue, you brought out the pair of invitations within your coat pocket, tossing them to the table. “The Mayor’s brother is holding a ball,” you explained, rolling your eyes at the boys tearing open the envelopes, yanking out the oblong, cartridge paper, details inked with a precise hand. “Since it does not have names, anyone can enter the estate.”

Jisung let out an excited yell, grabbing onto Changbin’s arm. “Binnie, we can actually have some fun!”

“Not so fast, boys,” Chris said, tightening his gloves. “The invitations are not yours.”

Changbin’s face immediately fell. “Are you fucking kidding me—”

The elder held out a finger, silencing the complaints, but not the quiet grumbling of his members. “As I was saying,” he continued, hands interlocking once more, “____ and I will use the invitations to get inside, with the two of you as our bodyguards.”

“Marvellous!” Jisung exclaimed, sarcasm practically dripping on his words. “Absolutely fan-fucking-tastic!”

“Jisung,” Chris warned, “How about you clean the shit off the docks instead?”

“Chan,” you murmured, causing him to glance at you. His sour expression almost softened at the word, the name which only few have ever said to him. You pondered at the time the two boys, sat to your right, tried teasing him with this name, and nearly earned an ass-beating. You, on the other hand, rather liked the way the name sounded on your tongue.

Perhaps, you wished dearly, he liked the way it sounded on your tongue too.

The man, after a pause, averted his eyes from you, focusing them on his comrades. “You both can still enjoy the festivities, but you have to keep a low profile, because while ____ and I are socialising and distracting the guests, you both need to find Carter.”

“Is he at the party too?” Changbin propped his elbows on the table. “Lord above, I’ve been wanting to kick his arse for a while.”

“So you both just frivol away, then?” Jisung whined. “I want to drink and dance!”

“And you both will,” Chris persisted. “We all will keep a lookout for Carter and his dealings, and if any of us find him first, you report to me. At my signal, you and Changbin will break through their trade. I will be behind you as long as I slip away without anyone discovering our motives.”

You look to your leader. “There’s another problem.”

The three all turned to you. “If we are to go to the most lavish ball of the season, we certainly need to dress for it.” Suddenly, you sounded like a little girl when you pointed out, “I do not have a gown to wear for the evening.”

An eyebrow raised upon Chan’s face, while Changbin and Jisung snickered, puckering their lips. “Aww, poor little ____ has no lace to woo the rich men!”

You made to slap the pair’s arms and narrowly missed, glaring. “As if you animals have any decent attire to wear for the ball! When was the last time you wore a proper tailcoat?”

That was enough for their teasing to cease, but Changbin was adamant. “Don’t throw me in with Jisung! He doesn't even bother to shower!”

“Oi, you bastard!”

The pair were ready to fight once more when Chris cleared his throat.

“You’re right,____.”

A glance at the man who said it. “I have only seen you in stealth gear and rags, the first time I met you.” He leaned back in his creaking chair. “Perhaps it is time to flower you up a little.”

Jisung and Changbin were about to chuckle once again when you shot them a dirty look.

“I will order evening attire tomorrow,” Chris decided. “They will arrive on the day of the ball, which is adequate enough timing.

“Now,” he declared, standing. “Are we all aware of what we have to do?”

The two boys turned sheepishly to you, who sighed and addressed the leader. “You and I attend the ball with these two fools as our bodyguards—”

“Hey!”

“____!”

“We maintain a believable facade and enjoy ourselves while also looking out for Carter and the documents. Once we find out where he is, Changbin and Jisung take him away, and we slip out of the party unnoticed.”

Chris, after a pause, nodded, a ghost of a smile upon his lips. “Good girl.”

And just like that, he left the table, your eyes a little wide and heart a little raced.

When Chris retreated into the warehouse, the two boys turned their malicious gazes towards you, smirking much too wide for your liking.

“Do not,” you snapped, cheeks burning deeper, earning a smattering of laughter from the bastards.

“Whatever you say, good girl,” Changbin simpered, Jisung repeating the damned endearment until you hastily stood from your chair.

You rewarded them both with your middle finger before storming back into another warehouse, Chris’ words still engraved in your mind.

Just as Christopher Bang had predicted, the new attire arrived on the day of the ball.

More planning had been explained, more additions to the grand scheme of the evening which was mere hours away. The gang was ready, but you can never be perfectly anticipated for any ideas gone amiss.

You even taught Jisung and Changbin to dance, ranging from the Polka to the Viennese Waltz, which was popular amongst high society in the growing years of Queen Victoria’s reign. They were terrible at the start, both of them always falling on each other, but with hard effort they learned quickly, almost perfecting the art of leading your partner on the ballroom floor.

You had not bothered asking the other if he wished to learn. There was something about him which made you think that he could do anything. Not once had he ever doubted your theory.

It was as if there was nothing in the world he could not know like the back of his gloved hand.

Thoughts like these were what filled you with such awe for him. Such deep-rooted pride that you worked under this man. Those thoughts did, however, curve into darker corners — when his midnight-lined eyes and raven figure haunted you in restless nights.

You aggressively shook your head, swinging your legs over the dock. Sitting upon the wood, you watched the sun descend slowly, the stark yellows and whites of the sky beginning to darken. Ships docked and stayed, men with their filthy language and filthier intentions flocked outside, and strange women with too-tight corsets and lips too rosey, smirking at the newcomers, carrying out their own ways of living.

Sometimes, you’d watch this run-down life move on in this exact same spot, thanking the lucky stars for not being one of the boys with the weights on their backs, nor the girls with the untied top corsets. You thanked the same man, who brought you out of that hell, giving you the chance to fight all this wrong embedded in London.

You also thanked him, especially that day, for calling you that endearment.

God. The man was a criminal, yet you were the one being imprisoned.

“____!”

You turned, heaving to your feet when you see Jisung running to you, packages in his hands. “Your gown’s inside!” He exclaimed, gummy smile lighting up his entire face.

Throwing you the box, you caught it just before it flew into the Thames, shooting the boy a wary glare. “Careful,” you said, looking over the silk ribbon tied into a perfect bow upon the middle. Although there were greater happinesses in life, small ones such as new dresses had you in near giggles.

“I’ve got my very own tailcoat now,” Jisung yelled, ripping open the packaging, about to whip out his new clothing when you waved him to stop.

“Do it inside, Ji, or you’ll ruin your outfit!”

“Trust him to fuck up a perfectly new suit before trying it on,” Changbin’s voice drawled through the dock, who held a box of his own. “Also, the boss is saying to quit dallying and start dressing!”

You obliged, holding onto your box tenderly as you entered a little building beside the main warehouse, consisting of everyone’s rooms and privies. Your eyes glanced to Chris’ bedroom door before pushing open the door to yours, stepping inside to the small, yet decorated space, filled with a board of knives and bows displayed upon one wall and an erratic strokes of paint brushed along the textured surfaces, courtesy of Jisung and Changbin’s lack of motivation to finish your room. An undone bed was tucked into the corner, and a large mirror stood on its curled railing in the other corner, revealing yourself, hands underneath the package.

The sun fell further, sky being painted with dark oranges and purple and pinks, staining your bedroom the colours of soft autumn as you put your package on the bed, untying the ribbon and unboxing the whole treat.

The first glance of the dress had you smiling in pure incitement.

You brought the dress out of its box, letting it trail free right down to your toes, holding it to arm’s length to examine the details : it was a mysterious, dark red, a colour which instantly attracted attention within the golds of the ballroom. The neck line was low, dipping just enough to tempt until it swelled over for the openings for the arms, black ruffles on the fabric to accentuate off shoulders. The intricate, midnight detail was stitched to perfection, creating a network of swirls upon the bodice before flaring out into the wider skirts. Dear God, you had never seen such an exquisite dress on any noble lady in this damned city.

Your smile grew a little wider. Christopher Bang, once again, has not disappointed.

You turned it on it’s back, mouth parting in surprise at the silk lacing, undone and trailing down the dress, waiting to be tied and admired. Realising that we’re you to wear this, the entire ball would see your back half-exposed. Even the man you’re to be escorted with.

The thought alone made your insides sing.

Chris had ordered this dress. He knew what he was acquiring for you, what he asked you to dare.

Well, you were happy to oblige. Something within you wished to see his eyes blaze at you in the gown.

Closing the curtains of your room, you quickly lit up a metallic lamp, orange light leaking onto your dresser and walls. Setting the source upon a stool, you began shedding your coat, tossing it on the bed before going to the dresser.

You spent about ten minutes on your hair, lifting locks upward and curling them into a messy bun. You brought out clips of pearls, attaching them at the back of your hair, letting the few stray curls bounce along your ears and neck.

After finishing your hair you began shedding your clothing, excitement rushing in your gut at the thought of wearing the ballgown. When you were adorned in nothing but your underthings, you grabbed onto the arms of the new dress, entering one leg into the opening before sliding the other. You raised the gown, fitting the bodice upon yourself and the short sleeves cuffing just under your shoulders.

Looking over your shoulder at the back, it was bare before the mirror, saving your rear only with a small dip which was edged with more black lace. The laces for tightening the back still hung uselessly, begging to be entangled with their partners.

And you tried to oblige. You truly did, straining your hands behind your back and trying your hardest to tie the laces with the opposites, of creating a pattern adequate enough for the ball and announce your preparation. Unfortunately for you, your fingers refused to assist you that moment in the evening.

Letting out an irritated sigh, you called for your friends.

“Jisung!” you shouted, hands endeavouring still. “Changbin!”

Your back still to the door, you waited for the two fools to arrive, but no one came. Again, you called their names, but to no avail, only silence answering you.

“I swear to the Lord,” you muttered, arms now starting to hurt from the stretching. You were about to bring the warehouse down with your roar when you heard the door quietly creak open, the sound of boots emitting against the floor.

“Ah, finally,” you began as you turned around, hands clutching the bodice of the dress, ready to be irritated by your comrades when all words abandoned your tongue.

There, standing by the door, in all his midnight-tainted glory, was Chris Bang.

You hated how your eyes widened at the sight of him.

The man always took care of his appearance, but that evening he had truly outdone himself - His infamous woollen longcoat was hung over his arm, exposing his black tailcoat, shining slightly in the flickering lamp light. His waistcoat underneath fit snug, and his white cravat tie peaked just above the lapels, caressing his Adam’s apple. His raven locks were slicked back, a few stray flyaways drooping over his forehead. The gloves were worn still, skin never exposed.

You caught his eyes flicker, something within stirring at seeing you, holding onto your dress in case it fell to the floor. The prolonging silence was shattered when you forced yourself to speak.

“Chris,” you said, because his name was the first thing, the only thing you could comprehend.

He, too, inhaled, slowly. “Jisung and Changbin...they’re outside, so they could not hear.”

“Oh.”

Another round of silence. God, you wished you could just say something to him, anything which wasn’t a single syllable—

“____.”

You snapped into focus. “Yes?”

“Why did you call them?”

Blinking, you stumbled, “I, I just needed help with…” your hand gestured to your back. “...with the laces.”

There was an indecipherable undertone in his next words. “You could have called me.”

“You’re here now.”

Again. The world-heavy pause upon the both of you.

A few more seconds ticked by when Chris set his coat upon the dresser chair. His eyes never left yours.

“Turn around.”

You dragged your gaze away from his as you complied, baring your back before him, laces dangling. His footsteps sounded from behind you, and his presence was felt, large and magnetic.

Leather sliding from skin, you sensed his eyes on you, taking in your illuminated skin. You had the greatest urge to shiver, but suppressed it, waiting for his next move.

A small breath hitched in your throat when Chris grabbed onto the first pair of laces and tugged them back, pulling you to him.

Almost too conveniently, your rear backed against his crotch, and a minute noise escaped you before putting some distance between you two again. You instantly regretted the action, already missing the mere caress of what lay underneath his trousers.

“Stop fidgeting,____,” he ordered, and you immediately stilled, the tug still adamant at your back. Almost disgraceful how quickly you listened to him.

Slowly, he tied the first bow, right to the small of your back. When he started on the second, though, the first touch of his fingers against your back threw you off guard.

You should have expected this. You should have known from the start of his task that his fingers would graze your skin but each caress was like a lick of fire, threatening to singe the skin. Your breath caught in your throat, each time Chris touched you.

Those damned fingers skirted upwards, tying up the laces with such delicacy it nearly softened your stance, if only you didn’t notice his growing warmth. You realised with no small amount of pleasure that he, too, was possibly flustered.

Christopher Bang. Flustered over a girl.

You almost gasped when his hands brought a few stray curls over your shoulder, the dip of your neck exposed as he began the final bow of your gown. The process was excruciatingly slow, each little caress enough for you to turn around and—

And what?

How you desperately wanted to find out.

Sensing the ribbon curling upon your neck, you understood.

“It is done,” he whispered, and you shifted at the sigh which kissed your skin. God, he was so close, you were scared that if you turned around his lips—

You did not need to worry when you felt strong hands grip your shoulders, whirling you around in a sudden fashion. Your eyes widened at the close proximity of his face, his beautiful fucking face, and the warm, slender hands on your naked shoulders.

“Chan,” you let yourself say, and you swore the criminal’s eyes darkened. His grip on you tightened.

Perhaps he would have closed the distance, saved you from desperation when someone knocked on the goddamn door.

“___?!”

“Hurry up, the carriage is waiting!”

“Women, honestly—!”

You yelped at the sound of your friends bellowing behind the door. Even Chris looked a little surprised, a slight tick in his jaw as the noise grew louder.

Grabbing onto your skirts, you thundered towards the door, furrowing your brows as you twisted the knob, opening to see the same two idiots, shooting you irritated glares.

“Is Miss Fancy-Shmancy finally ready?” Changbin drawled, propping a hand upon his hip, tails of his coat dangling behind him.

“Madame certainly took her time,” Jisung went on, sauntering into your bedroom without a care. “Might as well not attend the ball at all—”

His incessant rambling was instantly ceased when he saw Chris standing before you, putting on his gloves. His face was impassive as ever, save for the jaw still tightened.

“Oh, Chris,” he said, and started backing away to the door. “The carriage is outside.”

“Let us go, then,” he only replied as he grabbed his longcoat, strolling out of your bedroom, leaving your skin tingling and heart confused.

Changbin watched Chris exit the building, turning to you with a raised brow. “What was the Mr. Thorns-up-his-arse doing in your room?”

You scoffed at the nickname, picking up the invitations from the dresser. “He was just helping me.”

Jisung’s lips curved into a smirk. “Helping you…?”

“Stop it!” You demanded, but both of the boys could see the blush on your cheeks, even from the dim lamp light.

“Come on, now,____,” Changbin said, holding out an arm, and hitting Jisung’s arm to do the same. “Let us follow Chris before he shouts at us for keeping you here.”

“Don’t say such things,” you cooed, looping your arms with the two boys. “He will kill you outright instead.”

Laughter emitted from the two, leading you out of the room, down the halls and soon the building.

The carriage was waiting at the entrance of the dock, horses neighing softly at your arrival. Jisung opened the carriage door, letting you climb inside. Chris, inside already, held out a hand, you taking it as he had you sit beside him. His hard figure brushed against your shoulders, reminding you of his fingers on your back not too long ago.

Just like that, you slumped against the seating. That man was truly going to be the death of you.

When the two boys scrambled inside, Chris’ hand thudded against the roof, indicating it to start riding. The carriage obliged to his command.

The small, interwoven streets widened as the carriage rode upon the main roads, going faster with each signal of Chris’ hand. The inside was alive with Jisung gloating shamelessly over his checkered waistcoat, with Changbin giving reassurances for his “ugly face ruining the clothing.” You laughed at every jab the two threw at each other, but would tense at the erratic touches Chris’ knee would send with every shake of the vehicle. Although the many layers of skirts cushioned these brushes, the blood rushing to your cheeks was evidence enough - everything he did made you so unhinged.

Soon, the big roads led from filthy, back-to-back housing to larger homes, the further the dirty central city strayed from you. A few touches of countryside teased your view when you saw mansions, estates the size of neighbourhoods gracing the surroundings. The carriage began to slow down, as more people adorned in fine attire entered your window view, no doubt going to the same destination as the gang.

The most illuminated estate welcomed you as the carriage stopped right before its vast, colourful gardens, smattering of couples taking intimate walks along the hedges. Chris, noticing the destination, opened the door, Changbin following suit. As the former got out he held out his hand to you. Surprised by his sudden manners, you took his hand, stepping down from the carriage, careful of your skirts as they brushed against the pavement. Jisung and Changbin were right beside you, uttering the driver to come back within a couple of hours.

“Now,” Chris began, bringing your hand to his arm. “You both stay behind me and ____. You wouldn’t need invitations if you both act like our bodyguards.”

“Right behind you, boss,” Jisung chanted, counting his knives inside his coat pockets. Changbin took one of the weapons from him, sliding it up his trouser sleeve, securing it with a leather ankle strap.

“Right.” the gang all looked at each other, silent understanding passing between all of you.

“Let’s ruffle some rich feathers.”

With your hand still on his arm, the leader of the Sons of Seoul led his gang inside of the massive estate.

Guards at the entrance shot you grave looks as they stopped you. “Invitations,” they said. You obliged, bringing out the golden paper. They looked over, convinced, and gave them back to you.

You and Chris were about to enter when Jisung and Changbin were stopped behind you. “Protection,” Chris said, but the guards were unconvinced.

“They need invitations too,” was their answer.

Dread, slight yet present, began to fill your stomach. Has the mission failed before it could even begin?

“I suggest you let them in, too,” Chris only said, black eyes piercing the two men with a glare. “Or my friend hosting this party will hear of this inconvenience.”

That seemed to stir the guards, for they said nothing more, letting your friends enter the estate. Jisung and Changbin made sure to smirk at the men before sauntering inside behind you.

Your eyes, upon stepping inside the main hall, were welcomed with paradise.

Gold. gold upon gold was painted, lined, moulded everywhere, upon the walls, on the floor, on the painted ceiling, hypnotising you with its kaleidoscopic pattern. Swirls of white and silver journeyed along the walls, and the floor bore solid treasures, sculpted into the ground and shining exquisitely from the chandelier lighting. Hundreds of lords and ladies, businessmen and escorts populated the manor, either being moved by the orchestral band, dancing, helping themselves to food from the lines of dishes or simply mingling among others.

It was the chaos of the rich. A place you didn’t quite fit in.

You stole a glance at the man beside you. Even though he looked contained as ever, you felt his arm tightening all over. Perhaps he knew he did not belong in this world either.

The grim understanding was cut off when Changbin’s shrill gulp sounded from behind you.

“Scones!”

The man immediately dashed towards the food section, earning blatant laughter from his friends as Jisung stepped beside Chris. “Once he’s done stuffing himself, we’ll get into positions.” He skirted his eyes over the buzzing crowd. “I have already spotted some of Carter’s men in different corners of the hall, so we can see where they’re going to go.”

“Any signs of Carter?” you asked, already feeling suggestive eyes on your body, the dark red curves of your figure.

“He’ll show himself soon,” Chris promised, beginning to take a step forward. “The bastard thrives in attention.” He turned to Jisung. “Make yourself scarce.”

He then saw Changbin making himself much too comfortable with the jam scones rapidly declining in his wake. “And for God’s sake, control Changbin.”

Jisung shook his head, mocking a salute before strolling to his friend. You and him were left to your own activities, and soon you felt the tug of his body, leading you further into the hall.

You looked up to see him scouring the room. His brows furrowed slightly, that stiffness felt underneath your fingertips. “Chris,” you called to him, and were answered with an uncertain stare.

“I’m alright,” he said, walking along the lines of the dance floor, looking away when he gave you the false assurance.

You did not know what was going on. In other missions his composure would never falter — this was what he was so notorious for, being calm despite the anarchy around him. Never before had you seen him so tense.

“Stop it.”

You blinked back into reality. “What?”

“You’re doing it again,” he hissed, raking his hand through his hair. “Looking at me that way. Like I’m about to snap.”

A pout formed on your lips, looking up at him underneath your lashes. “I can sense you’re distressed.” You squeezed his arm in comfort. “I cannot help if I worry for you, Chris.”

With small surprise, you found him soften, only slightly. “I just…” he sighed in exasperation. “I hate parties.”

You understood the connotations. Wealthy parties. The men and women who throw them.

“And I, too,” you agreed, earning a soft snort from the man. Your heart warmed a little at the sound, and thankfully the tension faded between the two of you, not necessarily from each other but from the socialites around you.

Your heart, however, received no such rest, beating much too loud for your liking.

The two of you took another turn of the room before a low, arrogant drawl paused you both in your tracks.

“Mr Christopher Bang.”

You and your leader both sighed simultaneously.

Turning, you tilted your head upwards to none other than ‘Scar’ Carter, smirking ridiculously down at the the two of you. He was something out of a children’s book, the grotesque villains with wanned skin and beady looks, ready to pounce and make you disappear without you ever realising. Although young, he looked to be in his mid-forties, unkept locks and curled moustache, being played by his fingers.

He held out his other hand, extending the smile to the man beside you. “Always a goddamned blessing to see you.”

Chris assessed his hand for a moment before he let go of your grip on his arm, slipping off his gloves. His own olive coloured hands were roughened, no doubt from years of manual labour. He took Carter’s hand, shaking the greeting in place, and the latter turned his enemy’s hold, looking over at the new image inked upon the hand.

“What is this, Chrissy?” He mused, the nickname causing the said-man’s lips to twitch. “Some flowery poetry?”

Your eyes strayed to what he meant; just under his thumb, where the joint began, was a tattoo, inked deeply in a cursive hand. It was a phrase you had never knew the meaning of, nor had you asked, but the Latin was beautiful on his textured skin.

NON DUCOR DUCO.

“Not poetry, Carter,” he only said, tracing his sole tattoo with a finger. “But something I live by.”

Despite Carter towering over the man, Chris Bang pinned him with a piercing glare. His signature phantom smile appeared on his lips.

“I am not led. I lead.”

The giant’s shit-eating grin faltered. You could not help but let a small chuckle escape at his reaction.

And maybe you shouldn’t have shown amusement, because when he focused his animalistic gaze upon you, you had the sudden urge to hold onto the man beside you again.

“Ah, Miss ____,” he jeered, mocking a deep bow which you did not return. “Chris’ little...protégée.”

He then held out his hand to you, and you knew it was not to shake the gnarled fingers. “Would you do me the honour of dancing with you?”

You scoffed, anger bubbling within your veins. How dare he even ask you, after all the trouble he had caused for the gang? Smirking as if it was all a little game.

Your mouth parted, ready to reject him outright when a warm hand settled on your back.

Chris’ fingers stroked the exposed skin, skirting over the lacing, and despite the heavenly feeling, you knew what this signal really meant.

Distraction. This would be the perfect opportunity to divert Carter’s attention while Chris joined in the other’s search. Listening to the instrumental, you realised that would spare them another five minutes.

Reigning in your fury, you offered the bastard a thin-lipped smile before taking his hand, already missing the mere touch of another seconds before.

Carter led you to the dance floor among the other dancers, you hardly radiating the same enthusiasm as the others accompanying you. The man’s other hand, one still holding yours, snaked around your waist, and you hated how it felt against your back, pure distaste staining your features as he tried to impersonate the idle lace curling that Chris did.

As if it physically hurt, you propped a hand upon his shoulder, and when the music began, the game started.

The giant kept ogling at you as the sly grin appeared on his lips. “I must say, I am very envious of Chris.”

You matched his stare. “Of course you would,” you only said, trying your best to sound like your leader, who was an embodiment of calmness. “You can never be the man Chris is.”

“Oh, I did not mean by what he is, my lady,” he corrected. “I meant by what he has.”

He pulled you to him, much to close, and you hissed as the fingers behind you played on your back. “He is much too lucky to possess a creature like you, Miss ____.”

Good God. If he endeavoured to make you as uncomfortable as possible, then he was doing a splendid job. You regretted ever listening to Chris, but for the plan, you will do what is necessary.

As if on cue, you felt dark, piercing eyes on you. By the little hairs which stood at the back of your neck, there was no doubt who watched over you, murmuring progress with Jisung as he sipped wine on a tightly held flute.

“Tell me, sweet,” he began once more, making you lose your thoughts, turning about the room as the music went on. “Why do you work for a man like him?”

You sighed at the question. Truly this man did not know how to initiate small talk. “Why is that any of your concern?”

“Because I’ve seen you in action,” he answered, and you could not mistake the awe that threatened to expose in his voice. “You have incredible potential, my lady, and it pains me that Chris does not use you properly. You waste your efforts in a silly gang.”

His condescending speech made you dig his nails in his hand. “Careful, Carter,” you seethed, watching his face crumple in pain from your action. “The silly gang you speak of will not hesitate to obliterate your entire organisation. And neither will I.”

Rage flashed in his eyes as he grinned at your claim. “I doubt the esteemed Christopher Bang would even let you participate,” he drawled, grazing his fingers against your back. “You being his whore is enough for him.”

You parted your mouth in slight shock. The reaction quickly evaporated with pure, unadulterated fury. A lot of people speculate your true relationship with Chris, but your own demeaning always struck deep. How dare people think that you only have the power you have because you slept with the greatest criminal in the city?

With your head raging, you sent your low heel down upon Carter’s boot, a yelp escaping the man as his dancing faltered, grip on you loosening. Fortunately for you, the orchestra smoothed their music to a close, and small applause rang around the room, you joining as you smiled at Carter’s slight groaning.

When the giant looked at you again, all his arrogance was gone, instead a face of wrath. “You bitch-”

You were sure he was going to strike, despite hundreds in the ballroom. Even your smug demeanour dampened when you saw his bear-like hand raise when its journey was paused.

Ceased completely as Chris’ hand wrapped around Carter’s wrists.

Your leader’s smile was sharp, like a decorated dagger. “Are you already creating a scene, just when you finished the first dance?”

Carter, dumbfounded by his enemy’s sudden presence, waved off the foreign grip on his hand. “You are never going to find the documents,” he crowed, glaring at the two of you.

Chris, the magnificent bastard, only kept his magnetic smirk as he took your hand, enveloping his fingers with yours. “We shall see about that,” he promised, and dipped his head in adieu, turning on his heel and taking you with him.

You felt your heart flutter when his grip on you stayed, even when Carter stomped off into the crowd. “Bastard,” you hissed. A hum of agreement followed.

Soon, music began to play a sensual tune, and you looked to the couples joining in the main circle of the floor. You made to leave that area when you felt the man refused to be led.

You looked back, noticing an uncertain emotion swirling in his eyes. “The dance is about to begin.”

“So?” he merely said, hands still clasping yours. The people around you began to take positions.

“Chris,” you got out. “You do not dance.”

A small smile enveloped his mouth at the claim. He answered in wrapping a hand around you, making you suck in a breath. You caught sight of the tattoo inked on his skin as he raised his hold on. NON DUCOR DUCO.

I am not led. I lead.

“You’re right,” he admitted. As the first tune of the violin settled in the ballroom, the man took a step. “But I let it slide on special occasions.”

You did not reply, only staring at him as you happily let him turn you about the dance floor.

Your assumptions were correct - Chris Bang was a wonderful dancer. The man already possessed a natural smoothness in his usual movement, but the way he led you across the room gave fluidity another meaning entirely. His hand on your back was an anchor to reality, keeping you from dreaming away in the skies above, and his fingers, interlocked with yours, were a silent promise that he was never letting you go.

You were so caught up in your fantasies that you did not hear what Chris said until he called your name.

“____.”

You perked up, raising your brows. “Yes?

“Did Carter say anything to you?” His fingers on your exposed skin began to caress you, and it took a lot within you to stay calm. “You were seething while you both danced.”

Oh, so he was watching you. The information didn’t help your nerves. “He was being his usual, charming self,” you drawled, careful of your feet.

He paused a bit at your unhelpful answer. “I see,” he got out, index curling with the ribbon of your back. You let out a shuddered breath, not going unnoticed by the man.

You changed the subject, focusing on the mission. “Are Jisung and Changbin still searching for the documents?”

Chris, on the note, twirled you delicately, and brought you back into his arms. “They have discovered the hideout, and have taken down half the men,” he informed, and you sighed in relief. “They’ll find what we’re looking for soon.”

“I hope so, too,” you murmured, listening to the music ascend in its pitch.

So much finery radiated in this room. As your eyes drifted to the surroundings once more, you became slightly envious of the family fortunate enough to reside in this estate, and drink in the liquid gold splattered everywhere in the vast hall. Complaints were heard from a rather nasty woman, who screamed at a young servant for spilling wine on her oh so expensive dress, and the jewellery which glittered upon necks and ears.

This. you hated this. Despised the wealth which accumulated in this ball, this entire neighbourhood. Not months ago you were about to die from the lack of food in your stomach. No doubt these people simply relished another one of these many balls, occurring every season.

It was the only reason the Sons of Seoul existed in the first place. To battle the ranks of the rich, and establish a sense of justice which had long faded from London.

Perhaps Chris sensed your growing disgust at the environment, for he sighed. “I hate these people.”

You nearly smiled at how similar you both think.

His touches still had you nearing closer to him as he continued, “I hate how everyone here can simply enjoy themselves without a care in the world. I hate the Mayor for letting this chaos happen as he sits back on his arse, corruption spiking under his office.”

His anger grew. “I hate that pig-headed prick Carter and all the trouble he’s brought me. I hate that he stole those documents and constantly fucks with me as if we two had not crawled out of the same hellhole.

“And God,” he snapped, pure venom now lacing his tongue, “I hate how he was touching you as if you were no one but his.”

Your eyes widened at the confession.

He groaned out in frustration, fingers tightening on your hand. “I hate how Jisung and Changbin walked in on us this evening. Despise that the moment I was about to close the distance they burst through the door, leaving me helpless. And I hate feeling helpless.”

You did not know what to say, what words to comfort him with. Not when you were thinking the exact same thing, and felt the exact same agitation, particularly at your core.

The man leaned in, eyes heavy lidded. “You know what I hate the most, ____?”

Gulping, you let out a little, “What?” afraid of what he was going to reveal.

His tongue ran along his bottom lip, fingers continuing their teasing.

“I-” he seethed, gripping your back tightly. “Fuck, I hate how ravishing you look in that dress.”

You parted your mouth in shock, blushing the colour of roses. “Why do you hate that?” you only asked, breath almost lost in your lungs as your blood began to thrum beneath your skin.

His eyes lost all dreamy light when a small curve enveloped his lips. “Because, my dear ____,” he muttered hoarsely, each breath ragged, “It makes me think of all the things I want to do to you.”

The strong hand on his back was felt much more, fingers playing with the laces of your dress. You nearly cried out in front of a hundred people over their idle play, and his bold, bold statement.

Chris relished in your whimpering reaction. “Aren’t you going to ask me?” he whispered, leaning in till his mouth hovered near your ear. “Do you not want to know what I wish to do to you?”

“What,” you rasped out, grip tightening over his neck. “What are you going to do?”

His husky chuckling nearly sent you over the edge. “I’ll find a nice little space, away from Carter and all these people,” he began, breath caressing your skin. “Then I’ll kiss you slowly, like so.” he pressed a chaste kiss underneath your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “These hands of mine will roam all over, but they will gladly trail up your legs, ____.

“And God, when my hands stop at your sopping cunt, I’ll make it cry with my fingers.” He drummed his fingers on your back. “One.” Tap. “Two.” Tap. “Three of them.” Tap. “Perhaps you’d like more.”

You whined into his shoulder, feet stumbling as you clung onto him tighter. “M-more,” you pleaded quietly, so careful to keep dancing, move along to the music.

“Of course you would,” he only cooed in your ear, and you were scared you would collapse over his words. “Luckily for you, I wouldn’t be finished with you either.”

Your hand, clasped in his his, squeezed at his words. “Chris, please—”

“Yes, just like that,” the man mused, whirling you on the dance floor. “Just like that, you’ll beg me to send you over the edge, but I won’t let you be satisfied so easily.”

On God and all his subjects, if he did not cease his filth you were going to come onto the floor by his mere words. You could tell Chris noticed, almost reading your mind as the ghost of a smirk widened. “Already afraid, love?”

Love.

Dear, fucking God.

“You see, ____,” he muttered, leading you to the final round of the song, the steps of the dance going faster. “I won’t let you be satiated with just my fingers.”

And as he broke his hold on you, twirling you with his tattooed hand, he pulled you to him, one last time, crushing you against his granite chest.

His eyes bore into yours when the last string of the violin wailed around the hall. All you could see was pure, unadulterated desire.

“I will have you writhing with my cock.”

Your eyes never left Chris’ as the music finally came to a close, gaze blurring at the dark promise. Applause scattered around the ballroom, yet your hands stayed upon his arm, the other enveloped in his.

You caught the words once more under his thumb. NON DUCOR DUCO.

Indeed you do.

“Chris,” you breathed out, waiting for him to let you go. He did no such thing.

Feeling a few suspicious eyes on you, your feet backed away from the man, hands escaping the feeling he emitted underneath your touch.

A whine threatened to escape you when you saw his desire had not dampened. His hands shook, only slightly, and your stomach erupted into a million butterflies, journeying lower and lower.

You wanted him. You wanted him so badly you feared you would faint on the dance floor.

Excusing yourself, you hastened your footsteps, sending a few smiles to passerbys as you picked up a flute of champagne, hurrying down long hallways, catching a few couples leaning towards each other. When you found a grand wooden cabinet beside another door, no doubt a guest room, you slumped next to it, breathing loud and ragged, too affected by a certain man’s eyes and the hidden intentions underneath. You drank the entire champagne in one gulp, propping the flute on a servant’s tray as he rushed by.

“____!”

Gasping, you turned to the source of the voice. The voice which filled you with such unexplainable hunger you had to clench your thighs as it drew nearer.

Footsteps thudded against the carpet, and you squirmed at the sight of Chris Bang, storming towards you with a ferocity which had your knees near buckling.

“Where,” he began, voice an octave lower as he stood not a foot from you, smacking his hands against the wall, caging you with his presence. “Were you trying to lead me?”

“Somewhere where they cannot see us,” you responded, excitement clear in your voice. The ballroom chatter was still within your range, so technically, anyone could wonder down these halls, look over the cabinet and catch you both.

The throbbing inside you didn’t particularly care.

“And what do you want me to do,____,” he murmured, and his voice was glazed with pure lust, “Which the world cannot see?”

“I…” slight shame tried to course through your body but the overflowing desire was too strong. Not when your tongue was not afraid to voice what was in your heart the moment you first saw him. “I want you to do all those things you said. I want you to ruin me.”

And perhaps that was all he needed, when Christopher Bang pressed his lips against yours and answered your prayers.

He was instantly rewarded with your surprised whine, drowned out by the movement of his mouth as his hands left the wall, holding onto your face. His thumbs caressed your cheeks as he led the fiery kiss, opening your mouth to let the little noises escape.

“Chris,” you tried to rasp out, but his lips refused once more as he tilted your head, gaining full access and truly discovering the sheer pleasure oozing from the swell of your lips. God, he had gone through every experience which gave him a sense of thrill, but the kiss he shared with you brought him a new, foreign high — as if he tried the drugs he had seen on the streets for the first time, and becoming addicted on the first dose.

You broke the kiss, gasping for air as the two of you shared a carnal gaze, chests rising at an unsteady rhythm. Chris was ruthless, only sparing you for a few seconds before pouncing back in on your mouth, this time tongue playing along, asking to be let inside and slide along the inner workings. You would have been a fool to refuse him.

The moment you opened your lips for him his tongue slithered inside, sliding it along the roof of your mouth, while his hands left your face and instead gripped onto your waist, driving you further against the wall, snuffing out any distance which dared come between you and him.

A slightly moan bubbled within your throat when he began to roughen your lips, capturing your tongue before closing the seam of your mouth within his own, repeating the action until you didn’t know whether you were sane or absolutely fucking crazy.

You were sure straight after when one of his hands began sliding down. Down. He hurriedly broke the kiss, letting out an angry groan at the never ending skirts which met with his fingers. “Fuck this dress,” he cursed as he descended a little, peppering kisses upon the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your neck, trailing until he found the hem of your skirts.

Bunching them up with his one hand, he lifted the fabric, baring your legs to the dimmed chandelier light from the main hall. His hand trailed right up to your core, a single layer hiding it from Chris’ fingers. The poor, soaked fabric could not ever compete, when the criminal, with a single finger as he scattered kisses upon your face, hooked under the lacey underwear, sliding it down your thighs. So much desperation lurked he did not even bother to slide it down to your ankles, a chuckle rasping out of him as his fingers skimmed your upper thighs to find them dripping with the suppressed arousal.

“My poor, poor, darling,” he whispered in a menacing tone, the other hand caressing your face, “Couldn’t contain yourself for me?”

“Ch-chan,” you heard yourself say, because at this point your soul was not present, probably lurking in seventh heaven where this man was taking you.

Hearing his name on your slurred mouth only had him plunging the first finger inside you.

You let out an obscenely loud moan, which was immediately followed by hushing. “Don’t make a sound,” he demanded, smiling slyly at your whimpering, “Or else I stop. Understand?”

You could not nod fast enough, and he huffed out a laugh before sliding the second finger in, rubbing against your slit, drawing circles upon your throbbing skin, testing the rather sticky waters of you and your fucked out state.

Satisfied, he delved the two fingers in deeper, pulsating against your walls until they hit a certain spot which had you crying out in pleasure. Chris’ heavy lidded warning flashed in his eyes.

You nearly cried when he began to slide his fingers out over your moaning, your hand immediately stopping him from pulling out further. “Ch-Chan,” you pleaded, pleaded like the whores you heard on the docks, but you didn’t care, did not give a single fuck when those fingers needed to be inside you again. “Chan, please, I’m sorry—”

“One more fuck up, ____, and these—” his fingers plunged back into you once more, hitching you upwards with the sheer force, “—will be back out.”

Nodding hastily, you left your hand on his wrist. Chris continued to work so deliciously inside you that it took every ounce of strength left in you not to bring the manor down with your moaning. The whimpering could not be contained, but the criminal let that slide, finding great contentment every time you begged for more.

He curled his slender fingers, acquainting himself with that same bloody spot which had you seeing stars. Your hands gripped onto his neck for stability, nails digging into his shirt. How you wanted it off, along with all the damned layers he adorned.

The way he played with your sweet spot had you feeling heavy, a pleasured ball of pain forming at your lower back. You knew you were being led to an edge, an edge you could not, did not want to escape, and when you pulled away from Chris, looking into his eyes, he instantly understood.

“Oh my, love,” he simpered, his free hand thumbing your cheek. “Does someone want to get fucked against the wall? When I’m not even finished with them yet?”

Tears lined your eyes, cunt throbbing almost painfully around his fingers. “Chan, I’m going to—ah!” you cut off, closing your eyes as you barely held on to your last grips of sanity. “Chan.”

Your weakened, fucked out demeanour had the most dangerous man in London fearing for his own senses. He wished nothing more than you screaming his name for the whole city to hear, and with you, looking at him like that…

Oh, he was definitely going to drive you over the edge.

Christopher Bang nearly carried out his promise when a shrill call interrupted you two.

“CHRIS! ____!”

“WHERE ARE YOU—?”

Your lust-glazed stare cracked as you blinked. “Chan,” you said his name, but the man let out an enraged roar. You felt the hollow emptiness when those golden fingers were pulled out of you, sticky residue coating his skin. The footsteps grew closer, the volume of the shouting increasing.

Chris brought out a white handkerchief, cleaning your mess on his fingers rather aggressively. “I’m going to fucking kill them,” he guttered out, making your legs tremble. To your utmost misery you felt the orgasm, so close before, fading from existence, and you made a silent vow to break Jisung and Changbin’s legs the moment all of this was over.

Speaking of the Devil, the two hastened, opening all doors and closing them till the two stumbled upon the both of you, infuriated and worryingly turned on.

Changbin looked at the deflated expression on both of yours faces. “Chris? ____?” His eyes narrowed, trying to work out the reasons for the slight electric atmosphere he suddenly entered in. “Are you both...alright?”

“Perfectly,” the man answered in a ragged hiss, sliding on his gloves again, smoothing over his raven locks. “Now why the fuck are you both here?”

The two boys did not understand their leader’s anger. Choosing to let the snipe slide, Jisung said, “We’ve caught Carter.”

That seemed to send you and Chris back in reality. Well, not really, when your core still throbbed, the pleasure fading with each passing second.

“Where is he?” Chris flattened out his coat. “Where are the documents?”

Changbin brought out a small file from inside his waistcoat, holding it out for the former. “Right here.”

Chris took the file, skimming through the contents. His previously angered expression relaxed, just a fraction, and he held onto it as he set his powerful gaze on you all.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

The four of you managed to slip away easily, you trying your hardest to fix yourself after the whole fiasco in the hallway. Your heart was still running a mile per minute, refusing to calm as your mind relived the events. The original carriage which you all arrived in was now accompanied with another one, with a dark figure hunched over from the window’s view.

“We threw the giant fucker in another carriage,” Changbin said, laughing as he recalled the takedown with Jisung. “Man could not believe he was failing!”

Chris ignored his story, turning to you all as he stood before Carter’s carriage. “You three, take the free one,” he ordered, his eyes rooted on you. “I will journey home with him.”

“But Chris,” you began, taking a step towards him, “Let me come with you.”

You caught a glimpse of the desire which swirled in his eyes, not long ago, and perhaps that was why he held your arm in his now gloved hand.

“Go,” he only said. “I have a few things to say to him alone.”

After letting you go, nodding at the boys behind you, Chris Bang stepped inside the first carriage, slamming the door shut. The metal wheels screeched as the whole thing began to move, accelerating away.

You watched the carriage fade from view, Jisung and Changbin stepping beside you.

“What happened, ____?” the former asked, the other trying to comfort you with his gaze.

Silence was their only answer, as you turned on your heel, climbing inside your designated ride and watched the stars twinkle from the window.

The two members of the gang really tried their best.

As you all journeyed home without your leader, the pair told their tale of how they took down Carter and his men, Jisung adding exaggerated gasps as Changbin demonstrated each kill he thrust upon his victims. You offered them a few laughs, giving them your attention, but really your mind was somewhere else, specifically a midnight-tainted criminal who nearly brought you your undoing.

You were insane. Insane as you thought of him, insane as you remembered how wonderfully he had you writhing over him, just by his fingers. The mindless pondering alone had your cunt pulsating, and you deserved an award for how unaffected you acted with your friends.

Soon, the carriage slowed to a stop, and you perked up, not realising you had already arrived home.

You waited for the boys to exit before you stepped out of the carriage, the only light on the docks emitting from lamps and the night sky, reflected on the surface of the river. The first carriage was already there when your feet met the concrete floor, and when you turned to the man who reigned in your mind he had his signature expression, an aloof distaste as he walked over to his gang.

“Jisung, Changbin,” he called, and the boys responded. “Lock the carriage door,” he ordered, jerking his chin towards his transport. “We will bring him out in the morning.”

“Chris, should we not throw him in the cellar?” Changbin glared at Carter’s direction. “Bastard might escape.”

He only slid his hands in his pockets, you catching the dried blood on his gloves. “Oh, don’t worry about that,” he said, striking a step towards the building. “He’s not going to disturb us tonight. I can promise you that.”

Jisung cursed low along with you, only watching the man walk back to the bedrooms. Bidding goodnight to your friends, you followed Chris’ trail, opening the door and stepping inside the hallway.

You saw him before his bedroom door, bringing out a rusted key. His eyes slid to you as your feet brought you to your entrance. You looked back, waiting as Chris unlocked his room and began to enter.

He turned back, something dark and twisted still lurking in his eyes.

You waited, so patiently at the words you wished to hear, of him finally ruining you.

Instead, you received something else entirely.

“Goodnight, ____.”

And closed the door behind him.

Your heart dropped.

Fell to the floor, and shattered under the criminal’s bloodied boots.

The light of the hallway flickered as you stood rooted to the doorway, eyes staring at Chris’ door as if looking at it hard enough would get him to change his mind.

What did you know. The man is not led by exterior forces. Only by his own will.

When you gathered up the strength to the slam the door shut, you slumped against the wood, hating yourself for the tears which threatened to break the lines of your eyes. This was pathetic — utterly disgusting that you were about to cry over his decision.

But you could not help it. You were so enraptured by him. Hell, you were ready to throw yourself in the fires of damnation for him, as he whispered filth all the while rutting against you. Why had that suddenly changed?

“Argh!” You screamed, stomping over to the lamp, light now long extinguished. You relit it’s spark, illuminating the room once more, and set it on the stool before recklessly plucking out the pearls in your hair, a few tears daring to trail down your cheeks.

Fuck him. Fuck him for making you so rattled. Fuck him for having that effect on you.

You looked into your mirror and cursing yourself for the disheveled appearance. Again, the consequences for letting yourself fall for him.

“To hell with you Bang Chan,” you cursed.

You were about to untie your dress when your bedroom door was nearly ripped off its hinges.

Flinching, you grabbed the dagger on your dresser, raised to cut down whoever stupid enough to barge in on an assassin at midnight.

You were met with Christopher Bang.

And the disorder he brought with him.

Chaos reigned in his figure; his tousled locks, his star-struck expression, his rolled-up sleeves and his pandemonic eyes, all working together and against each other to create the man you had never seen in your life.

Good God. What had happened to him?

“Chan?” You got out, dagger now brought down. He said not a single word in response as he slammed the door shut, hard enough for the entirety of London to hear.

Instead, he imprisoned you with his stare, almost giving you his chaos. The chaos you had always shared with him since the moment he picked you off the streets.

No, he said not one word — only took the steps needed to march towards you. You could only watch with widening eyes when he grabbed your face in his rugged hands and collided his lips against yours.

You did not even hesitate to comply, hands grabbing onto his shirt, pulling him as close as you possibly could, so afraid that he would disappear from your grip if you dared let go. With the way he moved his mouth along yours, however, already opening up the familiar workings, you had a feeling he was not going to abandon you now.

When he broke away, breathing already erratic, his hands slid down to your neck, thumbs caressing the length of your throat. “I couldn’t,” he started, and he was sprinkling kisses all over your face. “I couldn’t leave.”

“I was scared, Chan,” you confessed, fisting the material harder. “I thought you truly did.”

His eyes focused on you. Within the turmoil, there was a promise. “Never,” he whispered, leaning in. “Never again.”

And suddenly his lips were on you, and the desperation was so rooted he nearly stole the very breath from your lungs. The sheer intensity, the longing implied broke your heart to the point you attached yourself to him, wrapping your arms around him and refusing to ever let him go.

The rather soft kiss began to heat up, as Chris broke the seam of your lips, swirling your tongue in his, already receiving incoherent praise from deep down your throat, making the man smile against his lips as he continued.

His hands slid further down, right to the small of your back, where he began to untie all the little bows he created for you at the dawn of the evening, the little touches of fire singeing you still. It was fascinating how effortlessly he loosened all the laces, fingers sliding through the patterns until one by one they fluttered down, until the dark red dress slackened around your chest.

A small gasp escaped you as Chris, while creating a trail of kisses down your jaw, right down to your neck, grabs the dress from your sides, hitching it down until it falls to the floor. Leaving you practically naked save for the scraps covering your dangerously soiled underwear.

Chris paused from his ravishing, taking a much too long look at your skin, glowing from the lamp light, and before he could stare any longer you brought your arms to your chest, suddenly becoming a little too embarassed to let him see you at your most vulnerable.

The supposedly unfeeling criminal, however, nearly broke into a smile at your flustered nature, and grabbed onto your wrists, opening the lock to your breasts, peaked by his actions, and the thought of what was to come.

The soiled underwear was about to drip at this point.

“You’re exquisite,” was all he said, making you almost burst into tears at the praise. You pressed a long, heart shattering kiss upon his mouth, and he responded perfectly, hands sliding to your naked waist, each drum of his fingers like a tug towards a dangerous edge.

Things began to take a turn, open mouthed kisses being plastered on the skin of your throat as the man pushed you back, further and further until the back of your knees hit the bed, stopping you in his tracks. His grip on your waist directed downwards, planting you on the mattress as his mouth descended to your collarbone, down and down until he licked your peaked nipple in a way that had you moaning obscenely loud. His husky chuckle resonated along your skin, still not pausing his trail until he hit the end of the dip of your cunt, barricaded by the fabric.

The moment he looked up at you, that alone made you nearly undo yourself. By the increasing volume of your breathing, Chris seemed to realise so too.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he got out, watching you whimper at each touch caressing your hips. “Already about to come when I haven’t even done anything?”

“Ch-Chan,” you pleaded, wishing for those damned fingers of his to plunge inside of you. The son of a bitch was taking his time, making you wait knowing it pained you to stay like this. “Chan—”

His name on your tongue had him gritting his teeth, hands on each of your side grabbing onto your lace, and sliding your underwear down, all the way till it fell free from your legs and threw it across the room, forgotten when Chris parted his mouth at the moistened treasure between your legs.

Those roughened hands steeled their grip on your thighs, pulling you closer till you sat right on the edge of the bed, cunt mere inches from his face. You could not even comprehend the insanity of this situation, that the hidden fantasies you dreamed of shamelessly were morphing into reality right before your eyes.

“So, so pretty,” he murmured, blowing a little air on your slick folds, earning himself a sucked in breath from his truly. “So pretty and wet, and all because of me.”

You let out a ragged breath, words of filth sounding so foreign on his tongue. It was not like he didn’t talk like the sailors living near you on the docks, but these dirty words and dirtier intentions, now all directed at you, made you feel so flustered, in a wondrous way you could not possibly describe. All you wanted was for him to keep singing this filth till you blacked out.

Chris, with the force of his hands, spread your thighs a little wider, and without warning broke his tongue from the seam of his lips, planting it upon your slit and moving it slowly over the surface.

That alone made you cry out in ecstasy.

But that was only a test, a taking on of foreign surroundings before truly welcoming himself, and by God, did he welcome himself in as more than a guest, when that tongue slid deeper and performed strokes which had you seeing all the stars in the universe.

What was first slow teasing then became a starved hunt, tongue relishing in the sweet arousal you emitted, lapping it up brazenly as if he had been wanting to do this for a long, long time. Your blubbering grew louder with every lick, fisting the sheets behind you with such ferocity you were sure they’d tear.

And if that wasn’t painstakingly enough, the man spread your legs a little wider, his tattooed hand, two fingers out, sliding straight inside you, making you mewl at the way they tightened they walls they journeyed in. Curling, just like they did earlier in the evening, they took their time finding the certain little spot which had you bringing the house down with your cries.

“Ch-Chan, please, please, I’m going to—AH!” You rasped out, when the said-criminal found the sweet little undoing of yours and stroked your fingers along the sensitive spot, making that bundle of pleasure resonating in your back appear once more, like a low throbbing begging to be released.

His tongue had not given you any breaks, still working ruthlessly along your clit and you cried for him to give you that sweet release, to just let you come but he had not let you be satisfied this easily. No, he wanted you writhing underneath him, wanted the final ruination to be from underneath his trousers, angered as it outlined against his leather.

You craned your head back, screaming out his name because you knew all else had abandoned you. “Chan!” Looking down, his mouth very much occupied with your cunt. Your orgasm was reaching, was on the very edge, and if he kept working on you like this he was on his way to taste the consequences of his actions.

Something about that image made you want it as a reality with a worryingly strong intensity.

“Chan, I’m going to—” you were about to warn but were interrupted by a squeeze of your thigh, done by yours truly as if he knew. And as if he knew, the two fingers began pumping much faster, harmonising along with his tongue, and the two actions at once, fucking you with that rapidity was so pleasurable that, with the first earth-shattering cry of the night, you were driven over the edge, releasing your orgasm straight into the criminal’s face.

You felt the work of his fingers slow down, along with his tongue, that with one, final lick, he retreated from your cunt, fingers still inside you as they comforted your aching core with slow, soothing strokes.

When he looked up at you, though, with your residue mostly upon his mouth, scattered on his cheeks, and basically a bit of everywhere, that sight alone nearly caused you to come all over again.

Perhaps that was his intentions.

Because when he licked his lips clean of your mess, ever so slowly, as if enjoying your orgasm like a man starved, you instantly saw in his eyes that this night was not over yet.

“Already so good, so wonderful,” he mused, slipping his fingers out, both hands now resting on your thighs. “Coming so quick even though I had been saving for the last.”

You knew exactly what he meant, but still had the nerve to ask, “The last?”

He raised a groomed brow, and that gesture was so breathtaking, more so when he raised himself slightly, so he knelt eye-level to you. “Don’t act oblivious, love,” he mused, leaving your thighs to your disappointment, but quickly diminishing when his fingers worked on the buttons of his shirt, slowly popping upon, each patch of skin being revealed like a show of your own. “We both know this isn’t how it’s going to end.”

Shivers crawled down your spine, but you only watched as the man finished undoing his shirt, peeling it off of him and throwing it amongst the other clothing. You nearly let spit trail down your chin at the sheer finery of his muscle alone, sharpened at his arms, his chest all the way down to his v-line, which dipped dangerously low. With no small amount of pride, you also noticed the large, angry outline of Chris’ cock, begging to be set free.

The man caught you blatantly staring, and a shit-eating grin twisted his glistening lips. “You may do the honours if you’re so keen.”

Blushing, you mumbled a shut up, but was captured by Chris’ lips, tasting your own arousal on his tongue, as his grip on you led you further into the bed, while you fumbled on the buttons of his trousers, popping them open one by one when you broke from the kiss, your turn to shower him with more along the veiny expanse of his neck as you pulled his trousers down, tossing them among the pile.

When you saw the slight-stained underwear of his, you felt the familiar throbbing again, so affected by how you affected him. Noticing your apparent pride, he pressed his lips upon you in a searing kiss, peeling off any last scrap of clothing and forgetting that too among the other clothing.

And by God, when Chris Bang’s cock escaped from his underthings your mouth actually watered at the sheer size it bore. Husky laughter resonated in your ears, and you flushed the colour of blood when he caught you staring much too audaciously than he would have imagined.

“Already fantasising about my cock?” He slurred, the tattooed hand curling stray hairs from your sweat-slick, flushed face. The way you scrunched your nose, clearly flustered by his comment, melted his stone cold heart, as he caressed your cheeks with his fingers.

You did not answer him, only whispering his name along his skin, waiting and waiting for the man to drive that force home inside you. “Chan,” you murmured, and the name you kept saying like a religious chant, like it was the only word that mattered, was what brought him to grip his cock, directing it against your entrance, the still slick folds which grew more wet every time the tip caressed the sensitive skin. “Chan, please—”

“Please what?” He demanded, demanded because he needed to hear you precisely want you wanted. The words he practically prayed would be on your tongue the moment he kissed you for the first time this evening.

Obliging him was like second nature. “Please fuck me, Chan,” you breathed out, holding onto his shoulders, knowing you were going to need a hell of a good grip for what was about to arrive. “Please, just ruin me with your cock.”

A malicious smile curled upon his lips. “Good, good girl,” he purred, and began the descend which you dreamed of the very first night you realised you were ridiculously attracted to him.

His cock slid inside you, and with a soul-wrenching whine, was perfectly snug as the journey went on, and on, and on, until you were certain you could not take anymore, despite the man retaining a few inches. He was slow at first, making sure you were not going to be pained by this action. Although your nails dug into the granite muscle of his shoulders, you only egged him on. “M-more,” you only said, and he readily obliged, until you felt him all around you in your body, as if he had filled you up to the brim.

“Ready?” He asked, and when you nodded, he rested his forehead against yours as gently, he began to pull out.

You nearly whined at the lack of inches filling you up, but then he brought his cock back in, creating this hypnotic rhythm which was so unimaginably ethereal you felt yourself float amongst the clouds. Each thrust out and thrust in was a drive in and out of reality, with Chris Bang holding the tether of your survival, pulling you in and out of his mercy.

Gradually, he began to fasten, panting as his drove into you with more force, and when the momentum hardened, you felt your soul leave your body. His cock created wonders for you, having you scream in unimaginable pleasure, and driving your nails into his back was not enough, your lewd moaning not enough given to his sheer skill, his pure simplicity in bringing his cock back and front which had you seeing stars. Hell, Christopher Bang showed you undiscovered universes, leading you across galaxies and unfamiliar cosmos, each thrust in a different vision, and when he lifted your leg a little higher for more access, you feared that you would wake the whole docks with your groaning, for this criminal, this heartless criminal provided you with the whole universe with the simple strokes of his cock inside you, and all you could offer him were screams.

Even your reactions were pure Beethoven to his ears, relishing in your fucked out state as he gave you all he asked, driving you to the edge of the world. You, finally, clashed your lips against his, offering him sloppy, open mouthed kisses all over his face and neck, and that alone had him greeting his teeth, knowing his own release was near. You were going to die if he was not given the same pleasure as you, so you reacted with each of his touches, each of his thrusts, him practically pistoning you upon this bed which very much would break.

“Ch...Chan…” you grated out, eyes blurring, vision completely fucked, “I’m...I-I—”

“I—fuck,” he too got out, for your last love mark painted onto to the curve of his neck nearly had him ruined. “I’m going to come, too, love—”

“Chan!” You whined, because the throbbing was there, and was so close that if the man did not send that last thrust home then it was all for nothing, everything that had ever happened will all be for nothing.

But he listened. The man who did not listen to anyone or anything listened, and pounded his cock so hard in approval that it had you crying out to the cosmos as you finally let go, orgasm spilling out from whatever space the residue could find between his cock. Your own release had Chris groaning louder than he had even done this entire time, praising you unconditionally, until the filth was cut off by a low curse, with his own release barrelling into you, some joining your spilled mess upon the sheets.

Chris let out a shuddering breath, slowly crossing his movement inside you. Carefully, when you stopped digging your nails into his shoulders, he pulled out, reaching for the blanket untouched and bringing it over you and him before collapsing beside you. Both of you breathed as if you had held your oxygen for a thousand years, chests rising unevenly.

A silence hung over you two, heavy yet not uncomfortable, lingering in your bedroom. Chris sat up a little, using your pillows behind him as comfort as he raked his hair back, sweat-slick all over, much like you. You held the blanket right up to your chest, hair in disarray, much like your heart. The poor organ threatened to collapse at the events.

Sneakily, you caught a glance at the greatest criminal in London, staring off at the distance, mouth set in a concentrated line. He looked dashing even in his post-sex state, the lines of his chest still stark against his sweat. You truly had never seen a man this beautiful in your life.

He turned his head to you, catching your staring, and when you tried to look away he captured his chin with his fingers, making you meet his fierce stare. Although dark, the lust had satiated, and instead held passive affection. Well, you hoped it did.

“Why do you still look away?” He demanded in a low, tired voice.

You tried to slide your gaze to the lamp, but was too bewitched by his midnight eyes. “Because you’re beautiful, Chan,” you answered, feeling the blood rush to your face.

He cocked his head, damp curls sticking to his face. “You say that as if you are not,” he countered.

You did not say anything then. Even so, he received your answer.

“____,” he said in a low tone. The grip on your chin loosened, and the hand went to your cheeks, cupping your face. “You are truly flawless. Don’t make me have to make you believe that.”

A small smile hinted at your lips. “And what if I still don’t?”

His answering smirk sent butterflies tumbling once again. After a moment, as if hesitating, he then snaked his arm around you, pulling you closer to him. You were surprised when his one hand fully encircled you, while the other hand, the tattooed hand, rested upon your head, stroking your hair with his slender fingers. You did not pull away, was never going to, only wrapping your arm across his chest.

It was the first time you had ever seen Christopher Bang hug someone in his life.

“Chan?” You asked.

“Hmm?”

“Why did you get that tattoo?”

He paused for a minute, never ceasing his fingers intertwined in your locks. After a small sigh, which you felt beneath your own fingertips, he said, “It is simply something I live by.

“Non ducor duco. No one will lead me, love. Only myself.”

You pondered over the roots of this phrase, of the significance for the man you lay with.

“Good,” you said after a while. “I wouldn’t want anyone leading you either.”

With that, you gave into the soothing movement of Chris’ fingers, working lazily in your hair. And while you dozed off to sleep, the criminal mastermind of the biggest city in the world pondered some more, specifically over his motto.

NON DUCOR DUCO. A phrase which had stayed true for so long no one could ever change it.

But after tonight, as you slowly dozed off under Chris’ caresses, he wondered whether there isn’t one person he wouldn’t mind being led by.

And as he stole a soft glance at the specific person beside him, he knew.

He knew that although he will be led by no man, there is one woman who he would, to his own shock, happily be led for.

So, with that new, and slightly terrifying revelation, Christopher Bang went to sleep, knowing that someone had fucked with him and gotten away.

And he was willingly going to let it happen.

#stray kids imagines #stray kids smut #bang chan smut #bang chan imagines #stray kids dark hours #bang chan #stray kids #stray kids oneshot #kpop imagines #kpop smut #skz imagines #skz smut #chris bang #christopher bang #skz dark hours

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ransomedrogue · 4 years ago

Text

Tales of Woe - Scenes from S1

ah yessss, the “running around in the forest worrying about each other” one! so much to love about this episode...

1.7

It was further to the rendezvous point than he had anticipated and Weller's heart was pounding from both the brisk pace they were keeping, as well as the unnerving silence around them. In hindsight, he definitely should have taken Jane with him on the tracker ditching mission. He hated not knowing where she was and, in the end, leaving her with Guerrero and Reade hadn't been any safer.

Weller glanced at Zapata as she kept watch on their backs, remembering what she'd said to him earlier. Really, she was just the latest in a long line of people questioning his objectivity, or at least commenting on it. And, considering the way his chest felt from inadvertently putting Jane in more danger, they were all clearly correct.

The thing was, he fully knew that Zapata's point was well-made. If he was going to try and shelter Jane, then it affected the rest of the team. More problematically at the moment though, he hadn't even done a very good job of protecting her. Once the militia had seen them without Guerrero, they'd taken off as if they knew where to go next. So Jane and Reade were probably in the worst position, despite all his efforts to keep her safe.

Tasha caught up to him just as they began to hear the sound of gunfire. They looked at each other in concern and both started running towards the battle, no longer trying to keep their movements hidden.

Weller pushed his legs and lungs as hard as he could, sweat matting his shirt to his back and making his grip on his weapon slick. His longer stride and near panic made it difficult for Zapata to keep up and Weller had to force himself to slow down to let her catch up as they approached the shooting.

From where he was standing, he had a good view of the ranger station that was clearly where they were meant to meet Jane and Reade. The problem was that the militia had the place completely surrounded and was firing at it from all angles with automated weaponry. There was no way that anyone in the station was going to survive that onslaught for long.

As Tasha made her way up to him her eyes were wide with dismay, taking in the scene. He could tell she was worried for Reade, her partner since they'd become field agents. And of course Weller was concerned for his agent as well as their prisoner. But the fear that arose at the thought of Jane being gunned down in there made it feel like there was something jammed in his throat and he couldn't breathe.

Moving together now, Weller and Zapata approached the scene, concealing their presence as best they could. Kurt's pulse was hammering in his ears as he prayed for a sign that Jane and Reade were alive in there. It seemed like some shots were being fired out of the building but they were too far away to be sure.

They needed to get close enough to take out the machine gun operators so Reade and Jane had a chance to survive being pinned down inside. But there were still too many yards to cover and it seemed impossible that they were going to make it before everyone in there was dead.

It was then that he got his sign, a sudden movement from the ranger station. But when Weller realized that it was Jane running a flight to take out the heavy weaponry, his heart rate shot straight to full blown panic.

What the hell was she thinking?

There were far too many militia members for her to take out on her own. If he and Zapata weren't coming right then to help, it would be a suicide mission.

They'd been separated for long enough that Reade had to be questioning if they were coming at all. It was a very real possibility he would have had to consider and discuss with Jane - that there wasn't any backup coming.

So either Jane had a lot of faith in him or she didn't value her life enough.

Because there was no other explanation for why she would be out engaging the shooters so directly. And just watching her do it was nearly unbearable until Weller saw her take out one of the gunmen and everything snapped back into focus.

They finally got close enough to track one of the militiamen, who seemed to have a target in his sights. Weller realized that he hadn't seen Jane for awhile and had a bad feeling in his spine. He could picture the situation in his mind. Jane was pinned down somewhere, possibly reloading her weapon after taking out the other gunman that had been unleashing hellfire at the station.

Weller started running at full tilt, desperate to get there in time. The militiaman was steadily advancing and shooting as he kept stepping towards Jane. So it was hard to get close enough to take a shot at the guy.

In the end, Kurt fired the kill shot just as the man was about to round the corner on Jane and gun her down. It was a close thing; they'd only gotten there in the nick of time. His heart still pounded with fear and adrenaline, even as relief flooded through him at seeing her there alive.

Jane flashed them a smile as they came up to her, her own relief at seeing them clear in her expression. He wondered again how confident she'd been in their eventual arrival when she had decided to go out on her solo run.

Weller gave Jane a thorough once over with his eyes to assure himself that she wasn't visibly wounded, before bringing his gaze back up to meet hers.

"You okay?" he asked, as nonchalantly as he could manage with fear still tickling his throat.

"Yeah," Jane replied, just as simply, though he could feel the emotion exuding from her.

"You?"

Weller swallowed, fighting off an eddy of emotion that nearly came spilling out.

Now that she was there in front of him, alive and relatively safe, he was more than okay. Even though they were stuck in enemy territory with a high value prisoner, possibly with more militiamen coming.

But of course he couldn't say any of that and would likely choke on his words even if he tried.

So Kurt replied with a nod, wondering if she understood.

He was okay because she was okay. And he was going to do everything he could to make sure things stayed that way.

###

The plane shook a little and Jane was suddenly thrown out of her thoughts and back into her present situation of flying back to New York on the FBI jet.

A ripple of fear passed through her and Jane shuddered a little, both at the shaking of the plane, as well as what she'd just been ruminating about.

Weller. Of course.

She had been looking at him sitting across from her at the table, overflowing with thankfulness that he was right there in front of her. All the arguing they'd recently done, all that boundary setting; it seemed like ancient history with what had happened that day.

When Guerrero had taunted her by saying Kurt was dead and Reade had followed up by questioning if Weller and Zapata were coming, it had spiked a fear in her that still hadn't quite dissipated. That terrible thought, of having to go on without him, remained clenched in her throat, especially since he'd so recently offered to recuse himself from her case.

Even then, after a long day of being at odds with him, she'd hated the idea of it. Now, after facing the possibility of really losing him, it filled her with panic.

Again Jane's mind flashed to telling him that she wanted space, then him choosing to take Zapata with him that day. Not that she thought the two things were related. But it made her worried that she hadn't made it clear to Weller that she needed him there with her. Through everything.

And then, for an extended period of time that day, she'd thought there might never be another chance to tell him. So Jane knew she should say it right then and make sure he understood how she felt.

"When we were separated in the woods," she said, searching for the words to express her sentiments.

"I kept thinking about you. And me. And Taylor Shaw. We're in this together."

Of course, right then she was interrupted by the plane shaking again, more violently this time. Jane's heart rate immediately shot through the roof and she grabbed at the table, just to have something to hold onto.

She was still trembling due to the turbulence when she glanced over and Weller was looking at her intently, with an unreadable smile on his face. Then he leaned forward and grasped her hands in his bigger ones, his grip both solid and gentle at the same time.

"How can you fly a chopper out of a combat zone and still be scared of a little turbulence?" he asked, his expression somewhere between proud and bewildered.

Jane had been asking herself the same thing, ever since they got back on the plane after she landed the helicopter at the airfield. Because her fear had not gone away, even after learning that she could fly something much more complicated than a private jet.

"I think it's got something to do with being in control," she replied, a bit sheepishly.

Weller nodded, like he wasn't exactly convinced by her response. But more importantly, he didn't let go, even after the bumpiness was long over. Which settled her nerves just as unreasonably as the turbulence affected them.

Eventually, Kurt had been holding her hands and eyeing her for so long that Jane began to feel heat growing on the back of her neck. She briefly wondered if he was judging her for her fear when he gave her fingers another reassuring squeeze.

"You're right," he said, making her wonder what she could possibly be right about. Certainly not her irrational feelings about aviation.

"You and me, we're in this together. For as long as that's what you want."

She'd somehow managed to forget about that. Telling him about her worry for him; opening up to him again. But warmth flushed over her knowing that he hadn't just brushed it off.

Weller paused for a long moment, his thumb worrying a pattern into her skin.

"When you ran your flight outside the ranger station. How did you know we would come in time?"

She hadn't of course. They'd already been longer than anticipated and even Reade had suggested that they might never show up. But Weller should already know all of that, so his question was really about something different.

Jane was quiet for so long that he continued without her answering first.

"You were outmanned and outgunned," he grumbled. "That was a suicide run unless we showed up when we did."

"It was no riskier than than staying inside and waiting for them to close in," she retorted.

"Even if I could only hold them off until you and Zapata came, then I was giving Reade a chance to get out with Guerrero."

"Jane," Weller grumbled, shaking his head at her, his expression both angry and concerned.

"I saw how close that guy was."

"I would have reloaded in time."

"Jane."

"He tried to tell me you were dead. But I knew you'd come."

Her voice cracked a tiny bit, remembering how it had felt seeing him again. And it was the croak in her words that made his face change, all the sternness suddenly seeping away as he looked at her too honestly.

"Oh. And in case it comes up. I hit him."

Weller furrowed his brow at her sudden confession, but she could see that he was holding back a grin, probably because he'd figured out why she hit Guerrero.

"Reade said he'd cover for me but I don't want him to have to lie," she said, still feeling the need to explain herself more.

But Kurt didn't ask her anything else about it, just gave her hands another solid squeeze as he finally let his smile pop through.

"Don't worry about it Jane," he said with an affectionate laugh.

"I've got you."

#blindspot #blindspot fanfic #blindspot rewatch #s1fic #i wrote this

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omnivorousshipper · 4 years ago

Note

Request Friday: So we all agree the Shaws are feral as hell and feline to boot. I think it would be neat to see shapeshifter kitty Deckard following around Luke.

Luke rescues a kitty in the rain, unknowingly snatching a stuck shifter, Deckard. Until Deck can forgive out WHY he is stuck, he sticks around, not that he NEEDS help mind you... he’s just conserving his resources and focusing on the problem on hand.

He pops up to tangle around Luke’s ankles while he’s frying fish; curled up tight on top Luke’s stomach/chest snoozing in the morning; just happening to be in the same room as Luke; demanding four head scritches— NO more than 4 or the risk of deadly nails and teeth! Any kitty cliches you can think of!

FRIEND. FRIEND. FRIEND!!!!

I LOVE THIS SO MUCH

This might be the thing I have pinned to the top of blog from now on

Also, you have no idea how tempted I was to make Deckard a hairless cat 😭 so freaking close!!

~~~

Luke tried to walk faster as he felt even more droplets of rain hit his head, but it was all in vain. Before he knew it, it was pouring down and completely soaking him

Cursing, he wrapped his jacket tighter around him and wished he hadn't decided to walk to the gym that morning

Why on the one day LA decided to get rain?!

He was so focused on walking, he almost didn't hear the pitiful mewling coming from an alley

Stopping in his tracks, Luke backed up and peered into the alley

Hiding in a soggy cardboard box, was a small tabby cat. It was completely soaked to bone, and Luke could swear he could see its ribs

He felt a stab of sympathy as he crouched down. The cat was so tired and cold, all it could do was sniff his hand and shiver like crazy

Since the cat didn't scratch up his hand, Luke took it as a good sign that it wasn't completely feral. With ease, he scooped it up and tucked it into his jacket

It only let out a small mew

---

Shivering, Deckard could barely open his eyes, let alone fight against the large hand that picked him up. He was just too cold

Almost three weeks ago, Deckard had tried to get his revenge on Toretto and his crew for hurting his little brother

But it had ended up with a building falling on Deckard and him nearly going to prison

When he had woken up from the building collapsing, he had immediately shifted into a smaller, familiar form: a cat

But, after he had escaped, he couldn't shift back

He had no idea why he couldn't, but his body stayed in the smaller form, no matter how much Deckard tried

It had been three weeks since then and he had to beg for scraps. He wasn't used to living as a stray, even when on the run from MI6. It was easier to steal food when you had opposable thumbs

When it had started raining, Deckard had tried to sneak into a gas station, but was promptly kicked out. Everywhere he went, he was chased out

He just found the alleyway before it really started raining. But it didn't do much good. Because rain still soaked him, making him practically freeze

He hadn't been eating much and he was a small cat, so he didn't have much fat on him to keep him warm

He was sure he was going to freeze to death that night

Before a giant savior came and picked him up

Snuggling into the warmth of the person, Deckard didn't realize it was Luke Hobbs who had saved him

---

Wrapping the still slumbering cat in a towel, Luke gently dried it off

Back home and in his nicely warm and dry house, Luke stared down at the impossibly small cat. So small in fact, he wasn't sure if it just wasn't a kitten

Either way, he had been right that he could almost see its ribs. The thing was so thin, Luke knew it hadn't eaten in a long time

"Is it OK, dad?" Sam asked, peeking over his shoulder to stared down at the tabby

"Yeah, I think so. Just tired." Luke smiled at her. "Can you go look for a can of tuna? I bet it'd love for something to eat when it wakes up."

"Yeah, I can!" Sam said and bolted for the kitchen

Chuckling, Luke kept rubbing the towel into soft, dry fur. He stopped when he felt a small vibration coming from the cat's chest

"Waking up?" Luke whispered and watched as big, brown eyes blinked open and stared at him

The purring stopped

Petting the cat, Luke smiled down at it

"Found you half starved and nearly frozen to death, but you're safe now."

The cat only kept staring at him and didn't start purring again

"Hey dad?" Sam called from the kitchen

"Yeah?"

"Can you help me open the can of tuna?"

"Be right there, sweetie!" Luke called back. Placing the cat down in a small nest of blankets Sam had made, he rubbed behind its ears. "Stay here and I'll bring you dinner."

The cat blinked at him

---

Never in a hundred years did Deckard ever think he would end up living with Luke Hobbs and his daughter

As a cat

But.

It wasn't the worst thing in the world

After the first night, Deckard had figured out that Luke had no idea who or what he was. He thought he was a simple cat

A female cat

That he kept calling Princess

In all honesty, it should have bothered Deckard, but he couldn't care less

Not when he was getting fed a steady stream of fish and other meat, got to lounge in the LA sun for hours on end, and got endless pets from Luke and Sam

It was honestly heaven on earth

Deckard didn't have to care about having to run from the police or who else was after him

All he had to worry about was keeping Luke in bed for a few more minutes so he could cuddle even more

Like now. The man was sitting up in bed, scrolling through his morning news feed while petting Deckard, who was curled up on his chest and right under his chin

"All right, princess. I have to get up." Luke said quietly, putting down his tablet

Deckard let out a mewl of distress as Luke tried to pick him up. Digging his claws in, Deckard hissed. He wasn't done cuddling!

"Watch it, princess. Or else I'll have to hold you down and clip your claws again." Luke scolded him and detached his claws from his shirt

Placing Deckard down, Luke started to stand. Deckard sat on the bed and glared at him the whole time he got ready

"Don't give me that look, you spoiled brat." Luke threw over his shoulder as he pulled a shirt on. "I'll give you an extra can of tuna when I get home from work. As long as you don't destroy anything."

Deckard wasn't promising anything

---

Placing a plate of cooked fish on the table, Luke chuckled as he saw Princess already sitting on the table and liking it's chops

"How many times have I told you to get off the table?" He sighed, but still reached over and pet the small cat. Who started purring up a storm

Placing his own food on the table, Luke sat and watched the cat eat its food

He never thought he would get a cat. He was always more of a dog person. But Princess was different

Always jumping on him, cuddling, wanting to be picked up. Just wanting his attention and love

It was kind of flattering in a way

Lost in thought, Luke didn't notice the cat was finished with its breakfast and started going for his

Looking down, he shoved the smaller body back

"Hey! You already got your food! Leave mine alone!" He scolded

Princess glared at him

Rolling his eyes, Luke opened his phone and started to look over his work email. Absorbed in reading and eating, he almost didn't hear the scrapping noise

Looking up, he saw his coffee mug was on the edge of the table, Princess's paw laying right next to it

"Don't you fucking dare." Luke said lowly, eyes narrowed

The cat flicked its tail

"I'm warning you, fleabag."

It tilted its head to the side

"I don't negotiate with terrorists."

The cat seemed to smirk

"Don't you-!"

Too late

In a flash, the cat's paw hit the mug and sent it to the floor, spilling coffee everywhere

Shaking his head, Luke sighed as Princess gleefully jumped over to his plate and started to gobble down his eggs

"Why the hell did I get a cat?"

~~~

I hope you enjoyed friend!! I really did!!

#shobbs #deckard shaw #luke hobbs #hobbs and shaw #shapeshifting au #asks #omni answers #omni writes

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of-tatooine · 4 years ago

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honor him. | chapter 4 - troubled souls

there was none like her. he knew. a small flame of hope sparked.

Her face was everywhere.

On the sky filled with dark clouds looming over the cursed city, etched onto the leftover rays of sunshine. On the stone walls of buildings, in graffiti, her famous up-do and piercing eyes staring into your soul, or what was left of it, with either prayers or ugly slogans surrounding her silhouette. In your dreams, her screams as she reached for her daughter loud as ever in your ears. The way your master slapped the woman with such audacity, strangling her before the demise ensued. Her weakened, frail hands desperate to reach something as the blade gutted her, all in vivid detail, visiting you every single night at some point. The little girl screaming in the arms of your fellow assassin as she was brought to the hands of traitor dogs. Her short-lived reign had been on all mouths, noble and poor.

And perhaps the most prominent reminder of Jessamine Kaldwin was the giant, commandeering marble statue carved into the Commerce building, from which you sat across on a nearby rooftop.

It had been four months since she was taken from the Empire by your kin. Four months had passed, and yet you found yourself sitting in the same exact spot looking at her beautiful face meticulously molded into marble - overlooking the Flooded District with such authority, such power, such grace. Spending hours and hours, day and night between the small missions you took, between training sessions with him. Contemplating on if it had been possible at all to leave this vapor mask behind and try to restore order and peace in the Empire the best you could.

It was not rare that you found yourself devising plans to save the Empire. To save her and honor her name. To find out where those bastards hid the little Lady Kaldwin. Maybe it had been your own way of apologizing, for taking the slightest part in this coup that opened a dark age of the history of the four Isles. It could have been your way of punishing yourself, to make yourself suffer even more because you had deserved it, constantly reminding yourself of what you had destroyed. Maybe the miserable thoughts in your head would transform themselves into feasible action as you stared onto her crown that was taken from her.

It was proving to be nearly impossible to escape when you were doomed to face the consequences of your actions all around you, every single living hour.

More rats swarmed the crooked, decrepit corners of the city now that the order was gone. The compassion she had directed towards her beloved citizens had been replaced by tallboys mercilessly shooting fire onto the desperate and sick - the Regency did not care about the sick and infected, preferring to seal them into buildings and quarantine zones so they could wait for their approaching deaths. The elite of Dunwall only became richer and richer since all they had to do was support the oppressive reign of Burrows, and the poor simply died miserable deaths either from hunger or from the disease. Hope could have been the last thing on every single citizen’s mind as they tried to make their way into winter without leaving themselves and their family to starve. With other Isles barricading the borders to Gristol, in the rightful scares for the possible plague spread, the city that allowed a clean slate was edging on borderline destruction.

Jessamine would have never allowed all this to happen to her beloved people.

It changed you. Her death changed you, just like it reeled the Empire and the city of Dunwall to perish. Seeing what your band of ex-mercenaries, killers and assassins and their leader were capable of broke you inside. What the man you swore your life to protect and kill for had been capable of - it scared you to death. No one had been the same ever since then. Whalers still operated, took on minor contracts and simple kill-and-disappears to stay way under the radar. Still trained as vigorously as ever, yet there was this aura of an unspoken surrounding the compound. They knew their master and his lieutenant had been troubled ever since, after all, they had been trained to notice weaknesses and emotions by arguably the most seasoned teacher out in the Empire.

Sleep did not come so easy when you bathed in blood and guilt every night, the faces of the late Empress, her daughter and her Protector haunting you with every toss and turn. Knowing another innocent child was engulfed in a world full of terror and brutality, made you sick to your core, made you want to call all of this off and rescue her so she would not end up like you.

You knew for a fact that Daud did not sleep either - it had been the new normal for you to wake up to his echoing groans, no doubt clutching onto the carved whalebone he kept close to his bed.

How could he rest, after he witnessed how the city crumbled under his blade? When the honorable man who had nothing to do with any of these conspiratorial acts was to be executed in two months, when it should have been himself all along, rotting in Coldridge?

It seemed like the Master Assassin shared the same faith with his protege, the bodies you stabbed and the sinful acts you have committed over the years haunting both of you. After her, after the Empress, a peaceful night’s sleep had been a luxury you had not gotten to enjoy. You probably never would.

After a group of Whalers led by him delivered the poor heiress to two of the crooked Pendleton brothers, four long months ago, he had come back to the hideout a changed man. His gray orbs the darkest ever perceived by you. Even more silent than you ever remembered him be. Reclusive, yet calm to everyone he encountered. Sealed himself to his office for days - you would spot him writing down on his journal with that messy yet bold handwriting of his, sometimes recording some audiographs the contents of which you could not overhear yet to that present day. Only took the jobs he had to - to make sure every Whaler mouth was fed, pouch filled and blade sharpened to see another day. Only talked to his closest and even that had not been the same.

The ruthless killer who led a crimson track everywhere he went to had disappeared. Something had broken in him, just like your resolve had been broken the moment her death contract was signed. Like the barriers holding your past sealed off had crumbled. The man with a soft spot and a certain way of understanding people seemed to be resurfacing again through the cracks of the hitman, the man who took you under his wing and gave you a purpose, all those long years ago.

He had been showing you the slivers of that soft spot for years. So you only hoped that man would be compassionate enough to understand when you told him what you needed to do next - whenever you had gotten around it.

“Thought I would find you here.”

The hairs on your neck rose even before you heard the gruff words belonging to a voice approaching you with dead-silent movements from behind - one of the results of your decades-long training. The bolt you had been toying with in your nimble fingers prior to his arrival found its’ way back to your small pouch, then woken from your silent reflecting.

Then, your leather-covered hands would take the mask off, emanating a sigh of relief into the thick air, tossing your hair back comfortably at last, as he crouched next to you with an unspoken ease in between.

Daud could read you like a book, just like you could read him. You felt that he had been staring into the void marble eyes of the late Empress just like you had been earlier, with remorse and regret - one simple glance at his sharp face proved you right. It was not necessary for you to use words when communicating with him. You knew defeat in his eyes when you saw it, just like he saw through yours.

When he spoke, words flowed out of his lips with a slight rasp, and a certain grim tone, contradicting that cocky and ruthless voice you had gotten used to. “We got a new target. I want you to take him.”

Simple yet concise instructions as he had gotten your full attention. The mention of a new contract meant leaving the Flooded District, and by the Void - you needed to take a break from the wolves howling in your mind.

“Treavor Pendleton, in the Tower District. That gutless Lord Shaw wants him out of his way, some personal vendetta. Good pay,” he would continue, turning his head to face your gaze as he described the mission to you. “You might want to head over tomorrow - after the Parliament session. Take as much ammo as you need.”

The way he approached you with the mission at hand spoke volumes. To others, the Master Assassin would lay out the mission with all details covered and all possible scenarios calculated - he would engineer the assassination himself before sending his men to potential demise. To you, it was as if he was calculating the outcomes with you - giving you enough to start pondering, leave you to devise a plan of your own, putting the trust of his reputation and name under you. Counting on your unprecedented loyalty towards him.

The rules had been simple - when he gave you a mission and trusted you with it, you accepted it without hesitation.

That was before she died in his hands.

“I’ll get it done,” you nodded softly, with only a split second’s worth of hesitation, something only an expert killer would be able to catch.

The older man would put a reassuring hand on your shoulder before getting up slowly, choosing to walk back to his quarters via the makeshift metal bridges instead of his usual transversal, the soft crinkling sounds of the metal under his weight fading away gradually.

With yet another breathy sigh, you would look up to gaze into the empty, emotionless eyes of the marble Empress one more time.

If the road to help save the little heiress was paved with more agony and blood, to you, it would be worth it.

You just had to find a way to stay loyal to the man you pledged allegiance to while helping the Empire he had triggered the demise of.

#oh here we GO #the plot thickens #lmk what u think!!#much love #daud #dishonored #mild daud x reader #daud x reader #dishonored 1 #dishonored 2 #corvo attano #corvo attano x reader #corvo attano x you #honor him #val writes #reader is a whaler

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swanqueeneverafter · 4 years ago

Text

I Believe In Us

A Belated Christmas Story. Set during ‘The Once & Future Queen’. *Spoilers lie ahead* After the kiss that sent Emma back home to the future, Storybrooke’s fate is now uncertain. Can the curse still be broken without the Saviour? Will Regina be able to move on from her latest heartbreak and mend her relationship with Henry?

Storybrooke. The Mayor’s House. (Emma walks Henry up the garden path towards the house.) Henry: “Please don’t take me back there.” Emma: “I have to. I’m sure your Mom is worried sick about you.” Henry: “She’s evil.” Emma: (Scoffs:) “Evil. Boy you were a handful back then weren’t you?” Henry: “What?” Emma: “Er… nothing. Listen, Kid. I’m sure that’s not true. (Emma’s breath catches when she sees the front door open as if in slow motion:) Here we go.” Regina: “Henry? Oh! Henry! (Runs out and hugs him:) Are you okay? Where have you been? What happened?” Henry: “I found my other Mom!” (Henry runs inside the house. Up until this moment, Regina has only had eyes for her son. Turning to face the woman beside her, Regina gazes into the eyes of her long lost love.) Regina: “Emma. You… You’re Henry’s birth mother?” (Unable to speak, Emma merely nods.) Sheriff Graham: (Awkwardly:) “I’ll… just… go check the lad, make sure he’s okay.” (He leaves.) Regina: “How… I don’t understand…” Emma: (Smiles, lamely:) “It’s a long story.” Regina: “You’re really here. (Slowly reaches out to touch Emma’s face:) I’ve waited so long… just to see you again.” Emma: (Softly:) “I know.” Regina: “All of this… everything you see… I created it, hoping that one day we’d be together again.” Emma: (Nodding, Emma takes Regina’s hands in her own:) “I need you to do just one more thing for me.” Regina: “Anything.” Emma: (Smiles:) “Kiss me.” Regina: “I thought you’d never ask.” (Regina steps forward and claims Emma’s lips with her own. Her eyes widening at the passion coming from Regina, Emma notices that her body begins to glow with a brilliant golden light. Wrapping her arms around Regina to hold her close, Emma shuts her eyes tightly and surrenders fully to the kiss.) Moments Later... (Basking in the emotions of once more being in the arms of the woman she loves, Regina is about to run her hands through the blonde woman's hair when all sensation suddenly stops. Regina's eyes spring open just in time to see the shimmering gold outline of Emma's body disappear before her eyes.) Regina: (Reaching out with one hand, whispers:) "Emma..." Boston. Emma’s Apartment. (Emma enters with a bag and places it on the counter. She takes out a gourmet cupcake and puts a candle on it, lighting it.) Emma: “Another banner year… (She closes her eyes and blows out the candle. The doorbell rings. Emma opens the door:) Shaw?” Shaw: “Hey, Swan. Happy Birthday.” Emma: “Uh… thanks. What are you-” Shaw: “I got another case for ya.” Emma: “Oh, really? You know what, maybe you ought to take it, my car’s just been stolen and-” Shaw: (Pushing past Emma and walking into the apartment:) “I would, but this guy prefers blondes. Hey, shut the door, you’re letting the heat out.” (Emma nods and closes the door with a sigh.)

Storybrooke. One Week Later. (Henry Mills lays on his bed with his back to the door when his mother enters the room.) Regina: "It's time for your therapy session." Henry: "I don't want to go." (Regina pushes open the door further and gently joins him on the bed.) Regina: "Well I think it'd be good to talk to someone. (Pats Henry on the leg:) C'mon. (Henry rolls over and gets up from the bed:) That's my boy. (Henry pulls on his jacket:) Henry, do you mind telling me what started all this? I mean we used to be so close and now-" Henry: (Picking up the storybook he turns and holds it out to her:) "Here. (Regina takes it:) I thought this had all the answers, but I guess I was wrong. You take it, I don't want it anymore." (Placing the book on the bed, Regina opens it and flips through the first few pages while Henry heads sullenly towards the stairs.) Lowell, Massachusetts. Dentist's Office. (Emma Swan sits flicking through the pages of a magazine in the waiting room. From time to time she covertly glances at the man seated across from her.) Receptionist: "Mr. Mitchell? Doctor Hughes will see you now." (Mr. Mitchell nods, tosses the magazine he was reading back on the table in front of him and heads towards the dentist's office.) A Few Minutes Later. (Having given the local anaesthetic drugs time to take effect, Emma barges her way into the doctor's office where Mr. Mitchell is being treated.) Doctor Hughes: "Excuse me, you can't be in here." Emma: "Oh I can't afford not to be. You see, Doc, this guy is my next meal ticket." Doctor Hughes: "Excuse me?" Emma: "Well, Alex here has run up a few debts, and I've been hired to track him down." Doctor Hughes: "I see. Well nevertheless, I'm about to fix this man's smile." Emma: "Yeah, I'd hold off on that if I were you, Doc. Unless you like to work for free? You wouldn't be the first person Alex has failed to pay. (Doctor Hughes presses the button on the dentist's chair causing it to raise Alex back into an upright position:) Good choice. (Notices something:) Ooh. (Picks up a teeth whitening chart:) Egg shell white might look nice?" Doctor Hughes: (Pulling off his gloves:) "Just get him out of here." Emma: (Smiles:) "You're the doc, Doc.”

Storybrooke. Main Street. (Regina is walking down the street and sees Marco struggling to repair a sign and Ruby and Granny arguing. She looks bored.) Archie: “Beautiful day.” Regina: “Save it.” (She bumps into Mary Margaret.) Mary Margaret: “Oh! Mayor Mills, I am so sorry.” Regina: “I ran into you. Why are you apologizing?” Mary Margaret: “No, I should have been looking where I was going.” Regina: “You’re not even going to fight back?!” Mary Margaret: “Fight back? Why would I do that?” (Walks away.) (With siren blaring, Sheriff Graham's police cruiser pulls up alongside Regina, startling her.) Regina: "Turn off that damn siren!" Sheriff Graham: "Apologies, Madam Mayor but... (Steps out of the car and leans against it:) You've been a hard woman to track down lately." Regina: "Well I’ve been busy. After all, I do run this town, sheriff." Sheriff Graham: "I understand that. But I also realise you may have been avoiding me and I believe the reason has something to do with the owner of that vehicle over there. (Graham points towards the yellow bug parked across the street:) I think we should speak again about how Henry's birth mother suddenly arrives in town and leaves just as quickly without her car?" Regina: "I've told you all I know, sheriff. Henry's birth mother gave away her rights to him years ago and when my son turned up on her doorstep, she obviously couldn't drop him back home and get the hell out of this town fast enough. Don't expect me to understand the mind of a woman like that!” Mr. Gold Pawnbroker & Antiquities Dealer. (Walking with purpose, Regina enters Mr. Gold's shop, turns the open sign to closed and slams the door shut.) Mr. Gold: (Overly cheerful:) "Regina, how wonderful it is to see you!" Regina: "You son of a bitch." Mr. Gold: "Quite possible. I never knew my mother." Regina: "Enough games, Gold. I thought you were heartless before, but this? Using her as part of your sick little plans?" Mr. Gold: (Calmly:) "You know, every once in a while you come into my shop and rave at me about some great wrong that you believe I've done to you. I must confess, each time leaves me more perplexed than before." Regina: (Scoffs:) "You have no idea what I'm talking about, is that right?" Mr. Gold: "I'm afraid not." Regina: "Then let me illuminate you. I am talking about Henry's birth mother." Mr. Gold: (Furrows his brow in thought:) "The woman who was found in the woods outside Storybrooke around... how long ago must it be now?" Regina: "Twenty eight years ago." Mr. Gold: "Ah yes. What about her?" Regina: "She was here. She brought Henry back from Boston with her." Mr. Gold: "Oh yes, I think I heard something about that from Doctor Hopper. Despite Henry running away, it sounds to me like everything worked out in the end.” Regina: "Only the thing is, Gold, I met her before... years ago and yet when I saw her again, she didn't look a day older. How do you explain that?" Mr. Gold: (Smirks:) "I'm told some women age more gracefully than others?" Regina: "Oh cut the crap! There's simply no way that Emma could be-" Mr. Gold: (A look of recognition dawns upon his face:) "Emma… What a lovely name." Regina: (Realising something has just changed between them:) “You… you built this into this whole thing, didn’t you? You made this happen because the mother… she’s…”

Mr. Gold: (Composing himself:) "Do you ever get Deja vu? She's what, Madam Mayor?" Regina: "She's the Saviour. But you told me that..." Mr. Gold: "There's a complete thought in there just screaming to get out." (Regina paces the floor in thought, then turns back.) Regina: "It's impossible. You told me the Saviour was the child of Snow and Prince Charming." Mr. Gold: "Did I?" Regina: "Play dumb all you want, you little imp. Whatever your schemes were, they're finished. Your Saviour vanished into thin air. There's no one left to break the curse. I have Henry, I have this town and finally, after destroying your plans... I truly have my revenge!" (Regina strides to the door, pulls it open and walks through it. Leaving Mr. Gold fuming in her wake.) Worcester, Massachusetts. (Sitting at the bar, Emma orders another drink. Watching her from the dance floor, Shaw excuses herself from her dance partner, walks over and takes the seat beside Emma.) Emma: (Notices Shaw staring at her:) "What are you looking at?” Shaw: “I'm just trying to figure out what it'll take to get you to open up.” Emma: “Open up what? I'm open. I spent my birthday alone. I spent Thanksgiving alone and now it looks like I’ll be spending Christmas alone. It sucks, but it’s been this way all my life.” Shaw: “How do you feel?” Emma: “Like it sucks.” Shaw: “Right. But are you mad, sad? Do you feel like throwing things, or crying your eyes out?” Emma: “I don't know. (Sighs:) Neither, both, all of it. I don't know.” Shaw: “And I thought I was tough to crack.” Emma: “I just need to drink, okay? And since my car was stolen, I’ve got no excuse not to.” Shaw: “Actually, you do. I’m about five minutes from convincing my mark to leave with me then I’ll need your help getting him tied up and stuffed in my trunk. So if you want a ride...” Emma: “I know, I know. I gotta earn it. (Grabs her drink:) Last one, I swear.” (Shaw gives her a look and then heads back to her dance partner.) Shaw: (Emma smiles when she hears Shaw talking to the unsuspecting man:) “Of course I was coming back, it’s so nice to find a man who’ll let me lead.”

Storybrooke. Dr. Hopper's Office. (Regina and Archie discuss Henry's treatment.) Regina: "What the hell is going on, Doctor Hopper? My son is pulling away from me and he's become even more sullen and depressed than before." Doctor Hopper: "Madam Mayor, you must understand. Henry has just received two big losses in his life. In the world he created for himself, Henry believed that his birth mother only gave him away due to circumstances beyond her control. After having found Emma and telling her what he believed to be true, the fact that she quickly returned him and left without so much as a backwards glance was devastating to him. He not only lost his birth mother for a second time but also the hopefulness that came from his belief system." Regina: "But surely that's a good thing? Now that Henry has seen the truth, he should be able to move past it?" Doctor Hopper: (Nods:) "That is what I had hoped would happen. But as you've seen for yourself, Henry only seems to be retreating further into his shell." Storybrooke Elementary School. (Regina visits Henry's teacher, Mary Margaret Blanchard.) Regina: "What in the hell did you tell my son about this book?" Mary Margaret: "Just that they were some old stories to give him hope. As you well know, Henry is a special boy: so smart, so creative, and as you might be aware, lonely. He needed it." Regina: "Well your dose of hope has sent Henry into a full blown depression. I mean look at this nonsense. (Flips to the page depicting Prince Charming putting baby Emma through the wardrobe:) What kind of so-called heroes put their own interests ahead of their new-born child?" (Walks away from the table to stare derisively at the crudely painted bird houses.) Mary Margaret: (Nods:) "I'll grant you that part of the story is mortifying but that's just the beginning." Regina: "What are you talking about? That's where the storybook ends." Mary Margaret: "I'm sorry, Madam Mayor but you're wrong. Look." (Glancing back towards the table, Regina watches as Mary Margaret turns over several pages of the storybook, each illustrating further stories that are unfamiliar.) Regina: "Let me see that. (Scans the pages:) These weren't in here before." Mary Margaret: "Perhaps you just missed them? I know how busy you are, Madam Mayor. (Looks at the clock:) And I have a class due here any minute. (Guides Regina towards the door while she continues to read through the new pages:) Please send Henry my love and tell him his whole class is thinking of him." (Without a word, Regina merely nods and continues reading, paying no attention to the mass of school children now surrounding her as they make their way to their next class.) Mills House. Evening. (That night, despite a long standing house rule of no reading at the dinner table, Regina finds herself unable to tear her eyes away from the storybook. Having excused Henry after a disastrous meal of burned lasagne and second helpings of ice cream, Regina sits alone fully engrossed in the story of the Saviour, Emma Swan and the former Evil Queen, Regina Mills. Eventually, after hours spent reading, Regina’s tired eyes begin to fail her. Unwilling to be parted from the storybook, Regina makes her way up the stairs, clutching the book closely to her. Peering in on Henry to find him fast asleep, Regina makes her way to her own bedroom and closes the door.) The Next Morning. (Sheriff Graham stands waiting outside the Mayor's mansion while Regina speaks to Henry.) Henry: "Wait a minute, you're leaving me here by myself on Christmas Eve? Don't you remember those Home Alone movies we watch every year?" Regina: "I remember, Henry. Vividly. But you're not going to be alone, I've asked Doctor Hopper to stay with you until I get back." Henry: "And you're not going to tell me where you're going?" (Regina does not answer, giving her son a sympathetic look.) Regina: "Sheriff Graham and I have to get going. I promise I'll be back to tuck you in, okay?" Henry: (Sighs:) "Okay." Regina: "Now give me a hug. (Henry wraps his arms around his mother:) I love you, Henry." Henry: "I know you do." Regina: (Holding him closer:) "And?" Henry: (Smiling despite himself:) "I love you too, Mom." Regina: "Good boy. (She kisses him then straightens up:) We'll be back before you know it.”

Boston. Emma’s Apartment. (With the storybook under her arm, Regina nervously approaches apartment 205 and knocks on the door.) Emma: (Opening the door:) "May I help you?" Regina: (Stares at her for a long moment, then smiles:) "Hello. You don't know me, my name is Regina Mills. Around ten years ago you gave a baby up for adoption. His name is Henry and he's my son." A Short Time Later. (Seated opposite each other with the storybook and two glasses between them, Regina and Emma discuss Henry.) Emma: "So your son believes that everyone in his home town is a fairy tale character? (Regina nods:) Hey listen, if you're here to ask about my family history, I'm sorry but I can't help you." Regina: (Smiles:) "That's not why I'm here. Henry only started to believe these things after reading that book." Emma: (Shrugs:) "Seems pretty simple to me, just tell him no more stories until he's old enough to tell the difference between fantasy and reality." Regina: "That's just it, Miss Swan, the problem isn't that Henry believes the stories to be true." Emma: "It's not? (Regina shakes her head:) Then help me out here because I'm feeling a little lost." Regina: "The problem is... that they are true. Every last one of them. (When Emma moves backwards in her seat:) I cast the curse that brought everyone from my world to this one. The land without magic." Emma: "Riiight. Well I think we've found the route of Henry's problems." Regina: (Lowers her head:) "I know." Emma: "You're clearly feeding his delusions." Regina: (Looks up quickly:) "What?" Emma: "Well no wonder he thinks these stories are real if you're playing along with him." Regina: "No, Emma, that's not what I meant. (She reaches for the storybook and turns to a page depicting Emma and Regina's shared magic:) Don't you see? That's us!" Emma: (Glances sceptically at the page:) "I guess there's a faint resemblance... but come on, who are you trying to con?" Regina: "You don't believe me?" Emma: "How can I? What you're talking about... magic and fairy tales... it's impossible." Regina: "In this land, yes, but in the Enchanted Forest-" Emma: (Scoffs:) "The Enchanted Forest? Are you even listening to yourself?!" Regina: "I'm not lying to you, Emma. Everything you've ever wanted to know about your family, who you are and where you came from, it's right in here." Emma: "Why are you doing this to me?" Regina: "All right, you want proof? Your yellow bug is waiting for you outside. I drove it here from Storybrooke." Emma: "You what? So you stole my car?" Regina: "No, I've returned it after the other Emma took it to drive my son back home." Emma: "Oh, the 'other' Emma took it? (Stands:) Okay lady, it's time for you to leave." Regina: (Also stands:) "You don't think I know how insane this sounds? The fact that I'm stood pleading with the one person destined to destroy everything I've built, everything I've worked so hard for? (Emma folds her arms, unmoved by this:) Back home, everyone does exactly what I want them to do. Not because they want to, but because they have to." Emma: (Sarcastically:) "Right, because of the curse?" Regina: "My revenge, my so-called happy ending? None of it is real. Henry is already pulling away from me more and more each day. There is only one way to break the curse and I am begging you for your help." (Emma simply stands watching Regina for a long moment before speaking.) Emma: "Even if I did believe any of this and somehow managed to break the curse, aren't the people of your town going to want revenge for what you've done?“ Regina: (Nods:) "And then some." Emma: "Then why would you want to bring that upon yourself?" Regina: "Because I have read what happens next. (Reaches over and picks up the storybook:) This book contains the story of our past and what I can only conclude is a possible version of our future. Half the stuff in here hasn't even happened yet. (Holds out the book to Emma:) But I have seen a glimpse of what my life could be... and I choose us." (Feeling more vulnerable than she has in years, Regina watches closely as Emma slowly reaches out and takes the storybook.) Outside Emma's Apartment Building. (Sheriff Graham is waiting beside his police cruiser when he sees Regina approaching quickly.) Sheriff Graham: "Regina, is everything all right?" Regina: "Give me the damn keys, I'm driving." Sheriff Graham: "I'm not sure that's a good idea." Regina: "Give me the keys or I will take them from you, sheriff." (Graham pulls the keys from his pocket and hands them over. Running quickly around the car, Graham just manages to slide into the passenger seat before Regina turns on the ignition and, tyres screeching, drives away.) Sheriff Graham: "I take it things didn't go well?" Regina: "I don't want to talk about it, I just want to get home to my son before Christmas." (Regina reaches over and turns on the radio, effectively stifling any further attempts to talk.)

Emma's Apartment. Later That Night. (Emma paces the floor while Shaw tries to make sense of what she's heard.) Shaw: "So you're telling me that a successful, gorgeous woman knocks on your door, begs you to be her Saviour and you just let her go?" Emma: "It's a little more complicated than that. Did I mention she's nuts?" Shaw: "The adoptive mother of your son who you've never told me about?" Emma: "Why would I mention that? It was meant to be a closed adoption for a reason. Did you not hear the 'she's nuts' part?" Shaw: "Even if she is, aren't you even just a little curious to find out about your family?" Emma: (Scoffs:) "You mean my parents who according to that book, just so happen to be Snow White and Prince Charming? Sameen, you and I live in the real world. You can't possibly think there's anything to this nonsense." Shaw: (Flips through the storybook:) “I don’t know, if the people in Storybrooke are even half as hot as they appear in this book..." Emma: "Don't you ever think with another part of your anatomy?" Shaw: (Staring at a picture of a fairy named Astrid:) "I know who's anatomy I'm going to be thinking about tonight." Emma: (Throws up her hands and grabs her coat:) "I need some air." Shaw: "Emma, come on...“ (Slamming the door to her apartment closed behind her, Emma pulls on her coat and heads towards the stairs.) Roof Top. (Pushing open the door to the roof top garden, Emma immediately feels the cool evening air upon her face. Believing herself to be alone, Emma walks towards the edge of the building before hearing a voice behind her.) Apprentice: "Your friend is right you know." Emma: (Spinning around, her eyes are slow to focus as the man steps out of the shadows:) "And who are you supposed to be, Santa Claus?”

Apprentice: (Smiles:) "Perhaps. Tell me, Emma, at what point did you stop believing?" Emma: (Sighs:) "Listen, whoever you are, I'm not in the mood for any more mind games tonight." Apprentice: "Of course not. You usually like to spend Christmas Eve drinking yourself into a stupor so that you can sleep through Christmas Day entirely." Emma: (Unable to argue this point:) "All right, let's say you're right about that. Does that make you my guardian angel? Have you come to show me what my life could be like? Have you come to save me, Clarence?" Apprentice: "In a way, I suppose you could say that. You are destined for great things, Emma Swan. Great things that you can only hope to achieve if you allow yourself to believe in the impossible." Emma: "You're talking about hope? Sorry, but that kinda gets stomped out of you when spend your entire life being rejected by those who should love you the most." Apprentice: "All it takes is a spark. Just one person believing in you can be enough to send you down the right path." Emma: "I walk my own path. Alone." Apprentice: (Nods:) "Naturally, I forgot who I was speaking to. With you, Emma, seeing has always been the only way you have ever truly believed." Emma: "Yeah, well call me crazy, but I prefer to live in reality." Apprentice: "Indeed. Although I do wonder what could cause you to ever take a real leap of faith? If seeing means that you will believe, then perhaps you'd like to take a look over there?" (The Apprentice points towards the edge of the building. Anxious for this to be over, Emma gives the Apprentice a withering look before turning and walking to the edge to peer down at the street below. Suddenly, a flurry of movement gives Emma only a split second to move out of the way before what can only be described as a flying vehicle brushes past her. Looking up into the sky, Emma turns and sees a red and gold sleigh being pulled by eight reindeer flying high above her head. Spinning around once more, Emma sees that the bearded man has now vanished while the sound of sleigh bells can be heard faintly fading into the distance.)

On The Road. (Driving through the night, Emma heads out of Boston while sparing a glance at the storybook which sits beside her on the passenger seat. Smiling to herself, Emma increases her speed, determined to reach her destination as soon as possible.) Storybrooke. Christmas Morning. Mills House. (With the storybook tucked under her arm, Emma makes the long walk up the garden path towards the Mayor's mansion. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she knocks on the front door.) Regina: (Opens door:) "Emma?" Emma: "Hey. So... I read the book." Regina: "In one night?" Emma: "Yeah, once I started reading, I um... couldn't put it down." Regina: "I know what you mean." Emma: "Mm." Regina: "And?" Emma: "And... look I'm not saying I believe everything in there to be true. But, I think if there’s even the slightest chance that it is, we'd be crazy not to give this a shot." Regina: "Hm. Well, according to you, Henry and I are already crazy." Emma: (Gives a nervous smile:) "Then I guess I'll be in good company. If your offer still stands?" Regina: (Steps aside to allow Emma entry:) "Are you sure you're ready for this?" Emma: (Nods:) "I'm ready to take a leap." Regina: (Smiles warmly:) “Me too.”

The End.

#sq #swanqueen #swan queen

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thecorteztwins · 4 years ago

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Um not to be rude but what about Shaw’s relationship with Emma Frost?

Hey not rude, you didn’t call me a misogynist abuse apologist or anything!

This is something I’ve addressed a LOT on my Shaw blog but since I’ve started crossing that over here it’s understandable people who follow me here and not there would be UMMM

So you know how lots of chars have shit changed or retconned about their backstories? This is one of those cases. Shaw and Emma are depicted as equal partners in evil during their first appearances, just two bad guys who work well together and have little to no indication of a relationship beyond that. And he’s sure as hell not in charge of her I any way, let alone abusing her. And that’s the case for thirty years, until in the 2000s, long after Emma has joined the X-Men, stories started to depict a very different relationship in flashbacks than what we actually saw, with comments from Emma supporting this new version in which Shaw was a cruel creepy mentor/father figure who molded her, beat her, and is implied to have sexually abused her.

I don’t like this for a lot of reasons, most of them feminist ones. It’s uncomfy to me that modern writers looked at evil 80s Emma, a woman with agency who made her own choices for her own gain and was on equal (or greater) footing with a powerful man and NOT fucking him...and then decided it was a better story if they changed all that? It’s gross. Women don’t need to have their stories changed from ones of power to traumatic ones for them to be worthy of redemption and heroism, they don’t need to be have the blame (and thus their agency) for their actions taken away by making someone else the real bad guy who MADE them, and they don’t need a man behind things in order to be a villain. It also contradicts a lot of canon in small ways too—-timeline stuff, characters not knowing things they were supposed to know, stuff like that. You know, typical retcon problems.

I also don’t like it for Shaw. It’s not that I think it’s impossible for Sebastian at all—-look what he did to Shinobi, he definitely is an abuser and has the capacity to do this without remorse—but it doesn’t track with the dynamic we actually saw between him and Emma, nor the dynamic we saw previously when he’s in a relationship, and a lot of previously established small stuff about him no one cares about but me. As weird as it sounds, it can make sense for someone to be abusive to their child yet not their partners. And I think that’s the case with Sebastian, because he can change his partners, he can choose them, but he can’t choose his kids, all he can do is try to “fix” them through hurting them, and then hurt them more as punishment when that fails. He can be like that and also be a total sub for strong women. Both these things can be true. And honestly? I like classic pre-2000s Shaw, who has these complexities and contradictions, than I do post-2000s generic Lifetime movie misogynistic abuser Shaw. He’s a lot more interesting.

So like most people when it comes to a retcon they don’t like, I ignore this one in my depiction and the content I create. I can understand why some people would find that problematic, and I respect that. I just ask people not be dicks to me over it. Which, you were not, so yay!

#out of cortez #meta

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sammysdewysensitiveeyes · 5 years ago

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@thecorteztwins Based on our conversation about Fabian actually helping, then demanding credit. Taking place in your alt-Marauders. Feel free to ignore this completely if it contradicts something you were planning to write.

“I’m saying, it’s an outrage!” Fabian Cortez paced back and forth along the beach, hands waving in air dramatically. Both the track dug deep into the sand, and the expressions on the faces of his unlucky audience indicated he’d been ranting in this fashion for some time.

“Yes, yes, you’ve been very clear about that,” said Sebastian Shaw dryly. “Why don’t you go make yourself a fancy medal if it’s so important to you? Or buy one in some curio shop?” The slowly-healing burns on the Black King’s face and bandages around his chest and shoulder indicated that his weariness was not entirely caused by Fabian’s performance – but Fabian was contributing quite a bit.

“It’s not about me!” Fabian exclaimed, in what was quite possibly the most blatant and obvious lie in all of recorded history. “It’s about respect! I – mean, we taxed our powers to the limits, pushing ourselves to the very brink of death! It’s a miracle that we all survived – and the Council cannot even afford me – I mean, us the slightest hint of recognition for our service?”

“I got recognition!” Shinobi beamed. “Jumbo Carnation designed this just for me.” He twirled around, showing off the black fabric. It could, with some imagination, be called a suit, in the same way that artfully arranged dental floss might possibly be called a string bikini. The huge gaps in what was basically loosely connected strips of cloth showed off a whole landscape of skin. Shinobi may as well have been wearing a net.

“I didn’t realize Jumbo Carnation held such hostility towards you, son. I expect your revenge will be, if not subtle, at least swift and cruel.” Sebastian was praying that certain strips would not shift too far to the right or left.

“Maddie thinks I look amazing,” Shinobi folded his arms in a ridiculously attractive pout.

“Yes, he does,” Maddie chimed in, staring Sebastian down, hands on her hips. “I think he should wear it all the time.”

“Do you really want to do this, Madelyne?”

“You’re all missing the point!” Fabian broke in. The group’s attention had wavered from him for almost a minute, and that was unacceptable. “I’m not talking about gifts and praise from our fellow mutants, which we of course deserve. I’m talking about official recognition from the Council that supposedly runs this island! Some acknowledgement of our incredible courage and accomplishment! A medal is the very least they could do!”

“Crikey, will someone please shut him up? That voice is like hammers on my skull,” Pyro groaned, propped up on a beach chair with one hand holding a wet cloth over his eyes. Between focusing his flame into a blue-white stream to melt through the creature’s outer carapace, and then extinguishing the massive fires raging across Krakoa in the battles wake, he was nursing an intense migraine.

“Perhaps you should go lay down in a dark room if you feel so poorly, Mr. Allerdyce,” said Sebastian, with absolutely no compassion or concern.

“Fuck off, Shaw. I ain’t missin’ the celebration for anything. Mind yer business.” Fumbling blind, Pyro picked up the beer nestled in the sand next to him, and took a long pull.

“You really should rest, though,” Haven put in, her tone the exact opposite of Sebastian’s. “You did amazing things today. I know it took a lot out of you.”

“Awww, thanks luv. Couldna done it without your help.” Her gentle hands on his shoulders, her cool voice in his ear – it had created a pocket of calm in his chest that spread out to shrink the wildfires down to nothing.

“No, I didn’t really do anything at all,” Haven demurred.

“Yes, exactly!” Fabian chimed in. “She didn’t do anything! None of them did. That’s what I’ve been saying! I’m the one who charged all of your powers beyond your natural limits!”

“Thank you, Fabian,” said Haven, and only an experienced ear would hear the exasperation hiding under her usual gentleness. “You were extremely…” she paused for a moment, then decided the next word would not technically be a lie. “…brave. I know you were instrumental in our victory.” Cortez had, after all, dashed into the fray to charge up the mutants in direct conflict with the creature. And then just as quickly dashed back out again.

“Yeah, he did a great job not fighting at all,” Pyro grumbled. Haven laid a hand on his arm. There was no implied order or chastisement, but Pyro sighed deeply all the same.

“Thank you for your help, Fabian,” he forced out through gritted teeth.

“Thank you, my dear lady,” Fabian beamed, completely ignoring Pyro. He took and kissed Haven’s hand, suddenly a model of charm and chivalry. “Risking my life, fighting to my last breath, it’s all worth it for the appreciation of someone as beautiful and wise as yourself. If only you were not, sadly, a human, you would be an ideal candidate for the harem that the Council will no doubt assign me to further the mutant race. Once they come to their senses and realize the true significance of my accomplishments today.”

“Our accomplishments,” Madelyne corrected, rubbing her temples. After protecting the entire island from the telepathic backlash of the creature’s death throes (which would have killed most people in range and left the survivors irreparably insane), she was dealing with quite the headache herself. She remembered how Haven had held her hand in the moment, providing an anchor against the tidal wave of psychic energy that had threatened to sweep Madelyne away.

“And enough of this nonsense about a harem,” Sebastian scoffed. “The Council has not resorted to assigning partners and forced unions. And even if they did, you would be the last one chosen to pass on your genes. Some of us have real power. Some of us have already proven our ability to create powerful offspring, even if their character leaves much to be desired.”

“So you acknowledge that I’m powerful, Father?” Shinobi asked, more sharp than hopeful. “I did strike the killing blow. I believe you were unconscious at the beach at that time.”

“I acknowledge your basic competence,” Sebastian conceded reluctantly. “You did what the situation required.”

“By which you mean phasing an entire ocean liner through the monster’s body,” Shinobi pressed. “I doubt Pryde could have pulled that off.” Kitty Pryde had, of course, once phased a massive bullet through the entire Earth, but Shinobi considered that irrelevant to the conversation at hand.

“It was very impressive!” Haven assured him. “I only wish we could have communicated with the creature and found a peaceful resolution….but you did what needed to be done.” It had taken the combined efforts of Storm, Iceman, Meggan and every other mutant with weather or water-control abilities, plus telekinetics putting up a force shield to keep the island from being swamped by tsunami as the creature thrashed and died. Even Aqueduct, a human visiting his former team-mate Sunstreak on Krakoa, had stepped up to help, despite his past as a terrorist and criminal. The one silver lining of the day’s horrors had been how so many people had come together, selflessly working to protect the island. Even Fabian Cortez.

“And of course, that impressive feat would have been impossible without me, charging you up, pouring my own life energy into you. I could have died.”

“If only,” Maddie muttered.

“I believe I’ve already thanked you for your contribution,” Shinobi drawled. (He had not). “But I’ll send you a card if it’s so important.”

“I think that would be the very least you could,” Fabian sniffed. “Although I’d expect better from someone with such wealth and connections.”

“You know, I think Cortez has a point,” Pyro began. “There is someone that we need to thank for helping us today. Someone who’s been overlooked – “

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying,” Fabian interrupted, nodding sagely.

“Not you, ya plonk. Haven.” Pyro pointed in completely the wrong direction.

“I’m over here, St. John,” said Haven softly. “And there’s no need for-“ Whatever she said next was drowned out by Fabian’s strangled cry of outrage.

“I couldn’t have put out those fires without your support. I wasn’t in the right frame of mind, but you helped me get there,” Pyro said.

“And you kept me grounded while I was dealing with the psychic wave. Thank you for that,” Madelyne added.

“You’re the one who organized the evacuation of that ocean liner,” Shinobi offered. “I mean, I would have still used it, but it might have broken that pesky little ‘kill no man,’ law. Thanks for the support, Haven.” He raised his glass in her direction.

“Normally, I would not indulge in this kind of sentimental nonsense,” Sebastian said. “But you did pull me and Miss Renko from the water after the creature knocked us out. Drowning would have been rather inconvenient. I’m a man who acknowledges my debts, and I thank you.” Claudine had gotten the worst of it, and was still unconscious in the infirmary, but Elixir assured them that she would make a full recovery.

“My goodness. You’re all so kind, there’s really no need for this,” Haven exclaimed, her hands on her cheeks as a dark blush spread over them.

“Yes, there is. You spent the entire battle in the line of fire, helping wherever you could. Even with no powers, you were there by our sides. That deserves acknowledgement,” Madelyne insisted. She could understand the feeling. Standing powerless beside comrades (and against enemies) that could knock down buildings, feeling like a useless fool, but charging in all the same. Doing whatever you could, because that was everyone’s duty, wasn’t it? To do what you can. She’d been so innocent back then, and the memory tugged at her with a sweet sadness.

“Thank you,” Haven whispered, as the group all raised glasses (or bottles) to toast her. “You’re the ones who saved the day, I just….helped where I could. I was proud to support you, and I’m sure Mr. Cortez feels the same way…” She stretched out her hand, ready to share the moment with him.

But Fabian had already stalked off angrily down the beach.

Notes: Sorry for leaving Claudine out, I’m unsure of how to write her and couldn’t fit her into the scene. I don’t know if Sunstreak is actually a mutant, but I wanted an excuse for an Aqueduct cameo. I have no idea what they were fighting – some kind of Lovecraftian cosmic horror, minus the racism. Maybe it was just a giant fire-breathing crab.

#haven #fabian cortez #sebastian shaw #shinobi shaw #madelyne pryor #adventures in the corteztwins' cinematic universe

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sambergscott · 6 years ago

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“Dance with me”

requested by anonymous from the angst/fluff prompt list. jake and amy’s first dance as husband and wife.

“We never got to have our first dance,” Amy realises as Jake locks their apartment door behind them, her obvious disappointment written all over her face. They’d spent weeks bickering over their first dance song (little did she know Jake was planning on surprising her with Tootsie Roll despite their mutually agreed upon choice) and several Saturday mornings attending a dance class so they wouldn’t completely humiliate themselves in front of everyone they know. Aside from the ceremony and the promise of spending a lifetime with her soulmate, it was the main wedding thing Amy was excited about. As a little girl, she watched and re-watched the VHS tape of her mom and dad’s first dance, dreaming of the day she’d get to dance with her husband. She thought it was the most romantic thing in the world, watching her parents twist around the dance floor, arms tightly wrapped around each other, heads close as they exchanged soft, sweet kisses. And they never got their moment. They remained at Shaw’s Bar a little after Holt’s devastating news, but the celebratory mood was significant flatter than it had been a few minutes earlier. Holt didn’t stay much longer after he finished his first glass of champagne, wanting to be with Kevin. Terry left early too and Gina followed him out. Charles and Rosa, as best man and bridesmaid, valiantly tried to boost the atmosphere to no avail and eventually Jake and Amy decided they’d rather celebrate alone. Ignoring Charles’ gross comments about the best positions for getting pregnant, they drove away, tin cans attached to a “Just Married” sign rattling against the tarmac. With his bowtie loose around his neck and the uncomfortable heels Gina was supposed to wear long since ditched, Jake fiddles with his phone and extends his hand towards her as the opening notes of All Out of Love fill their quiet apartment. “Dance with me?”

Their living room is not the grand ballroom Amy always imagined and the song that will forever remind Jake of being rejected by another girl at his bar mitzvah is not what they chose, but nothing else about their wedding has gone to plan, so why should this? She accepts his hand and he immediately pulls her close. It starts out as kind of a waltz, like they practiced in their way-too-expensive dance classes, but with Amy’s big poofy dress and amazing ability to stand on his feet with almost every step she takes, they give up and end up doing more of a gentle sway. Amy’s arms wrap around his neck and Jake’s around her waist as they hold each other impossibly close. “I’m glad I’m finally getting to slow dance to this with you,” he murmurs, barely audible above the music. She smiles softly, raking her fingers through his hair. “Is it everything you ever dreamed of, babe?” “Oh yeah.” “Better than your dance with Gina’s Great Aunt Susan?” She teases. “Infinitely. Susan was lovely, but when you said there was someone who wanted to slow dance with me, she wasn’t the lady I was thinking of.” “And who were you thinking of?” She asks even though she knows the answer. That night was kind of the catalyst to them finally getting together. “Weelll.... She was wearing another one of Gina’s dresses, she willingly searched for a tiny ring in a dumpster so I wouldn’t ruin my chance with a less beautiful girl, making her the best partner in the world, and her name rhymes with Jamie Pantiago.” “Pantiago?” She raises her eyebrows, trying not to laugh. “Yeah, I couldn’t think of anything to rhyme with Santiago.” “Funnily enough, Jamie really wanted to dance with Lake.” “Of course she did, Lake looked hot in that tux,” he fires back, smirking. Amy finally lets out the laugh she was holding in. “You’re such a dork,” she says as the song comes to an end. “I guess that makes you Mrs Dork then, huh?” “Sergeant Dork,” she corrects him. “Of course,” he grins. She surges upwards to press her lips against his and even though neither of them can stop smiling long enough to kiss properly, it’s one of the most perfect kisses of her life. She’s on track for her dream job with a nice apartment and the best husband in the entire world. Sure, she didn’t expect to be thinking about bombs and ex-boyfriends and lost Commissioner jobs on her wedding day. She didn’t get to walk down the aisle with her dad or get her father-daughter dance. And as beautiful as Gina’s dress is, she didn’t get to wear her dress, the one she picked because it reminded her of when Jake said her dress made her look like a mermaid. Her wedding day was filled with stress and imperfections and nicotine patches and ruined veils, but she got the first dance she’d dreamed of as a little girl. As Tootsie Roll starts to play, and she laughs at her husband’s ridiculous dance moves, she’s kind of glad things worked out the way they did.

#b99 fic #jake x amy #peraltiago fic #my writing

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sometimesrosy · 5 years ago

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Hmm If they are making Raven the new Kane I really hope she changes as well, it’s too hard to tell from the sneak peek but what made Kane such a good moral centre is he was well aware of his own failings and mistakes and he never put people to a higher standard than himself, while Raven a mere few episodes ago said she’s never done anything she regrets so for Raven to become that moral centre first she needs to face her own failings and mistakes head on before she can judge others.

I just can’t understand raven right now? She full on berates Abby for saving Kane, but when she finds out Murphy tried to do the same thing but instead of saving someone else he wanted to save HIMSELF and was ready to KILL CLARKE. She just gives him a gentle lecture/sympathy. I am stunned. I don’t think she’s earned or deserves to be the “moral center” Kane did his time. He redeemed himself. Raven hasn’t. Her self righteousness&hypocrisy is nauseating and I just don’t know what’s going on w her

Upset raven asker here; to be fair, I know we haven’t seen the episode yet. I guess I’m just preparing myself for being upset? Idk. Sometimes the show does disappoint and annoy me. I do still love it and support it, and I think it’s okay to be critical of stuff even things you care for. I will reserve further judgements until seeing the episode but, Ravens entire story since they went to space has been incredibly frustrating for me. Idk.

There’s a problem with your concept of morality on the show that I think may be making it hard for you to understand Raven and her role here. First of all, Kane is not some all knowing perfect paragon of morality. He’s got a major problem. He’s SO focused on peace and working with the enemy to get peace, that he basically lays down and rolls over for the enemy to screw his people over. He CAPITULATES. Pike wasn’t wrong about Lxa marking him like cattle. Lxa had skycrew penned into their settlement and wouldn’t let them hunt, trade, communicate or use the resources they’d won from the battle she betrayed them over.

There IS NO PERFECT GOOD GUY. Abby is wrong, too. Kane was not the last good man. She was so focused on getting him back, that she didn’t notice her daughter being the good guy, like Kane, wanting to do anything to make a peaceful place for her people, and having them steal her very body.

There have been many moral centers on this show…beginning with Abby herself. Even though she floated her husband to get there and sent 100 kids down to a poison earth on the off chance that her daughter would survive rather than be floated.

I think you’ve also forgotten that to GET to that moral center, Kane actually had to be the one to cause the culling. It was KANE’S culling. Not Bellamy’s. And yet, before he realized that the earth was survivable and he’d killed 300 people for no reason, he was entirely ruthless with survival as his only morality. The culling then precipitated DIana Sydney’s rebellion and the death and destruction of half the remaining Ark, along with his own mother. His world fell apart, because of him, before he was able to think morally and work on his redemption.

Raven’s journey is different. First of all. She never caused all that destruction because of her hubris. She doesn’t need a redemption. She’s been working with her team all along. She does not need to be redeemed. She was just a bitch. You can be a bitch without destroying people or being evil. Raven only needs forgiveness. And we’ve got a canonical differentiation between redemption and forgiveness.

We’ve also seen her lose her world multiple times already, the people she loved, her body, her brain, the earth. We’ve seen her grieve and lash out and be wrong. We’ve seen her confront the idea of right and wrong and challenge people on their actions. She doesn’t always do it well. She’s pragmatic, and that pragmatism doesn’t always make morality comfortable. She has made choices that were selfish and hurt people, and that are on the same spectrum as what she accuses Clarke and Abby of. But she always managed to keep herself separate from the morality of that because she was doing it to save someone she loved.

Seeing it taken to the extreme with Abby, and having Kane, as that loved one, sayng no… well we haven’t seen her connect the dots to herself yet, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t or won’t.

I don’t really understand how you’re still deciding that Raven doesn’t “deserve” to be moral. What does one do to DESERVE to have a sense of morality? They have to work at it? Raven has actually been working at it since season 4 and Murphy stole the drugs to try to save the girl she denied drugs to. Not good enough? Because she’s not pure? Because she hasn’t been critical of herself yet?

I would think that fandom, of ALL cultures, would be sympathetic to the characters who can’t quite see their own hypocrisy, considering how hypocritical fandom can be itself. It is HARD to look at your own actions and ask yourself if you are doing the right thing, if you are contributing to the bad in the world.

Raven is starting to do this.

THAT is how you become moral. You ask questions. Is this right? Have I done wrong? What can I do to make this right? How have I contributed to this? How should I act in the future? How can I make the world better? But you know, it doesn’t happen all at once. It is a JOURNEY, both in a good story and irl.

You say you don’t understand Raven. That is clear. There’s something about this storyline that you don’t understand. You can continue to be upset about it, or you can work to understand it. If it doesn’t make sense, you should actually go back and check with your interpretations to see if they are WRONG… because your understanding of Raven no longer matches the story.

If it doesn’t match the story, then that means that was not where the story was going and you got off track somewhere. Raven’s behavior is not out of nowhere. She was like that with Echo last season when Echo wanted to kill Shaw and she finally relented and said yes… even if they didn’t have to kill him after all. And she had no problem with the morality of Clarke curbstomping McCreary. She had no part in Bellamy and Madi sparing all of the eligius prisoners who were the ones who tortured her and everyone. But she didn’t blame Bellamy for that.

Raven’s forgiveness is not impossible. She forgives. Her morality bends. Yes she can be harsh in her expectations. She lit into Abby, but then she came back and reasoned through it and not only bent on the morality, but helped her.

I think you need to go back and think about Raven’s moral journey and how it led us here. Yes, she’s mad at Clarke. We’re working around her anger at Clarke, it seems, coming at it from other directions. It was VERY clear in the first half of season 6, until she separated and went with Abby. Raven was also still recovering from Clarke’s betrayal and her own torture before being hit AGAIN with Shaw’s death, which, because of her anger at Clarke, she blamed on Clarke, even though it wasn’t her fault at all. Her feelings towards Clarke aren’t exactly rational. Feelings are like that sometimes.

To be honest, I think your disappointment and upset is self indulgent. So is sending it to me. I know it’s your feelings, and you feelings are valid, they’re yours. But I didn’t ask for it. In fact I’ve asked people to NOT send me their negativity, which this is. I took it as time to break the thoughts and narrative and character arcs down and focus on your difficulty understanding, rather than your upset.

But you could just as easily have recognized that your upset is based on concepts of Raven that may not actually be who Raven is in the story, and your confusion with the story could be because you missed something in the narrative, NOT that there’s some failing in the story or character.

It’s possible that you just don’t like the story. That it’s not your thing. And that’s fair enough. It’s a dark, complex, violent story. Not for everyone.

But you know it’s for me. I keep saying it’s for me. That I like it. I keep working to understand it so I can make sense of the story when it doesn’t follow my spec and head canons. And what I do is go back, reevaluate my theories and check to see where the show DIDN’T do what I thought they’d do, see what they DID do, and then see how that effects my original theories. Then I adjust my theories to make sense of the show. HOW DOES IT FIT? Raven’s character journey fits. She’s not your cinnamon roll anymore. I suggest that she never was, and it was your own stanning that turned her into one. Raven has literally always been a bitch, and it’s one of the things I love about her, even if the bitchiness took over and went too far. And yet still. Bitchiness does not require a redemption. And Raven’s morality has been developing for years. So when you say she hasn’t earned her morality, I think your analysis is off. When you say Kane redeemed herself but Raven didn’t, I have to wonder if you understand what a redemption is. When you say it’s okay to be critical of stuff, I agree, but I do not equate being critical with criticizing. To me, being critical is to help you understand, not just complain about what you don’t like.

When I analyze this show I am ALWAYS asking HOW DOES IT FIT? Even when I don’t like where it has gone.

And EVERY time I’ve done that, put aside my headcanons and theories and taken it back to the canon and what is on screen… what is on screen ends up making sense. Because the story is solid and the characters are each on their OWN journey that feeds into the main story. Sure there are things I don’t like and there are moments that don’t work as well for me, and ways the story slips and slides a bit. This is true of all stories. But in general, I’ve trusted The 100 to tell a good story, even if it’s not the story I would tell, and The 100 has actually never let me down. Even if I have to let go of what I would have liked to see. It stands up on its own, with its own story. And sometimes i have to do the work to see what that story is.

sorry to scold. it’s actually a lot of work to do analysis. my brain might naturally think like this, which makes it easier for me, (at least i get something out of my atypical learning disabled brain) but it takes a lot of energy and time to break things down and understand things. you didn’t want to do the work. you wanted me to do it. even though i’m trying to get out of the negativity and not debate. i’ve gotten to the point where i don’t answer asks i just disagree with because i don’t want to debate the inevitable “no it’s nots.” But you seem reasonable and mostly logical and calm and cool about your upset, so I went in.

#the 100 #raven reyes #moral center #redemption #forgiveness #what do you do when your interpretation no longer fits the story? you go back and fix your interpretation because you went off track #figure out where you went off track

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123moviest · 5 years ago

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Fast & Furious Presents: Hobbs & Shaw': Film Review

Eighteen years ago, an unheralded little Universal release called The Fast and the Furious climaxed with two drag racers played by the little-known Vin Diesel and Paul Walker cranking up their engines and macho to see who might make it across some Los Angeles train tracks before an approaching engine did. This summer we've got the franchise's latest outsized sprig, in which the grand finale features a battle royal involving the villainous Idris Elba in a jumbo helicopter chained to a hefty truck bearing Dwayne Johnson and Jason Statham along the coast of Samoa.

123movies

In the curiously titled Fast & Furious Presents: Hobbs & Shaw, which is being positioned as a franchise offshoot, the faces, scale and cost ($200 million) have changed, but not the elemental appeal of the series' stress on speed, nerve, spectacular stunts and devil-may-care confidence among its muscle-bound main characters.

Officially, this gigantic, sometimes rollicking and enjoyably absurd venture is not an actual Fast and Furious entry but something of a parallel event; Fast & Furious 9 with Diesel, Charlize Theron, Michelle Rodriguez and other familiar faces, but without Johnson or Statham, will continue the main series' narrative next May. But the family ties are visible everywhere, even when the filmmakers, if not the actors, make you suspect they'd actually like to be making a Mission: Impossible installment.

Different things can happen to a franchise as it ages, and not all that many of them last as long as this one has. Without rejuvenation, they can get tired, repetitive, cobwebby and/or outdated. Not only have these traps been avoided here, but the film gets giddy and goofy in spots and always wears its fundamental absurdity with good humor.

Following its long arc, the franchise has traveled from credible working-class grit to the self-consciously absurd and costs be damned, but with the saving grace of self-deprecating humor. The pic springs right out of the gate as it contrasts, via split-screen, the just-out-of-bed routines of Johnson's security services expert Luke Hobbs and Statham's former military-op-gone-rogue Deckard Shaw. With Arnold Schwarzenegger's prime well behind him, no men in film today can fairly compete with Johnson for top muscle-man honors, even as a chiseled physique has become a virtual requisite for stardom.

Screenwriters Chris Morgan, who remains on board for his seventh Fast installment, and Drew Pearce, who created the original story for Mission: Impossible – Rogue Nation, have worked especially hard to load the script with fast-flying antagonistic banter between Johnson's Yank, Hobbs, and Statham's working-class Brit, Shaw. These guys don't want to work together again, but the unreliable behavior of Shaw's brilliant sister Hattie (the ever-terrific Vanessa Kirby), a rogue MI6 agent in possession of a world-endangering viral sample, and the frightening ambitions of the half-man, half-genetically enhanced anarchist Brixton Lorr (Elba) rather force the issue.

Anyone who has seen director (and former stuntman) David Leitch's previous features, Atomic Blonde and Deadpool 2, knows that he has a tendency to intricately detail his scenes. Indeed, here, perhaps even more than before, he loads them up with no end of touches, including obsessive behavior and — his saving grace — humor, to the point where one can sometimes lose track of what the scene is actually about. On that score, however, all you have to really remember is that Hattie's virus sample must not fall into the hands of the relentless, burgeoning superman Lorr and that much of the action you see onscreen cannot come close to happening in real life.

Once you accept these basics, Hobbs & Shaw (there must once have been a British shop or food concern of this name) can be a great deal of fun much of the time. The two leads' highly competitive shtick is more amusing than not — the insults fly hot and heavy — as are the outrageously adverse predicaments over which they invariably manage to gain an upper hand. Director Leitch figuratively winks at the audience and elbows it in the ribs as he has his characters break the laws of physics time and time again as they confront a thoroughly preposterous lineup of physical dilemmas one after another.

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irelise · 6 years ago

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the yew tree - 1.1/?

Erik has worked with Sebastian Shaw, mutant revolutionary, ever since Shaw rescued him from human experimentation when he was a boy. He is reluctantly enlisted to assist in Shaw’s newest scheme: seducing the wealthy and enigmatic Lord Xavier and claiming his vast fortune. With Shaw posing as Xavier’s doctor, Erik goes undercover as Xavier’s personal manservant to convince him to fall in love with Shaw.

But Xavier has secrets of his own, and it isn’t long before Erik starts having second thoughts about the whole thing...

(the handmaiden inspired au - no canon knowledge required)

Warnings for this part: referenced past suicide, past child abuse, canon-typical references to human experimentation Rating: M Word count: 4311

“No. Absolutely not. I’m impressed; this is the worst idea you’ve come up with yet.”

They’re in Shaw’s office, facing each other across Shaw’s rich mahogany desk, surrounded by shelves upon shelves of expensive trinkets and rare books that have never once been opened. Behind Shaw stands Emma Frost, bodyguard and enforcer and confidant all in one.

Not a year ago, Erik would have been the one in her position.

Now, Shaw smiles at him indulgently, and Erik’s scowl deepens. “Absolutely not,” Erik repeats. “Are you even listening to yourself? You want to seduce some rich naïve human boy, and you want

to pose as his servant and help you. If it’s money you’re after, there are cleaner ways to go about it.”

Shaw hums. “One point three billion dollars, and more than twice that in assets. You would leave it in the hands of the humans?”

“That’s not the point and you know it.” A familiar anger is bubbling up in Erik. This is only the most recent in a series of arguments between himself and Shaw – yes, Shaw aims for the good of mutantkind, but his methods. He works far too closely with humans for Erik’s tastes. “You’re wasting our time. Our brothers and sisters are out there, and-”

“Do calm down.” Emma cuts in, looking bored. “Your capacity for long-term planning is astonishingly low.”

Smiling, Shaw shakes his head and tuts fondly. “Emma, be kind. Erik only has our best interests at heart. We all have our strengths, and Erik’s does not lie in diplomacy.”

Erik refuses to rise to the barb. “Then you should know there are better people you can use for your inane plan.”

And now Shaw is just watching him, and Erik doesn’t like the shrewd look in his eyes one bit. “I thought you’d have had enough of your current job,” Shaw remarks. “But if that’s not the case…”

Nine months ago, he had been Shaw’s right hand. He had been right in the thick of things, the head of his own elite strike team. He had been a hunter, a spy, as comfortable working alone as he is with others.

It had all changed with the Trask incident. Bolivar Trask was one of the few humans aware of the existence of mutants, and Shaw and Frost had been carefully worming their way into his confidence, ferreting out his secrets: what he knows, who he’s been in contact with, the plans he’s set into motion.

Then Erik had hunted Trask down to one of his facilities. Facilities where he had kept mutant children. His own memories howling in his ears, he had killed Trask in front of his own men, ripping him apart with the metal of his own facility, making an example of him.

You’ve cost us months of work, Shaw had raged. Do you have any idea how much Trask was involved with? Do you know how impossible it’s going to be to track down all his contacts now that he’s dead?

He had children in his labs, you of all people can’t expect me to sit and do nothing!

Erik doesn’t even know where those children are now. Shaw had cut him off right after that, re-assigning him to the middle of nowhere. Erik had been relegated to being little more than a glorified repairman, taking care of their safehouses and maintaining their equipment, kept far away from the action.

But he hasn’t been idle. He had developed a reputation for doing what needs to be done, and even in exile, plenty of Shaw’s mutants have been bringing him news. Erik spends most of his days puzzling over reports. It’s intellectually stimulating work, satisfying in a different way from what he’s used to.

Even so, he’s looking forward to getting back into the field.

“I want you to listen to me carefully, Erik.” Shaw waits for him to nod brusquely before he continues. “You’re one of the most valuable assets I have, but right now, I can’t trust you. You understand that, don’t you? Emma and I are playing the long game. And, yes, right now that means engaging with the humans. Until you prove that you can play nice, you’re nothing but a liability. Understand?”

“Don’t tell me you came up with this whole ridiculous plan just to test me.” Right now, the only thing being tested is Erik’s patience.

Shaw smiles lazily, self-satisfied. “No, that’s just a bonus. The young Lord Xavier’s fortune will put us in a good place, and I can’t imagine someone as sheltered as he is will be hard to charm.”

By now Erik’s frown is a permanent fixture on his face, but he’s grudgingly resigning himself to this mad scheme. “Fine. Seeing as you’re going to waste your time on this with or without me, you might as well tell me the rest of your plan.”

“Wonderful! I knew you would see things my way eventually.” Shaw shuffles some papers around. “I’ve already made arrangements. Lord Xavier is in poor health, and his uncle has hired me to be his personal physician. As for your part – like any man of his station, Lord Xavier has a personal manservant, but his has recently been dismissed due to some scandal. I’ve recommended you as a replacement for the role. Your duties will be to bring him meals, help him dress and bathe, flatter him and make him feel good about himself – nothing you can’t handle. And, of course, you’ll help him fall in love with me.”

Erik snorts. Behind Shaw, Emma’s cold eyes are bright with amusement.

Shaw chuckles. “Yes, yes, I know it’s beneath your dignity, but what’s that you always said? Anything for the cause?”

“This is barely related to the cause,” Erik says caustically.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that just yet.” There’s something very pleased about the way Shaw is smiling, something that goes beyond his usual levels of smugness. “How much do you know about Charles Xavier?”

“What is there to know?” Rich, spoiled nobles, they’re all the same.

Shaw is still shuffling through his papers. “Well, you’re not wrong. He’s pretty enough, but unremarkable. From what Emma has gathered, he was orphaned young and his health has been frail ever since, so his uncle had him shuffled back from school in England to the family estate in Westchester and Xavier hasn’t left since. Xavier came of age around two years back, but his uncle is still looking after him. The uncle is some businessman, not nobility, but he sure enjoys pretending to be one. Holds all these fancy poetry sessions in the Xavier estate and has our Charles read for him and his friends. He’s a widower; Emma tells me he’s planning to marry Charles for his fortune.”

Humans. Erik’s lip curls. “Anything else?”

The rustle of paper stops as Shaw picks out a document, sliding it over to Erik. “That’s the uncle, by the way. Kurt Marko.”

Erik stills. Shaw smiles.

“Associate of the late Bolivar Trask.”

***

The Xavier estate is less a mansion and more a ridiculous castle, suffocating in its wealth and taste. Erik’s skin itches when he looks at the subdued décor. With Shaw, he had learnt to move among the rich and the noble as an equal – even found himself enjoying it, the spiteful satisfaction of fooling these aristocrats into welcoming their own enemy into their midst.

So it seems rather a step backwards to be in a place like this as a servant. Erik smiles wryly to himself as he looks at his new sleeping arrangements. He’s expected to be ready to attend to Xavier at all hours of the day and night, which meant the most logical place for him to sleep is directly across from Xavier’s room. A bell links their rooms together, ready to summon him like a dog at Xavier’s leisure.

Hah. Room. As if a servant is deserving of his own private room even though the estate has more bedrooms than any family could ever use. Erik almost has to admire their dedication to keeping servants as invisible as possible: the door to his room is hidden, indistinguishable from the surrounding wallpaper. The room itself is less a room and more an alcove, just large enough to fit a narrow cot. There is no light.

It’s long past midnight, and the major-domo had just finished showing him the mansion and outlining his duties. He’ll officially begin work tomorrow. Right now, his only duty is to stay in the suffocating claustrophobia of his cot and sleep so he’ll be fresh and ready to serve tomorrow.

It’s harder than it sounds. Erik has slept in any number of uncomfortable places, but something about the low ceiling of the alcove, the flat discomfort of the cot… When he closes his eyes, he can almost feel leather straps tighten around his chest and wrists, strangling. Erik forces the memories from his mind, locking them back in the tight iron box where they belong, and guides himself through breathing in. Out. In.

A cry shatters the silence, jolting him out of an uneasy sleep. Erik curses as he bolts upright and bangs his head against the ceiling. Fumbling in the pitch black, he shoves his door open, already fully awake. That cry had came from Xavier’s room.

Erik doesn’t stop to think about propriety. He slams into Xavier’s room, eyes peeled for danger.

What he finds instead is pale young man sitting in his extravagant bed, staring quietly out the window. The moonlight washes all the colour out of the room, limning Xavier’s curls in silver and casting gentle shadows across his face. When Erik steps closer, he’s caught by the glimmer of blue in Xavier’s eyes.

Even when dishevelled with sleep, wearing nothing but a loose nightrobe, Xavier looks like the masterwork of some melancholy painter.

The moment breaks when Xavier turns to face him. “I’m sorry, did I disturb you?” His voice is soft and accented, obviously upper-class.

Erik is suddenly, awkwardly aware of just how improper it is for a servant to burst into their master’s room without an invitation. Nothing for it now. If he gets tossed out on his ass on the first night here, then Shaw will just have to find himself a new lackey.

“Sorry, sir. I thought I heard a disturbance.”

“Ah, so I did wake you.” Xavier’s head tilts. In the shadow of the moonlight, it’s impossible to read his expression. “I apologize again.”

A spoiled noble apologizing to the help – that catches Erik off-guard. “Better safe than sorry,” he says gruffly. “What happened?”

Xavier’s gaze returns to the window. “An old nightmare,” he says, matter-of-fact, and Erik wonders how someone can be so open about his own weakness. “Look out the window. Do you see that tree?”

The estate is lined with trees, but it’s impossible to miss the one Xavier is talking about: an ancient, massive yew, black in the moonlight, dwarfing the surrounding trees.

“I was nine when my aunt hung herself there. Sometimes I still see her.”

***

Xavier sends him back to bed soon after that, and Erik rises early the next day with only a fitful few hours of sleep. When he reports for duty, Xavier is sitting in his bed again. The collar of his nightgown is open, and Erik catches a glimpse of pale skin and defined collarbones. In daylight, Xavier is handsome in a boyish sort of way, his clear blue eyes serene as he smiles politely at Erik.

“You’re Erik, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Erik bows, movements perfect and precise. “At your service.”

“Good morning, Erik. Help me get ready for the day, and then we’ll talk.”

Getting ready for the day means helping Xavier shave and then dress. Someone had already picked out Xavier’s clothes for him – crisp white shirt and blue waistcoat, followed by a dark coat on top. Xavier is clearly well-used to this, sitting docile as a painted doll while Erik knots his cravat and straightens his clothes.

Afterwards, Erik brings breakfast on a silver tray. He had expected a decadent meal, but Xavier must prefer to eat light in the mornings; there’s barely enough for one person, and in flagrant breach of protocol Xavier even invites him to share. It’s probably a test. Erik has no patience for it; he takes up the offer without comment, portioning out the food between the two of them.

Surprisingly, Xavier offers him the bigger portion.

“Are you not hungry, sir?”

Xavier’s mouth quirks into a half-smile, drawing Erik’s attention to the indecent red of his lips. “My appetite has always been low. You should help yourself. I imagine you had a long trip yesterday?”

“Yes.” Is Xavier trying to make small talk?

Xavier doesn’t seem to find his clipped responses discouraging. “Now, you seem like someone who appreciates efficiency, so why don’t we get straight to business? How much have you been told about your duties?”

Erik rattles off the list given to him yesterday, and Xavier nods. “Yes. My days are quite regimented, so you’ll have free run of the house for most of the day. Mornings I always spend with my uncle – he expects me to practice my poetry reading every day. Afternoons I have a fitness regimen my uncle expects me to adhere to. However, I’ve recently been given a new personal physician, and I imagine my afternoons will be taken up by that from now on. The evenings are my own; that is the only time I expect you to be at hand. Why don’t you come with me after breakfast? I’ll show you where Dr. Schmidt will be attending to me. Would you fetch me this evening at 5 o’clock, sharp?”

Shaw is right; this Xavier boy seems to live firmly under his uncle’s thumb. “Yes, sir.”

“Excellent.” Xavier smiles again, utterly serene. “I look forward to working with you, Erik.”

***

He is not allowed into Kurt Marko’s wing of the mansion – “My uncle is very particular, I’m afraid,” Xavier had said – so after he sees Xavier to the entrance, Erik leaves to make a start on his assigned duties.

As Xavier’s personal manservant, it is his duty to keep everything in Xavier’s rooms absolutely spotless. There is the bedroom, of course, but Xavier also has a personal study and a bathroom of his own. A quick inspection reveals everything has already been cleaned to a shine; he doubts anyone would notice if he missed a day of cleaning.

Which leaves him plenty of time to sort through Xavier’s personal effects. He starts with the study first: for someone who spends so much time on poetry, Xavier’s collection is surprisingly devoid of poetry books. There are a few works of literature, but for the most part, the books are all scientific in nature. Evolution, to be precise. Mutation. Most of the books are well-thumbed, showing signs of wear and tear – clearly, they aren’t just there for show.

Erik’s breath catches. Had Xavier also worked with Bolivar Trask?

With renewed urgency, Erik scans the study, rifling through drawers and rapidly flicking through sheafs upon sheafs of paper, searching for anything written in Xavier’s own hand. He doesn’t find much – Xavier’s writing only deals with theory, no signs of experimental work present.

Perhaps this is something Marko put him up to. It would fit with the pattern so far. Really, the only surprise here is that Marko hadn’t talked his nephew into marriage yet…

Erik puts everything back into order, heading for the bedroom next. It’s surprisingly devoid of personality. Going from what Shaw had said, Xavier should have spent most of his life in this mansion – so where are all the childhood trinkets? Old toys, photographs, posters, anything?

He’s a little reassured when he hunts down an inconspicuous box inside the closet filled with interestingly shaped rocks, the sort of collection a little boy would have put together. So, Xavier does have a personality buried somewhere in there. The closet doesn’t yield anything else of interest, just rows and rows of neatly-pressed clothing.

Or maybe he spoke too soon. There’s another closet, smaller in size, and when he throws the doors open he finds costumes, of all things, yards of draping white fabric in the Greco-Roman style, intricately-patterned silken robes with a suspiciously feminine cut to them, pelts and furs, and that’s only the top layer. The closet is narrow, but deep. When Erik reaches out with his metal-sense, he can feel delicate jewellery and ornaments tucked away.

What does it all mean? Something to do with those poetry readings, perhaps? Or maybe Xavier has some sort of fetish – locked up in a mansion like this all his life, Xavier must be at least a little mad.

Erik shakes his head, amused, then puts the matter out of his mind and continues his investigation.

Hours later, he has little to show for his efforts, but time is ticking and he’s morbidly curious as to how Shaw’s plan is proceeding. Erik strides rapidly through the servant corridors – he’ll have to spend a few days familiarizing himself with every nook and cranny of the house – emerging by the room Xavier had shown him earlier.

The door is open just a crack. Stealthily, Erik peers in. It appears to be a guestroom hastily converted into a medical facility: it has the same décor as every other room, all understated opulence, but a number of machines have been set up, and Erik can spy newly-installed cabinets that must contain even more tools. Pills, too, and serums and sedatives and who knows what else. The whole thing makes his skin crawl.

Shaw and Xavier are seated at the lone table in the room, a touch closer than strictly appropriate. Their heads are bent together, and Erik can see their mouths moving, although the hushed murmur of their conversation is too quiet for him to make out. It’s difficult to see anything more from this angle; the most Erik can say is that they both look engrossed in the conversation.

Curiosity satisfied, Erik knocks on the door, watching quietly through the crack as the two of them pull apart.

“Is that you, Erik?” Xavier’s accent curls elegantly around his syllables. “Do come in, we were just finishing up.”

Erik opens the door and gives a perfunctory bow, not sparing a glance at Shaw. “Whenever you’re ready, sir.”

“Of course.” Xavier glances at Shaw. “I’ll see you again tomorrow then, Dr. Schmidt? Same time?”

“Yes. Have a good evening, Charles, and do try to relax a bit.”

Erik holds the door open for Xavier. They leave together, Erik walking a respectful step behind Xavier, wracking his brain for something to say. Why Shaw would enlist him to play matchmaker, Erik has no idea; he hasn’t had a single successful relationship in his life.

“You and the doctor seem quite familiar with each other already,” he ends up saying.

If Xavier is offended by a servant speaking out of turn, it doesn’t show. He only hums thoughtfully. “Really? It’s only been our third session together. Still, I quite admire him. Being a doctor takes skill and dedication both.”

Does Shaw even have a valid medical license, or are his papers all forged? Erik pushes the thought to the side. “So you’re enjoying your sessions together?”

“I don’t mind them, which is more than I can say for some of my other doctors. Having to see a doctor daily is never a pleasant thing, I’m afraid, although I do count myself lucky that I have the option to do so.”

Surprisingly self-aware of Xavier. Erik feels a twinge – something, something unidentifiable, knowing the fate that awaits Xavier at the end of all this.

“He seems quite interested in you,” He says instead.

Xavier turns those vivid blue eyes of his on him, open and curious. “You know Dr. Schmidt, don’t you? As I recall, you were hired at his recommendation.”

“Yes. He was responsible for much of my training.” That was the cover story they had agreed on; it isn’t far from the truth.

“Would you say you know him well?”

Erik blinks. “Reasonably so. Why?”

“I do appreciate having someone so informed in my corner, as it were. You really think he’s interested in me?”

Damn. Why did Shaw pick him for this? “Of course. He…” Think, Erik. “He thinks about your case often. He thinks about you often.”

He’s spared having to come up with something more to say by their arrival back in Xavier’s rooms. “Would you like me to draw you a bath before dinner, sir?”

“Yes, thank you, Erik.”

Glad of an escape from the torturous conversation, Erik starts filling up the bathtub with hot water, channelling his frustration at the whole thing into heating up the metal pipes to speed up the process. Slowly, the room fills with steam, lazy silver curls mixing with the scented oils he had poured into the bathwater.

“Bath’s ready,” he calls.

Xavier steps into the room and Erik rises carefully to his feet. This is one of his duties too, he remembers. Helping the young master bath.

He had helped Xavier dress earlier today, but helping him undress now – it’s strangely intimate. Erik has eyes, he’s not blind to Xavier’s boyish handsomeness, and as he peels off all those formal layers he makes note of Xavier’s trim stature. He’s well-formed, lightly-muscled, and he’s been taught to hold himself well, graceful and noble.

Unattainable.

The steam wraps around them both, the heat settling a light flush onto Xavier’s creamy skin. Erik silently helps him into the bath, the water rippling as Xavier sinks in. “Shall I do your hair first?”

“Yes, please.”

Grabbing the shampoo, Erik begins to knead at Xavier’s scalp, working up a proper lather. And, finally, he’s treated to the sight of Xavier demonstrating an emotion other than self-possessed serenity: his head lolls back, pushing into Erik’s touch. When Erik’s nails drag lightly against his scalp, Xavier’s eyelashes tremble against his cheek. A whisper of a sigh drifts through the steam.

“I’ve always had a terribly sensitive scalp,” Xavier remarks without prompting. His eyes are still closed, his body a languid sprawl in the bathtub. “Dr. Schmidt has told you about my migraines, yes?”

“Some. He worries about you.”

“Lovely of him, to be so concerned about a patient.”

Erik stifles a snort – Shaw and lovely should never be in the same sentence together – and continues to massage Xavier’s scalp. He must be doing something right because Xavier sighs again, sinking deeper into the tub. “Lovely,” he repeats, sounding sleepy.

It’s strange. Erik had expected to hate every moment of servicing this undeserving human, but there’s something oddly soothing about taking care of another person like this. He’s gentle and careful as he helps Xavier wash the shampoo out of his hair, before grabbing a bar of soap and a soft sponge to wash the rest of his body. “Sit up a little so I can get your back.”

Obediently, Xavier shuffles up, water rippling down the expanse of his back. There’s a rosy flush to his skin – making the silvery whiteness of scar tissue stand out in sharp relief. Xavier’s back is marked in long, thin stripes. Some of the marks have a terrible artistry to them, precise and even as the lined pages of a notebook, whereas others are a mess of criss-crosses and jagged edges.

Xavier must have sensed Erik’s surprise, because he blinks his eyes open, tilting his head back to look at Erik. “Everything all right?”

Erik hastily picks up the soap again. “Yes, of course. I didn’t expect…”

“It’s all right.” Xavier saves him from his floundering. He closes his eyes again. “There’s nothing wrong with a bit of curiosity; it’s quite healthy, in fact. For your information, those were from my uncle. I don’t remember it so well now, but apparently I was quite the terror as a child, enough that he had to resort to the whip in order to discipline me. I would have hurt myself otherwise.”

How old was Xavier then? Seven? Eight? It doesn’t matter – no guardian should be taking a whip to their charge, regardless of age.

Nobles, he thinks again, derisive. Humans.

Erik smooths the sponge down Xavier’s back, studying the pale map of lines etched there. It looks innocuous now, but past experience makes it easy for Erik to imagine what it must have been like at the time, the splitting skin and the splash of blood, the pain and terror and humiliation.

Erik wonders if he’ll ever understand the way Xavier can be so frank about his weaknesses.

The silence has dragged on for too long. If Erik was in Xavier’s position, he wouldn’t appreciate pity, so he tries for levity instead. “You, a terror?”

“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” Xavier is smiling again.

They fall into a thoughtful silence again, Erik losing himself to the gentle rhythm of soaping and sponging. Xavier’s skin is wonderfully soft and water-sleek under his hands, the underlying muscle adding a pleasant firmness to his form. When Erik moves to wash Xavier’s front, he finds Xavier looking at him, biting at his lower lip. His cheeks are flushed, his hair dark and curling, tousled from the wash. A few stray drops of water trickle slowly down the pale column of his throat.

“You can join me, if you like.” Xavier says quietly. Erik can’t read the look in his eyes. “The water feels absolutely wonderful. Shall I do your back for you?”

“I…” His mouth is dry. “That doesn’t seem very appropriate. My lord.”

Xavier’s expression doesn’t change. “Of course. It was only a thought. I’m sorry, did I make you uncomfortable?”

Erik can only shake his head mutely.

(next part)

#cherik #xmfc #my writing

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