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blackcatandmasks · 4 months ago

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With bluish neon of a Coors Lite sign gleamingly became captured against the smudged glass of Jack Daniels as the amberish scones of metallic light fixtures haloed over the wooden bartop, as shaken-down junkies bargained with frequent corruptive- alcoholic-vultures-scumbags of the NYPD who sleazily curbed their insatiable payoffs with stuffed wallets-trashy stink that he dodged.

The clockwork mechanism of survival was a rigged gambit to play down in spades-every deceptive angle of the game was orchestrated with two-faced players who had syndicated arsenals with the damn big-shots. There was no relevance of charity, just warranted markdowns to exist without being a vermined stray. It was the game he was tragically roped into since he was a hellbent-rebellious twelve years old Brooklyn kid-a fugitive-runaway orphan from lockdown foster homes.

Nonchalantly, he braced the corded tautness of his garbed back against the leathered stool with suave-faced poise as the decadent smokiness of Jack Daniels anesthetically wafted from his crystalline whiskey glass that caught glimpses of the amberish sconces of the dingy streetlight outside that burnished over his gelled chestnut tresses had roguishly feathered over the broader contours of his temples, contrasting the knife-cut maturity of his suaver-boyishly features as he smirkily quirked his poutier-wide lips, hearing the gruffer crassness of the hoggish parole-officer dumpily sloughing a cushioned booth-an easy mark. Every chump-faced officer who boorishly slapped down the badge was a dicer-scumbag who recklessly gambled for cheapshots -underhand profit. Lasering the razor-slit intensity of his silvery-aquamarine irises onto the grubby thug, deviously, Bucky purred under a murmurous breath. "Purr-ect..."

He was good at reading people, especially at night when the sun had long since set with practiced bravado. After dark, the city was different, all manner of s*** and filth came out to prowl on the streets of a different city-noir New York City. The damned and the crooks were out to ply their hands at peeling every dollar, every scent from the hands of prey and mutually dishonest scumbags. In a way, he felt not too distant from them. He was a con-man who lived to grift and chase dangerous thrills each night. Any so called officer that boasted law and order were as greedy and corrupt as men of his ilk, only they had the badge to hide behind. Him? Bucky only had his charming smile and a freshly dry-cleaned $500 Armani suit to make himself look just as untouchable.

The parole officer at the booth was middle-aged, tired, depressed and likely up to his neck in bills and all the other daily nuances that little people like him dealt with. Suckers who would sell their souls and principles just to earn an extra buck. Not the smart and cunning time, no, just the another practiced sense of bravado and intimdation to hide behind. Good thing he didn't scare easily. Tapping his fingers on the counter, Bucky had a card up his shoulder as he made his approach.

The possessive closeness of his imperious aura grippingly leashed her into a knifepoint deadlock as she mirrored the callous intensity of his onyx-brownish eyes that contrasted against the white-satin of his Itailiansque tailored suit that bulkily delineated the weightier heaviness of his hulkish solidity as he imposingly grounded his unmoveable poise a breadth at the door, outstretching his beefier hand that was shinily adorned with black-diamonded cufflinks fastened over the immaculate material of his jacket. As he took her leathered jacket with gentlemanly tack, alluringly, Felicia sauntered on her razor-edged stilettoes with brazen-feline graces, as her advances became stiltedly arrested by a chirping meow undeniably resonating from a lankier ebony-furred Mau sleekly crouched on his tinier paws, with his longish tail scything the granite floor. Quirking her pillowy full-bow lips into a deviant smirk, tentatively, she eased down onto her shapelier haunches, edging her lithe palm closer to the standoffish-grouchy feline. "Not very friendly are we..." she purred, suacily, watching him twitchily scrunching up his whiskered muzzle as she gazed into the grayish-sapphire of his almond-shaped opals were mesmerically hypnotic like cool smoke. "How about we change that grumpy mood, shall we..."

The acholic vapours reekingly wafted off the porcine-greasier officer as Bucky swaggeringly advanced with feline-like prowess of his cockier strutting, his grayish-aquamarine irises deviously became fixed onto the 'hold-up' victim-a teenager-garbed in a threadbare leather jacket that loosely clung over the athletic rigidity of his lankier chest; his floppish auburn-brunette tresses sweatily askew over his bruised temple as he gnawed edgily on his chiselled underlip. Obviously, the kid was scampishly headstrong against lockdown rules. "I know the drill, sir..." Peter whispered, techily, flitting his brownish-hazel irises at the metallic handcuffs gripped in the officer's stubbier fingers-the cards were stacked against him. Despite his acrobatic-spider- honed agility of backflipping off rooftops to stealthily vanish from his entry points, Peter never jilted the neighbourhoods of Queens -he was a charitable bandit. "Woah...Hey... You see I'm going to visit May...Kinda promised her that I would go back to Midtown and get my head in the game with Stark Industries...She deserves that, sir..."

Do I look like I was born yesterday, kid?" The parole officer scoffed at the teenager's story, probably used to being as unsympathetic as watching a pigeon fall under the wheel of a speeding car. "I've heard this talk hundreds of times from young punks like you who think the rules don't apply to you, that you're just coming out of your jammies means you'll get off with a slap on the wrist. Nuttin' like that happening with me. I'm gonna take you in-" His gaze held nothing but contempt, not just for the boy in front of him but towards life and his job as a whole. He'd throw a dozen kids into the slammer if only to make himself feel better by depriving them of the same opportunities he didn't have in life. Bucky refrained from voicing his thoughts in the most unflattering of ways possible that would just enrage the mark than get him to follow the luring scent of opportunity like a drooling blood-hound.

"How about you cut the kid a break and stop being an a***," Bucky finally interjected as he came up beside their table.

The brattish snarkiness of his whiskey-roughened drawl murmurously jarred the rotund-blimpish officer's vexatious reaction, nonchalantly, with a smooth underhand gesture, Bucky pulled out his wallet-grazing his thumb over crisp 100 dollar bills. The Midtown teenager needed a bail-out ticket from being dragged into a juvie slammer. Driven by a measured callback of his brotherly spirit, Bucky tossed a bundle of cash onto the scuffed table-playing down his card. "Uh...Let's see, I got easy cash to stuff your pockets..." he dared out, cockily, kicking up his shapely-wide lips into a toothier smirk, friskily. "M' gonna pay you off, so this little punk won't be put on your ropes, cause let's face it, you like shakin' down little guys to get your damn fix..."

The probation officer rose up from his seat, his height placing him level with Bucky but for all his boastful sense of authority, he looked about as intimidating as a pig standing up to a big bad wolf. "What's it to you, Wise-Guy? This punk means something to you?" He sneered at Bucky with distrust. Though his eyes did flick towards the wad of bills the nicely dressed man had pulled out of his pocket, he still bore some semblance of awareness as he flicked his gaze around in search of a camera phone filming them. He wasn't a total idiot, that was for sure, but Bucky knew he had his attention as he plopped the money onto the table. The officer looked between the bewildered kid, resentment still lingering towards him as he deduced the brat to be friends with wealthy friends or relatives. "You must have friends in high places, kid. But I'm not buying it," the officer's gaze wandered towards the shiny object fastened to the stranger's wrist-it might as well have been a sparkling diamond as his greedy eyes drank in the sight. "I'm gonna need a little somethin' more."

"Yeah, it's a nice watch, huh?" Bucky drawled out, throatily, gazing into the officer's vulturous piggy-brown irises, definitely, a money-grubbing-boorish lunkhead who pocketed loose cash under the table-his badge was smearily tarnished with corruption, while he mercilessly indulged on teenage punks for easy-pickin' appetizers. Steelily, Bucky razored the voltaic intensity of his grayish-aqueous depths onto the frumpy officer's paunchier girth that saggily ballooned against his long coat. He wouldn't pass this deal off. "It's a high score to pawn off easily for $8000 and you kinda need the cash, pal..." he admitted, starchily, knowing the officer's hoggish tantamount of scraping off the easy-pickings with thuggish shake-downs. "Okay, how about I get the little punk out of your hands with a trade..."

The officer's eyes were as greedy as hungry wolf sighting fresh prey. His appetite was obvious; if it wasn't donuts it was cold hard cash. Thumbing the cool band of his Rolex, Bucky fidgeted and cast a contemplative look at the young truant who looked about as gobsmacked by this situation as a fish out of the water. To bail or not to bail, he toyed with the notion in his mind before plucking his cash off the table and pulling the sleeve to his suit jacket down over his watch. He took small satisfaction in how the officer's expression fell from giddy to panicky. "You know what, on second thought; that's askin' a bit much. Rolex is worth two more grand from what you're askin'. Think I'll catch better fish down by the docks," he turned to walk away only for the cop to drop all manner of smug authority and reach out to clutch his arm.

"Hold it, pal. All right, look I'll give you the change for it. C'mon, here, nice and easy." Bucky fought to repress his rascally smirk as the cop unfurled a messy wad of $100 dollar bills from his pocket. Shake-down cash he no doubt plucked from other helpless fingers he was responsible for. Discreetly glancing towards the suddenly uncomfortable teen, Bucky winked at him with a confident smile while undoing his watch. A fake. The greedy pig wouldn't know the difference till the pawn-shop threw it back at him later tonight. All in all, it was easy-he could only hope the kid would know better than to give the pig another reason to go at him once they left this joint.

Feigning a derisive scrunch of his Romaniansque nose, starchily, Bucky slide the Rolex against the wood of the scuffed-up table as the bulbous-girthed officer, snortily, licked his greasier thumb over the heavier wad, shuffling every bill like a deck of rigged cards-slummy cash-until he vehemently slapped a heap down at Peter's tremulous hands. "Okay, you got yourself a deal..." Bucky murmured in a huskier pitch, cockily, quirking his shapely-bow lips into a toothier smirk. Blatantly, the porcine officer clutched onto the faux watch as his bulgy paunch underneath his trenchcoat saggily grazed over the wooden edge-obviously he stowed no vestiges of couth. With a quick underhand swipe Bucky, felinely, grabbed the wad, steelily, glancing down at the dumbfounded teenager who anstily shifted against the cushioned seat. "Follow me, kid..."

"O-Okay..." A hitch of distrust underlyingly fringed in his sheepish timbre, gripping onto a tattered strap of his backpack with a cautious variance of tactful ease, guardedly, Peter slid off the vinyl cushion, flitting his brownish-hazel irises onto the frumpy sleazeball clamp the Rolex over his flabbier wrist. He was a trade-off bargain-just a disposable street-kid. With conscious restraint of not pulling a vanishing act, he incredulously watched Bucky swaggeringly advance towards a backdoor exit, the evasive fluidity of his stealthier paces were unmistakably feline-honed- -thievish. "Woah, hold on...Sir." he piped out, chestily, revamping his momentum into the shadowy ambiance of the backlit alley, only to become confusedly stunted by a parked Jaguar FX -the exquisite sleekness of Santorini-black metallic lacquer, while the bluish headlights electrifyingly gleamed with catlike intensity against the slummier environs. "Y-You own this cool ride..."

"Yeeeeep," Bucky popped his lips as he dragged the palm of his hands across the finish. "All 50K of it. A beaut ain't she?" He wasn't one to brag, but only 6 years ago he had been driving a beatup used Honda that was about as slow as a station-wagon. He'd come so far since then, he was in some ways proud. His palm trembled ever slightly upon its course, the blue of his eyes gazing hard at his prickling digits sensing the tremoring pierce of something lurking inside ready to come out. He removed his hand, protective of his ride more than anything else at this moment. A jittery feeling of anxiety came over him and he was fishing through his jacket pocket for his stress-reliever. 'Not yet, damn it.'

He pulled the driver's side door open and slid in with the tip of an unlit cigarette in his mouth. "You look like a bright kid with a good head on your shoulderssss," he grimaced as his sentence ended with a hiss, his teeth bared as he nearly chewed through the stick. Sensing the youth's eyes on him, he tossed him a small wad of bills in a rubber-band. "But this is a city full of wolves, and if you want to survive them…you gotta learn how to hunt."

Clutching the hefty wad, unabashedly, Peter hampered the addictive rush that implosively strummed against his riotous pulse; stuffing his cash into his backpack he errantly gazed at the vandalized brick wall that was flashily spray-painted with graffiti artistry-a black webbing that hypnotically fringed around crimson spider insignia at the center. As he stood a breadth near the Jaguar's passenger seat, he watched Bucky shiftily glide the roughen litheness of his fingers over the steering wheel, his shapely-bow lips waggishly quirk into a toothier-devious smirk. "I wanna make an easier life for May, she's been through a lot because of me..." he admitted, sorrily, noticing the smooth contours of Bucky's ears were morphically stretching into a pointier -feline edge. "I-I got cool skills that might help you, Sir...My Uncle Ben paid for acrobatic lessons and I'm gonna waste em' on a curb..."

"Confidence is good, kid. In a city like this, you gotta make people believe you hold all the cards so that they'll think twice about betting against you." Bucky took a long drag of his cigarette, the wafting breath of nicotine soothing his nerves to help him through the bodily discomfort that was steadily taking hold. "C'mon, I'll give ya a ride home," he said. The teen seemed reluctant at first, fearing any wrong movement would run the risk of ruining this pristine ride that was probably worth more than everything he and May owned. Once he settled in, the Jaguar took off into traffic with a pulsing vroom that sent vibrations throughout the street. Peter made himself as small as possible in his seat, afraid to so much as touch the upholstery with his hands.

Bucky's grayish-aquamarine eyes veered towards the mirror then caught Peter's gaze. He felt a touch of empathy for him. He reminded him too much of himself when he first started out-conning people for the right reasons such as family. With a little guidance, maybe he could teach the kid what lines not to cross and which ones were worthwhile. "Tell me, Peter," he hissed as he shifted in his seat, unable to mask the discomfort caused by his twisting muscles. "When you look at this city, what do you see? Hmm?"

Hearing the whispery gravelliness of Bucky's scratchier drawl, riskily, he gazed over the monolithic skyscrapers that contrastingly bordered the foggier horizon as myriads of lights hazily glowed against the shadier environs of the boroughs as the Jaguar accelerated down the graffiti-branded underpass with a prowling tempo. Every shadowy alleyway was ominously haloed by yellowish streetlights, revealing glimpses of huddled silhouettes-captives enmeshed in a dystopian arcade-labyrinth of infectious criminality-blackout slum-holes where anorexic junkies numbingly shooted-up their fix underneath iron-grated stairways of the metro rails.

Being a Midtown drop-out, Peter was tragically immune to forsaken dereliction of charity-humanity that cruelly pegged innocent people into murderous crosshairs-his Uncle Ben was a gunned-down victim by reckless thugs who commandeered his Buick when the NYPD cruisers had obstructed their get-away exit."I-I kinda see a lot of dark corners that suck away good people...Just a lot of bad shade in unfriendly neighbourhoods." Crestfallenly, Peter gnawed on his jutting underlip, flitting his brownish irises onto the reddish sconces of traffic-lights gleaming off the vehicle's sleekier hood, as he inquisitively fixed a sidelong glance at Bucky, noticing his wide-blown pupils razored into diamond-like slits piercingly against the voltaic intensity of his whitish-sapphire irises: maybe he wore contact-lens. "This city kinda teaches you to look away when bad things happen..."

It was a grim but fair outlook, Bucky knew. It was waterdowned if anything. The streets were a waste-dump of human strays that society had discarded as rich one percenters continued to pilfer and drain honest hard-working lower and middle-class people. People probably like Peter and his Aunt. Those less fortunate fell hard to their demons while others sought to follow the narrow and steady path not realizing that one trip could lead them off a cliff. Saps who still believed this country was the land of opportunity in this day and age were only half-right. Opportunity only came to those willing to reach out and take it, not wait for it to be received. He'd learned that the hard way.

"You're not blind, I'll give ya that. One thing you need to know, this city will swallow and eat you up and spit you out unless you make yourself as big as possible." Bucky turned at an intersection, the familiar layout of a calm neighbourhood in Queens only soothed him a little. It meant less city lights which kept him in the dark as his transformation progressed to the point his mouth felt like a venus fly-trap. "Be ahead of the curve; know people and their habits. Once you understand the nature of a thing, you'll know what its capable of."

"Okay, a little about my skills...Here we go..." The Queen's teenager piped out, speedily, easing his threadbare hood over his foppish brunette-auburn tresses while he unblinkingly glanced down at his backpack, as his boyish features sheepishly rapted with timorous strain-knowing that his lunkhead patrol officer had objectionably used the surveillance tapes of him acrobatically dumpster-driving with spider-like graces as he thievishly swiped a discarded laptops to pawn-off. "I -I fix junk electronics that I find in the dumpsters...Memory boards are easy to fence...Sometimes I gotta pull the copper wire out of these empty apartment walls in Hell's Kitchen to give May enough cash for rent...We got this creep of a landlord who likes taping eviction papers on the door..."

"Yeah, no kidding. S-Sounds like you're h-handy in a tough spot," Bucky was only half-listening as he fought to remain composed, but the steady progression of his transformation was turning into a full-on rapid sprint. It was getting difficult to keep the roughened snarls out of his voice. His cigarette was crushed between his clenched digits, ashes and sparks staining his suit-pants. He hadn't realized that he was picking up speed until he nearly struck a pair of idling teens crossing the street. He braked hard, the screeching of the jaguar's tires were like wailing screams in the calm quiet night. Peter threw himself back against the seat, the teen's eyes wide with apprehension while Bucky breathed deep in and out. The teens on the street scattered like mice, running back to their dwellings. "Y-You can t-tell me all about it t-tomorrow, kid." Bucky ground out through as he unlocked the car door. He wasn't even sure he was on the kid's block, all he knew was what a passive glance at his ID had shown him.

Gripping onto the door handle, the bluish ambient 'Jaguar' light gleamed on the automatic sensor as Peter tactfully slid off the leathered seat at the second a gustier rush of October frigidness whip-lash against his fevered cheeks; pivoting on his scuffed-up Reebok sneakers, warily, Peter gazed at the rundown brownstone apartment complexes- an eroded swing-set was rustily bordered with a chain-linked fence-disused by crabby tenants. "Um...Thanks for the cool ride, Sir..." he whispered, chirpily, slinging his backpack strap hastily over his garbed shoulder. "If you wanna meet someplace, the rooftop of Midtown High is a good spot..."

Bucky mutely nodded, clinging to the shadows of the driver's seat as if they were a blanket to hide the rapid flourish of dark fur spreading across his skin. "W-Whatever works for you. Keep your head low for now, P-Pete. I-If you want to get ahead, you gotta learn to be invisible when it counts." The youth seemed uncertain of himself and gazed a second too longer at him than he should've as he began to notice something alarmingly off about him. With a pointed look towards the door, Bucky snarled. "Go on, get out here." Peter had stepped out of the car as if he were electroshocked, the door shutting briskly behind him. He only made it onto the curb before he'd realized he didn't know the man's name. Before he could ask, the screeching of tires signalled his rapid departure. He zoomed off like a roadrunner, the indigo neon lights of his jaguar glowing in the night.

Against the backlit contrasts that shadowily entrenched over the panoramic brownstone Stuyvesant Heights; jacked-up tension implosively ebbed as he razored his mesmeric whitish-sapphire opals into the blackout direction of his parked Jaguar FX. The needle-point grip of his tinier fangs unerringly clamped his key fob, Bucky devaintly sashayed the evasive momentum of his paw-steps. Warringly, he advanced with stealthier-fugitive- prowess to a curbside as the orangish sconces of streetlight burnished over the velvety sleekness of his ebony-raven fur as he sveltely grounded his lankier form near a Daily Bugle kiosk.

Defensively, his pointier ears flitted back on reactive tenor when he detected tremorous vibrations of scurrying rodents vehemently underneath his tenser fore-claws."C'mon, I don't have time for this..." he rasped out, scratchily, as his whiskered muzzle twitchily jutted up against the pungent stench of alleyway rats squeakily crawling within a dented trash can. "Damnit..." Hissingly, Bucky felt his razorlike claws predatorily snicking out on vicious accord, readily, evident to the viper-like swaying of his longish tail.

Rampantly, Bucky evicted the possessive tumult of soul-binding—mephitic witchery that anguishedly scythed his tenacious-hellbent spirit into a morphic thrall- dredged-up apparitions of unwarrantable heartache that doubled-down in spades. He learned how to shift the craftier angles of deception at seventeen while being a 'hard knocks' Brooklyn kid who had viscerally staked down a heart-driven promise of inseparable brotherhood, only to become duped into sorcerous dregs because he couldn't dodge the cheap shots when backed into a corner by a vampiresque-parasitic siren who damningly roped him into a deadlocked-kick-backed reality of existing as her thievish furball-lackey."Don't go on the ropes again, Barnes..."

Inside his head, he was berating himself. To the passive observer he probably just looked like a very grumpy cat meowing at the wind as his paws swatted at random objects in his way. In the years he'd spent succumbing to this morphic curse, there were still some things he hadn't gotten used to such as the feeling of being such an absently small thing in a huge world where trash-cans might as well be buildings and buildings became mountains. The aromatic scent of freshly baked bread and cheese coming from the Italian restaurant a few blocks down nearly had him dashing across the streets in search of a meal. The squeaking of rats were as annoying to him as nails on a chalk-board, a sound he just felt the irresistible need to put an end to. He knew now why cats and mice were natural enemies.

The feline wandered the back alleys aimlessly though he was mutely aware that he was inevitably heading down a familiar path that led to a residential Flatbush neighbourhood. It was late, and hardly any people were on the streets despite the occasional car driving past. A house on the corner caught his eye, one he knew too well. "Come on," he meowed with distress. Would it hurt to check up on an old friend?

With full-measured vigilance of his quick-footed swagger, cautiously, Bucky harnessed a surge of feline-honed graces as he lithely pounced onto a parked Mustang's grilled hood, poising his stubbier haunches on the black-matte fibreglass on breakneck succession. Flitting his lengthy tail, he crouched against the shadiness that melded with his obsidian fur. A subtle rapt of his tinier nose viscerally caught a nostalgic-homebound fragrance- the smokier mintiness of vetiver Old Spice aftershave that placidity enwreathed over him.

Every distinctive scent was a heart-punching callback of paying a stockpile of medical bills for a scrappier -puny-asthmatic -Steve Rogers who daringly picked fights with Stuyvesant High jock-faces. His best friend-little punk was born prematurely with bone-rail fragility that laboriously weakened his immune resilience.

With no legal guardian to support his destitute needs, Steve was rejectingly denied medical insurance for his puffer refills, not allowing the 'little guy' to fend for dumpster scraps, Bucky utilized the mechanic 'grease-monkey' skills that he adapted from school, fixing 'junkier' engines for wages to pay for Steve's monthly prescriptions. The cost of survival had leashed him onto the 'poor-boy' fringe, as he became a street grifter -pawning off charitable hearts-marks- that he suckered for extra cash-always having a card of sympathy to play down.

Despite that he severed his brotherhood with Steve, he never passed off a chance to glance into a Brooklyn flat that Steve and his best girl-a gorgeously voluptuous Russian ballet instructor -Natasha-rented out. "Kinda miss ya, Steve..." he murmured under a raspier breath, gratingly, lasering his frostier aqueous depths onto a half-draped window that revealed framed prints of a New York-born heroes- that Steve illustrated for a comic-book publisher. "You've made one heckuva life for yourself...Don't do anything stupid..."

It felt good to see Steve happy, thriving in his new life that Bucky wanted him to have. Times like this helped to remind himself that his present fate was worth it in the end if it meant that Steve got a chance at living without fear of a simple cold killing him. The hurt he carried over cutting Steve out of his life was felt almost every day when he didn't have a friend to call on, a brother to spend time with. Steve could never know the truth over what happened to him-he knew that he could never accept the life Bucky lived or what he was now forced to endure because of him. If he kept Steve at arm's length, it meant he wouldn't be endangered by his enemies and the people he'd crossed in his line of work.

It was the smart thing to do, even if it hurt like hell to live as a stray almost every night. He was adaptable at least in the sense he tried to turn his curse to his advantage. He knew the ins and outs of the city like the back of his hand; what alleyways provided the fastest escape routes into the derelict tunnels beneath the city. He looked for means of which to fight the curse or even break it, reading books about witch-craft and all its history; he even read the damned Harry Potter books in search of some level of intuition. But he'd found nothing! No damned secret sorcerer's school, no stupid hidden wizard shopping alleys or all that fantasy crap that existed only to make money not cure real-life terrifying curses.

The cat hissed with frustration, feeling a tremor of discomfort creeping up his spine. A dreadfully familiar resonance crawled up his spine. "L-Leave me alone," he cast his mental thoughts into the psychic connection the evil witch now forced upon him.

"Time for you to prowl into the domain of mortal affluence..." A telekinetic surge of amplifying rabidity-virulence possessively manifested against his resistance as reddish Eldritch-tetrahedron Mandalas psionically veined over the Mustang's vented hood, gnashingly, Bucky jutted out his needle-point fangs against the sinistrous cadence that rackingly knifed bone-deep. Emitting a screechier hiss, Bucky scraped his fore-claws on aggressive fruition, doing his utmost to block out the rampancy of the soul-vising mantra-incantation that irrevocably strummed akin to power-cord against furrier velvetiness of his pint-sized form. "It seems the desolation of Hell's Kitchen has a new dynastic paragon who harbours power to rebuild foundations of his kingdom...I want you to become a shadow on his throne, my pet..."

"Ngh! And I want poseable thumbs, and a long weekend in the Bahamas with a bottle of Jack Daniels!" The cat snarked with scathing hiss. There was an unyielding resentment in his voice that would never shift. It may have seemed a hopeless act to defy the wicked witch's command, but he would never give her the satisfaction of pure obedience. A flush of burning discomfort entered him, a sure indicator that his sass was anything but appreciated. Squaring his paws, he made a dramatic show of scratching behind his ear. "I'm busy tonight, go chase your own paragon and thrones, Your Wickedness!"

In those denotative seconds of his pent-up resistance, neon-bluish sconces of headlights blindingly flashed against his razor-slit aqueous opals an emerald Dodge Viper intrusively obstructed his breakneck evades, he was cornered. Flitting his pointier ears back, defensively, he arced up his tail, watching the driver-side door swing open, as cascading whorls of platinum-blonde vampishly draped over a sleekier leather Parda jacket that fittingly accentuated the statuesque litheness of the driver's curvaceous form. "Busy tonight..." Clea scoffed out, leerily, gripping a purple 'cat-size' leash. "Your impudence has become tolerable..." She glared at the ebony-furred Mau feline, as her lacquered fingernails tauntingly rapted over the metal clip. "You don't get to change rules, remember that you belong to me, James..."

'For now,' he thought ruefully. His impulse was to flee but he knew he wouldn't get far. He never did. The witch's magic was an invisible leash he couldn't break free from as long as he was stuck in a furry body. There would be only pain and days of isolation if he refused now. A disenchanted meow escaped him, the feline's gaze narrowing to sharp slits. "Who's the mark and where do I find him?" He asked finally.

Hearing the snarkier crankiness grudgingly fringe against his whispery drawl, sneerily, Clea reached for a metallic-chrome thermos off the dashboard, the malefic intensity of her grayish-virescent nastily flashed over the lanky-insolent- feline who snappishly jutted his needle-point fangs like a viperous hiss as the succulent aroma of chilled milk enticingly wafted from her thermos. Scrunching up his whiskered muzzle, glaringly, Bucky fixed his lucent sapphire depths onto the cap."The mark of my interest is Wilson Fisk..." she murmured, cannily, and lowered the cap onto the pavement, she was diving into the blood-misted domain of the king-shark-utilizing inquiries of his business 'trade-off' assets that were stockpiled overseas, Fisk had jackbooted his tyrannical reign within the slum-environs of Hell's Kitchen. "As you know, Fisk pockets syndicates of Hell's Kitchen for his own gain while contributing his marketed investments to benefit his charitable notoriety with gallery auctions...We're going to dethrone this king off the board, my pet..."

Bucky sat silently on his paws for a moment in silence, wondering if Clea was joking with him. 'Who am I kiddin'. She never jokes around.' His focus returned and the kitten cocked his head at his towering handler. "You can't be serious. Of all the big sharks in this city you're angling for the one that's bigger than a megalodon? Wilson Fisk is the Kingpin of this city. He's connected with every syndicate from here all the way to Moscow and Beijing. I don't care how strong your hocus pocus is, he'll see us coming a mile away if we dip a toe into his ocean!"

A tampered hesitance resonated within the lankiness of his svelter form, vehemently, Clea brandished stonier edginess over the sirenic curvatures of her ashen-pearlescent features, gazing at the whipcord resiliency that athletically delineated underneath velvety silkiness of his ebony fur- a pristine visage of the incarnate-untouchable exquisiteness of pharaonic breed. "Fisk is a collector of rare antiquities, I've heard whispers that he's got a fixed attraction on Egyptian history..." She mirrored the voltaic smokiness of the roguish feline's silvery-aqueous opals as her lithe fingers coaxingly traced over the cap, watching his tinier muzzle dismissively scrunch-passing off the milk. The fostered vestiges of his tenacious stubbornness needed to be amputated-one hairline crack of resistance would demolish every mechanism of her deceptive gambit."Well, seeing that you're a rare Mau, sired by the cat goddess Baset, you have the upper hand to get close to Fisk...If you do the performance without any slip-ups, James..."

Something dangerous rose up inside of Bucky, a feeling that he had shunned with all the practicality a modern individual might feel in this day and age: hope. His ears rose high and his swaying tail had stilled into complete focus as he peered up at the sorceress warily. "You'll let me go? You'll cut the leash and let me walk away?" He expected a cruel laugh to follow his hopeful assumption. The winds of change had been kicking up a storm lately and he couldn't help but wonder if Wilson Fisk had unintendedly thrown him a life-line simply by being Clea's biggest fixation.

As her lithe fingers twistedly clutched the golden chain that intricately fastened the obsidian pendant of Baset around the svelte curvatures of her collared nape with possessive flexion, hypnotically, the Eygptian accessory swung like a pendulum, while Clea invidiously roved the malefic intensity of her grayish-virescent depths onto her thievish drudge. Hunching onto his tinier paws with floored mobility, Bucky, entrancedly, gazed at the reddish Ankh sigils that psionically radiated off the Baset pendant-a telekinetic valance of her soul-reaping witchery.

Sliding off the leathered driver's seat, Clea lowered onto her razor-edged stilettos, reaching for him."You know that we have a good thing going for us, James..." she whispered in a huskier undertone, sultrily, kneading her palm caressingly over the sleekier velvetiness of his raven-ebony fur as he chirpily rasped on the fervid violation. "If you help me get what I desire with Fisk, then you'll no longer prowl as my little shadow..."

It seemed too good to be true. In all the years that Bucky had been forced to prowl the nightscape of NYC in search of the sorceress' spoils, she had never given him a hope of escape. One gig from the next was a constant cycle of endless danger and excitement that weighed heavily on him. The fortune she'd accumulated over the years was substantial enough to rival many corporate moguls and celebrities in Hollywood. Would she really let him go now? She'd never had reason to lie to him. Maybe…maybe she really wouldn't need him anymore if he did this gig for her. It was dangerous to hope, but he knew that given the circumstances he had no other choice but to. Refusing her would only bring him misery unless he found another way of escape.

The cat's whiskers bristled as he scrunched up his nose. Against his better judgment, the cat inside of him purred with a sense of excitement, nuzzling himself against her arm. "I'll do it. But I better have your word on this, Clea. I want out. I want my humanity back and for you never to bother me again."

"We finish this stint together, my pet..." she whispered in a huskier cadence, smokily, as Bucky purringly arched the furred litheness of his back against her sleeved forearm on instinctive tempo, hijacked by the addictive contrast of her ministrations grazing over his svelter form-he couldn't resist her. Delivering kiss-soft -amorous pressure viscerally over his satiny fur as she tactilely coaxed him into her possessive throes. Flitting his viperous tail, Bucky rhythmically nuzzled against his feline head against her denim-clad knee, feistily emitting a throat-grated meow. She had him ensnared within her pythonic vice -tracing his felt-like ear with gentled caresses. "Everything we've shared won't exist and you can roam the streets without a feline reflection..."

Bucky held in his inner-most thoughts would've served to only sour Clea's mood. It wasn't too hard. The pet-feline within him craved a sense of security, a sense of affection. It also didn't help that his relationship with Clea was in a way mutually beneficial not just when it came to the spoils he plundered. The raw intimacy borne out of dangerous nights of plots and scheming only fed this fire that burned between them. Her affection pacified him in his more aggressive moments when the fine line between cunning and carnage was blurred after a successful con. The celebratory sessions were thrilling but also they burrowed a whole inside of him filled with self-loathing. He felt used, he felt manipulated. She wanted him to be the perfect thief capable of deceiving hearts and minds. His kittenish tongue lapped at the back of her hand as he meowed, "That'll be the day."

Registering the snarkiness in his murmurous drawl, vitriolically, Clea wrenched her arm back against the sand-paper grittiness of his pinkish tongue chafing over her palm, her passive demeanour callously brandished into a stonier grimace as she yanked at the rangier scuff of his tensing neck with cobra-strike viciousness. "You think I won't give you my word, James..." she lashed, spitefully, arresting his warred mobility into a deadlock clutch of her lithe fingers. "Perhaps you need a taste of my little agreement...Starting tomorrow night you will remain human for 24 hours..."

The cat peered at her with uncertain eyes despite the surprise he felt by her claim. A full day and night to just be him-to just be Bucky Barnes and not the shadowy thief she had turned into a creature of the night. It sounded about as impossible as pigs flying. It was something only thought of in moments of dry humor. She gazed at him expectantly, waiting his response. Was he supposed to thank her? "Gee, thanks. That'll give me time to shoot the breeze with the homeless guy on Park Avenue, maybe even get a bed and tan at a salon." Being sassy and sarcastic came naturally to him as the air he breathed. The cat meowed at her rough handling knowing vexing her wasn't his brightest move. "24 hours. Got it...thank you, Clea."

Curving her lacquered nail underneath his stubbed muzzle, infuriatingly, she mirrored the ensorcelled feline's icier whitish-sapphire orbs that mesmerically gleamed alight with roguish steeliness -an untamed-hellbent spirit of an impudent Brooklyn stray. "Remember, if you cross this deal, you'll become caged into the verminous dregs of my spell forever..." she raved, waspishly, easing her malevolent grip off his lankier neck. A guttural moan resonated out of him, defensively, Bucky flashed his needle-point fangs against a screechier hiss as his longish tail blindingly whiplashed over her palm. "Good, you still harbour that vigorous defiance, James..." She reached for the cap and tauntingly emptied the milk over the pavement-staking down his curfew hours. "Time for you to slink back into the shadows, my pet..."

She had left him to skulk on the sidewalk once her message had been delivered. Her tries screeched away, kicking up a puddle of rain-water along the curb. The cruel witch wanted to make sure she still had him on her leash before jerking him back into line. The cat meowed and mewled as he felt his muscles ache with anticipation. The cold night of the weeping night was edging further away to allow the warm light of dawn to come over the city. The cat found his way back to his Jaguar where he'd left it, his size easily allowing him to slip in through the window he'd left peeled open in anticipation of this event. The wild thrashing of a cat coupled with the animate force of a growing body caused the vehicle to rock.

Any bystander who happened by would think nothing of it, dismissing the sight with bemusement believing two strangers were turning tricks. Hours later, a dressed Bucky climbed out of the back-seat, his suit-jacket on, his torso shirtless. His hair was a mess as he stretched his arms and arched his back, a kittenish yawn escaping him as he mewled with groaning pleasure at the feeling of being in his true packaging. The sun of the early afternoon was high above. Clea's offer and ultimatum rose to the forefront of his memories. Hard determination formed on his face as he ran a hand through his dishevelled locks.

24 hrs. It was time to get to work, but first he had a young prospect to check up on.

The amberish sconces of the vacant parking lot gleamingly contrasted over the brickstone of Midtown High, attentively poised onto the alethic litheness of his denim-clad haunches with readied vigilance, Peter grounded his Adidas sneakers over the ledge, harnessing callbacks of his spider-like agility as he braced his roughened palms with against the cement, flexing every tauten muscle of his garbed chest as he surged the momentum of his legs in vertical-acrobatic sync until he tactfully executed the strenuous feats of a handstand. "Okay...Not bad, Pete..." he murmured under his breath, chirpily, his foppish brunette tresses unkemptily feathered the cement- tamping down a feverous headrush. Measuring his breaths, steadily, he eased a hand off the ledge -reaching for his backpack. "Just keep it together..No distractions..."

"Not bad moves, kid..." A visceral aura of devious-stealthier aloofness clashingly glissaded through Peter's veins in a heartbeat, swiftly, he poised on his denim-clad haunches into a back-catcher's stance, registering the aromatic smokiness of nicotine intrusively enwreathed over the rooftop as his brownish irises riskily steered onto a masculine - intimidating silhouette nonchalantly braced against the eroded doors. "Kinda like playin' the heights..." The murmurous velvetiness of his throatier pitch gravelly fringed with a whiskey-roughened Brooklyn drawl as Bucky swaggeringly advanced closer to the ledge with a variance of catlike prowess. A jet-black hooded sweater roughishly delineated the corded tautness of his bulkier rigidity. Grungily, his rakish chestnut tresses askew over his broader temples, evident to a naughtier quirk of his shapely-bow lips. "Gotta say your hideaway was easy to find..."

"Y-You actually came..." Peter stammered out, chirpily, almost dumbstruck by the knavish-shadier proximity of the elusive Brooklyn rogue; despite that he was pegged into the rigged crosshairs of being a bail-out juvie, he used the spider-like proficiency of his acrobatic calibre for easy scores that paid for his ticket of enrolling at MIT. Harbouring on grievous apparitions-vengeance that he stowed for losing his virtuous-hearted uncle by a car hijacker, Peter became a rebellious dropout, thievishly swiping loose cash from the corner deli in his neighbourhood-pawning off computer hardware while his aunt May would exhaustingly scrape change off the tables during her 12-hr shifts. "Yeah...I come up here during closed hours when I need to think...Sorta my secret place."

"Not a bad spot to get away from the noise…Its quiet up here." Bucky was genuinely impressed by how muted the noise of the city seemed from up here. Maybe it was the neighborhood or time of day, but there seemed a relatively calmness that made the chafing he had been feeling more diminished. He took a long savory drag of his cigarette, the nicotine flushing his nerves where the stress prickled him like nails on a chalkboard. "Those are some slick moves you got. You'd make a good grease-man if I was ever considering a bank-job." He wouldn't, of course. Ski-masks and dramatic heists weren't the kind of attention he needed. His jobs required more finesse and no small degree of charm to pull off a valuable score.

But that didn't mean there were some skills he couldn't put to good use. Eyeing the youth closely he let loose a puff of smoke. "So you've had time to think, kid. You know what this city has to offer and what it won't. If you want to play it safe and stick to small-time wallet-snatching, maybe this isn't the meal-ticket you've been looking for. But you look smart. I wouldn't be wasting my time with you if I didn't think you had potential." Flattery wasn't his game unless it was part of a job. Something about Parker felt different from those he once sought to take under his wing.

The kid had a good heart and was well-intentioned, which meant he wouldn't be careless.

All that remained was for him to cross the line of danger to seek greater opportunities. "You want a better life for yourself, your aunt too, am I right?"

Against the contrasts of backlit shadows that haloed over the rooftop, unabashedly, Peter drove his inquisitive brownish-hazel depths onto the scammer-forged Rolex that shinily gleamed underneath Bucky's heftier sleeve-accessory of duping gullible marks for an easy sweetener of emptying out a stuffed wallet. "You're offering me a job..." he whispered in a tremorous undertone, cagily, scrunching up his nose as vaporous smoke of the cigarette foggily enwreathed over him. Being aware of NYPD dispatch from a cruiser's radio scanner, he knew the security hotspots that were laser-monitored-upscale Fifth Avenue penthouses harbouring encrypted lock-codes of reinforced vaults. Trust wasn't a failsafe mechanism with a professional Brooklyn heister with a cat-like flair-he needed to watch his back. "I-I know what games people like you play, Sir, always tryna aim for the high score..." He gnawed on his plushier underlip, gazing at the wide-blown intensity of Bucky's dilated pupils felinely slit into razor-crescents. "Something tells me, that you're not settling for easy cash...?"

"To settle for anything less in this day's economy will be asking for bubble-gum change," Bucky shrugged, taking another hard drag as his stress continued to boil over. "Unless you get your kicks off of the thrill of this game, you gotta either go big or go home. No one is untouchable in this game unless they're well connected. The more you put your face out there, the less likely you'll be able to blend in. and before you know it, your mug will be all over the news." Not to mention social media-the bane of concealment. "One big job at a time, but since you're on the training wheels we're gonna go for something about your speed." Flicking his cigarette to the ground, Bucky stepped on it and began walking. "You coming?"

"Yeah..." Gripping onto the duck-taped strap of his threadbare backpack, hastily, Peter jumped off the ledge, propelling the swiftness of his fervent advances closer to the rooftop door as Bucky nonchalantly poised the bulkier-corded tautness of his garbed shoulders against the eroded railing; keeping measured distance, Peter evicted a superstitious onrush that precariously strummed against his jacked-up heartbeat at the arrestive second he was barraged with foreboding imagery of a verminous-feline denizen of infective unluckiness spookily prowling near the door: a black cat. "Um...Where are we going, Sir...?"

"Tonight we're going huntin'-" The growling of his stomach cut through his words like an irritated animal that didn't like to be ignored. When was the last time he'd eaten? He did skip breakfast this morning. Bucky schooled his features and tightly pressed his lips together. "Right after a bite. You hungry? I know this diner out in Queens, they make the best cheeseburgers in all the boroughs." Demonstrating astonishing acrobatic-feline agility, Bucky vaulted over the railing, causing the youth's eyes to go wide as saucers. Peeking over, Peter saw him standing three floors down, arching his back like a cat having a morning stretch. Sensing the youth's eyes on him, Bucky waved him down. "You're not the only one with skills. Keep up would ya? We're gonna hit traffic in the next ten minutes."

Hearing the murmurous cockiness fringe with Bucky's whiskey-roughened drawl, hesitantly, Peter grounded his sneakers on the edge of the cement step, despite that he was dumbfoundedly floored by the cat-like graces of Bucky's adrenalized-skater-boy momentum; he became keenly aware of a reactive-breakneck impulse of performing his acrobatic physic-defying feat. As the hard-edge contours of his boyish features raptly brandished with determined strain, Peter hitched out a shakier breath with slapdash readiness and whooshingly vaulted over the railing with spidery-honed agility, until he smacked the waxed flooring, as his denim-clad leg torqued back on balletic sync with his knee unwaveringly lunged forward against his braced palm until he lithely poised into a half-crouched stance."Whoah...Now that was pretty cool."

Feigning a starchier grimace that edgily half-quirked over his shapely-bow lips, Bucky glanced over his puffier shoulder at the Queen's kid alertly braced against the metallic lockers as he clutched onto a dialled lock, spinning the knob in clockwise sync of memorized numbers. Despite that, he was on borrowed time from damningly morphing back into a slinky -thievish feline. In eighteen hours, he would be playing off the 'house-cat' charade to sneakily infiltrate the Kingpin of Hell's Kitchen's high-top penthouse. Grudgingly, Bucky watched his teenage protege deftly open the locker that stowed another backpack."C'mon...How many of these do ya have, kid...?" he rasped out, testily, while Peter vexatiously tugged at the zipper, cautious of his Stormtrooper decal that adorned the raggedy material. "Roww...Damnit, we gotta move..."

"Got it!" Peter piped, swinging the backpack over his shoulder and closing the locker. He stalled for a moment, his expression plainly reading "oops". "Damn, I think I left my Biology book in-whoa!" A hand latched onto his arm and yanked him away.

"Worry about the book's later. Let's go!" Bucky rushed, diving into the driver's seat of his Jaguar and firing up the engine. Peter followed suit, sliding into the passenger's side feeling as if they were running from attack-dogs around the corner, or something worse. The engines fired up with a roar of a beast awakening from its slumber. Indigo and neon lights flashed along the undercarriage. Loud vibrant 80s music filled the car. "Better buckle up," Bucky winked at him with a dangerous grin.

A nervous look of anticipation fell over the youth who barely had time to click his belt before the Jaguar soared off into traffic. The NYC nightscape loomed far ahead, the lights of the city glittering like diamonds, the flashing lights of the zooming cars in traffic were a blur on the free-way. Peter braced himself, hands clutching the arm-rests while his driver chimed away with the song as if he didn't have a worry in a world. "Taallkin' away! I don't know whaat to saay i'll say it anyway. I'll say it anyway! Today is another day to find you! Shying away I'll be coming for your love. OK? Taaaaaake onnnn meee!"

The sound of his own pipes wasn't something Bucky himself was used to. The feeling of being unburdened for a whole night without the itching dread of a transformation was enough to make him feel as lively as kid.

The buttery sugariness of maple-drizzled pancakes appetizingly wafted off his plate, hungrily, Peter shifted against the vinyl cushioning of the window booth as he deftly gripped onto the fork, aware that his virtuous-hearted aunt -May-was stationed at the lunch corner as she jotted down menu orders from rowdier -freewheeling costumers who parked themselves on the chrome stools, fixedly glaring on the mounted flatscreens that displayed the Daily Bugle evening report that a long-winded blowhorn anchorman-J. Jonah-Jameson blabbering on an industry mogul-titian of Hell's Kitchen showboating a charity auction.

Scrunching his nose, reactively, Peter registered the fishy aroma that enwreathed over him, tactfully, his darkish-hazel irises glanced at the plate across from him-a toasted rye sandwich that was slathered with a creamier heap of tuna, pickles, and lettuce-the whole shebang for a 'kitty' meal. "Um..." he dragged out a shakier breath, trying his utmost not to evade the stench that vomitously fused over his pancakes. "I guess you like tuna, huh...?"With the suave nonchalance of a Flatbush charm-boy incarnate, Bucky quirked his shapely-bow lips, toothily, while slurping on the chocolatey frothiness of his pint-sized milkshake as voltaic steeliness of his aquamarine depths rascally skimmed at the dumpy customers at the counter-heftier wallets sagged within their denim-clad backsides.

Bucky took a big long bite of his sandwich with a flat expression while looking at the disgusted youth. "You're gonna need a lot of protein, kid, if you're gonna be jumping off of rails. Because this," he waved his sandwich at the teen who recoiled at the scent that blasted him like a point-blank shot to the face, "is the food of champions." Smirking, Bucky dived back in and finished his sandwich. In truth he wanted a cheese-burger but the moment he caught whiff of that tuna his stomach had other ideas. Not for the first time, his eyes were attuned to the surroundings of the diner. Being a regular, he knew almost every face from the regulars to the staff working double-shifts. There was one particular set of eyes that kept glancing in their general direction. A pretty middle-aged dame with long dark hair pulled into a messy bun waiting on one of the tables at the back. The evening news caught his attention.

"You ask me this city needs more people like Wilson Fisk. A man ready to face down the sharks in this city by becoming an even bigger shark that protects the smaller fish," Jameson blabbed. Bucky shrugged, wishing he had the remote. Looking back at Peter, he drummed his fingers in deep thought. "I noticed your moves back there. You're a slick kid who looks like he keeps himself in shape. Aside from thumbing your nose at truant and probation officers, you ever been in real trouble?" If the kid didn't even know how to throw a punch, Bucky knew he had his work cut out for him.

"Look, Mister Barnes, I played the whole boy-scout act... " he admitted, ruefully, gliding a spongier piece into a glop of maple syrup with his fork with tenser precision. Harbouring onto a good-deeded heart, Peter endured alleyway scraps with thuggish boneheads who relentlessly preyed on vulnerable New Yorkers for kicks-mugging them with switchblades. "Folks around these parts don't care about the little guy, when you try being a friendly Queens kid in any neighbourhood, you get slammed into a wall..." Rolling out his threadbare sleeve, unabashedly, he revealed a whitish translucent scar that was branded over his wrist- an insignia of a spider that a brutish cut-throat bleedingly gashed into his skin with a gothicsque ring-a token of mercy. "The dude who gave me this scar called me the little spider who gets stomped on..."

The sight of the scar on the kid's wrist shouldn't have surprised Bucky. This day and age, kids were at each other's throats the seconds they were exposed to the bad side of life in their digital bubbles. But there came a feeling of displeasure inside of him that this kid who seemed to ooze kindness and potential was one bad day away from being pulled into a meat-grinder by the wrong people. "Little spiders tend to grow and weave their own webs, Peter. The punk who gave you that scar sounds like an insect. Spiders learn to trap those insects once they learn the ropes." Lifting a coffee cup to his lips, Bucky drank and felt the warm caffeine flush through him, giving him focus. "But sometimes...it doesn't hurt to have friends watching your tail. Don't you have any?" He wondered curiously. Kids his age tended to click together in large crowds, texting and face-timing each other. He knew Peter lived a dangerous life, but that didn't mean the line of normalcy couldn't be toed.

The solemnity of detachment was a reality he anguishedly wanted to dodge; after he lost his uncle, Peter closed the door on softhearted friend Ned-a chubbier Filipino boy who giftedly assembled Lego Star Wars box-sets in the Midtown High science lab; he couldn't allow Ned to become a trade-off liability that pegged him into the crosshairs of a construction syndicate helmed by a vulturous scavenger-Toomes-who gambled in deep with the blood-sharks of corporate sabotage, hocking off robotic parts out of the warehouses of Stark Industries.

Using his spider-like acrobatics for infiltration, Peter had voluntarily leagued himself with the Bestman Salvage gang, stealing profitable tech-giving him a chance to assist May with her financial debts until a vigilant security advisor named Happy Hoggan caught him in the thievish act and gave him a one-way ticket to a juvenile hall. Trepidatiously, he munched on a gooier bite of pancake on cautious tenor, knowing that Bucky was prying into dredged-up callbacks of his snakebit past."Sometimes it's better to be alone..." he whispered against a hitching breath, sullenly, roving the passive intensity of his brownish irises the curvaceously Itailanesque beauty-waitress that was his self-righteous aunt. "There are people the world can't lose...Even friends who always had your back."

Bucky wasn't expecting Peter's response to hit so close to home, but it shouldn't have surprised him. Attachments in his line of "work" were a liability and also a source of great vulnerability. The numbing ache of loss in his chest was felt keenly whenever he thought about Steve. His best friend and a brother from another mother. The one person in the world that mattered to him and who he needed to protect. The only way he could do that was by walking away-keeping him out of Clea's crosshairs and that of every other mark he'd screwed over in this city. His expression gave nothing away but his silence must've spoken volumes as Peter looked at him closely, probably worried he'd said too much. "Friends are a luxury that can't be afforded in this line of work," Bucky replied solemnly. He would have suggested the kid keep his family at a distance too, but he knew that wouldn't go over well.

Brandishing a tautened grimace of his plushier chiselled lips, gingerly, Peter clutched onto the crystalline tall glass of his strawberry milkshake, conveying his modest-hearted tack as he nosily slurped on a frothier mouthful, incredulously watching Bucky raptly glide his vein-threaded hand over the beverage list on the menu folder-milk. With Brooklyn-boy suaveness, he gestured for May to lithely saunter closer. "Oh man..." A tremorous onrush of heart-thudding panic implosively revved through his veins as Peter slumped against the cushioned seat, evading the amber-brownish irises of his widowed aunt. "I-If she catches me with my books..." Mischievously Bucky scrunched his Romaniansque nose with a waggish rapt, as his shapely-bow lips rascally played off a friskier-puckish smirk-he was definitely swooning her over. "She's gonna check my backpack..."

Bucky would've thought Peter's timidness was a bit too fun to mess with if he wasn't floored by the sight of the waitress coming towards their table. "Wait. May? Feisty May is your aunt?" The nickname dubbed to the attentive, headstrong and not to mention lovely waitress who had a knack for kicking out disorderly and violent customers while wielding a frying pan. Bucky had nearly been on the receiving end of that frying pan not too long ago when encountering one of his small-time marks he'd grifted out of $500 early in his tenure. Said mark pulled a knife but didn't make it past the first clang of a pan against his skull. "Well this should be interesting," Bucky smiled and winked at the apprehensive youth.

May Parker came to the table, looking between her nephew and the man sitting with him with amusement if not suspicion. "Gotta say, Miss, this place has the best tuna in the boroughs, not to mention the best service," Bucky said, his complexion and voice oozing charm. "Isn't that right, champ?" He directed his gaze to Peter.

Hearing the murmurous huskiness of his velvety-smooth drawl, tensely, May bracketed her lithe hand over her curvier hip, while the suave-faced Brooklyn kid toothily quirked up his poutier-wide lips into a 'shit-eating' grin; being protective 'mother hen' to her irresponsible- sixteen-year-old nephew, she didn't want him in cahoots with a handsomely roguish pretty- boy who shiftily radiated a 'rule breaking' aura. Knowing that Peter was monitored by probation officers for his dumpster-diving mishaps, she deadbolted a curfew to keep him from crossing the wrong side of the tracks. Clenching the fine-bone delicateness of her jaw, fierily, May lasered a point-blank glare at her scampish nephew who dodgily slid underneath the booth table. "Uh...Huh...I'm sorry I thought you were grounded for skipping class..." she pressed out, bluntly, grabbing the emptied glass for another refill of milk."I'll be right back with your charming friend's refill..."

Counting the seconds like a rehearsed mantra, uneasily, Peter fixed his darkish-hazel irises onto the Flatbush grifter who radiated with tenacious-cocksure brazenness unmistakably akin to a nonchalant feline addictively intoxicated with a bowl of decadent cream. Popping his razor-edged cheek with his gliding tongue, smirkily, Bucky drummed the smooth-litheness of his fingers against the cushioned seat as Peter slipped on his milkshake. "So how long have you been at this, Mister Barnes...?" he inquired in timorous pitch, rapting the straw against the smudged glass. Unlike gathering PC scraps in dumpsters, trickily Bucky played down the deceptive hand of the cards he dealt-knowing how to winningly hustle the gullible' heart on the sleeve' marks who offered greenback charity: he definitely was a slick player in the fixed game. "I-I mean...uh...When did you start pullin' jobs..."

A sourish edginess tensely quirked over Bucky's shapely-bow lips as he vaguely leaned back against the cushioned seating, his silvery-aqueous irises downcastly wavered over Peter's frothier chocolaty milkshake; being damningly leashed into the sorcerous throes of Clea's soul-binding debt gave him the easy scores-he was a thievish 'sharper' playing the stray card with Clea's invidious schemes to ground her foothold against the big-sharks of the Tri-State bourghs. "When you're a smart-mouthin' kid of Brooklyn you learn the ropes of survivin' around rich deadbeats..." he quipped in a raspier drawl, murmurously. "I kinda figured lookin' out for myself was the best shot...There ain't free eats for a runaway..."

"Having a particular skill-set in this city will only get you so far unless you know the right places to use em'," Bucky finished his biting lecture by taking a bite out of what remained of his tuna sandwich. He nearly groaned at the flavorful punch of protein that was about as relishing to him as a cop eating a donut. He was nearly tempted to order another but as he watched the kid slowly begin to finish his shake, Bucky felt it was time to take the kid out on his first gig. "Tuna really hits the spot. So…are you ready?" He asked Peter, a focused look on his face that made him look like a drill-sergeant ready to put a quivering cadet through the ringer.

Quashing down his sheepish-dumbstruck trepidation, gulpingly, Peter eased down his milkshake glass as his brownish-hazel irises fixedly gazed at the crisp hundred-dollar tip Bucky generously slapped on the table-easy money of the pawned Rolex he persuasively enticed the moronic- obese patrol officer at the cheapjack bar. Feigning cautious edginess of his boyishly-smoothed features, riskily Peter glanced over his tensing shoulder at his aunt clearing off the lunch-counter trays-he wouldn't allow May to strenuously push herself to the exhaustive brink, she deserved a better life-he owned her. "Uh...Yeah...I guess so..." he answered, warily, gliding off the cushioned seat as he grounded his threadbare sneakers at Bucky's side. "Just can't stay out late...I got this lab exam tomorrow."

"And I got a hot date with a blonde who gets pretty damn scary if I show up too late," Bucky grunted as he rose from his side of the booth. He could sense Peter's quizzical look on him but ignored it as he arched his back, groaning at the soft audible crack. "So…let's get to it then," he slapped Peter on the shoulder as he made his way for the exit. He caught May's penetrating gaze and winced under its intensity. He raised a hand at her placatingly, fearing the frying pan of death she might wield if he said the wrong thing. "No worries, May. I'll have your boy home before bedtime. Loved the sandwich by the way," he winked good-naturedly with a small smirk at his shapely-wide lips.

'Oh, man...I'm gonna be in trouble...' A jacked-off pulse frantically electrified Peter's veins as he inadvertently evaded the dead-straight glare his aunt unyieldingly lasered on him. Playing off a coltish smirk, quirkily, he removed a mobile smartphone from his denim-clad pocket, easing it up with a deft tack. "I-I have the curfew timer already set, May...Nothing to worry about, okay?" he stammered, breathily, knowing that he violated her uncompromising rules, she would personally handcuff him into a juvie slammer. Flashing a sidelong glance at the window, he gazed at Bucky who unerringly tossed his lighter into his palm with quick-handed swiftness on the curbside. "I promise that I won't be out late..." Faint-heartedly, Peter gave her a subtle nod, and quickly paced outside to join his roguishly suave 'partner-in-crime'.

Bucky reached for his pack of cigarettes, only then realizing he was down to one stick. He shrugged as he pocketed it, resolving to pick up another pack of smokes after he was done here. His stress only heightened as he glanced at the time on his phone. He would have to work quickly and efficiently here. He eyed Peter studiously as they stood near the corner, flocks of civilians walking up and down the streets past them. "You're quick on your feet, kid. Handy with tech from what I can surmise. But let me ask you…how good are your acting chops?" He could almost feel the surprise radiating off of the young man which caused his prickling stress to agitate him to the point he began to reconsider smoking that last stick in his pocket. "Don't tell me you've never been to drama club or have had to lie your way out of a tight spot?"

"Well, you see...I kinda like to be a friendly neighbour kid," Peter answered in a modest pitch, heartily, brushing his palm over his foppish brownish-auburn tresses on shakier accord as he mirrored the cool steeliness of Bucky's grayish-aquamarine depths that naughtily gleamed alight with hellbent-rebellious tenacity. Downcastedly, Peter staved down an upheaval of dredged-up heartache that achingly imploded within his chest as he braced his garbed shoulder against the curbside pole tragically adorned with petaled remnants of a hit-and-run assault -a NYPD taped homicide that vanished into the ether of murderous criminality. "Gaining somebody's trust in this city doesn't come easy, Mister Barnes..." Staving down an upheaval of warring heartache, he braced himself against a curbside pole tragically adorned with remnants of a hit-and-run homicide. "People are always looking over their shoulders when crossing the street...I don't wanna be that guy they're running from, Sir..."

Together the duo began to make their way down an intersection once traffic crawled to a stop. Bucky refrained from sighing aloud as he listened to the youth's self-righteous boy-scout pitch. It reminded him too much of Steve. Having your heart in the right place wasn't a bad thing, but in his line-of-work, it could get you killed or pinched. "You don't have to gain their trust. You just gotta learn how to be convincing." Of course there would come a time for playing the game of trust when you learned how to play the long-game with high-stakes.

"Make them feel the weight of consequence and opportunity. You gotta know how to read people and know what makes them tick." He could sense the youth was hanging onto his every word as they continued down a few blocks. His car was parked not too far away, and it wasn't a coincidence that it was across the street from a Stark Industries factory.

"Some low-level gigs require a certain level of finesse. Anything greater than that, you'll need to case and think ahead." There was an alley-way close by and Bucky made his way towards a hidden garage door. Peter shifted anxiously as Bucky opened the pad-lock and let the door fly up. There was a car hidden beneath a tarp. "Given you're not a total amateur, we'll start a little higher than conning a bunch of street punks. The tarp was removed and Peter's expression fell into total apprehension. Bucky smirked dangerously. "Ready to get nuts?"

Against the gobsmacked intensity of his wide-blown vision, unblinkingly, Peter gazed at the white Chevy Impala cruiser that was strikingly branded with the electric blue lettering of NYPD on the driver-side door. Fostering onto vestiges of restraint, measuringly, he grounded cautious distance from the parked cruiser-a hotwired prop to use in the stagelight of their deceptive performance. Against full-fledged wariness, shakily, Peter gnawed on his tremorous underlip, knowing that his choice of partnering up with Bucky would have denotative consequences. "Woah...You stole these cool wheels out of the cop's garage..." he piped out, speedily, watching Bucky's shapely-bow lips waggishly quirk into a cheekier smirk. "Oh man, they got a pretty big fleet stashed there."

"Trade secrets, kid. You'll figure out the how and why of it in time." Bucky opened the trunk and pulled out a duffle-bag. The contents of it were unknown as he unzipped the bag and peeked in. Peter looked uncomfortable as he was tossed a pair of glasses and a walking stick, Bucky winked at him as he made his way towards a bathroom. "Chin up. This is your opening night, get ready to wow and take your first bow. Wait for me outside in 10 minutes." Bucky closed the door, leaving the teen to ponder what it was he was about to get involved in.

Against the orangish scones of streetlight that eerily reflected off the black-matte hood of his Mercedes Benz Lx600-an expensive SUV that was his prized asset from selling off his marketed allocations from Bestman Salvage to gain a foothold in Stark Industries's construction division. Being upgraded as the chief architect for the newest site of a warehouse compound, Adrian Toomes had deadlocked his contracts that were helmed by the po-faced security advisor-Happy Hoggan-who equipped his team with a high-powered fleet. Gripping onto the steering wheel, he shifted his bluish-slate irises onto the rearview mirror as he braked at the gridlock, while an ear-fob was lodged in his ear. "Listen Hoggie, you tell Mr. Stark that he needs to sign the demo permits unless he wants the Department of Damage burning his ass tomorrow..." he warned, grittily, rapting his calloused thumb over the leathered wheel. "He's already kicked their hornet's nest and if they don't see clean-cut paperwork they will swarm at the site..."

He tried and failed to keep the bite out of his tone as he was waved out of the security check-point and drove out onto the street. Like every self-respecting middle-class worker, he loathed his boss and all the executives who kicked back in their ivory towers living like kings. They believed they owned the city and always took for granted all the hard work he and his team put in to erect another damn factory in this city. He never felt guilty for siphoning away a little something extra on the side, signed off in lost paper-work. Frustrated as he listened to Hogan give another predictable, "Mr. Stark won't be back in the office till he's back from vacation," Adrian swerved his way into an intersection, frowning at the roadblock sign directing him towards a traffic-jamed turn. He opted to take the alley-way around.

The alley was dark and bumpy; Adrian glared ahead, his temper rising. "I don't care if he's sipping margaritas with Meghan and Harry, those permits need to be signed or my team can't work the site. Consider this conversation me covering my a**-" He didn't see it till he felt the bump against the side of his SUV. A dark humanoid shape was struck and went up the glass of his windshield in crushing impact. "What the-S***!" Adrian hit the brakes as hard as he could, his heart plummeting into his stomach with dread exploding from the realization of a head-on collision. What the hell just happened?

In earshot of a second, reactively, against the glaring intensity of the Mercedes headlights that blindingly robbed his vision, with swift-footed readiness, Peter registered the glissading pulse of his adrenalized heartbeat as he flung the walking stick against the brick wall. "I-I'm dead..." The vehicle was a hairbreadth of bone-crushing impact as he surged the explosive momentum of his acrobatic -spidey graces and lithely flipped over the Mercedes hood. A shockwave of white-heat acceleratedly imploded through his veins as the screeching tires had burningly dragged against the pavement. "Wooah..." Catching his breath, gaspingly, Peter landed bodily against a dumpster in that breakneck succession he propelled his nose-dive evades into a heap of trash bags. T-That was awesome..." Vertiginously, Peter drooped onto his sweat-drenched back as strobing flashes of crimson and bluish-white glaringly ratcheted off the encroaching NYPD cruiser that conveniently obstructed the alleyway.

"Oh no no no no. THIS-CAN-NOT-BE-HAPPENING!," Adrian smacked his steering wheel and hastily unbuckled his seat-belt. Panic and rage fueled him as he stepped out of the car. The strobing blue and red lights increased the flow of dread even further when he saw the motionless body of the short teenager laying sprawled out on the floor of the alley. "Oh you have got to be kidding me!" He snarled as he saw the broken walking stick and pair of sunglasses hanging off the kid's brow. He stood rigid and uncertain with the alley-way blocked by a police cruiser and the kid's body at his back, could he flee on foot? Claim his car was stolen? Play dumb and say the kid came out of nowhere? Well technically he did but- "Huh?" The sound of the kid's soft groans were like the singing of a church choir, filling him with relief.

"You're alive. Good, good…" If he played this right he could- The loud slamming of a car door and the dispatch of a police radio made his blood run cold.

"Is there a problem here, officer?" Clenching the weathered ruggedness of his broader jaw, defensively, Ardian glared at the pretty-boy officer's NYPD shield that shinily adorned his dark-navy blue uniform-obviously, a rookie stepping up to the plate. Conveying a semblance of innocence, quickly, he sidestepped away from the rundown teenager as the officer intimidatingly strutted his measured advances with cool-headed tack. Watching the boyishly suave rookie adjust the peaked cap over his rakishly gelled chestnut-raven tresses, fixedly, Ardian drove his vulturous gaze onto the baby-faced chubbiness of his dimpled chin-just a blue-blooded punk to rake off. "Look, man, this wasn't my fault..." he defended in gruffer pitch, convincingly, gesturing his wrinkled hand at the Mercedes. "This fella kinda pounced on my hood..."

"Is that so?" The officer noisily chewed on a stick of gum as he shone his flash-light upon the scene. His blue eyes were glaring with the sharpened focus of a feline between the older gentleman and the kid sprawled out upon the ground. He kept one hand next to his side-arm holstered at his hip as he allowed the tension to bubble through. "I take it he used his walking stick to pole-vault while doing it too?" The snark dripped off his tongue with hard disdain as he lowered his flash-light. "You must've been in a helluva hurry to run down a blind-kid. Put your hands on your head." He rested his hand on his side-arm to add further emphasis to his order. "Dispatcher, send an ambulance to Riverside Drive. We got a civilian down, possible hit-and-run." Static replied as he frowned and spoke his order again. "I swear I don't get paid enough for this job," the Officer grumbled.

Adrian paled with apprehension as he shifted in his footing. The Officer was on his fast, pushing him towards the alley-wall. "Hey, I said hands up, punk! Where's your ID?!"

As he registered the flexing pressure of the officer's vein-threaded knuckles grippingly clamped around his wrists, jerkily, Adrian scuffed his temple against the eroded brickstone."Woah...Wait...Wait..." he protested, stammeringly, listening to the metallic jingle of handcuffs behind him. "I-I work for Tony Stark...Let me go and I'll get you a nice gig on his security team."

"Is that a bribe? You TRYING TO BUY ME, PUNK?!" The officer yelled at him with thinning patience. A moment passed and Adrian was confused when he didn't feel the cuffs lock around his wrists. He worried he might've let his panic get the better of him which could add another chunk of change to whatever sentence a judge might hand to him. But the office, whose badge read: Dodger, eased his grip and asked with a curious tone. "How much we talkin' here?" When Adrian didn't respond, stunned by what could probably be a milliion-to-one shot ticket out of the clanker, the officer spun him around and pulled his wallet out of his pocket. "Adrian Toomes?" He fixed him with a threatening look. "Don't make me ask twice. You said you work for Stark? You better start impressing me before the EMTs get here."

Hearing the derisive cockiness underlyingly fringe against the officer's throatier drawl, grudgingly, Adrian staved down the irrepressible urge to viciously drive his 'knock-out-punch' into the uniformed pretty boy's razor-edged jaw-a cheapshot to evade being hauled into a barred cell. He needed to play down the card of cheater's bribery. Quirking his chiselled lips into a smug grin, shiftily, Adrian flashed his incredulous gaze onto the leathered wallet possessively clutched into the officer's tensing hand. "Okay...Let's make a fast deal here, I got heavy cash in that wallet..." he coaxed, dubiously, knowing the slyboots rookie was crossing the honourable line of duty with underhanded 'look-the-other-way' payoffs. "Go to town, officer."

Fishing through the wallet revealed a hefty stack of hundreds, fifties and twenties-bills so crisp he could practically smell the fresh ink on them. The officer eyed Adrian warily as if he would draw a piece on him at a minute. He probably should've frisked him-probably. As he counted the wad of cash, his stoic demeanour slowly morphed into one of restrained jubilation. "You must do pretty well for yourself if you always carry a grand in your wallet," the officer snarked as he took the whole wad but left a single ten-dollar bill inside. "Guess today's your lucky day. Take your Hamilton and get on out of here," he said, tossing the wallet towards Adrian's chest. "The next blind-kid you decide to run down, I guarantee I'll make sure he's can see enough to finger your a** in court." He made his way to his car and backed up, allowing Toomes a path free out of the alley. The blind kid groaned, slowly stirring.

The vomitous rancidity that smellily wafted off the garbage bags underneath him, groaningly, Peter jackknifed the muscled rigidity of his denim-clad thighs as he registered the stiffness amplifying on deadened tempo. Against a skull-vising headrush, he reactively braced his lankier forearms over the rusted dumpster, the Queen's teenager pinched his eyelids shut as the high-beam intensity of Toome's headlights blearily glared into his retinas. "Whew...O-Okay nothing seems broken..." he stammered, tremorously, patting his hands consciously over his tauter chest, while a gluey clump of gum stickily clung over his unkempt brunette tresses. "Yecch..." With a shakier flex of his palm, he yanked the pinkish glop off his temple. "Gross..."

Bucky smirked as he looked at him while counting the cash. "You're pretty spry on your feet, kid. All those jumping-jacks and handstands were good for somethin'. Here!" He tossed a neatly folded wad of bills in a rubber-band to the youth who caught it with wide disbelieving eyes. Of the grand he grifted from Toomes, he'd keep only three hundred and let the kid keep the rest. "A smooth gig deserves a big cut. Don't spend it all on video-games, or app purchases…or whatever you kids do these days," he shrugged, feeling the lurking signs of discomfort beneath his skin that heralded the coming of midnight. His skin prickled with growing hair, a throbbing discomfort came from above his glutes. It was time to call it a night. Playing it smooth, he picked up the walking stick and sunglasses and tossed them into the cruiser as Peter came up to him.

"Uh...We make a good team, Mister Barnes..." Peter chirped in threadier pitch, spiritedly and stuffed the wad into his denim pocket, consciously aware of the standoffish edginess that viscerally radiated off as Bucky gripped onto the cruiser's doorhandle with a strenuous flex of his lithe-roughened hand. Keeping a measured distance, unblinkingly, Peter glanced at ebony skeins that furrily hedged over the Brooklyn grifter's vein-threaded knuckles on mutative fruition. Stumblingly, he reeled back against tempoing alarm of his jacked-off heartbeat as he disturbingly watched Bucky eased mid-crouch onto his corded haunches on a catlike variance of warred mobility. Under the dampish fringe of his lashes, the diamondlike radiance of voltaic sapphire of his bluish irises melded with his dilated pupils that were piercingly razored with crescent- slits."Y-You okay,...?" he questioned against shakier breaths, whisperingly, making a tentative approach to cautiously place his bruised hand onto Bucky's leather-garbed shoulder. "I-I think we both need to call it a night, Sir..."

"Right. Last thing either of us needs is your Aunt May hunting us down because I didn't get you home on time," he chuckled dryly as he opened the door to the cruiser and slid inside. Truth be told, this was one of the more fun gigs he'd had in recent memory. Peter seemed too ooze a level of patience and discipline that was absent in the last young punks he'd worked with. Yelena and Kate were talented young liars but either reached far beyond their skill-set or lacked the patience of building a set of connections that would lead them towards better, more profitable gigs in the long-run. He didn't regret cutting them loose, knowing what Clea might do if she thought he was being sweet on other women, professional or not. Peter…Peter was different.

He had potential. Lots of it. "But you're right, we do work well together. Be patient and ready, I'll get back to you in a couple of nights." The engine to the cruiser started as Peter looked at Bucky with uncertainty. "Remember, keep your nose to the wind, kid. Opportunities are just around the corner." With that, Bucky drove off into traffic.

Gazing at the the cruiser vanish into the congested Midtown traffic, a grip of reality struck him as the alarm timer on his Smartphone vibrated in his pocket—he missed his curfew hour. "May's not gonna be happy about this, Pete…" he chided, threadily, and bolted out of the alleyway into the direction of the subway. "Shoulda asked Mister Barnes for a ride…"

The brownstone environs of highborn Flatbush scenically melded amberish streetlight that haloed over congestive gridlocks that maddeningly obstructed her vulturous advances; the reek of corrupted avarice mephitically assailed over the sidewalks akin to an infectious toxin. Being a dimensional-predacious harbinger of the Dark Verse, she would cataclysmically harvest onto the verminous-craven drudges of humanity by obtaining a pharaonic relic that was damningly sealed with the astral abysms of the Netherworld by the Eldritch sentinels of Vishanti.

Nothing slaked her viperous thirst for ushering a cavalcade reaped souls into the astral planes-to reignite her power. For now, she brandished a deceptive charade of vixenishly being a high-gambit viscountess who stealingly preyed on expandable leeches -bloodsuckers of her underground industry. To play off her thievish notoriety, she needed a disposable pawn -a stray kitten who she could possessively leash into her sorcerous grip and sneakily pocket easy cash. Flitting the ophidian intensity of her grayish-virescent irises down, Clea glanced at the obsidian rubied pendant that was intricately etched into a feline visage-the Egyptian deity: Bastet. "Lead me to a handsome boy who will soon become an extension of my will..." she murmured in a huskier pitch, sneeringly, as the reddish skeins demonically pulsed over her archaic pendant. "For I require a thief to herald my reckoning..."

The afternoon sun shone bright and high above the the Brooklyn Bridge Park. It was a popular landmark where families and friends gathered to take a load off from their stressful lives. Barbecues and games were widespread throughout the planes of grass and groomed trees. Spring was well into its tenure and the citizens of Brooklyn were well into their fun. As music flared out among a congregation of high-rolling fratboys and their girlfriends, one particular young set of hands rubbed together as the scent of opportunity wafted into his nostrils. Squaring his shoulders, the young Brooklyn teen loosened his cheap tie and pulled his shirt out of his pants before tousling his hair. His gaze centered on the potential mark he had been trailing since the night before. A big-shot young heir who had been deep into his cups last night at the House of Yes nightclub and didn't have a clue where he ended up.

James Barnes marched towards the young man who pretended to laugh at some of the jokes being told by his phony friends. "Hey, Hammer! There you are!" He yelled loud enough to garner the attention of the privileged youth who frowned at him with confusion.

"Hey...who the heck are you?" Justin Hammer frowned, uneasy at the sight of his father giving him a scornful look.

Bucky went all in with fire in his eyes. "We met last night at the House of Yes. We hit it off, amigo. Been calling you all morning. You're giving me the silent treatment now? You said some trouble with a bunch of cooks. You'd said you owe me for pulling your a** out of that greasy spot last night! You had a monkey the size of King Kong on your back."

"What is he talking about Justin? Did you go out and make an a** of yourself again?" Hammer Sr demanded hotly, a man who prided himself on his family's reputation and more than once had to cover up his son's humiliating antics. Justin genuinely looked puzzled and pulled his collar.

"Ugh, no pops! My pal uh-"

"Vinnie!" Bucky reminded him with an affronted look.

"Yeah, my pal, Vinnie here and I just have something to take care of." Hammer tugged Bucky to the side, his eyes wide with annoyance and frustration. "How much to shut your damn mouth and get the hell out of here?"

"Such an insolent boy..." Clea rasped under her breath, hissingly as the svelte litheness of her vampiresque form was pristinely garbed in a Dior satin magenta jacket that was aesthetically garnished with an ebony-furred astrakhan ruff, exquisitely, contrasting her platinum-blonde whorls that sleekly cascaded over her rigid shoulders. Witchily, the chiselled lushness of her pinkish-ashen lips feigned telltale revulsion as her virulent gaze fixedly steered on the gilt-edged playboy who recklessly gambled with his trust-fund- an impudent hog who greedily revelled in his father's investments with high-gambit spoils. "Maybe a lesson needs to prevail within you..." Poising her gloved fingers, eldritch she conjured a telestic incantation that would morphically suffuse the jock-faced heir with a piggish deformation. "Just a little taste of your true spirit..."

Oblivious to the external force, Justin Hammer slapped a wad of 5 hundreds at Bucky's chest with a pompous glare in his eyes. "There, have at it! Now don't come around me again, or I'll heeeeeeerrrrhp!" Hammer's indignant threat end on a squealing hitch that was so loud and alarming it drew the attention of everyone in close proximity. Bucky himself was startled as he pocketed his money. His eyes darted to and from, not liking the amount of people who were now staring at them. Justin Hammer nursed his throat trying to put on a look of arrogant strength as he jabbed a finger at Bucky who comically shirked backwards. "I'll make sure you oooiiiinnnnkk!" A piggish squeal escaped Justin, scratchy and deep, the young heir held his throat with wide alarmed eyes. The fear faded and instead there was a look of deep voracious hunger as he sniffed the air, taking in the aromatic scents of all the food surroundings the park.

Before anyone could say anything, Justin Hammer seemed to lax his posture which caused his belly to bulge amid gasps of shock which soon turned to revlusion as the shape of something curled at the a**-end of his pants pushing outward. Hammer Sr became both angry and embarrassed as he excused himself from his business partners and marched towards Hammer. "Justin, what the hell is the matter with you?!" Justin Hammer shoved passed his father, the force of the tussle and his expanding mass caused his pants to shred and his wallet to fall out to the ground. Bucky's eyes remained fixed on the large black leather purse even as Justin waged an assault on the nearest food-table, digging deep with his mouth into fruity dessert trays.

As the oinkish cadence gruntingly erupted into a panicked mania, viperously, Clea gazed at the reddish skeins of vaporous energy that doomily arrowed over the dashingly rebellious teenager who nonchalantly crouched on his denim-clad haunches with smooth tack near the discarded wallet. Dishevelled raven-chestnut tresses grungily clung over the razor-edged contours of his suaver features traces of his baby-faced chubbiness that pudgily melded with his dimpled-chin, naughtily, emphasizing a toothier-puckish smirk that quirked over his shapely-bow lips. He was definitely a roguish pretty-boy--a Flatbush stray.

Haughtily, with ceremonious traction of her spike-heeled Parda boots. Clea advanced in his direction, snakily watching him thievishly stuff the pocket of his threadbare Dodger's hoodie with handfuls of cash while the business tycoon of Hammer Industries distressingly reeled back from the obese-hoggish glutton that was his procacious son. Uncontroablly, Justin drove the deformity of his blimpish hand into the creamier frosting of a gooey cake as the athletic tautness of his posh-boy resiliency saggily globbed into doughier pudge. "Quite a performance you gave, boy..." she murmured in a raspier undertone, sultrily, as Bucky dismissively scrunched up his Romaniansque nose, underlying his edgier distrust that steelily flashed within the mesmeric intensity of his grayish-aquamarine irises as he tactlessly emptied the wallet."You tread on the wrong grounds of possibility...You're just a worthless stray that men of avarice discard..."

The sultry voice he heard nearly made Bucky shiver from head to toe. Sneaking up on him was a blonde femme fatale who had all the grace and poise of a viper with the beauty of a dove. Her bluish-green eyes were zeroed on him with serpentine cunning that was both alluring and unnerving. He liked to consider himself an excellent judge of character as he spent the bulk of his days meeting all kinds of people, and the woman in front of him was giving off a dangerous vibe. Wordlessly the young man pocketed the wallet and shot the blonde a cool look. "I don't know what you're talking about, lady. A friend and I here were just having a conversation before he decided to go off and make an ass of himself." The red flags were waving furiously in his mind. He had to get clear of here before someone decided to get nosy and ask him more questions. "Now if you'll excuse me, I got somewhere I gotta be-"

"I operate a reputable industry of obtaining privileged clients items that can be untouchable..." Clea whispered in huskier pitch, insidiously, registering the jack-off cockiness that derisively fringed with the murmurous timbre of his whiskey-roughened drawl as Bucky scoffingly whirled on his raggedy Nike sneakers, conveying terser indifference against her malicious tack of corralling him into a high-rigged gambit. It was obvious the Brooklyn teenager wasn't a gullible-dumb-luck chump, he knew the clockwork mechanism of underhand deception. Tightfisted, Bucky pursed his shapely-bow lips into a snobbier grimace, passing off her offer. "Exhausting talents with street cash won't help you gain big scores..." She implored, convincingly, gliding her lithe finger over the pharaonic conductor of Baset-the rubied pendant that was the obsidian visage of Egyptian mau-a guardian of tombs. "Imagine working a stint in Cairo obtaining relics like this little trinket..."

Tensing under the blonde's piercing gaze, Bucky considered his options. She looked wealthy, carried herself with a regal and untouchable air that made his skin crawl with unease. Her beauty was an alluring orb meant to entice disarm and entice him with her sultry offer. He wasn't an idiot. He knew that whatever game this lady was playing it would guarantee anything but a smooth landing for him. "Sounds tempting," he acknowledged as he gazed at the spell-binding necklace in her possession. It looked priceless and expensive-something that should be in a museum if not in the vault of some rich collector. He couldn't gaze it at for long. Something about the about it made his skin-crawl. "But not something I'm looking for right now. I work better alone," he said, his mood turning dour as he lived by experience and he'd been double-crossed once before. "Its less complicated that way-you know, less of a risk of being somebody's fall-guy." Besides, he wasn't in it for personal success. A friend was counting on him just to pick-up his check at the doctor's office.

Despite he was verminously pegged down as a thievish runaway, vexatiously, Clea registered a full-measured promise that he stowed as she gazed into the frostier steeliness of his grayish-aquamarine irises repulsively catching a telltale gleam of his brotherly spirit. "You hold back from the real possibility that I offer because of your runtish friend who uses you like a crutch..." she prompted in a malefic cadence, huskily. A deterrence of inseparable brotherhood had clashed against her sinuous play of leashing him down. Obviously, he dodged the cheapshots -straits of infective poverty that gruellingly wormed over the boroughs as the prominent-bullish titian of Hells Kitchen -Wilson Fisk had gained province of his imperious reign by demolishing slum apartments to rebuild his industrial utopia by double-dealing with blackout syndicates. "If you want to hear sage advice, boy..." she murmured, coaxingly. "Playing the game of survival can't be weighed by freehand charity..."

A cold chill moved down his back and with it a tremor of fear in the wake of her intimate knowledge. She knew about him, she knew about Steve. Who the hell was this woman and how did she know about him? Trouble was the word that kept running on a loop through his brain and Bucky knew that it was time to get the hell out of dodge. "Yeah, I think we're done talking here, lady. If you don't mind, I got places to be. Find another schmuck to do your dirty work. I work alone." He turned and walked past her without another word while in the background, the Hammer spectacle had reached a chaotic point as Hammer Sr attempted to physically restrain his piggish son into submission while guests could only look on in amusement and disgust. Bucky could feel eyes burning into his back, the mystery woman's green eyes flickering in his thoughts with a haunting pulse of dread. He didn't know where he was going, he just walked-hoping he could simply vanish in this city of over eight million people. He had to see Steve and make sure he was all right.

He made it only a couple of blocks down to the first avenue, rounding through a commercial street ready to hail a cab. He cut through an alley to avoid the throngs of busy pedestrians crowding the streets. He should've felt safe but instead that feeling of dread still remained like a cold he couldn't shake.

Clutching on her Baset pendant, telekinetically, with viperous impassiveness over her sirenic features, Clea murmuringly ushered an incantous emergence of morphic energy that was demonically being siphoned out of chasmic-astral gateways of the Nether-realm. In telestic succession, a cacophonous frequency of white-noise seismically amplified in morbific fruition as nacreous energy of bluish-amethyst fierily veined trigon Mandalas of Ankh sigils over the cement gridlock underneath her stiletto boots-she needed to exorcise out his tenacious spirit."Let this impudent boy fall into dregs of mortal vassalage as he becomes a prowling shadow when his eyes behold treasure..."

Bucky had reached into his pocket for his phone, knowing it would be easier to simply call Steve and make sure he was all right when suddenly he felt a swerve of disorientation. "Ugh," he blinked repeatedly, feeling a wave of sickness coming over him as if he were on a boat sailing the hide-seas and the world just swerved all around him. He leaned against the brick-wall of a small building, eyes staring into absence while he struggled to so much as move another step. "D-Damn, what's going on-" He grimaced, his skin-crawling with a grave intuition that spelled imminent pain. His muscles twitched, his skin itched with fiery discomfort. He was at the grim desolate back-alley, the shadows of which were growing and shrinking in a throbbing hallucinogenic field that nearly overwhelmed his composure. The urge to prowl on all-fours felt unshakable like wanting to lay in a comfortable bed. "W-Whose there?" He called, seeing the silhouette of someone watching him beneath a street lamp.

"Denying my offer, boy, has mortally condemned you to become a thievish vessel under the grip of my hand..." Clea raved out, hissingly, her virescent depths gazing into the owlish-blown intensity of his dilated pupils thinly razored into crescent slits against the mesmeric sapphire that luminously melded within the feverous bleariness of his sweltry aquamarine irises. Tremorously, his poutier shapely-bow lips hung agape as he noncommittally emitted out a scratchier 'rooww' in floored panic. "Feel the essence of new life ravaging within you, James Barnes, as you become my little shadow..."

With vertiginous traction, groaningly, Bucky attempted to bolster his garbed shoulder against the brick-stone wall, doing his utmost to hinge up vestiges of his warred resistance that were materializing, his grungier -dishevelled chestnut tresses sweatily askew over his temples as he uncontrollably slumped onto his denim-clad knees against the hijacking onrushes of gravitic-vomitous strain with no avail.

A sorcerous rhapsody paralytically glissaded through his veins as Bucky gaspingly hunched onto his knees against the bone-splitting pressure as the bulkiness of his tauter-corded shoulders mortifyingly sloughed into rangier flesh-he was being pathetically divested into a craven stray. "Aroww..." A throat-railing screech belted out him, chokingly, his street-roughened fingers morphically dwarfed into a bestial visage of a feline-like paw as velvety ebony-obsidian skeins furrily hedged over his vein-threaded knuckles.

Wrenchingly, Bucky was grappled into an inescapable-horrifying onslaught, registering the freakish-beastlier conjury as gossamer whiskers disturbingly sprouted from his furrier cheeks. In those heart-crippling seconds, dizzyingly, Bucky eased up the leathery mutative deformity of his clawed hands, feeling the hard-bone angular curvatures of his scruffier jaw puffily outstretch with his puckered lips into a feline muzzle. "N-No..." The panicked mania of his skyrocketing heartbeat erratically crescendoed as the sculpted roundness of his ears pointily jutted against his sweat-dampened tresses, evident to a bone-splitting protrusion of his arcing vertebrae that burstingly lengthened into a mutative-viperous tail. "Urgh..."

He felt helpless in a way that frightened him to his core. The evil mystery blonde was a witch! If the spectacle with Hammer in the park wasn't enough, then what was happening to him right now was the kicker. He knew magic was real, the entire world knew after witnessing a near cataclysmic event years ago orchestrated by a psychopath wizard named Mordo who made the news. Never did Bucky believe he'd be so unlucky enough to cross-paths with an actual mage. Crying for help wouldn't solve anything, not that he even could. His voice had been ripped away as if it were a removable article of clothing. His actual clothing had begun to twist and pull with his shifting mass. The rip and tear of the fabric rang loudly in his ears while steadily the world surrounding him seemed to sink further away as he shrank down to a pint-sized furball.

Meowing pathetically in his state of confusion and alarm, the blue-eyed cat gazed at his reflection in a puddle of rain-water, the looming shape of the evil witch hovering over him was a thieving shadow he couldn't easily evade. His life would never be the same again.

The backdrop environs of Hells Kitchen gleamingly burnished over the sleekness of his leather bomber jacket, impassively, Bucky crouched on his Armni boots over the rigid armrest of a leathered couch, the cool smokiness of his grayish-aquamarine irises blankly caught the reddish strobes of passing NYPD cruisers whooshing near the gridlock as he quashed down the purring vibrations that grudgingly strummed within his throat. Curbing down a snarlier hiss, unwaveringly, he glanced at his Iphone's screen timeclock-12:00 am-in seconds he would irrevocably morph back into the expandable drudge-furball.

Scrunching his Romanianque nose, derisively, Bucky registered the prickling sensations of gossamer-thin whiskers uncontrollably sprouting out of his furrier cheeks. "Dammit..." Gnashingly, he collapsed onto the granite floor against the bone-crippling onslaught as the stretching tauter muscles of his denim-clad backside excruciatingly arced with morphic traction of his jutted vertebrae-the dam-bursting pressure that notched within his lengthening backbone viperously rived against denim. Pinching his eyelids, sobbingly, Bucky dragged his needle-point fangs over his poutier underlip at the second a furred velvetiness of his ebony tail snakily whip-lashed against the cushions."Rroww..." A full-throated screech railed out him, breathlessly, against the skull-hammering onslaught intensifying as the morphic scourge of Eldritch conjury damningly revamped through his feverish veins-sloughing the graven-edged contours of his bulkier solidity into a rangier-lithe mass that shrinkingly materialized within his bomber-jacket. "No...Mrroww..."

He couldn't off-set the overwhelming downpour of Clea's magic coursing through him like an infection he couldn't cure. His kittenish paws scraped against the floor, their scratches joining the multitude of others that had been etched into the surface over the past few years. They might as well have been a tally drawn by an imprisoned soul. It was an endless cycle that couldn't be broken. The whining whimpers of the black feline filled the apartment once the groaning of human agony evaporated into animalistic noises. The stylish clothes rumpled as a furry mass struggled to find a way through beneath. The black cat swatted his paws fussily, irritation climbing down his back like nails on a chalkboard.

"This urrrgain," Bucky meowed with a pinched frown on his furry features. His posture was straight but his tail wagged in a lazy fashion behind him. His full day of reprieve was good while it lasted but he knew there was no fighting the clock once it hit the twenty-four hour mark since it was given. Now that he was trapped again in his feline form, he was mentally counting down the seconds before the ominous breeze wafting through his open window would carry the wicked witch's voice into his ear. "Just leave me alone tonight…"

"That reek of insolence that wafts off your fur needs to become purged..." Brandishing cool malevolence witchily over the hawkish-edged contours of her stonier features, Clea braced against the doorframe, lithely clutching onto a burgundy-glassed bottle of Rosso di Montalcino as her grayish-virescent irises maliciously fixed onto her verminous-impudent - feline who defensively crouched on his tinier fore-claws paws. Twitching his pointier ears back, feistily, Bucky jutted out his whiskered muzzle, emitting a viper-hiss. "I would be prudent with those claws on the leather, James..." she rasped, tauntingly, easing down the auctioned prize onto a granite countertop. "Did you enjoy the freedom that I gifted you without a tail...?"

"It had its moments, some too short to last,"he shrugged as he set into a slow strut across the living room floor. His tone dripped with exhaustion but the annoyance in his posture was clear. He had wanted to conclude his evening with a nice long rest as a man to pretend that for one day of his life, he lived normally. That it wasn't a thing of the past that felt like another life-time ago. He knew good things weren't meant to last, but it didn't mean he had to like it. Clea's presence was to be expected, and as per usual, she sauntered into his apartment as if she owned the place. "Make yourself at home," he snarked, watching as she dropped her expensive coat on the arm-rest of the couch before gracefully sinking into the cushion, crossing her legs, still sipping her drink. Bucky watched her with a cute glare on his whiskered face, "I'm guessing my free-day card was a one-time deal?"

"Only if you play the cards right..." With tempered precision, Clea bracketed her forearm possessively underneath his lankier girth, registering every svelter curvature tensely flexing underneath his velvetlike ebony-raven fur as he was breathlessly scooped up off the polished flooring. Aware of thrumming vibrations that purringly resonated through his craven form, evocatively Clea grazed her purplish-lacquered nails over his arching back on arrestive tenor. She was leashing him into the stuporous throes of dormant compliance-he was a disposable pawn on her chessboard of sorcerous havoc. "You know I never stray from a deal, James..."

Bucky resisted the impulse to scurry out of her grasp as she held him in her lap, caressing the furry expanse of his back with her cool fingers. This was a familiar exercise between the two of them in his furry form. Loathe as he was to admit it, the tension in his body slowly evaporated beneath her tender adoring touch. It was a cold comfort, one he tried to partially close himself off from, a small measure of defiance that remained from the young man who had been cursed to serve against his will. He meowed as her digits caressed a kink near his neck, fatigue was slowly catching onto him and he wished for nothing more than the dark absence of slumber.

"W-Whatever you say," he rested his chin down onto her wrist, his pinched frown still in place as he set his focus towards what loomed ahead. "When do I move on Fisk?" He asked knowing it was the sole focus of her visit.

Hearing the scratchier raspiness of his cantankerous timbre, vitriolically, Clea grazed her nails against his sleekier neck with tantalizing ministrations as she brushingly caressed his felt-like ear. "Our mark is high-level interest, you need to deliver a good performance to get close when he exits the marketplace..." she pressed, waspishly, knowing that the imperious Kingpin had a consortium- installations of arms proxies-dealers within the slummier bourghs of Tri-State in his deep-pockets. Being a prodigious heavyweight of charitable enterprises to reconstruct his dynastic empire. The Black Rose club was deceptively utilized as his auction-house-only encrypted invites-binary key-cards were scanned for customers to enter his domain of high-grade inventory.

"Tonight you will deliver a good performance of a stray Mau of getting Wilson Fisk's voracious attention once I let you go..." With cobra-bite pressure that stingily forced Bucky to reactively answer her viperous touch as his razor-slit pupils owlishly dilated with fiercer intensity, aggressively, he jutted his whiskered muzzle over her sleeved wrist. "You're a rare breed of Egypt that he won't discard...An incarnate of Bastet that deserves to be caged from the world." On defensive traction, snappishly, the Brooklyn grifter nicked her palm with his needle-point fangs with knifepoint quickness, wrenching her bone- vising grip off his lankier form, viciously, Clea removed the purple leash from her Dior coat pocket and slipped the collar over his furrier head. "Just for that show of defiance, James, you will remain in the dregs of a pathetic feline until I need your handsome face again..."

The choking pressure of the leash around his throat was a familiar pain that he had long since preferred over the cold comfort he elicited from her caressing touch. He hated her for making him feel this way, he despised her one moment and preened under her gentle care the next. The ying and yang of his newfound existence that showed no signs of stopping in his defiance. It was necessary, both to keep himself motivated in his pursuit for freedom and to remind her that she would never fully own him the way she wanted.

As he felt the pressure sink him into an unconscious state, he thought back to one of the last things he'd told Steve before they parted ways. "I'll do what I have to do. Whatever it takes."

Scruching his pinkish nose twitchily against the petrol fumes that odiously wafted off a luxious entourage of black-matted Cadillac Eslcades readily stationed at the curbside-the stink of deep-pocket rapacity vomitously enwreathed him like putrid fish. "Urgh..." Flitting his longish tail edgily against the pavement, Bucky lasered the dead-straight intensity of his whitish-sapphire orbs onto a weasely-like toady who maliciously braced against the driver's side door, the lankiness of his snake-hipped form was pretentiously garbed in a tailored Armani suit as he swiped his designer eyeglasses with a black cloth, he was obviously a Wall-Street leech.

Snicking out his tinier foreclaws with readied quickness of a switchblade, coolly, Bucky advanced his paw-steps advances swaggeringly closer to the armoured Cadillac, whipping his viperous tail straight as he purringly arched the ebony velvetiness of his svelter back against the frontal tire. "Hey pal, look down here," he meowed, chirpily, brushing his whiskered muzzle over the inexpressive boot-kisser's tensing leg. "C'mon..."

The smarmy mook only looked at him with mild irritation as he adjusted the front of his designer jacket, adjusting his collar as his phone proceeded to ring. He spoke in a deep baritone accent that held a hint of Russian in the undertones. "Yes sir, I'm here with the car. Whenever you are ready. …I understand, I'll make sure the arrangements are made," he ended the call with a loud exhale. He wore an expression of focus and discipline, a mask to make himself appear in control before the towering stature of the two six-foot body-guards dressed in black. "He's on his way, get the car ready."

"Meooooow!" A long loud feline wail grasped the attention of the group, the weasley one shrugged as he fished through his pocket for a cigarette while the bodyguards scoffed at his presence. "Yeah that's right, keep your eyes here," Bucky called, feeling at this point he hadn't figured out the best approach towards getting past the middle-men that stood between him and the mark of his interest.

"The stupid cat is in the way," one of the guards grunted as he tried to shoo him off with a nudge of his foot.

Listening to the gruffiness vexatiously emanating out of his beefier ox-like footman, unperturbed, Westley flashed his grayish-slate callously depths onto the vexatious stray who insistingly meowed at his Oxford shoe-the purring fleabag was a disease-ridden nuisance he wanted to scrape off. Holding no reservations of his mercy-hearted tolerance with his ironclad composure, a sneering quirk fiendishly rapted over his pursed lips as Westley snapped his polished fingers, glaring at the holstered Glock conveniently secured on the moronic driver's paunchier waistline. "Make it quick and discard this infested stray into a dumpster..." he commanded against a terser breath, snidely, watching the obsidian-furred intruder swiftly pounce onto the Esclade's hood with evasive graces. "Get him off..."

The burly driver took aim at the feline on the hood of the car, a cruel sadistic smile etched on his face as he gazed into his eyes without remorse. "Bad kitty," he chuckled, sliding his finger onto the trigger. The cat meowed, fearless and waiting. It was at that moment the doors to the Black Rose opened and a small entourage of enforcers paved the way for the towering presence of the most feared and cunning criminal underboss in Manhattan. Dressed in a tailor made white suit, his towering form of 6'4 stood above the average man. His husky wide stature lending credence to the theory he was fat, but also dangerously built with hard muscles. A fedora covered his bald head and a black trenchcoat hung from his shoulders. His dark brown eyes peered ahead like a shark exiting its tank, drinking in the sights of the sea that was Manhattan, a sea he owned.

His gaze glossed over his waiting entourage as he became fixated on the curious sight of a small black feline perched on the hood of his vehicle. Time slowed to a crawl, his photographic memory conjuring a vivid and spell-binding picture of an exotic creature he believed to be extinct if not endangered. "Impossible…" Could it be? The creature's eyes were locked on him, as if destiny itself had intended for this rare majestic specimen that was descended from Bastet herself, to be delivered into his hands for safe-keeping. That was when he saw the gun aimed at the creature's head. And then the shark's had reacted on sheer merciless instinct and charged at the gunman with a frightening speed. "NOOOOO!" He roared, startling all his men who ducked, Wesley himself paling with dread as he realized what was happening.

The gun went off just as Fisk snapped the driver's arm like a twig, the blood-curdling scream he let loose was trumped by the sickening thud of a bulldozer-sized fist smashing into his face, fracturing his nose in a bloody spurt of merciless rage. The driver was thrown against the side door of the SUV, the vehicle nearly turning over on its side. Fisk held the driver who was limp and covered with blood. "Harm a hair on that creature's head, and I will rip yours from its shoulders!" He growled with an even-toned, causing all his men to look at the cat with newfound fear.

Grounding his tinier fore-paws on the sleekness of the hood, quakingly, Bucky staved off the rivalrous impulse to bolt as the homicidal viciousness - brutality of the rhino-like dreadnought of Hell's Kitchen precariously radiated against the cool velvetiness of his ebony-raven fur; it was heart-stunting paralytic that rampantly deadened him to remain unmovingly crouched like a damn hood-ornament. A meowing cadence of kitten-soft raspiness pathetically emitted out of him at the second the ground-hammering paces of Wilson Fisk thumpingly deafened against his pointier ears. "Gotta play by the rules..." he murmured, scratchily, thrusting his stubbed muzzle as Westley readily passed a handkerchief to his titanic employer. In seconds, Fisk wiped off the blooded remnants of his merciless- berserker assault, fixing his brownish-onyx irises on the pharaonic Mau-a cat of kings. Caressingly, his beefier palm kneaded over the svelte lankiness of Bucky's tenser back with possessive reverence. "W-What are you doing...?"

"Such a majestic creature, Wesley," Fisk said to his friend and right-hand man. "He is a rarity of his breed, once housed by ancient kings said to bring them great fortune. That one should happen upon the hood of my vehicle is a sure enough sign that fate has delivered one into my care for safety. Come, little one. You can trust me," Fisk said as he coaxed the cat into his gorilla-sized arms. He held him close, marvelling at how the Mau fit snugly in his arm. He caressed his back with his large hand, smiling with a sense of pride. "Show this creature respect, he is mine now and under my protection." He said with a pointed look at all his men.

"He will be treated well, sir, I can assure you." Wesley said with a tight-lipped smile.

"Good. Now drive us out of here," Fisk grunted as he opened the back seat of the SUV and slid in with the cat in his arms. Wesley shrugged, his pleasant facade falling in place of annoyance as he retrieved the keys from the incapacitated driver. Bucky shuddered under the suffocating embrace of the over-sized brute who continued caressing his back. The SUV had taken off into traffic, the lights of NYC flashing by creating shadows along the cat's features.

He knew his life was about to get much more difficult as the beginning of the long game was set in motion. He only prayed that there was still that light at the end of this dark tunnel.

Against the raspier chirps that groggily emitted out of his tinier muzzle, purringly, Bucky registered the addictive coziness of Egyptian satin toastily enwreathed his snugged form as the potent -cinnamony smokiness of Bvlgari cologne distractingly wafted off the king-sized pillow wedged against the sleekier litheness of his furred back. Twitchily, his pointer ears speared up as the encroaching vibrations of haughtier footfalls maddeningly clapped over the ebon-granite flooring-the invasive proximity of the shrewd toady. Staving off bone-deep drowsiness, Bucky stretched his fore-paws on defensive tenor, he was grudgingly aware of Westley testily poised in the doorway with a silvered tray mouthwateringly adorned with a bowl of finest cream gripped in his polished hands. "Great...This posh-faced jerk again..." he whispered in a moodier pitch, snarkily, burying his feline head underneath the pillow. "Not the face I wanna see in the morning..."

The thought made him suddenly very self-conscious as a timorous meow came past his furry mouth. It was morning, that much he could discern from the rays of sun-light beaming through the curtains of the Manhattan studio apartment. "Of course, it's mornin' and I'm still a furball." That meant Clea was gonna keep him confined to this form for awhile until she could get close to Fisk. The realization made him feel mild apprehension. He could be stuck in this form for days, which meant he had no way of getting in touch with his contacts outside. The kid-Peter-might even think he'd ditched him. "Damn it. That witch," he released a frustrated growl which garnered the attention of Wesley who arched an eyebrow at the moody feline who he believed didn't seem to like him.

"What are you looking at? Don't you have goons to lead around?" Bucky meowed, frownly intensely at the spectacled j*** who tried to have him killed last night. He knew he couldn't be understood verbally, but his hostile posture must've sent all the right signals.

Wesley set the tray down beside his cushion and gave him a cold smile. "Eat up or don't. I don't care," he sighed as he looked down at the cat with indifference. "Just don't expect me to change your litter-box, furball." He hated pets, they were too messy and needy. He hoped his boss would grow bored of this creature and either sell him or throw him back in the gutter where he found him.

"Pfff...I don't use a litter box..." Harnessing up his feistier swiftness, cockily, Bucky whiplashed his velvety tail fervently against the pillow, conveying his riotous stubbornness as he sniffily eased his snubbed muzzle over the bowl that was decadently filled with heated cream. The hungered urges were irrepressible to staunch down against a modicum of warring resistance that vexatiously strummed through him. Tamping down his chagrined hesitance, grumblingly, Bucky lapped his pinkish tongue into the frothier liquid, supping a mouthful as Westley glared at him with stone-faced repulsion, nervily. With a brattish quirk over his whiskered muzzle, deviously, Bucky swiped his fore-paw against the bowl, spilling a puddle of cream onto the floor. "Mrroww...Clean that up, jerk-face..." he quipped, starchily, flashing his whitish-sapphire orbs unblinkingly onto a framed abstract canvas: Rabbit in a Snowstorm that was painted with a snowy-white hue that was vacuously hypotonic-a symbolic revelation of infinite possibilities. "Gonna be worth somethin'..."

The sight of the literally pampered cat annoyed Wesley more than seeing an error in an incompetent associate, and he dealt with dozens of those by the day. He never liked to see things just handed to strays that did nothing to garner such fortune. It reminded him too much of his own rough climb in the organized crime ladder despite being a Princeton graduate with a degree in business. Call him petty, but even would sooner see this cat shoved into some crazy old lady's bag than preening on a thousand-dollar cushion. "I hate pets," he grumbled with finality. His attention was drawn to a familiar vibration as footfalls approached from outside. He straightened his posture, and folded his hands as the doors to the lavish room opened. In walked his employer, and the closest thing he had to an actual friend in life, Wilson Fisk.

"Wesley, and how is my new guest?" Fisk said as he hung his hat upon the door. Wesley helped him remove his overcoat with practiced ease. "He's eating it. Good! A majestic creature such as this should receive nothing less than what he demands." Fisk sat beside the cat, running his hand down upon his back with the back of his fingers.

Flitting his lengthy tail on edgier accord over the mattress, chirpily, Bucky jutted his whiskered muzzle up as the bearish-like fingers reverently delivered whisper-soft ministrations over the svelter litheness of his furred back as he glared at the churlish-tailored lackey with the dead-straight intensity of his lucent aqueous opals that bluishly gleamed alight with rascally naughtiness. Bobbing his pinkish nose over the heaviness of Fisk's sleeved wrist, Bucky registered the sterling-silver incrested cufflinks that expensively adorned with black-onyx gemstones-a heirloom signet of business-mongering ascendancy. "Okay, Barnes, you gotta play this out..." he whispered in a raspier drawl, threadily, attuned with the bone-shattering pressure that would snap his rangier form like a toothpick. "No slip ups..."

There were few instances in life where Wesley felt genuine disgust around his employer. Watching him brutalize and maliciously kill people didn't nearly faze him as much as the way he erratically fawned over that woman Vanessa years ago. That woman had nearly ruined him due to his obsession over the belief he had fallen in love just because she showed him pretty paintings. Watching as Mr. Fisk gush over this feline that crawled out of the gutter was a revolting spectacle that he forced himself to stomach with a fake smile.

Wilson Fisk, oblivious of his friend's distaste, felt satisfaction as the cat seemed to preen under his touch and meowed comfortably against the pillows. A part of him had always longed for a furry companion in his youth to help him cope with the pain he endured from his abusive father. He thought such notions had been purged from his being the day he took a baseball to his father's head. Every dead body that was created by his hand should have left him cold, but in truth, he craved affection just as much as he did power. This cat would offer him both, and he in turn would shower him with earthly comforts.

"The Pharaohs of old once adorned their splendour with offerings delivered to them by the masses." He pulled open a white rectangular box. Wesley immediately guessed what it was, having seen such boxes and the exorbitant price-tags that were attached. The cat meowed curiously, watching as Fisk opened the box and pulled out a sparkling item that left him in awe. "Why should I be any different?"

Being grounded by the rhino-like titian's side, Westley anticipated the possessive measures that his employer took when gifted by the exquisiteness of rare-companionable beauty, Fisk's undeterred pursuit of his industrial empire was fueled by the unquenchable vendettas -apparitions of his unforgivable-traumatized childhood. Obviously, the lankier Egyptian Mau was a profitable asset of historic influence, the prized feline was a verminous creature who slinked in trash-heaped alleyways of Hell's Kitchen -unvaccinated. Adjusting his glasses, testily, Westley cleared his throat as his bluish-slate eyes glared at the leathered collar sparkingly adorned with diamond studs. "With all due respect, Sir, might I advise that we get him checked over before he becomes a permanent resident in your home..." he urged in a snide pitch, brusquely. "He's been living the unclean streets..."

The implications of Wesley's words hit him like a bucket of ice cold water causing Bucky to hiss at him vehemently. "Oh hell no!" His eyes were alight with panic and shock, the sight of which prompted a cruel smirk to spread across the henchman's face while his employer appeared mildly thoughtful. "Damn it!" Bucky meowed, instinctively covering his eyes with paws, shrinking back against the cushions.

"He doesn't appear to like your suggestion, Wesley. But it is perhaps a wise one," Fisk conceded, the fog of his reverence towards the creature had lifted enough for him to look at him with a practical set of eyes. There was no telling who or what the feline had been through out in the gutter. "Don't fret, Little One. Cleanliness is close to godliness as they say," Fisk attempted to comfort the feline who shirked from his touch this time, appearing mildly put out and fussy. Fisk smirked and patted his knee, satisfied as he shot Wesley a close look. "I imagine he'll be needing a name," he appeared lost in thought, "a ponderous riddle." The notion of naming something or someone was something he had no practice with.

"If I may, sir. I doubt he would care for one," Wesley interjected with a bored tone. "Perhaps its something you could think over after your meeting for today? The client should be arriving in twenty minutes."

A dosage of 'cheap-shot' betrayal numbingly shunted through his veins as Bucky registered the death-grip weightiness of the diamond collar suffocatingly fastened over his lankier neck-branding him to an inescapable-leashed reality of damningly being a pampered feline. Glaringly, Bucky lasered his diamond-crescent slits edgily onto Westley as he arched the velvetiness of his back against the possessive ministrations of his newest owner-he needed to listlessly behave like a dormant-indulged housecat. Clea had stacked her cards against him with her soul-vising witchery -playing the deceptive hand to gain access into Fisk's throne room. Slumping against the cushion, frustratedly, he jutted out his needle-point fangs against a viperous hiss, evicting the denotative impulse to lashingly bite into the fleshier hand that unremittingly steadied him into dregs of compliance. "She's gonna pay for this..."

His threat was left unheard but for an agitated "meow" that didn't faze Fisk and his lackey. But it was keenly felt as the Kingpin gave him a reassuring pat on the back. Before he could say anything further to console the exotic feline, the vibrating buzz of his phone in his pocket stole his attention. Checking the screen he released a sigh as he answered.

"Ms. Van Sciver," he rose up from his seat and shifted anxiously. "It is good to hear your voice. Not to worry, all is prepared. My assistant will show you in. I look forward to meeting with you." He hung up his phone with a smile, missing Wesley's eye-roll over his wistful state. The smell of success was heavy in his proximity and he was allowing himself to feel empowered by its intensity. "She is on her way. Make sure we are not disturbed by anyone."

"Does that include your new guest?" Wesley pointedly looked at the feline, his gaze dark with cruel indifference. Bucky shifted and in his seat, the weight of the collar digging into his furry skin. He hated the feeling of being trapped. Fisk looked at him appearing thoughtful before shaking his head.

"He stays here."

Emitting a cantankerous meow, snappishly, Bucky jutted his furred muzzle with aggressive traction, snacking out his fore-claws over the pristine satin of the cushion on aggressive tenor; the diamond-studded collar heavily latched over his lithe neck was stuffocatingly akin to a chokehold. Feistily, he arched his tenser back against the Egyptian-cotton pillows, attempting to slip out of the bone-vising accessory. "C'mon...Get off..." Blindingly, he pounced off the king-sized mattress with effortless-feline graces, lankily grounded his tinier paws onto the granite floor as he stubbornly evaded Wesley's prudish glower. Whiplashing his longish tail on a devious accord over the duteous lackey's tailored pant leg, swaggeringly, he prowled near the wall-high glass that breathtaking captured the monolithic skyscrapers - industrial environs of downtown Manhatten-not the rat holes parasitically infested with reapers of syndicated criminality. He was in the high-rigged crosshairs of deadlier symmetry-a leashed collateral damningly held at the knifepoint of a viperous spellcaster "Woah...Heckua of a view..."

The feline's breath misted over the glass in wispy clouds as he purred in appreciation, momentarily forgetting the collar and the fact he was now being served up as some kind of housecat. New York City loomed large below, the tiny dark spots of moving civilians contrasted with the glowing specs of car-lights. He longed to be out on the streets, feeling the wind in his hair as he applied his craft on some unwitting mark.

The sound of a door opening snapped Bucky out of his reverie. He turned his head, tilting it to the side as he watched a tall, statuesque woman with long, blonde hair walk into the room. Her emerald eyes locked onto his, and for a moment, he felt a spark of allure flicker within him before dreadful realization settled in. "Clea..." As she approached the Kingpin, her expression shifting from curiosity to understanding, he knew that she was not here to rescue him. He was only her ticket into the Kingpin's fold.

"Serena," Fisk said, a smile pulling at his lips as he welcomed her in, taking her hand in a gentlemanly gesture. "So good to see you, you are looking as radiant as ever." He kissed the back of her hand.

Resigtering the brutish ferocity that arrestingly surged over her delicate-boned wrist, entracedly, Clea played off a seductive-vampish demeanour over the immaculate exquisiteness of her sirenic features as she lithely eased her daintier hand from his beefier grasp despite that she deceptively lured him into her venomous coils. "Do you always flatter yourself with such ceremonious gestures, Wilson..." she purred, huskily, veering her virescent ireses snakily at the obsidian-furred Mau who piercingly gave her a stink-eye glare, while noticing the diamond-studded collar adorning his rangier neck. "It seems you have spoiled yourself with a rare Egyptian treasure...A sentry of kings who repels the dark shades of this city..."

Seeing his new girlfriend's open fascination with his new treasure, Fisk beckoned her alongside him towards the cushioned space the Mau had made himself comfortable upon. "Fate, as it would have it, intended for this majestic creature to cross my path last night. Upon the hood of my vehicle to be exact," carefully he caressed the furry head of the feline who wrinkled his nose at the reverent but unwanted display of affection. "Homeless and alone, I knew I was destined to give him the shelter and attention one of his kind were bred to be bestowed."

The feline remained impassive beneath their attention yet his gaze fixed on the blonde with an impenetrable intensity that communicate non-verbal words, "get me out of this, now!" Bucky was close to baring his teeth as he watched her coy smirk pull at her lips in a manner he was so used to seeing. She was enjoying this.

Aware of the snakebit charade of her malefic-bewitching deceit of possessing Fisk's throne, hissingly, Bucky jutted up his tinier muzzle with an impetuous reaction of brattish feline; he wouldn't exude a tracery of leashed fragility as she damningly grappled him into verminous drudgery. Whipping his sleekier tail raptly against the ebon-granite flooring, he steelily gazed at her ashen-chiselled lips invidiously quirk into a deviant smirk. "The pharaonic legends in Cario that I had the pervlige of studying, revealed these Egyptian Maus were sired by Baset and emerged out of the Netherworld as shadows until a pharaoh's hand touched a cat, giving him a new life at his side..." Twitchily, Bucky scrunched his muzzle with a derisive hiss, quashing the implosive urge to give her a claw-slash on her Parda-trimmed wrist-she was moving up the rigged chessboard to depose the heavyweight king.

"Well, as you can see," Fisk interjected, "this little fellow is no ordinary stray. I could sense the nobility within him, the presence of a true pharaoh's cat. I knew he was meant to be by my side." He smiled, his eyes flicking to the collar around the Mau's neck. "It's quite fitting, really, that he should wear this symbol. One of our bond." A profound sentiment meant to entice his paramour into seeing the consecration of their relationship as one being blessed by the ancients. Bucky would have rolled his eyes and gagged if he were physically capable watching these two interact with one another. He'd rather be dealing with Wesley and the goon-squad than have to sit and listen to Clea and Fisk gush over their own grandeur.

A fissionable aura of deceptive tension grippingly entrenched over him as Clea edged her lithe hand over the velvetiness of his ebony with viperous poise-giving him an invitation to viciously strike his needle-point fangs at the moment her sinuous touch caressed a featherlight pressure against his tinier head. "Careful Wilson, this devious creature is not to become coddled with trinkets..." she whispered, huskily, aware that her feline collateral-drudge would play down the feisty card of sabotaging the high-stakes gambit of expropriating the Kingpin's syndicated province of Hells Kitchen-the political influence he garnered with two-faced senators-dynamos was to gain a deep-foothold in eminent vicinity within the Tri-State bourghs. The insolent Mau was a linchpin-pawn to sneakily access Fisk's encrypted ledgers-payoffs that financed his underground consortium."If you want to claim ownership, he must have a name..."

Fisk's expression remained impassive as he carefully regarded her. "And what name do you propose, my dear?" His tone was as smooth as silk, but beneath the surface, there was a level of uncertainty about him as he met Clea's gaze unflinchingly. "How about 'Felix'? After the cat who brought good luck to Julius Caesar, or 'Merlin' after the wizard who guided King Arthur? Or perhaps Tivali named after the great Cleopatra's feline companion?"Bucky wrinkled his nose, hating every suggestion. A meow of discontent wafted from him as he shifted his gaze between the two, hoping they would pick a name at least closer to home for him.

Gazing at the unbudging Mau with feigned repulsion composedly brandished on her stonier features, with practised ease invested with her sinuous tack, brushingly Clea dragged her lacquered nails over the furrier scruff of his neck, viscerally resigtering his pent-up tension-Bucky wouldn't be pegged like a fool to her unveracious whims; he was aware of her ulterior motives of obtaining Fisk's trust-loyalty for that was the currency that humanity wrenchingly gambled to play the winning hand. If the Eldritch temptress wanted to cozen her place at Fisk's side, a semblance of affection needed to be conveyed with her tenacious-feline drudge. "He deserves a name that is fitting to your city..." she whispered in a sultrier undertone, enticingly, as Bucky piercingly flashed her a razor-slit glare of his aqueous opals, evident to his arcing longish tail swaying on the defensive accord. "What about Blackjack...?"

"Blackjack?" Fisk repeated, tilting his head to the side in deep thought. Beyond it being one of his favorite card games, it signified luck and strategy. He hummed with approval. "I like it. It's bold, regal and catching. Blackjack, it will be." He smiled warmly at Clea. "Perhaps luck will now always be at our side as we preside over this city." Fisk arched a brow at her, bringing to him to embrace from behind, his massive arms folding around her waist as he breathed in the scent of her hair. "It is our city after all. Our bond, Serena, burns bright as the sun. But it is our business interests that will help both this city and us soaring just as high."

Bucky looked away, uncomfortable with their exchange, his mind mentally counting down the minutes in which he could hopefully find himself out of this predicament and back on the streets of the city where he needed to be. "Just keep it together. You'll get out of this..."

The creamier potency addictively became liquid escasty as his tinier pinkish tongue groaningly lapped his refill of milk, the litheness of his mid-drift cozily slumped against the leathered material of the Esclade's backseat, indignantly, Bucky staunched out the riotous impulse to vanishingly slip out of the rear-window the moment the flanked vehicle was deterred at the gridlock traffic light. He was leashed onto the brim of a snakepit, while unbeknownst listening to Fisk's slimier weasel snidely conversing in phone calls about money transfers of overseas deposits-stockpiles that heaped a cashbox from realtor contingencies of razing the slummier environs of Hell's Kitchen. "Mroow...Interesting..." he murmured against the scratchiness of his sand-paper-like tongue, resigtering an edgier tension coiling within Westley's lankier form. "Gotta be a hard day for ya, huh..."

Wesley glanced at the noisy cat through the corner of his eye, his demeanour turning into a glower of discontent. "I bet you'd be wishing you were out there with the rest of the little vermin, chasing tail-lights and dodging wheels. I don't care how much Mr. Fisk fawns over you, you're nothing but a stray he won't miss once he gets bored with you." He sneered. Wesley wasn't sure what or who he detested more-this fussy entitled furball or the stuck-up witch that was now latched to Fisk's arm like a hand-purse. He wouldn't have been good at his job if he wasn't distrustful of potential distractions that could impede his friend's ability to do business. And right now, Wilson Fisk was surrounded by many unneeded distractions.

Snicking out his fore-claws on defensive traction, icily Bucky flashed him a point-black glare as he quashed the stoked-up urge to lashingly nick Westely's polished hand with a bloodied staple-like gash, he couldn't become kicked to the curb, not when the socerous blight of his curse tethered him to Clea's demented will. Scruching his whiskered muzzle, he emitted a fizzing hiss, and frustratedly swiped his tinier paw blindingly against the bowl, aiming with devious precision for the Armani material of his mordacious babysitter's pants. "Yeah, let's see how boring I can be, jerk-face..."

It happened so suddenly, Fisk's right-hand man tasked with overseeing all avenues of business couldn't foresee a very petulant-very irritated cat-lashing back at him. The cat swatted the bowl would a growling hiss, causing milk to be sprayed and splattered across him. "S***!" James Wesley cursed, nearly leaping out of his seat as the white fluid splattered across his $2,000 Armani suit. Some of if even landed on his face and the lens of his eye-glasses. His shock was compounded by the thud of his head impacting the roof of the car as he reacted. He removed his glasses, casting a heated gaze at the cat who looked back at him with…amused eyes? Wesley instinctively began to reach for his gun. "That's it you-" That was when the car door opened, the sight of his boss like a bucket of cold water being thrown onto him, cooling his ire. "Sir-I was just-"

"It seems my little Blackjack craves to be out of your reach, Westley..." Narrowing his onyx ireses at the whitish streak trekking over the leathered cushion, pensively, Fisk removed a white-satin handkerchief from his breasted pocket and tentatively hunched near the rear door as he dabbed featherlight pressure over Westley's hard-boned cheek, wiping off remnants of cream. 'Perhaps, I should keep at my side to prevent further accidents..." he rasped in a guttural pitch, reaching out his meatier hand over the Mau's tenser form. "I acquire a leash to keep him close-to-vest, find me one, while I prepare an evening with my beautiful goddaughter..."

Wesley shifted his gaze from Fisk to the infuriating cat looking at him expectantly. He swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his boss's declaration like a branding iron seared to his face where he'd wiped away the milk-stain. "Yes, sir," he said quietly. "I'll take care of it." He moved stiffly, relieved that he would at the very least be free of this furry pest for the time being, one that he couldn't underestimate it seemed due to its sheer intelligence. He reached into the trunk of the car and pulled out an immaculate leash he'd had purchased the night before. Giving the cat a deadened-glare, he secured the leather harness around his neck, adding a petty roughness to his touch that earned him a spiteful hiss from the feline. "You're welcome," he said snidely.

Once that was done he handed the leash over to Fisk and composed himself, "should I arrange for Ms. Hardy's arrival, sir?" He asked.

Gripping onto the sleekier loop of the black leash that bracketed his thick-boned wrist, temperately, Fisk yanked with possessive force as the contentious Mau hissingly nipped his pointier fangs at the material the second he was vexatiously dragged off the backseat. "That won't be necessary, Felicia has an untimely way of arriving..." he gruffed out, readily flicking the leash like a whip-lash as Bucky attempted slinkily crawl behind the Esclade's rear-tire. "I want this to be a private evening with her, since there are pressing issues that I must discuss..."

Bucky listened to this exchange with mild curiosity despite his frustration at literally being man-handled with a leash. He wasn't sure how Fisk's date with Clea had panned out a few hours ago, but ever since leaving the restaurant the Kingpin had been locked in a state of contemplation that had him making several calls over the past couple of hours. Bucky knew only surface details about what Clea had planned for Fisk beyond conniing her way into his inner-circle, but it left him anxious with the thought that he could easily become entangled in a tug-of-war between his handler and the mark she was ribbing. Bucky didn't recognize the name "Felicia", but if associations were anything to go off of, she was probably bad news just like her dear old godfather. As he felt himself get pulled into step beside the mountain of a burly man, Bucky inwardly began to make a plan of his own just in case things went south in Clea's little game.

He was nothing if not resourceful.

The urban-eclectic ambiance of the Yves building penthouse contrasted the industrial panorama of monolithic skyscrapers of Mid-town that were shadowily haloed with amberish streetlight as the rectangular granite-stone table was the centrepiece near pristine glass windows-it was like being under lockdown into an executive's office, the metalwork that framed the windows aesthetically melded with the polished elements of wealthier sophistication as Bucky edgily sprawled the obsdian velvetiness of his lithe form over the gray armchair, roving a dead-straight glare of his whitish-sapphire opals at the crystalline decanter on the table that was intoxicatingly filled with bourbon that Westley purchased from a underground auction house.

Evicting the riotous urge to sneakily pounce onto Fisk's table and lap a mouthful of malted whiskey, icily Bucky glared with razored-slits at his target of staving down his pent-up frustration-a rubbery mouse that vexatiously emitted an ear-piercing squeak if he sunk his needle-point fangs on the sweet-spot."Argh...Stupid...Toy..." he rasped, threadily, swiping his fore-paw blindingly against the rubbery material. "W-What's the damn point of playin' with this mouse..."

He found it annoying and indignant, his mind unable to cope with the ongoing change of his form that had gone without change for the past 2 nights since Fisk had found him. "Oh the hell with it," he growled. When the practice of figuring out how a toy mouse could amuse a cat, he allowed his frustrations to take over as he thought of a more conventional way of releasing his frustrations. He bit into the toy and began to wring it between his teeth like a caught fish. He thought Clea who had all but left him trapped while she played her con-game, he thought of Fisk who treated him like a pampered trophy, he thought of that limey mook Wesley just itching to throw him beneath a speeding car. He also thought about the kid Peter who probably thought he'd ditched him-but most of all he thought about himself, how trapped and pathetic he was in his inability to do anything for himself other than strangle a toy mouse.

As he growled and wrung the toy in his teeth, he felt a brief moment of satisfaction as he sent it flying against the wall. But it was quickly replaced by the familiar dread in his chest as Fisk's strong hands lifted him off the floor, forcing him to look up. The man's eyes were filled with concern and exasperation. "You know you shouldn't do that," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "Come now, Blackjack, I have a guest arriving and I can't afford the place to be in disarray."

Detecting a sinstrous-malignant rabidity that perniciously emanated off the Hell's Kitchen taskmaster, cautiously, Bucky leaped off the armchair when his pointer ears twitchily flitted against Fisk's whispery gruffiness sonorously that beckon him at his side. With a variance of temped reluctance of his paw-steps, lankily, he sashayed with devil-may-care graces over the polished floor, arcing his furrier back against the iron-pressed fabric that fittingly sheathed over Fisk's bulkier calf as he revved up a throatier purr, evident to his featherlight nuzzling of mock-kittenish affection. "M' so gonna use your leg as a scratching post, big guy..."

"All is well, my little friend," mistaking the Mau's act of sass as an act of affection, Fisk smiled good-naturedly as he began to pet his back with hard dragging caresses that made Bucky purr annoyingly. "I know my god-daughter will appreciate one of your demand and vigor." Giving Bucky one more pat on the back, Fisk felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He read the message from one of his men stationed in the lobby informing him of her arrival. "Speaking of."

Bucky, sensing the change in the air, tensed as Fisk's hand moved away. He knew what was coming next. With a sigh, he allowed himself to be lifted into the air once more. "But for the time being, be on your best behavior, Blackjack." As Fisk carried him across the room, he tried to keep his claws sheathed and his expression neutral. The last thing he needed was be told how to act around what he presumed to be a spoiled and prissy woman, he already dealt with that enough on a day to day basis with Clea. He felt himself get set down on a carpet where a saucer of cat-food laid served for him. He wrinkled his tinier nose and ignored the stench as the chiming of a doorbell caught Fisks' attention.

Against the bluish sconces that haloed over her smokier whitish-platinum whorls that vixenishly cascaded over the delicate litheness of her leather-garbed back, Felicia grounded her collective poise at the metallic door, her autumn-brandy ireses naughtily shifted at the burly sentry readily patrolling the spartan hallway with an EMP taser-baton evidently holstered on his muscled thigh. "Guess it's going to be one of those nights..." she murmured, breathily, aware that 'baldy' was overstepping his security entourage-party crashers. "This might be fun after all..."

The door opened and there loomed the mountainous bald-form of her godfather, Wilson Fisk. Known notoriously throughout the criminal underbelly as the Kingpin. A man whose reach went far beyond the corporate fronts used to by those criminal syndicates to control NYC. A man who could crush a grown man's skull with his chubby hands if he wasn't using the door to his car. His complexion appeared soft and welcoming as he looked at her with an unflinching gaze. "Felicia, my dear," he beamed at her, his chubby fingers beckoning her in. "It has been too long. You're looking absolutely radiant this evening." he drawled, his bass-baritone rumbling through the plushness of the living room. "Please come in."

Bucky had thought to ignore whatever Fisk was up to. But that striking scent of purely womanly fire hit his nose causing him to meow with curiosity. He padded across the primer-coated wooden floor and looked on, annoyed how Fisk's massive stature blocked out whoever was at the door.

Quirking her pillowy full-bow lips into a deviant smirk, tentatively, she eased down onto her shapelier haunches, edging her lithe palm closer to the standoffish-grouchy feline. "Not very friendly are we..." she purred, suacily, watching him twitchily scrunching up his whiskered muzzle as she gazed into the grayish-sapphire of his almond-shaped opals were mesmerically hypnotic like cool smoke. "How about we change that grumpy mood, shall we..."

Bucky wasn't sure what he had been expecting when his eyes had landed upon the mystery girl coming through the door, but he felt his breath escape him as if he'd forgotten how to breathe. She couldn't have been older than 30, but she seemed to glow like a pearl in the dim light of the apartment. Her platinum white her was like snow, her eyes were a rich coffee brown, her full lips painted a strawberry red that wafted across the room as she approached him with a slow stride. His heart was hammering against his chest as she crouched in front of him, looking down on him curiously. Once the spell of allure had shifted, he raised his stoic demeanor, refusing to let himself get distracted by a pretty face...a gorgeous face.

"Damn it," he cursed to himself with a meowing growl. It seemed to only amuse her as her lips quirked into a cottish smirk. "Okay, you're not what I was expecting." He said openly, knowing she couldn't understand him. Her comment left him frowning stubbornly, "my grumpy mood doesn't shift easily, darlin'."

Aware of the cankerous feline's bridled edginess that underscored duelling tension, brushingly, with a vestige of measured caution, Felicia splayed whisker-soft ministrations of the velvety sleekness of his arcing back that pacified his grouchier chirps-detecting hot-wired aggression feistily tempoing within his lankier form. Reflexively, Bucky whipped his longish tail against the wingback chair with hard-pressed fervency avidly conveying his unwarranted restlessness-he was definitely in an onerous stray. "Playing down the stubborn card..." she murmured in a sultrier undertone, coquettishly, gazing at his tinier muzzle dismissively scrunching against sourish hiss. Countering his irritable behaviour, the crimson glossiness of her full-bow lips played off a jauntier smirk as Fisk thumpingly lumbered towards his granite table, and clutched into the decanter with sheer ease despite the pudginess of his fingers, evident to his jowelly features that stoically brandished tactful decorum-charisma. "I'm surprised that your interests have swerved with something that has a furry tail, Uncle..."

"His name is Blackjack. Let us just say…our meeting was a fated encounter. A cat of his breed is rarely seen throughout the world these days. Endangered. Even you can appreciate the tender care of such an exotic creature," Fisk said with prideful tilt of his head. He watched closely, more than a bit surprised by how Blackjack was receptive to Felicia's gentle caresses despite his scrunched nose revealing his begrudging acceptance. Mau's didn't just allow anyone to touch them without lashing out with a swipe of their paws. Blackjack had left more than a few nursing scars upon a few of his associates who dared to try him. He appreciated his pet's tenacity but it also left him exasperated with the thought of not finding a trustful person to look after him.

Perhaps not till now…

Bucky meowed softly, trying and failing not to let himself enjoy the attention he was receiving, but something within told him this "Felicia" was being genuine in her attentiveness. He leaned into her hand, nuzzling her hand where he caught a whiff of soothing vanilla, probably from her hand cream. His tongue unconsciously licked and a purring growl escaped his throat.

"He likes you apparently," Fisk observed. "Not that that surprises me. You always did have a way with pets."

The shivery raspiness of his pinkish tongue against her delicate-bone wrist grippingly caught her pulse in those moments of unadulterated tenderness as he purringly nuzzled his tinier head over her leathered sleeve on coaxing tenor-branding her with a promise of 'kitty' affection. Disarmingly, Felicia grazed her lithe finger against the sleekier curvatures of his muzzle, feigning a girlish smirk as his whiskers stabbingly pricked her knuckles. "I can see he likes stealing the moment..." she murmured, breathily, easing off the floor with guarded poise as she edged to Fisk's titanic proximity-he leashed her like collateral-pawn to secure tyrannical prominence of his syndicated enterprise of Hell's Kitchen with her thievish calibre of undetectable infiltration-espionage. He cleared the decks of infectious-scummier criminality that parasitically leeched on desperate junkies, coordinating his ambitious intent by yanking off threads of disloyalty that stemmed with the Russian duo- to restore his domain-kingdom under the brutality of his ironed fist. "You didn't invite me for a drink, I always know when you want something from me..."

At that moment, the doors opened and in walking a number of waitors carrying lavish trays. "Right now," Fisk said as they began to set the table, two fine porcelain plates, silverware and polished glasses, "I only wish to share a meal with my god-daughter, and hear how your recent travels have been." The trays were lifted, the waft of a mouth-watering Chow Mein and a Peking Roast Duck filled the room. Bucky felt his stomach twist with hunger, wishing for the umpteenth time today that he was human again. He loved Chinese food. Judging by the pleasant expression on the silver-haired dame's face, so did she.

Fisk poured wine as Felica joined him at the table. For a few minutes they quietly enjoyed their meals while sharing small-talk over her trip to Athens, and a recent errand she had run for him in Tokyo. Fisk seemed genuinely interested in her encounter with a certain mercenary in Hells Kitchen who attempted to thwart her theft at a Stark auction. Bucky sat close-by, quietly listening while pretending to be occupied with the toy-mouse. Once they were near to the end of their meal, Fisk broached a purposeful topic. "How long will you be staying in the city?"

Resigtering the underlying firmness in his gruffer timbre, involuntary, Felica shifted her darkish ireses at the ebony-furred Mau who feistily swatted at the rubbered mouse with deadlier precision of his fore-paw. "Why do I sense you're attending a business meeting away from the city..." she pressed, tartishly, arching up her delicate eyebrow as she unblinkingly watched his beefier hand measuringly swiping over his breasted pocket. In those countered seconds a leathered book-dossier slid over the granite table a breadth at her daintier hand. "Let me guess, another shopping list to cross off...?"

Fisk gave her a tight smile. "Almost, not quite." He paused. "I have a few investments I need to check up on with a new...associate of mine." He was careful with his wording, not sure with himself what to make of his relationship with Serena. She had been a passionate yet evasive woman in their dealings, her level of cunning often helping him to make tough decisions he would have otherwise taken much longer to make. He never believed he could be enamored with another woman, especially after he and Vanessa had divorced, but he wasn't one to let opportunity escape him. Noting the expectant look on Felicia's face, he guessed she rightly assumed what he would be asking of her. "Unorthodx as this request may be, I may be away from home for a while and will need someone I can trust to look after Blackjack in my absence. I need that to be you."

"Wait, what?" Bucky meowed loudly, surprising the two at the table with his awareness as he looked at them with wide eyes.

Hearing the screechy protesting of the Mau's heart-stunned reaction, noncommittally, Felicia dragged out a tenser breath, evading the point-blank intensity of his silvery-aqueous opals as he frustratedly swiped his fore-paw paw at the rubbered mouse that whooshingly thuned against the window akin to a puck slapshot. With chagrined vexation strumming through his lankier form, hissingly, Bucky shifted on his tinier paws, bridling down onrushes of aggression, he couldn't become a trade-off stray, not when he needed to sneakily uncover the encrypted-binary- passcodes that unlocked security measures of the Kingpin's stockpiled assets for the vulturous-leeching siren to deceptively raid out for her iniquitous gain. Maybe this vixenish dame would be the key he needed to unlock those assets. Swaggeringly, he edged closer to her chair with suave-faced coolness brandished over his furred muzzle and featherily grazed his tail against her Versace knee-high boot, stealing her awareness. "Well, I do like cats, especially ones that like to get into trouble..." she returned, snarkily, easing her hand down for Bucky to nuzzle. "I guess this handsome boy won't be that much of a killjoy..."

Fisk watched their exchange with no small amount of relief. The last thing he would've wanted was to leave Blackjack in the company of house-servant who couldn't tolerate his level of feistiness. That Blackjack seemed to take a hesitant liking to Felicia was more than he could've hoped for. "It's settled then. Thank you, Felicia. Wesley will see to you being fairly compensated during your stay. I-" The buzzing of his phone going off stole his attention. He pulled it from his pocket and saw the caller's name "Serena". "It seems our evening together will have to be cut short. I have a flight scheduled tomorrow at 10am," he said as he rose from his seat. "Perhaps you and Blackjack can take a few minutes to get better acquainted before you leave?" It was more of a directive than a request as he left the room to take his call, leaving Felicia alone with the Mau who prowled towards the panaromic window. Putting his paw against it, he meowed with longing.

The chirpier scratchiness of his whisper-soft meowing intensified as he fervidly bonked his muzzle against the glass, shifting her incredulous gaze at the ebony-furred Mau, cautiously, Felicia lowered on her knees with tentative poise, kneading her daintier fingers over the silken velvetiness of his tenser back, viscerally aware of whip-corded resiliency the athelically delineated underneath his obsidian fur—an unspoken vulnerability that was bone-deep as his whitish-sapphire depths listlessly glared at the scenic environs of Mahatthen-a playground for 'rule breaking' kicks. "Not a bad view huh...?" she murmured with a sultier rasp, hushedly caressing a delicate trace of her index finger distractingly against his pointer finger that reactively twitched on kittenish accord. "Hmmm...Maybe I'll let you play on the rooftop if you don't tell the big guy..."

The Mau let out a mewl of delight as her fingers danced over him, and he purred loudly, leaning further into her touch. "I hope you're not playing a game with me, lady." Bucky said, knowing she couldn't understand him, but hoping all the same that her claim wasn't self-indulgent. She could be his ticket out of here once he was done uncovering Fisk's secrets. He didn't know who this Felicia was, never having heard of her before tonight, but he didn't get a bad vibe from her like he did with Fisk and Clea. But he didn't get an entirely trustful feeling from her either. Gazing into her brandy eyes, he could see a free spirit; one who ultimately would either side with her godfather or herself. But her attentiveness made him feel...good. Really good. It also helped that she was very easy on the eyes. He couldn't get enough of that scent as he nuzzled her hand, feeling himself surrendering to his animal instincts.

"Can see you have trust issues, huh..." she quipped out, jauntily, sliding her lithe hand with chase precision delicately underneath his rangier underbelly-a tracery of evocative-stark closeness irresistibly floored his resistance as the gentled flexion of her palm over satiny fur arrestingly gripped him into an undertow of amorous dregs with each tactive-fevered caress. Emitting out a raspier meow, Bucky angled his tinier head on instinctive tenor,rhythmically nuzzling his whiskered muzzle against her denim-clad knee—detecting he was affection-starved, Felicia cradled him snuggly against the voluptuous suppleness of her bustier decolletage that was exquisitely accentuated with black chiffon-gossamer lace, contrasting the sleekness of her milkier-alabaster skin as he dozily nestled himself into her arms. "Don't get too comfortable..."

"First rule of the street, darlin'...Only appreciate the spoils when the job is done..." he purred, chuffily, nuzzling his tinier muzzle feverously against her leather-clad arms, while his longish tail swayed on distrusting accord, he wouldn't be suckered into high-rigged-evocative dregs with this vixenish-gorgeous-dame who arrestingly brushed featherlight-chase ministrations of her daintier fingers over the velvetiness of his ebony fur. Restrainedly, Bucky quashed down the suffusive-disarming urges that increasingly rode through his lankier form. He wouldn't give in to a free-hand of beneficence-everyone had an angle up their sleeves.

He didn't realize just how tired he was, physically and mentally until the heaviness of his eyelids began to pull him towards a needed slumber. The tension of fatigue built up inside of him like a ball of pressure traveling from his brain, through his veins and down towards his throat until he released a long purring yawn. He would've groaned at the silliness of the sound, but it must've sounded cute to Hardy who proceeded to smile and increase her attentive rubs against the top of his head. "Okay…that feels a little good," he growled softly, unable to resist despite how stubborn he still felt. His limbs felt unresponsive and he could only watch through blurring vision as the scene shifted in front of him and he was being carried towards a different room. The white haired beauty loomed above him, a comforting sight that relaxed him up until the point he felt them both rest back against the pillows of an even more comfortable bed. "G-Good…" was the last thing he meowed under his breath once the fog of fatigue became too much for him to withstand.

For the first time in days, he fell into a deep dreamless sleep, almost as if he felt unafraid of what the next day held in store for him.

The morning rays of sunlight filled the bedroom in an amberish glow, illuminating the softness of human skin. A manly physique emerged from a cacophony of dark fur, slow and silent-so much that Bucky was oblivious to the change until he felt the ticklish sensation of hair touching his cheek. He sighed softly in his sleep, a deep comfortable groan breaking from his sealed lips as he stretched his n*** limbs in bed, finding them to be surprisingly long and free. His eyes were still closed, but he felt his mind slowly returning to reality. Still he held them closed, almost uneager to rise from this comfortable bed that was unlike anything he felt before. The cool room temperature made him relaxed along with the pillow beneath his head. "Gud…sleep," he groaned. That was when he felt the warm waft of a breath tickling his neck, and the soft mewling sigh of a woman nestled against him.

His eyes shot open wide. "What?!" The first thing he saw was his hands-human hands! Not the paws of an imprisoned soul within the body of a feline, but his actual hands that he hadn't known the sight of in what felt like months. "Oh my God," he breathed. Confusion lingered for a moment before realization came speeding up with the speed of a train when he remembered the night before. He felt the weight against his side press firmer and he panickingly looked to his right. The alluring sight of a sleeping silvery-haired goddess caused his heart to hammer like a war-drum in his chest. Hardy looked about as tranquil as an angel, one he was thankful to see was still dressed in her clothes she wore last night.

Him on the other hand…

"Oh man," he instinctively grabbed the loose blanket to his side and wrapped it around his hips, the heat of exposure turning his skin warm as the sun. He had to get out of here. Fast, before sleeping beauty woke up…

The addictive silkiness of the Parda sheet cozily enwreathed over the voluptuous curviness of her svelte form grappled her into drowsier-blissful throes as the cool ambiance of morning light ethereally contrasted against the milky alabaster of her freckled shoulders. Moaningly, Felicia splayed her lithe delicate with groggier precision over the sainty pillow, resigtering thermal warmth that purringly vibrated through her veins-a savorous reminder of the ebony-furred Mau's proximity was groggily snugged against the blankets. "Guess this is a long cat nap for you, huh,..." she murmured in a dozier underneath, raspily, hearing a throatier groan alarmingly resonating from the moodier feline. "Don't worry furball, I'll get your breakfast ready..."

Bucky didn't move, nor would he risk so much as saying anything that might invoke the suspicion of the somewhat half-asleep young woman who appeared dimly aware of what was going on. His mind leapt into full overdrive, conjuring up a quick resourceful scheme like he often did when a con was close to being exposed in his line of work. He grimaced, reaching for what looked like a furry trim to a coat laying off to the side. He steadily pulled it up, careful not to move too quick as he slipped it against his arm. It was a sleight-of-hand manuever, slipping out of Felicia's reach and putting the furry expanse of the coat next to where she expected the cat to be. She hadn't moved yet, nor opened her eyes. Bucky held his breath and he slowly slunk off the edge of the bed and began to creep his way towards the closet. He kept low and pulled out a pair of over-sized pants, likely belonging to Fisk, along with shoes. There were nothing but suit-blazers inside. Shirtless but at least covered up, he kept his eyes on the young woman in bed as he edged his way towards the door on soft-measured foot-steps. He didn't release his breath until he finally made it outside the room. He had to move fast and get out of here.

But first...he needed to get what Clea wanted from him.

With visceral awareness of the blankets shifted against her, reactively, Felicia eased her delicate cheek off the window, her autumn-brandy ireses blearily roved over the empty pillow as velvety tuffs of ebony fur clung onto the material. Staving off her vexatious edginess she harboured for the sneakier feline, she yanked off the sheet with breakneck force as her tousled whitish-platinum whorls unkemptily draped over her lithe shoulders. Harnessing her feline graces, she unerringly pounced off the mattress on balletic accord, lowering onto her shapelier haunches as she riskily glanced underneath the bed, searching for her godfather's trophy-cat. "Okay, furball enough games..." Frustratedly, she gnawed on her plushier underlip, and huffily sauntered her feverish paces towards Fisk's private office. "I swear if you break anything..."

She had a fair idea of what to expect from a curious stubborn kitty nosing around where they shouldn't be. So it came as a great surprise to her when a man came out of her godfather's office instead. That surprise turned to alarm and suspicion when she realized it wasn't someone she knew. The moment his eyes landed on her, it was like staring into the ocean as the deep blueness of them were almost hypnotic, in a sense. The man looked at her, surprised but also calm. He also appeared to be wearing clothes that appeared a size too big for him.

"H-Hey there, Miss…" Bucky said with a cool voice, fighting to keep his composure and a facade of innocence as he felt pinned by her penetrative gaze. "I, um, work for Mr. Fisk-" He explained hastily.

As the murmurous raspiness of his whiskey-roughened drawl was temped with cockier suaveness, unnervingly, Felicia braced against the doorframe with defensive poise, riskily mirroring the voltaic sapphire of his mesmeric aquamarine ireses that smolderingly gleamed with devious brazenness-a potent allure of untamed virility. The razored angularity that cuttingly emphasized the heaviness of his knife-edged jaw fused with his suaver-boyish features as she glanced at the dimpled notch prominently etched over his roundish chin when his poutier shapely-bow lips rascally quirked into a toothier smirk. "W-Why are you..." With a modicum of feminine restraint splintering in her veins, guardedly, Felicia roved her brandy ireses unwaveringly over the athletic bulkiness of his tauter-corded solidity-the V-cut ridges that hunkily carved his washboard abdomen while the oversized Armani trousers narrowly clung to his sleekier hips-damn he was breathtakingly gorgeous. Against the riotous impulse, she remained tensely grounded at the doorway, keeping herself distant from the handsome intruder's proximity. "Though I'm a girl who likes surprises, you need to explain why you're wearing my godfather's pants...?"

Bucky said nothing at first, lost somewhere between the awe of Felicia's alluring eyes and the feeling of complete panic as he failed to respond to her astute observation. What the hell kind of excuse could he cook up as to why he was wearing Fisk's clothes and just came out of his office? Swallowing down a lump of anxiety, he flashed her a disarming smile and chuckled, "Its, uh, not as weird as it looks. See, uh, Mr. Fisk asked me to send this suit back to the tailor since its the wrong size, and I thought why let it go to waste? Especially since the maid spilled a food-tray all over my shirt on my way up here," he explained, guessing her next question might've been about why he wasn't wearing a shirt. Inwardly he patted himself on the back for coming up with that one. "Anyway, I needed something clean to wear before I head back. So uh, excuse me-" He took a step away from the door as if to head for the exit, only for Felicia to match his move and take a step in front of him, blocking his way; the same expression never leaving her face. Bucky's confidence for a quick escape began to sink. Ah crap.

Against the point-blank tension intensifying between them, coquettishly, Felicia arched up her delicate eyebrow with an incredulous rapt as she caught a glimpse of the diamond-studded collar glintingly secured over his broader nape-he was definitely a penthouse-raiding thief. Smacking the luscious glossiness of her pillowy lips, friskily, she eased her lithe palm over his tauter shoulder, delivering kitten-soft ministrations with tantalizing-evocative pressure that stealingly captured his tremorous pulse in the arrestive moment, she craftily glided her fingers underneath the collar. "You know, I would have believed your lie if you didn't wear this little kitty accessory..." she purred out, jauntily, swiping the collar with viper-strike quickness. "The first rule of the game, handsome, is never get caught playing with the spoils..."

He knew he was caught. Hook-line-and-sinker. Bucky couldn't bluff his way out of this one. The pretty dame had brains as well as beauty. No one ever had ever made him feel as exposed as this except for Clea. It was…refreshing in a sense. Though he wasn't sure to what extent Felicia had about her suspicions towards him, he guessed she pegged him as just a thief and not the furry Mau she had been watching over the night before. Though his instincts told him to improvise, he also knew when to not push his luck. "Guess you got me," he said with a guilty smile pulling across his lips, his hapless facade peeling away to reveal the guile figure beneath.

He held his hands up and shrugged, "I'll hand it to ya, you seem to be pretty observant. Something tells me you've seen your fair share of cons." He splayed his hands on his hips, putting emphasis on his muscular physique, curious on how much effect it had on her. "How about we start over, darlin?"

The huskier velvetiness of his contralto timbered drawl addictively ghosted over her like cool smoke as she registered the headier decadence exhilaratingly teeming within him-a pendulum shift of undeniable- aphrodisiacal intimacy feverously weighted against her. Gripping onto the collar with a possessive variance, Felicia was edging into the seductive throes of his dangerous-masculine allure. Realization speared her bone-deep as she felt the coaxing-violating ministrations of his vein-threaded hand caressingly kneading the sleekness of her Versace-clad thigh, snakily akin to a feline tail brushing over the material. "Taking the lead in this dance, are we...?" she murmured, breathily, clamping her daintier hand avidly over his tauter wrist. "Keep your hands where I can see them..."

The dangerous edge in her tone caused his heart rate to increase. There was an allure about her, a sense of mystery and intrigue that made her feel almost immaculate and untouchable. Entranced by the depth of her eyes boring into his, he felt a fog of intoxication threaten to cloud his senses into complete and total aberration. It was then that he felt the rise of an old familiar feeling he hadn't quite felt in so many years; desire. The waft of Felicia's fragrance was a mix of lavender and citrus, causing his blood to run hot as he allowed his manly charm to run to the forefront.

He took a step closer to her, the heat of their bodies colliding with the electricity of the situation. "My hands need a little something to latch onto, darlin', if you really want dance," he murmured, his voice a gruff whisper that sounded like the purr of a feline. His eyes carried a mischievous glint as he took in her features, the slight blush that had bloomed on her cheeks and the way her full lips parted slightly in anticipation. He could almost taste the sweetness of her strawberry blades as a waft of her warm breath ghosted across his chin. He leaned forward, his eyes locked on hers, before they flicked towards the doorway behind her-his escape route. She didn't back down, but like him, she was becoming enthralled into their encounter. Her hand suddenly landed on his chest, and firmly pressed him back. A knowing look was in her eyes as if to say "not so fast".

The heavier closeness of his scruffier jaw against the delicate contours of her supple cheek feverishly mirrored the intimate symmetry of uncompromising-savorous desire; splaying her daintier palm caressingly against the corded tautness of his bulkier chest, she registered an infectious pulse of undeniable-soul-damning witchery irrevocably revving within his veins like a firestorm-he was an extension of a telestic unity that damningly chastened his tenacious spirit. Being proficient with archaic relics that were showcased in the British Museum, she discovered how to interpret pharaonic cyphers etched on preserved remnants of raided tombs-urns that were adorned with the deific feline Baset were high-priced auctioned at Oxford. Gazing into the frostier steeliness of his grayish-aquamarine ireses underneath his dishevelled tresses, unblinkingly she watched his dilated pupils morphically razoring into crescent slits against the paleness of morning light. "I can't let you walk out unless you give something to trade, Charm Boy..." she teased, pressingly.

The coarse whisper of her breath caressed his cheek as he smirked, his teeth revealing feline-like incisors that told more than words could. "What's a thief got to give that you can't already take?" With that he leaned in, his eyes still locked with hers, and allowed the moment to sink in as he pulled her into a deep heated kiss. It was soft and sudden at first, as if he were tasting the sweetness of a forbidden fruit and savoring the experience. His arms slipped around her waist, pulling her closer as he allowed his senses to become engulfed in the intoxicating feeling of her touch. It was a kiss that promised secrets and whispered of darkened alleys and thrilling games. It was a kiss that was both a lie and a truth, as he surrendered to his primal instincts while at the same time, using this as a distraction to edge them closer to the doors of the apartment.

Against the headier onrushes, breathlessly Felicia was captive as the velvety shift of his thrusting shapely-wide lips feverously melded against the plushier glossiness of her kiss-swollen lips on hungered tenor, awareness increasingly notched through her veins as the hottish surge of his evocative command demandingly reached deeper with his open-mouthed ferocity that gapingly streched her luscious mouth with ardent succession. Clutching onto the material of his sleeved forearm, moaningly, she registered the saltier brininess of tuna fishily wafting against his ragged breaths-an undeniable taste of kitty food. Angling the voluptuous-delectable swells bustily against the graven-corded solidity of his tauter chest with sirenic-distractive pressure at the moment, his larger hand consciously reached for the door-knob, friskily, she tugged on his fevered underlip, edging him into a passion-blank maelstrom that dizzyingly careened him into a decadent -breathtaking mania of unadulterated surrender.

Bucky was losing control as the thought of fleeing his predicament was becoming smothered by a fog of untamed primal lust. The kissing grew deeper to the point he could taste the sweetness of her tongue scraping against his own as their dueling lips took on lives of their own in this carnal dance that was unlike anything he'd ever experienced. It was intoxicating-life-giving, and he wanted more. So much more he could feel the heat of his desire turning to ar(ousal) as her hands tugged against him just as he was so close to freedom. His conscious thoughts fought against the fog, urging him not to lose focus no matter how much he wanted to. He could feel a kittenish purr wafting from his throat and seeping into her mouth as their kisses grew shorter in their need to breathe fresh air. Bucky's eyes were dark as he looked at the heat of her flushed cheeks, her piercing eyes so driven it was almost painful not to surrender to them.

Frustrating boiled up as he could almost feel her trying to edge him away from his escape, but instead he shifted his position and felt her respond almost instinctively with a more tactical pitch. "I gotta go-" He all but growled. He could feel her try to stop him, her eyes becoming something more defiant. Her refusal became more firm and he responded by using the momentum of her movement to pin her to the ground, his face hovering over hers as his teeth gnashingly bore into a soft snarl. "Thanks for the dance, darlin', but its gonna have to be cut short."

The murmurous scratchiness of his breathless drawl gutturally ratcheted through her with tantalizing invocation of seductive-amorous desire as she registered the kneading pressure of his vein-threaded hand featherily gliding off her curvier back-invested with a promise of reverence, his Romanianque nose scrunched, avidly empathizing his toothier smirk that rascally quirked over his poutier lips-a tomcat incarnate. Deceptively, against the rampancy of his vanishing-act, Bucky reached for the doorknob with calculated-suave precision."Wait..." A hitching gasp shiveringly temped against her breath in that heart-stunning moment of a rapturous ardency that inexorably surged within her veins. "D-Don't..."

Never had it felt so difficult for Bucky to refuse someone who wasn't Clea. And Felicia didn't even need to threaten him to get what she wanted. But he knew if he hesitated now, he wouldn't be able to leave and he wasn't even sure how long his transformation would keep him on two feet today. With a forceful pull of the doorknob, he rushed out of the apartment and sprinted his way towards the elevators, his heart hammering against his chest each step of the way. A burst of flavor against his lips saw him flicking his tongue, still tasting her sweetness and feeling the heat of her on his skin. He closed his eyes, pressing the button for the ground-floor lobby. He thought he saw a shape at the end of the hall come into view with silvery locks before the doors to the elevator closed in front of him.

There was no going back now. He had to get back to work.

With tactful deftness, Peter gripped a palm-sized screwdriver as he began disassembling the PC circuit board that he salvaged from a Midtown High dumpster, after the high-adrenalized stunt of being utilized as the Brooklyn grifter's decoy, he remained in his bedroom, keeping distant from surveillance hot-spots -Toomes wasn't chump to be reckoned with, his merciless calibre of hacking into security networks within Stark Industries would easily give him the leeway of acquiring the licence plate number of the NYPD cruiser Bucky drove to sweeten his deceptive-swindling- performance. Staunching down onrushes of haywire edginess, composedly, Peter focused on repairing the circuit board that he would sell to a Queen's pawnshop for extra cash-he needed to stay away from the corruptive 'dark side' of Bucky's thievish gambit that would come at him in spades. "Guess you're on your own again, Pete..." he murmured, ruefully, glancing at the assemble of hardwire on his cluttered desk. "

"This is what you do in your spare time, kid?" A sudden voice alarmed Peter who nearly stabbed a whole in the circuit board as he flinched with surprise. The familiarity of the voice didn't register until the teen whipped around on his swivel chair towards his open-bedroom window, half-expecting to see the mark he helped con or someone associated with him. To his mild surprise and relief, it wasn't Toomes, but the man himself he'd thought ditched him.

"Mr-Mr. Barnes!" He said with a bright smile. Bucky smiled softly in turn, amused if not refreshed by the thought that someone was actually glad to see him. Remembering his former proteges Yelena and Kate who were often irritable whenever he dropped by, Bucky refrained from getting straight to business as he shrugged and tapped the window-sill.

"Don't tell me you missed me that much. With the money I handed you from our last gig, you couldn't bought a new computer instead of picking apart an old one," said, reaching into his pocket for a pack of smokes only remember that the burly fabric wasn't his own. Fisk wasn't a smoker he realized with a disappointed shrug.

Resigtering the underlying notion that Bucky didn't kick the addictive-nicotine habit, dutifully, Peter gripped onto the chrome handle of a drawer, generously revealing his stash of vending machine candy as he speedily grabbed an unopened box of Milk Duds. "Um...Here this might help, Sir..." he stammered out, unabashedly, sliding the heftier box with trepidatious precision off the desk, watching Bucky impressively catch it with quick-handed reaction that was akin to a paw-swipe. "Woah...You have good reflexes..."

Bucky wasn't much of a candy-eater. You didn't keep the physique of an athlete by chugging down bags of skittles, but after spending the past week, maybe longer, just sitting on his haunches lapping at cat-milk, his stomach growled for something more nourishing to fill it. He hadn't had time to stop at his house or stop by a fast-food joint to sate his craving. He wanted a smoke more than the next wad of cash to fill his pockets. "Don't you have gum?" He asked the youth. At least that would hit a certain spot. Nevertheless he graciously popped open the box and downed a few of the milk-duds. "You gotta be quick on the up-take kid," he said in response to his reflexes. "My confidence doesn't shake. I've spent years attuning myself, honing my sense-" That was when he noticed something. A scurrying shape moving in the back of the kid's room that sparked a primal instinct inside of him he couldn't explain.

Before he realized what he was doing, Bucky had jumped through the window and into the room with a feral snarl on his lips. He heard a squeaking of distress when he realized the rodent was caged. The hunger in his stomach grew stronger as he leapt for the cage to snatch the furry pest. Peter caught it just in time, eyes wide with bewilderment.

"Jango..." In breathless earshot, Peter scooped up the whitish-ebony furred rodent who squeakily nestled against his palm, with tentative steadiness lowered the distressed mouse inside the plastic barrier of a massively constructed Lego Death-Star where tinier Storm-Trooper figures were neatly posed for a defensive line of protection. Brandishing a dumbfounded semblance of jack-up-frazzled confusion, riskily Peter roved his brownish-hazel ireses at the Brooklyn grifter who aggressively poised his gloved fingers against the morphic strain of needle-point claws that shinily gleamed like metallic paperclips against the leathered material. "Please don't attack my biology project, Mister Barnes..." he urged, chirpily, while Bucky scowlingly lasered his silvery-aquamarine depths onto the furry vermin-the bane of a feline existence. "I need Jango...uh...that mouse for my final assignment...It's kinda important for me to get high grades for May..."

The haze of hunger slowly evaporated as clarity returned to Bucky's mind. It felt like wrestling control of his body back from a wild animal deep down inside of him. He'd hadn't had this lack of control over himself in awhile, it left him feeling on-edge. He shrugged, forcing himself not to look at the rodent that Peter protectively held. "Don't want to disappoint May, that's for sure." He said to the teen as he turned back and moved to sit on the window-sill of his room. He plopped more of the milk-duds into his mouth, working himself half-way through the box with only a couple of mouthfuls. "Does your aunt suspect anything about what you've been doing with me?" He asked, realizing that in the days that he'd been trapped in Fisk's apartment with four paws, he never could have checked on Peter to know if anything went wrong after working their first con together.

A sheepish rapt tellingly flitted over Peter's brow as he quashed back a hitching stammer against his breath, May had deadbolted his curfew hours after being recklessly late at the diner to assist her with dish-washing duties, tangoing with a roguish sharpie pegged him like a smack-dab fugitive, he couldn't discard her lockdown rules. "I only leave my room for school..." he returned, shakily, as Bucky edgily quirked his shapely-bow lips into a tenser smirk, he detected a nostalgic callback of dredged-up revulsion of being a trade-off foster kid within a charitable home. "I gotta follow May's rules, I owe her everything..."

"And you'll want to pay her back to one day, don't you?" Bucky replied tactfully, his instinct to lead, to con, was about as natural to him as breathing after doing it for so many years. While he understood and applauded the youth's commitment towards his aunt, he also knew that he had potential. Potential to be more than just a guy tinkering with electronics and helping to wash dishes. If there was anything Bucky lamented it was wasted potential. Peter wasn't just a talented kid, Bucky saw something familiar in him that could, potential, be very useful to him in the long run. That dark sinister thought cause a guilty feeling to fester inside of him he forced himself to ignore. The real world could be cruel and unyielding, and it wouldn't hurt for the kid to be prepared should he need to face it. "I get it kid, you got your Jango other there as a moving block to build towards your education. You want to support May the right way. Life doesn't always turn out fair no matter how many science projects you finish."

Hearing the raspier techiness fringing against Bucky's murmurous drawl, cautiously, Peter understood the mechanisms of hardcore survival without free gains of being a lucky-footed kid of Queens; he wasn't conditioned for perilous heists and reaching the bar of his limits. He needed Bucky to show him the ropes of knowing the angles of the job-forging inventive charades to deceptively play down the poor-boy card with open-pocketed marks. "Can you teach me everything, sir," he whispered, urgingly, gazing at Jango dozily curling into a tinier furball near a storm-trooper. "I don't wanna be like a mouse hiding from everything this city throws at me...I wanna be like you, a cat who can rub up to rich fellas without getting caught..."

Bucky chucked the empty box of candy towards the trash-bin next to Peter's desk and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He didn't like how close to home that comment felt and wondered, for once, if the kid knew more about him than he let on. "Trust me kid…you don't want to be like me. Not really. I can teach you the ins and outs of this playground we call New York City. The first gig was just a taste of the game, but there will come a point where you need to learn to hunt on your own. And when that time comes, you're gonna want to be bigger than a cat. You're gonna want to learn to weave your own spider-web and get everyone to crawl into it not knowing where they're being played into."

He could see the puzzled but thoughtful look on the youth's face as he listened, hanging onto his word and not dismissing them with a wave of overconfidence. A good sign, and it made Bucky hopeful that what he had planned next could go along smoothly. Before their conversation could continue to dive deeper, they both flinched as they heard the front door open and May's voice calling out.

"Hey, Peter do mind giving me a hand with this..." Gripping onto a heftier cloth Whole Foods bag that was loaded with assortments of pasta, bread and, tomato sauce, as her eyeglasses slipped over her delicate nose, grumblingly May clenched her teeth against her key-chain as she pushed the door with her booted foot. "If you have a study buddy with you, I completely won't bother you, but just come out and help me with these bags..."

Peter looked about as pale as a ghost, fearful of anticipation of his aunt walking in and seeing him cooking up a scheme with Mister Barnes who she cautioned him to be wary of. "Uh-B-Be right out, M-May!" He called out as he leapt to his feet.

Bucky had done the same as he gave the teen a look of understanding. "Guess our chat will have to finish up later," he said as he began to climb out the window and onto the fire-escape. "If you're serious about taking the next step, meet me on the roof-top of the Bugle tonight at 10pm. Don't be late, or the window of opportunity closes."

"Wait..." Against that heart-racking moment of unhampered agility, felinely, Bucky pounced off the fire-escape latter with the acrobatic-honed graces of a skateboarding maverick, unerringly landing onto his clunkier boots over a dumpster as he slipped off with cat-like momentum, and swaggeringly disappeared into frostier mistiness. "H-He's gotta be a vampire..." Peter hitched out, tremorously, glancing over his shoulder at Jango who distressingly scurried into a discard heap of his unwashed clothes. "Yeah...No more home visits from that guy..."

Once he was clear of the apartment building, Bucky leaned against the brick-wall of an alley, his long locks were a dreary mess across his brow. The struggle from within manifested two fold as he fought against the rampant feline instincts that were still keen inside of him, along with his own human instinct to manipulate and deceive. In his hands he held the USB drive containing the information he'd been able to download from Fisk's personal laptop. It held information that Clea wanted, access to the Kingpin's vault of dark secrets that she would use for extracting his wealth. It was a building block, not different like Parker's hamster, that would help him reach his goal. If he played his cards right, he could be free of Clea, free of this curse. But it would mean sacrificing someone to her in exchange.

The guilt in Bucky's chest clutched tighter as he closed his fingers around the drive. He had to see it through. He just had to.

Braced against the scoffed wood of a streetlight pole at the 110th street gridlock, edgily, with stiff-footed poise, Bucky scrunched his Romaniansque nose twichily with a vexatious rapt as his grayish-aqueous ireses were unwaveringly fixed on the crosswalk sign to flash the -walking man- signal. Adjusting the curvier brim of his black Dodger's baseball cap over his tenser brow, his gloved fingers brushed against his roguish chestnut tresses disheveledly feathering the razored-cut heaviness of his scuffier jaw, contrasting the sleekier coolness of his leathered motorcycle jacket that fittingly emphasized the athletic bulkiness of his graven-corded solidity underneath. Emitting a grumblier breath, he registered onrushes of his feline-honed vigilance that clashingly surged within his veins as the needle-like prick of his lengthening fingernails pierced through his gloves on morphic sync. "C'mon...Damnit...Mrroww." he gnashed his incisors on exhaustive strain, rampantly detecting a telekinetic infusion of Clea's witchery possessing him soul-deep-the Baset pendant was a socerous conductor that damningly bonded him to his mistress's virulent-infectious will. "Argha...Gotta rip off that necklace..."

The cool drizzle of raindrops was a calming sensation despite the internal struggle waging within. Both physically and mentally. The game he was playing was more daring than any con-job he'd undertaken in recent years. It could spell disaster not just for him he knew. But as he watched the people of NYC move up and down the streets he both envied and pitied them. Envied their freedom that meant they weren't shackled to the whims of an evil witch and pitied their mundane lives that offered little to no excitement or reward.

Releasing a long shuddering sigh he was soon ready to turn away and find another spot to wait when a familiar she caught his eyes. His heart nearly stopped in his chest when he saw a head of blonde hair and a scruffy beard belonging to the only person in life that made him wish he was just his older self.

"Steve…" his best friend wasn't alone as he smiled and held the waist of his redheaded spouse as they walked through the park, representing a picture-perfect example of a happily married couple.

Staving off vestigial onrushes of unwarranted heartache that anguishedly racked through his veins, grumblingly, Bucky swiped his gloved fingers over the bristly scruffiness of the knife-edge angularity of his broader jaw as straying wetness errantly trekked against the coolness of droplets; he wouldn't allow himself to falter against the grevious cheapshots that he couldn't dodge. Being tragically leashed into morphic throes like a damn hostage for ten years had ultimately become an inescapable reality. The vulturous-witchy siren had amputated him from Steve's reach as if he had fallen off a high-accelerating train into a chasmic-hellish abyss. Despite that, he craved to daringly race back to his best friend's side-he was a Brooklyn stray who deserved no harbour point-a validation of openhanded forgiveness that would cement his inseparable brotherly dynamic-he needed to be a ghost of memory. With his stealthier prowess, hastily, Bucky shifted his reluctant traction away from the crosswalk as he mistily gazed at Steve lovingly ushering the fiery ballerina instructor onto the scenic grounds of Central Park. "I-I'll see ya around, punk..."

He and his old friend were like family, like brothers in fact. But they were worlds apart, and Bucky knew that he walked away from that old life not just to save Steve's life but to keep him free of the shackles Clea had put on him. There was no going back unless the wicked witch let him go. So he did what he always did when facing this precarious mental battle, he focused on work. The moment he looked away from Steve, Bucky let his gaze wander towards the streets where pedestrians continued to move up and down each crosswalk. A small shape caught his eyes, furry and dainty with dark fur. A stray. Bucky felt the rising grip of his feline instincts take hold and he couldn't control the hiss that escaped him.

"D-Damn it," he cursed once he realized what he was doing. He'd taken several steps forward without even realizing it to pursue the stray. The cat had ran off into the alley out of sight, and once it had, Bucky fought to regain control as heat enveloped his body. He pulled his hood down, letting the rain drops tatter against his brow, alleviating him with a soothing memory of cool lips and platinum white locks. A very human reminder that came with a freshly instilled desire he experienced just this morning. He shivered, recollecting the onrush of excitement and burning want that came with the touch of Felicia's full lips against his own.

Not for the first time today, he wondered what she was doing. Had she pieced together the truth surrounding the disappearance of her godfather's cat "Blackjack" or was she now dealing with the repercussions of losing the Kingpin's treasured pet? He felt fresh guilt move through him and he shrugged, wondering why he cared so much about a woman he just met. He'd conned women by the dozen over the years, why should Felicia be any different?

'Because she is…' a voice in his head spoke. He grunted as he looked at his phone, it was getting later and he needed to start preparing for what came next.

"Well, guess it's time..." Against his chagrined reluctance that implosively tempoed within his extremities, swaggeringly, Bucky edged his feverent-menace-bounded paces over the grimier sidewalk, evading the congested-disruptive throngs of Wall-Street vultures-tycoons who maddeningly gripped onto their Gucci briefcases on synchronized accord near a Starbucks to hinge down their insuppressible caffeine fix against the daily grind of the stockroom. "Yeah, that's gotta be hard..." he drawled with snarkier pitch, murmurously, staunching the dodgy impulse to sneakily pocket a wallet as the brewed potency of 'dark roast' temptingly beckoned him like a headier anesthetic. "Grah...Need coffee..."

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winterwolvesandstarbucks · 1 year ago