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ladyreapermc · 5 years ago

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Fic: Closer (August x Reader)

Author’s notes: so this is both my entry for Steph’s birthday writing challenge AND her second birthday present. She gave me: August - fuck or die situation. My brain came up with the rest and the lovely @meetmeinthematinee was my beta. So @toomanystoriessolittletime I hope you enjoy this filth as much as I enjoyed the one you wrote for my birthday!

Summary: you and August go undercover to dig information on a Donaka Mark, but get caught and end up in a very unsual situation.

Pairing: August/Reader; Donaka

Wordcount: 5k

Warnings: suggestion of violence and electric shocks; smut (unprotected sex; oral (male receiving); fingering; penetration; voyeurism and exhibitionism; power play; degradation; squirting; overstimulation; choking; tiny bit of breeding kink). Yes, I did go wall out with this one. I think it broke my smut brain. LOL. Now, I tried to make sure the consent was very very explicit, but the fuck or die situation is dub-con-ish, so be warned.

It was the pounding of your head that woke you up, the headache so intense that it pulled you from unconsciousness almost like a flick of a switch but your vision was blurry, and your focus was slippery. All you could process at first was the bright morning light bleeding through the wide window panels and the softness of the bed beneath you. The sheets silky soft and smelling of fresh laundry.

“You’re awake, good.” His voice was low and gravelly, surprisingly soothing but a far cry from August’s smooth baritone so you shot to a sitting position, forcing your senses to apprehend your surroundings despite the throbbing in your head.

Sitting in an armchair only a step away from the bed was Donaka Mark, sharply dressed in dark trousers and a dark dress shirt, the first two buttons undone. His sharp brown eyes watched you with unsettling interest and suddenly your mind was flooded by the memories of the night before.

You and August were supposed to infiltrate Donaka’s illegal fight club. CIA and Interpol weren’t all that worried about the fighting itself, but there was evidence that Mark might be financing a few militias in the Middle East and providing some other unsavory services through the Silk Road. You had been the intelligence agent that picked up Donaka’s trail and Sloane had agreed that it would be a good idea for you to join August in this undercover mission. Donaka might have promising information that could aid US troops in Iraq, and it wasn’t as if August would know what to look for or even how to breach Mark’s files.

Something went wrong though. Maybe someone leaked information about the operation because before you could even try to sneak out to check the servers, Mark’s security team caught up with you and August and the last thing you remembered clearly was August trying to fight them off while you got knocked out by a prick of a needle on the back of your neck. Now here you were, apparently the morning after, still in your satin red dress, mostly likely in Donaka’s compound God knows where faced with the man himself.

You had seen pictures of him before. He was, for all intents and purposes, a real businessman in the entertainment business. You knew he was of Chinese heritage, born of a Chinese father and British mother, but grew up in the US, where he made his fortune. He was a handsome man, but there was an air about him. A certain frost in his demeanor, but mostly in his eyes that sent chills down your spine.

The way his brown gaze pinned you down, tracking your every move made you feel like prey being stalked by a dangerous predator and despite any logical reasoning, there was a throb in your center that made you deeply embarrassed.

“How’s your head?” he asked, voice perfectly pleasant, movements deliberately slow as he reached for the bedside table and picked up a glass and round pill waiting there, offering them to you. “The sedative I use tend to have some undesirable side effects.”

You didn’t reply but took the aspirin, swallowing down with the water before returning the glass to him, following his movements as he set it aside and returned to his seat, his gaze settling on you once again.

“Where’s August?” you had to force your throat to work, terror clutching your gut, especially with the smirk that surged on Donaka’s face.

“He’s somewhere here,” he gestured vaguely, and you followed the direction of his fingers towards the door.

It was ajar and for a second you wondered if you could make to it before Donaka caught you but as you shifted on the bed, your limbs seemed to be made of concrete so you very much doubted it.

“Would you like to see him?” Donaka offered in that same placid tone. You decided you hated it, still, you nodded. “I’ll take you to him, but first…” he indicated another door that stood just a couple feet away from the exit. “I’d like you to change.”

You hesitated, but did you really have a choice? Donaka might be alone with you here but he was twice your size and an apt fighter according to his file. Even if you somehow managed to take him down, he would have security around the compound and you had no idea how big it was or where August might be. Best to play along.

With slow, careful steps you walked into the bathroom, finding a pale pink lace nightgown hanging behind the door. The fabric soft and silky but completely see-through. It fitted your body perfectly, like a second skin and as you stood in front of the mirror looking at yourself, a flush rushed to your cheeks. You could see the smooth skin of your belly and the shadows of your panties beneath it.

You wondered why Donaka wanted you to wear this. Was it another form of humiliation, to make you parade around in sexy lingerie like a kept pet that he could display to the world? Well, you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing your shame. With your chin held high, you stepped out of the bathroom and he looked up from his phone to glance at you, his smirk widening at the sight of you.

“Beautiful,” he moved into your personal space and his size made you swallow thickly as you had to tilt your head up to keep your gaze at him. “So, so beautiful. Turn around.”

You hesitated, of course, every inch of you opposed to giving your back to this predator but once again you knew you had no choice so you complied with his order and nearly jumped when he touched you, his calloused digits a strange contrast against the softness of the nightgown. His fingers traced a path from your shoulder to your nape, before he gathered your hair and with dexterous fingers, Donaka braided it tightly, letting the tip fall at your back.

“And for the final touch…” you heard his shift and the rustling of fabric before you were startled by the cold silver surrounding your neck and clicking close at your nape. “Now you’re perfect.”

Donaka guided you to a mirror and you swallowed the lump of desire in your throat. There you stood in flimsy lingerie, a choker of diamonds around your neck, his large hands resting on your shoulders, warm and surprisingly pleasant. You looked hauntingly beautiful and you hated it.

“Come.”

He offered you a hand and this time you didn’t even bother hesitating. Letting him guide you through the long halls of his villa, down a few stairs until you two reached an underground floor. The walls were made of bare concrete and the air was cold and damp, raising goosebumps on your bare arms.

Down here you saw some of Donaka’s men stationed around and you could see exactly who they thought it was the real threat between you and August and you couldn’t say you didn’t agree.

At a nod of his head, one of the men pushed a door open and Donaka waited for you to step in first before he followed, the heavy metal plank clicking closed behind him, surrounding you with darkness, the damp stench here was heavier and while your eyes adjusted, the only thing you could really see was shadowy shapes.

Bright light inundated the room suddenly and your ears caught a soft wince. For the first time, you realized that slumped form in the center of the room was August, battered and bruised, hands and legs tied behind his back, breathing ragged, cuts and wounds dotting his face; dry blood caking his hair, mustache, and stubble.

You whispered his name softly, falling to your knees to reach for him, but at the first touch of your hands he growled like a rabid animal and you pulled away startled.

“I’m afraid he put up a bit of a fight, unfortunately,” Donaka spoke from somewhere behind you, but you ignored him, too focused on the man in front of you.

“August…” you called again, inching carefully letting him see your hands until you rested it against his cheek and he let you, his blue eyes trailed on you as if he was finally processing who you were. “It’s ok, you’re ok.”

Slowly he edged closer towards you, letting you cradle his head in your lap as you brushed the hair away from his face and tried to assess the damage. August was in bad shape but nothing seemed to be particularly fatal, thankfully.

“May I have some water for him?” you asked, finally looking over at Donaka, surprised to see he was sitting on a chair watching you and August. “Please?”

There was a moment of silence and then the door opened again, another one of his men stepped inside with a bottle of water and set by your foot before leaving again. You unscrewed the cap, bringing it to August lips and helping him to drink slow sips. You had no idea how long he was down here. Probably as long as you were in that room.

“You truly care for him, don’t you?” Donaka spoke and that flush raised to your cheeks again, heating your chest and neck. “Don’t bother to deny it. I see it in your eyes. Are you in love with him?”

You looked down at the man below you that seemed to be a little more awake now, his gaze steadier and less hazy as he took in his surroundings and you. Even in this terrible state, August was beautiful and your heart thundered in your ribcage. How could you answer without compromising yourself or August?

“Does he love you?” Donaka asked and you didn’t even realize he moved until he crouched to enter your line of sight. “I mean, you know what he is, don’t you?”

Biting your lip, your attention shifted to the man on the ground again. You knew some things, having read his file. Most of it was blacked out so you knew it was bad. There was a reason he was called The Hammer after all. You knew how Sloane liked to operate. You knew that you sent in this mission to collect the data while August was sent to eliminate the threat.

“They say the prettiest faces hide the worst monsters,” Donaka ran a finger from August’s temple to his jaw and you could see the way the agent tensed under the touch. “And he sure is beautiful.”

A bright flick of metal appeared in Donaka’s hand and it took you a second to realize it was a blade. Your heart stopped for just a second as he traced the tip over August shoulder, but with a quick motion he cut off the ropes bounding his hands and legs. Just as fast as the blade appeared, it vanished and August was free. In a flash, August was on his feet, crowding Donaka against the wall of the bunker, one thick forearm pressed against the older man’s throat and the knife in his hand.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Donaka warned, seemingly completely unaffected by the threat of the blade.

“Why not?” August growled.

You screamed as sharp, electrical bolt ran through your spine, blinding you to everything around you. Good thing you were already kneeling because the shards of pain raking your body would have made you fall gracelessly. Your body was overtaken by seizures and you shook on the ground like a fish out of the water.

As suddenly as it started, the shock receded, leaving you gasping and sobbing, tears hot on your cheek; blood metallic on your tongue; muscles as if made of jelly, completely unresponsive. You could only look at August’s stunned expression and Donaka’s cold amusement.

“That was level one, and that pretty collar goes to eleven. Want to see what two looks like?” You tensed in fear, curling into a ball like a little mouse waiting for their punishment.

“No!” August shouted, letting go of Donaka and through your glassy eyes you could see the fury in his cold blue ones. “What the fuck do you want?”

“I guess he does care about you, sweetheart,” Donaka said, his smirk widening, and you could only whimper in response.

“She’s nothing,” August hissed, and his words felt like acid in your ears, making you curl into yourself even more. “She knows nothing. Let her go.”

“That I believe,” Donaka replied, and you could feel the heaviness of his stare on you. “That she knows nothing about your extracurricular activities. That she’s nothing…”

Donaka clicked his tongue and his shadow fell over you, his strong hands forcing your muscles to uncurl until you were sitting up, his hand wrapped around your neck, holding your chin up so you could look at August.

“You like her,” he whispered, lips brushing against your temple and you could see August’s jaw clenching. “You like her naivety and purity. You crave her innocence. We’re not too different, Agent Walker.”

“What. Do. You. Want?” August asked through clenched teeth and Donaka stood and moved away from you. You didn’t turn to look, but you heard the scrape of metal against concrete and knew he must have taken a seat again.

“What I always want. I want to watch.”

There was a long pause and this time, you dared to look over your shoulder and there was Donaka on the metal chair, legs spread apart, and you could see the volume in his trousers. It made you swallow and blush, looking back at August.

“You’re going to ruin her and I’m going to watch.”

The silence was heavy in the room. Enough that you could hear the drumming of your heart and August’s deep exhale he contemplated your captor. For a moment, you wondered what Donaka meant by ruin but all it took was a quick look at yourself and you knew.

The worst thing was that you wanted it. A little dark seed had settled itself deep in your heart and mind the first time you saw August. The first time you contemplated those solid muscles and the menace that he exhaled.

You were always attracted to violence, that much you knew – but August was something else. Something primal and dark and every time you let your thoughts turn to that, you felt your body igniting with that forbidden desire that you usually kept completely hidden.

Against your better judgment, you let your gaze settle on August and you saw the darkness in his eyes but also the blaze of want as he contemplated you, taking in for the first time your flimsy attire and you could see it affected him, just like Donaka expected.

“It’s ok,” you whispered getting up. Your limbs still felt unsteady as you moved closer to him, your hands resting against his chest, feeling the slow and controlled beat of his heart as you gazed up at August through your lashes. “I want this.”

Those words seemed to snap the last shred of control in him because he caught you by the nape and smashed his lips against yours. The kiss was brutal, all tongue and teeth, and your knees nearly gave out from the heaviness of your desire, the coiling tendrils of your pleasure making your core throb and your panties soaked.

His other hand found its way to your thigh and ass beneath the nightgown, kneading and massaging the supple flesh, pulling you tighter against his chest and you could feel his rock hard erection against your belly, making the heat inside you increase.

You had caught glimpses of August in his underwear back at the hotel. You knew he was massive and you wanted him. You wanted him inside your mouth and inside your cunt, spearing you open in the most savage of ways.

The last rational part of you might have taken notice that you were not alone, that Donaka was still lurking behind you but that thought just made the want in your gut increase. You wanted him to see August taking you. The animalistic part of you even wanted him to take you too.

“August…” you whimpered softly and was surprised by a slap across your face. Why that made desire throb inside you even more you didn’t know, but your whimper turned into a wanton moan.

“Sir or master, girl!” August hissed and you nodded obediently, bottom lip caught between your teeth. “Know who owns you.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“That’s better.” He gripped your jaw, his hold like iron as he looked at you with a glare. “You look like such a good girl on the outside but you’re nothing but a dirty little slut. I bet right now you’re dripping, wanting my cock, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” you mumbled as best as you could as he kicked your legs apart, cupping your sex and you jolted, excited and ashamed because he could feel the dampness of your panties, his fingers rubbing you roughly against the lace, making your head spin with the overwhelming sensations.

“You think he can smell you from all the way across the room?” August asked, releasing your jaw and spinning around to face Donaka, his lips against your ear, one hand down your panties the other alternating between squeezing your breasts and pinching your nipples. “Are you this soaked because you know he’s watching?”

Your answer was a pathetic little whine as you caught Donaka’s dark stare, his large palm cupping his erection through his trousers. August forced you to walk forward until you were standing right in front of the other man, close enough to touch but Donaka made no motion to reach for you, just inhaled sharply.

“She smells sweet,” he said, his voice lower, sultry, and sending shivers down your spine. “Like ripe cherries.”

August hummed in reply, one finger dipping into your panties and running up your folds as if he was gathering the nectar of a honeycomb and you gasped at the overwhelming tingling of your swollen clit. He brought his glistening finger to his mouth, sucking it in like it was the most delectable delicacy he ever tasted and you had to press your legs together against the quivering of your cunt, clamoring to be taken.

“You taste so good, pet,” August huskily whispered against your ear.

His hand returning to your core while the other exposed your breasts, the sound of the ripping lace loud in the quietness of the room, punctuated by your breathy moans, August low grunts as you rubbed your ass against the volume in his pants and Donaka’s soft hums of appreciation.

In seconds August had you listening to nothing but the sound of blood rushing through your ears as his fingers worked faster and faster against your clit, sending wave after wave of pleasure starting at your center. They spread through your entire body and it only got even more intense when he pushed two fingers inside you, crooked like a hook and rubbing that perfect spot over and over as he fucked you, making you whimper and shake as if your insides were being completely consumed by pleasure.

“Sir, I’m gonna…” you hiccupped, tears in your eyes, and that only made August chuckle and redouble his effort, his thrusts so hard now you felt his knuckles hitting your pelvic bone uncomfortably but you couldn’t care less.

Your entire body tensed and arched as the coiling knot snapped and your cries reverberated through the bare walls of the bunker as your cunt fluttered and you gushed warm, clear liquid all over August’s hand. He laughed against your bright red cheeks.

“Bad girl…” he tsked, pulling his soaked hand away from your cunt and panties. “You got me all wet.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” you mumbled, eyes on the ground and nearly jumped when August shoved his wet fingers in your mouth, making you taste yourself and it was enough of your core to throb and pulse once again, apparently yearning for more.

You swirled your tongue and sucked his fingers, cleaning every drop of your juices from his skin; picturing something else instead of those thick digits. Picturing the hard edge that was pressed against your ass, hot and pulsing.

“On your knees,” August ordered, pulling his fingers away and you didn’t have to be told twice, hands eagerly going to his waistband and you noticed that his belt was gone. Pity, it would have been nice if he could tie you up with it. Or even spank your ass with it, leaving bright red welts on the soft skin of your ass.

You made quick work of his buttons, pulling the pants down along with his underwear, releasing his long and thick, glorious cock. Just the sight of it had your mouth watering. You desperately wanted it; to feel it filling you and coating your tongue with his cum. Stroking the back of your throat, making you choke and cry.

Before you could reach for it, August took a hold of your braid, holding your head still and away from him. He smirked at your hitching whines as you looked up at him with a pout while he kicked his pants to the side and started to undo the buttons of his shirt, letting go of you only long enough to shrug off the fabric.

Now he stood before you completely naked. A work of art by God or something more devious because his thick thighs and solid torso, along with the sculptured chest and chiseled features could only speak of temptation of the darkest kind.

“Sir, please,” you begged, crawling forward, your knees wet from your previous release, your cunt still dripping. “Let me taste you.”

“Dirty little cock slut,” August whispered, hand twisting around your braid until it was wrapped around his palm tight enough to make your scalp burn, while he stroked himself until his tip was glittering with his precum.

“Please.”

He took a step forward, so close you could smell his sex, musky and heady and it only made you want him more. You licked your lips and watched him through your lashes, waiting for authorization. You were a good little girl, you took what your sir gave you. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Finally, August let the tip of his cock rub against your lips, coating them with his essence and you traced and gathered every drop with your tongue eager for more, until he pushed the head past your lips, invading your mouth with a hard thrust that had you gagging almost immediately.

“Is this what you want, slut?” August growled, fucking you hard and fast, holding your head still as he took what he wanted from you, making you choke and sputter, tears leaking from your eyes, spit running down your chin as he brought you nearly to his pubic hair, holding you there as your throat worked around his head before pulling back and finally allowing you to breath.

You watched him through tearful eyes but August wasn’t looking at you. His gaze was on the man behind you and you wondered what Donaka was doing. Was he touching himself? He did say he wanted to watch August ruin you and here you were, being completely wrecked by the man in question. As he took every inch of pleasure from your mouth, you could feel the gathering waves at your center again, preparing for a new tide.

Another pathetic little whine escaped you when August pulled away from your mouth, allowing you to breathe fully and finally looking down at you as he rubbed your spit over his length, his eyes a dark pool of something that almost made you afraid.

He tugged you to your feet again. His lips were bruising and biting against your swollen mouth, his tongue unrelenting as if he was chasing his own taste. The reprieve to your raw knees was short-lived because August was pushing you down again but this time he followed, maneuvering your body until you were on all fours, spine low, ass up looking at Donaka as August knelt behind you.

You held your breath in expectation watching those haunting eyes, like a bottomless pool of darkness taking you in, the bulge in his pants evident but he didn’t make any motion to take care of it and you would admire his self-control if your mind wasn’t pulled away from that and shifted back to the way August yanked your panties down and rubbed his cock against your folds teasingly, the tiny sparks of pleasure barely enough to soothe the burning volcano of want deep inside you.

“Sir, please fuck me. I need to feel you inside me.”

The words were out before you even registered them but they were obviously the right thing to say because you felt the first press of his cock against your slit, stretching it almost painfully and you gasped and moaned, wanting to rock back but August kept you still with an iron grip on your hips, painting bruises on your skin as he pushed inch by agonizingly slow inch, filling you up like never before.

You could feel every single vein and ridge of his cock. The pulsing and twitching of his length filled you to the brim and the sensation was impossible to describe. A sort of completion that you had never experienced in your life and that would only be made more perfect when August finally decided to move.

It was like he could read your mind because he started to rock his hips in tiny little thrusts at first, the friction driving you insane with wanting and all you could do was chant more and harder and faster, please now, you need it so bad. August chuckled against your ear, his body covering yours as he ground his hips.

“You want more?” he grunted, licking the sweat dripping down your temple and wrapping the braid around his hand again, pulling your head. “You want me to use that pretty hole so he can watch?”

“Yes, please,” you whimpered almost hypnotized by the intense gaze that locked you in place as August’s thrusts started to gain speed and strength, rocking your body forward with its force and reducing you to a moaning mess. “Oh yes, sir. Just like that, please.”

Any rational part left of your brain was completely turned off by the primal call of desire. Your entire body was alight with pleasure like your nerve-ends were little fireworks just waiting to be kindled. From your mouth spilled the most obscene sounds. Moans and hitching little gasps and cries, as fresh tears blurred your vision.

Could you cry from feeling so good? So perfectly completed and raised to the heavens almost in a trance-like state of rapture? You didn’t know and you honestly didn’t care. The only thing that mattered to you was the growing pleasure in your core, threatening to spill and overtake you completely.

It seemed to swallow you whole, especially when August started to rub your clit in time with his thrusts, his grunts and groans becoming louder and louder as the lewd words poured out of his mouth.

“Such a delicious cunt. Holding me tight. Pulling me deep. Trying to milk me dry. Do you want me to fill you up with my cum, huh?” he asked, his sharp thrusts hitting your cervix and making you cry out. “Paint your pussy with my seed, maybe even put a piece of me in there? Does my pretty little whore want me to put a fucking baby in you?”

“Yes, yes, yes, please, sir!” you whined, beyond coherence now, already submerged in the midst of your second world-shattering orgasm. August could be asking you to set the world on fire and you would gladly agree so as long as he kept fucking you.

Just. Like. That.

“I want everything. Please.”

The hand on your hair let go only enough for August press a hand in the middle of your back, pushing you face down on the concrete, your cheek pressed against the damp floor and your ass raising higher, changing the angles and now he was hitting your sweet spot with every violent ram of his cock. The second wave of pleasure didn’t even have time to subside for the third one to crash around you.

Now you were sobbing, the ecstasy and bliss becoming too much to your oversensitive sex, especially as August kept rubbing your clit, pressing harder and harder, making a new flow of liquid to gush and soak down your legs.

It was deliriously good, but also almost like torture, your walls clenching and quivering. If trying to hold his cock in or push it out you didn’t know, but it didn’t deter August from his salvage thrusts that were slowly losing their rhythm, but going deeper and harder, pushing you forward and scraping your cheek as much as your knees.

You were crying now, pain mixing with pleasure, your thighs quaking, tired of keeping you up. Your lower back hurt from the awkward angle, your knees cut to ribbons by the rough ground. Your cunt ached from the constant slam of his pelvic bone against your swollen flesh and all you wanted was to let go and sleep.

August’s tug on your braid made you scream and you forced your torso up to preserve your neck. You were looking at Donaka once again as August gave his final thrust, burying himself to the hilt and letting out a loud growl as he spilled inside you and you nearly sobbed because it was finally over and you could finally rest.

When you August finally pulled out of you, your limbs gave out completely and you fell in an awkward heap on the ground, too exhausted and sore to move a muscle. Your mind felt untethered and floating, unable to register the words being exchanged by the two men.

All you wanted was to curl into a ball and forget everything and it was so easy to let the darkness snaking in the corners of your mind claim you. It whispered seductively at you, like the warm hug of a caring lover, the perfect contrast to the violent fucking you just endured.

Before you slipped away completely, you felt two strong arms surrounding you, picking you up from the cold, hard ground. Even your lashes felt like lead otherwise you would dare to force them open to see who was carrying you away.

“You did very well, pet,” a voice whispered, pressing a soft kiss against your forehead. “You might just survive this.”

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bonteris · 4 years ago

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hold on, i still want you.

redcrackle through the years through carmen’s eyes + the ending we deserved :)

The first time they meet, she’s still Black Sheep and he’s still Gray, and she nearly breaks his neck pulling him over the back of the chair he’s sitting on.

Coach Brunt is initiating the newest class of students, and for the first time, Black Sheep is among them. She’s a few years behind them, and already a head shorter than half the people in the room, so she opts to sit under the cover of darkness in the back and pretend she’s new like everyone else.

Then Coach Brunt announces that they’ll have to earn their codenames, and her gaze turns to Black Sheep. “Ain’t that right, Lambkins?”

Any hope of going unnoticed turns null as forty heads swivel in their seats and eighty eyes scrutinize her. Her insides turn to slush and she sinks deep into her seat.

“Lambkins?” the boy in front of her scoffs. “Who knew VILE had a mascot?”

Indignation moves Black Sheep’s arms for her, and before the kid can even try turning back around, she has her hands firmly planted on his shoulders. In the first second, she sees his eyes widen with surprise. In the next, his head is only a few inches above the floor and she’s glaring down at him.

“Only my friends call me ‘Lambkins’,” she snaps. “My code name’s Black Sheep. Do you understand? Nod if you understand.”

By the time she’s finished, he’s nodding vigorously, and she feels certain she’s established a healthy bit of dominance over the class. Coach Brunt laughs, moves on, and she forgets about the kid, whose name she still doesn't know. Why shouldn’t she? He’s just another reminder of how different she is to everyone here.

She’s settling into her dorm when she hears footsteps behind her. It’s the boy from earlier, sheepishly running a hand through his muted brown hair. He holds out a hand, wincing. Out of the dark initiation hall, she can see he has two dimples that widen when he smiles. Now they seem to burrow into his cheeks. “Uh, Black Sheep, was it? The name’s Graham.”

She studies him, wondering if this is another joke. But any response she might make is cut off by another girl—Sheena, she thinks her name is?—standing by her dolls. “This where you hide your pearls, little girl?”

Black Sheep instantly stiffens. “Please don’t touch my stuff,” she says, careful to keep her voice calm but firm. Her hand curls into a fist involuntarily, but she can’t help it. She doesn’t let anyone near the nesting dolls that came with her to VILE. Anger pricks at her fingers, daring her to throw the first punch.

“What, these?” Sheena replies innocently. Her hand lingers dangerously close to the dolls now, and she knows it.

“I said,” Black Sheep starts, voice low, “keep your paws off.”

The blonde’s smile deepens, eyebrows slanting with the glee of someone who knows they’ve got leverage. Black Sheep readies her stance. She’s better than half the class already; she can take her easily.

Surprisingly, it’s Gray who cuts in, subtly pushing Black Sheep behind him. For a second she wants to barge forward, but then she realizes: he’s placating Sheena, distracting her from Black Sheep’s obvious aggression. “Play nice, princess,” he says, and though his voice is cheerful, the warning is clear. “We all have to room together.”

Sheena mutters something and walks away, but Black Sheep watches Gray. As if he can sense her, he turns, smiling, and flashes her a wink that says, Friends?

Black Sheep smiles back. Friends.

Over the next few months, she and Gray become inseparable. He’s there when they start their first classes together, and he’s there when she aces all of them. He’s there when introduces him to her monthly pranks on Cookie Booker and drags along the others to join them, and he’s there when they get caught. She’s there to see him reinvent himself in Crackle, and she’s there when he passes… without her.

And then, suddenly, he’s gone.

Black Sheep spends most of her time alone now, and she hates every second of it. She hates Shadowsan for failing her, because she knows, she knows, she knows that coat was empty. Tigress isn’t better than her. No one is.

So she follows them. Leaves the globe she grew up with under her pillow in place of her head, yanks the sewage door from its hinges and stows away in the helicopter’s closet. They’re not going to see the world and leave her behind to be failed by Shadowsan, again. He doesn’t get to do what she can’t.

She likes the surprise on his face when he sees her barrelling towards him out of the shadows. It glints brighter than the stars around them as they go sprawling over the side of the helicopter and down towards the ground below.

“Black Sheep?” he yells over the sound of the wind in their ears.

She clutches him tighter. “Don’t let go!”

It’s there, in the ruins at Morocco, that she realizes what stealing really means. It’s there she watches him raise his weapon and aim for an innocent man. It’s there she realizes what kind of person he is, what he’s willing to do.

But all she sees on his face is determination, and the knowing look that comes right before you’re surrounded, and then the Cleaners are behind her.

All of her former friends look angry. Le Cheve and El Topo’s faces are taut with annoyance. Tigress adjusts her now-broken scanner, glaring. But not him. No, Crackle—that’s who he is now—just looks sad. Pitying. She hates him for it.

I will never forgive you, she thinks as his face drags her down into the dark.

...

The second time they meet, she’s now Carmen Sandiego, and she’s just escaped the smarmy Interpol agent she left face down against his own car, still struggling to get up. The high that comes from outsmarting VILE is still following her, and she smiles as she opens the door to the cabin Player booked for her. “First class? Sweet.”

“My treat, Red,” he says through her earpiece. “You earned it.”

Carmen sets her bag down and takes out the black-fabric satchel inside, not wanting to break anything. She’s just about to open it and revel in her prize when she hears the doors slide open behind her.

“Well, well.” Carmen straightens at the familiar voice, turning.

Gray looks exactly as he did when she last saw him—give or take a few years. But the smirk he gives her is all boyish charm as he says, “Blast from the past, eh?”

He shoots the bag out of her hand and it falls to the floor. But Carmen refuses to let any emotion show; she won’t let him see how nervous that makes her. “Dude, seriously? Static cling?”

“Side effect of the directional EMP,” he responds smoothly. “So you can forget about reaching for your phone or fancy toys. They’re dead.”

Resentment shoots through her. “I know how an electromagnetic pulse works, Gray. You aren’t the only one who passed Dr. Bellum’s class.” The satisfaction she gets from seeing his jaw work when she calls him Gray is fleeting, but she keeps it close as she sits, gesturing for him to do the same.

“And you didn’t really think I’d take any of your bait without checking for a tracking device, did you, Gray?” The shock that comes over his face is completely real, and Carmen grins. “That’s right. I wanted you to find me.”

She doesn’t say any of the things she’s been dreaming about for years, such as (but not limited to) How could you almost kill someone? How could you think this is all a game? How could you be okay with hurting others?

How could you be okay with hurting me?

But if these last three years have taught her anything, it’s patience, so she lets him ask her questions, all the while gloating that he’s caught the elusive Carmen Sandiego. She winds him up, allowing him to think he’s won this round.

When she’s finished recounting where she’s been, his face softens. “We miss you, Black Sheep. VILE wants a truce.”

The way he won’t call her Carmen grates on her nerves. “They want me stealing for them, instead of from them,” she counters.

Unbothered, he taps the crackle rod absently. “You’ve proven yourself. It’s all you ever wanted, isn’t it?”

Isn’t it?

Maybe once, but not now. Not when she knows what stealing can do to others, what it can take. He still doesn’t see. Maybe he never will. Maybe all they’ll ever be is two people on two different sides of a war.

She leaves him wrapped in Cookie’s coat (it was high time she got one that didn’t stink of crime, anyways) and breaks the rod. The Interpol agent will come after her soon, so she might as well leave a mark.

Goodbye, Gray, she thinks as she watches the officer realize it’s not her underneath the hat. Then she disappears into the night, leaving the last of her connection to him behind.

...

The third time they meet, a few months have passed, and she’s in Sydney, scouting the Opera House that Dr. Bellum is supposed to be targeting. The intel Player has sent from the files she got him has been impeccable so far, but she has no idea what Bellum is planning tonight. Carmen feels blinded. Nervous.

“Nothing suspicious so far,” she tells Player under her breath, pushing back the plush crimson curtain so she can get a better view of the stage. “If a VILE operative’s here, they have yet to show their face.”

“You there!” someone yells. Carmen jerks to attention, lowering her opera glasses long enough to look up and see him. Gray.

“Scratch that,” she says automatically, surveying him. He’s in an electrician’s uniform, the kind someone working in an opera just like this would wear—some kind of disguise? A cover the faculty created?

Gray looks her up and down, mouth set in a hard line. “What are you doing back here?”

Carmen frowns. “You first.”

That seems to confuse him. She watches his face switch from shocked, to dumbstruck, then to angered until he finally says, “What? I’m working.”

“I know,” she deadpans. “‘Lights out, baby’? Come on, Gray. What job are you pulling tonight?”

The anger has bled from his face, but now he looks oddly… not-evil? She can’t place it. Her bewilderment only grows as he points to the name tag stitched to his uniform. “First, it’s Gray-ham, and second, since electricians don’t seem to intimidate you, I’ll be more than happy to have security escort you out.”

“Wait, what?” Carmen asks. “You don’t expect me to believe this innocent act, do you?”

He reaches forward and takes her arm, grip surprisingly strong for someone who relies so much on tech. Carmen is too surprised to do anything but be dragged along. “No wristband, no backstage access,” Gray informs her as they walk. “I don’t make the rules.”

She gives him an appraising look as they round a corner. “You really don’t remember me.”

It’s only half questioning, but he stops and examines her anyway, dimples amplified in the shadowed corridor. “Fashion statement aside, mate, you’d be hard to forget. If there is a next time, I promise not to make that mistake again.”

Flattery, she thinks, full of wonder. Or… flirting?

“Guess you just, uh, remind me of someone I used to know,” she lies weakly, but he seems to believe it.

They reach the door, and he says goodbye, and the door almost shuts, but she races through it as he walks away, head reeling. Le Chevre arrives, they fight (she wins) and all is well.

Except.

When she doesn’t see him exiting with everyone else, Carmen scours the famous Opera House’s grounds until she spots him in the distance. She lands her glider before he can notice it, but the moment her heels hit the ground he turns and smiles. “Hey, I remember you. Ol’ Red Sneakeroo.”

“Good memory,” she says lightly, trying not to think of how strange this all is. He doesn’t remember her. She remembers the best of him. They’re at an impasse, but he’s unaware. It’s odd, being the only one who knows the whole story. Carmen isn’t sure she likes it.

“Not really,” he sighs, and for a second he looks so impossibly sad she’s not sure what to say for once. Then it passes, and his eyes are back on hers. “So, looking to get backstage for an autograph?”

The corners of her mouth tug upwards. “No. To the outback for some sightseeing. Thought you could be my guide.”

“I wish,” he says regretfully, taking out a slip of paper to write something down. “Something fried the soundboard tonight. I have to pull an early morning shift to troubleshoot.”

Le Chevre, she thinks, annoyance lancing through her, but tamps it down. “You mentioned having a bad memory. Why is that?”

For the first time since they’ve spoken today, he falters. The pen slips in his hand. “Well, I—I kind of messed up on the job a while back, got a little ‘jolt’, as we sparkies say. Complete blackout, long hospital stay, blah, blah.” He laughs ruefully. “There’s more than an entire year of my life I can’t remember.”

“A whole year,” she marvels. That’s enough time for her to be gone. That’s enough time for VILE to be gone.

He’s still talking. “I’d say I’m lucky to have my job back, if ‘electrician’ weren’t such a dangerous occupation.”

“Oh, I can think of worse ones,” Carmen quips. He finishes writing and hands her the slip of paper. “Is this the address of an outback guide?”

“A good guide’s easy to find online. This is the address of my favorite café in Sydney. I’ll be there Friday night at 8 p.m. You?”

Carmen ignores the ache in her chest. She has him back. The Gray from before. Her Gray. “Let’s see if I make it back from my tour in one piece.” She starts walking away.

“Hey!” he calls from behind her. “I never got your name!”

“Carmen,” she replies without looking back.

That Friday, at 8 p.m. on the dot, she stands across the street from the café written on the paper he gave her. The ache that formed in her chest the night she left him standing on the Opera House’s steps has widened to a crack. She has so many questions. So many things she wants to say. How is it fair that she gets to know everything about him, and he doesn’t? Who did this?

Even as she thinks it, she knows the answer: VILE. Carmen hates them for ruining him, molding him into a killer that she cannot believe he is at heart. It’s not him, not really.

Across the street, Gray looks up, eyes lighting up when he sees her.

She can’t do this.

So when the bus drives by, she lets it take her, too.

“I can’t let VILE see me with him,” she explains to Player, once she’s a healthy distance away. Her hood is over her head and her hands are shoved deep in her pockets. Her voice wavers. “But not for my safety, for his.”

“What? Why?” Player asks, confused.

The reality hits her like a kick to the stomach. “For whatever strange reason, Gray has a fresh start now. And having Carmen Sandiego back in his life would… only complicate that.”

Carmen shuts her eyes against the cool night air and imagines she’s back at school for the first time since she left Gray on that train. I’m sorry, Gray, she thinks as she watches him get up from his seat at the table and leave.

...

The fourth time they meet, she comes to him, and it’s because she needs help. A caper involving dangerous EMP technology is worrying her, and he’s the best person she knows for the job. But the idea of dragging him back into all of this is scarier than facing off with Coach Brunt again.

It’s a perfect day, cool and sunny, and Gray sits sipping a cup of coffee as he reads a book. His eyes flick up as she approaches, and a small smile forms on his mouth. “You’re late.”

“Fashionably, I hope.” She takes the fact that he hasn’t thrown his coffee at her as a sign that it’s safe to sit. “I’m sorry I stood you up, Gray.”

He holds up a finger. “Um, it’s—”

“Graham,” she finishes, sighing. She has to get used to calling him that. “Right. Look, I was called away on business at the last minute.”

At that, he puts the book down and turns to her. “What kind of business?”

“I run an international charity for abandoned children,” Carmen says. The lie slips past her lips easily. “In fact, that’s the reason I came to see you today.”

“Oh?” He says, angling his head the way he does whenever his interest is piqued. It’s somehow both familiar and completely foreign on his face.

“I am sponsoring a big fundraiser in Auckland, New Zealand, this week. Selections from Swan Lake.”

His face shows the barest hint of recognition. “Tchaikovsky. I’ve lit a few Russian ballets at the old Sydney Opera House.”

Carmen leans back. “Fortunately for me, our lighting technician dropped out, and I’m hoping you can help.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “On one condition.” She waits, and he points a playful finger. “You have that cuppa with me afterwards.”

Carmen raises a brow in answer. “I’ll have the foundation book you a flight.”

Things go well—she has VILE’s agent trapped and gets through the grids easily, thanks to Gray’s help. For a moment, she even imagines it’s like old times, her taking the lead and him backing her up. “Player, I’m warm. How’s the ballet?”

Then she hears Player’s voice in her ear. “On indefinite intermission. Our lighting tech walked.”

“What?” she hisses, voice low despite being the only one in the room.

“Zach and Ivy are combing the grounds for him,” Player says.

“Find him,” she says. “I’m too close to turn back now.” And too close to save him if they realize he’s involved, she thinks, but leaves that part out.

She makes it to the EMP sphere, hands hovering over the control panel, when she hears a familiar voice.

“Carmen?” Gray asks, bewildered, at the same time Bellum yells, “Sandiego!”

She doesn’t wait to see what Bellum has planned. Carmen runs.

“What kind of concert hall is this?” says Gray as they round the corner, him keeping up easily.

“Experimental!”

They hit another corner and a gaggle of VILE guards—Neal included—look their way. But Carmen has Gray behind her before any of them can even see there’s a second person there, and she shoots forward.

Neal effortlessly sidesteps her punches, sliding out of reach the harder she tries to hit. Carmen rears back, foot swinging up, but he has a hold on her shoulders before her foot can hit its mark. She thinks he says something, but the words start to muddle together as he pushes her head farther than it should go. Her breathing turns ragged. Carmen sags—

And is released. Neal’s body crumples to the floor next to her, and she looks up to see Gray, holding a crackle rod in two hands.

Fear spikes through her, hot and bright. Does he remember?

Then his face contorts with disgust and he tosses the rod. “You… don’t run a children’s charity.”

She smiles. “I’ll explain over that coffee.”

Together, they sabotage Bellum’s sphere and step off the platform, Gray holding tight to Carmen, who ejects her glider. She has a sudden memory of her being the one holding tight as they fell, Gray’s eyes on hers as the ground rushed up to meet them.

Now, she hugs him tight to her as the glider loses altitude. At the last second, it retracts from her back, and they go sprawling, her head hitting the ground hard.

When she comes to, Carmen looks around, panicked, and sees him lying a few feet from her, completely silent. The woods loom around them, shielding them from VILE’s eyes, but Carmen forgets everything at the thought of him being hurt. “Gray? Gray?”

His eyes crack open. “It’s—Graham.”

She doesn’t think she’s ever been happier to hear him argue with her about something.

Later, they sit at the café he first mentioned, watching the opera house in the distance. Carmen likes the way the moon reflects off the water, a line of milky light that traces its way over the bay.

“Carmen, I have to know,” Gray confesses. “Are you a spy? Part of some kind of… secret service?”

She mulls over what to tell him for a moment. “I do provide a service, and it is secret, so… yeah, something like that.”

“But we are the good guys?” he asks cautiously.

The crack in her chest yawns open. There’s so much she wants to say. So much she wants to tell him. But would he listen? Would he care, if it turned that awful part of him back on, the part that nearly killed that man that night?

I will never forgive you.

“Absolutely,” she says, full of surety that she doesn’t feel.

Gray says something else, but she’s only half listening, and when he looks back, she’s gone. He laughs to himself, seemingly unbothered, but Carmen watches him get clear their table, wiping their meeting from the café’s memory.

I forgive you, she thinks, and though he wouldn’t understand, the crack in her chest closes over a little.

...

The fifth time they meet, she learns that he’s in Iceland from Player. He tells her the tab he’s kept on Gray was tipped off, and her heart does a little jump. It’s been so long since she last saw him. So long since they spoke. She misses the way his dimples deepen when he smiles, the way his head tilts to one side when he’s interested, no matter how hard he tries to hide it. But, still. Iceland. Player tells her he’s been arrested.

She tries working through what might have happened. That dangerous game of What If. What if VILE has found him? What if he’s reawoken some part of him… No. She won’t go there. Carmen refuses to hand him back to VILE, not when he’s been given a second chance.

When she gets there, it’s easy to remove him from their records, easy to read the file.

Easy to see he’s in jail because he robbed someone.

Her mouth tightens, but Carmen is too focused on getting him out, away, to do anything but continue on. Even when Devineaux arrives, oddly complacent considering the last time they spoke he was screaming at her as she ran away. (It seems that’s how most of their meetings go, nowadays.)

Gray sits in his cell, bent forward far enough that she can see the crease of his brows easily. He pinches his nose as if trying to remember something, and he almost looks like he’s going to cry.

Sharp as always, he hears her coming and looks up. “Carmen? How did you know I was here?”

I’m a spy, she thinks bitterly. And I can’t even keep you out of trouble. All I can do is watch.

What comes out instead is “All in good time, Gray. We need to get you out of there.”

She holds up the keys, dangling them for him to see, and he shakes his head fondly. “It’s Graham—” Then he cuts off, eyes widening. “Look out!”

It’s the cleaners. One’s hands snake around her arms to hold her in place, terribly familiar. She realizes that this—the cleaners knocking her out, Gray watching—is just a replay of that night in Morocco, and that thought forces her to bring her heel down, hard.

Instinct shoves the one holding her back, kicks the second in the chest. He spins back into the wall, and she raises her fists. She’s not losing this time. She refuses.

She staggers back and the room spins. Her hands close around the mop nearby and she levels it at the cleaners. She barely holds on to her consciousness as the world turns to a blur of red and grey. Carmen manages to fend them off, keeping her back to Gray, but before they can advance further, they get a call and retreat down the hall.

The mop clatters from her hand. “Carmen!” Gray pleads. “Are you okay? Do I know those guys? Who were they?”

“Guys who never leave before the job is done,” she says, voice paper-thin. She starts trying the locks, the sedative the cleaners gave her finally wearing off.

That’s when something cuts through the ceiling.

Gray scrambles back as a neon-green light slices through the stone. Carmen’s senses are still too slow, too slow, too slow, and Gray is stuck, and he’s yelling something that she can’t understand, and why aren’t these keys working?

The severed ceiling hits the ground with a thud, almost loud enough to conceal the metallic one that follows. But not loud enough.

The robot stands, surveying the scene before it with mechanical disinterest. Carmen’s hands move without her needing to think, flying over the lock as she tries key after key. Come on, Come on—

The robot takes Gray in one hand, ignoring his struggles. Carmen’s voice shakes, and she wonders if Gray understands why as she screams, “No!” She fires her cable towards him, but the robot catches it instantly, yanking her forward.

Pain explodes up Carmen’s arm. Nononononononono—

The cable is ripped from her hand, and Gray calls her name. There in one second, and then gone in the next.

Her voice is drowned out by the helicopter. I’m sorry, Gray, she thinks, but there’s only silence greeting her where he used to be.

...

The sixth time they meet, they’re in the Himalayas, at Bellum’s lab. She hates it here. Hates the way everything is so drained of life and color, so muted. Scrubbed of emotion. She sneaks past the robots, easily overtaking the guards, but her mind is elsewhere. Gray. What if he’s not the way she last saw him? What if he remembers? Worse, what if he doesn’t?

Carmen heaves against the door with all her might and it gives under the pressure. “Gray? We have to move.”

He doesn’t turn. “The name is—”

“Gray-ham,” she finishes, fondness bleeding into her voice against her better judgement. She’ll never get used to calling him that. “I know, I know.”

“No,” he says slowly, and stands. The click of a crackle rod being turned on registers in her mind, and Carmen’s confusion only deepens. Then she sees the look on his face, devoid of warmth, and dread starts to settle in her stomach. “It’s Crackle.”

Her mouth drops open, but she can’t bring herself to say anything. Didn’t she know this was coming? Didn’t she think over what she would say, hour after hour, because she knew at some point VILE might not want him to be so oblivious anymore?

She has no idea what to do.

“I assume you prefer I continue to call you ‘Carmen’?” he asks, raising the rod in her direction.

“Gray, no matter what they told you, you’re not that guy anymore,” she croaks.

His face, illuminated in the green light turns pitying. She remembers when he used to look like that. She remembers that night in Morocco, when the last thing she saw was his sad face before she was pulled into unconsciousness.

“But I am that guy,” Gray whispers, shaking his head. “I’ve always been that guy.”

Carmen can’t seem to make sense of this. Graham. Gray. Crackle. She’s losing him to VILE, and everything is muddy, and this is worse than Reykjavik because he’s choosing this, choosing them, and she can’t save him because he doesn’t want to, and—

“No,” Carmen says forcefully. “Sydney, the café, we’re the good guys, remember?”

He scoffs a little, but there’s no malice in it, just resignation. “When you finally had that cuppa with me.” Then his eyebrows furrow. “Being good only mattered to me because Bellum rewired my thinking, programmed me to be some sort of… innocent fool.”

“It’s never too late to change,” she insists.

He hasn’t lowered the rod, and somehow Carmen knows that he won’t hesitate to use it. “I’ve had time to reflect. Piece together the fragments. And there’s only one thing I’ve ever regretted doing for VILE.”

Carmen’s eyes flick from the rod to his. Suddenly, he powers it off.

“Trying to hurt you,” he whispers.

Her lip quivers, and she knows he sees it, because he continues before she can say anything in response. “I know you won’t come back to VILE. We’ve had that chat, on the train to Paris. But I’m begging you: give up trying to stop us, because I don’t ever want to be put in a position to hurt you again.”

The breath is gone from her lungs.

The hope is leeching from her.

She’s losing him.

Maybe he’s already lost.

“Then, apologies,” she says shortly, voice miraculously steady. “Because I won’t stop trying to take down VILE. Not ever.” Her hands tighten around the table. “And definitely not now.”

She holds up the fuse for him to see, and feels a terrible kind of satisfaction from seeing his eyes widen in realization as she presses it.

The bombs she set on her way in explode in a flurry of sparks and ash, and alarms start to ring before she’s even gotten up. Behind her, Gray pulls himself up, forward, face smeared with soot. Pain flashes across his face, but she doesn’t think it’s because of the rubble around him.

Despite the alarms ringing around them, when the words come out, they greet dead silence. “Goodbye, Gray.”

But all she can think is, Please forgive me.

...

The seventh time they meet, Carmen watches through someone else’s eyes as he smiles and flirts and acts as if everything is normal. Does he know? She wonders. Does he know I’m not in control?

She watches, as if underwater, as she takes and steals and moves on. She’s always been good at thievery, but with everything she’s learned since she left, she’s devastating once she’s fully on VILE’s side. Carmen pounds against the cage around her, but it only seems to get tighter the harder she tries to fight. A vice she’ll never be able to escape. A hold she’ll never be able to break.

She sees herself back with her old friends, not content but restless, wanting out of the easy life that’s been handed to her by the faculty. This Carmen wants a challenge, a fight. She relishes the way people resist when she comes after them. She sees only a chance to prove herself worthy in everything.

She watches this Carmen leave her friends. Watches her trick Zach into following her to the ferris wheel, the hope shining on his face. He thinks she has control. He thinks she needs his help.

She screams as she realizes why she’s brought Zach to the top of the wheel, the lights shutting off around them.

She pounds against the control they have over her as she lands a roundhouse on him so strong he barely manages to hang on to the ledge.

And as Carmen turns away from Zach’s sharp yell, she crumbles, unable to do anything about it.

She’s only half paying attention, huddled in a dark corner in her mind with her arms around her knees, drawn in tight, when she hears that familiar cry behind her.

Carmen’s eyes snap open and Gray’s shut and both of them struggle as he brings the device down on her head.

“Please come back,” he’s murmuring into her hair, even as her elbow digs into his gut, even as she slams the two of them back into the wall, even as she pulls him over her head and levels the rod, the device broken, control restored, even as she pulls off her gloves because she has to do this herself—

“You sold me out, Gray,” she hears herself say, voice gravelly with pain.

His hazel eyes widen. “No! I’m trying to help.”

Underwater, she’s underwater, she’s—

She raises the rod.

“It’s finger-print activated,” he says hoarsely. “It won’t work for you.”

“It’s finger-print activated. It won’t work for you.”

The memory hits her, unbidden. They’re standing in a train. She has the rod against his neck in warning. He’s watching her as if he’s never seen her before, because in a way, he hasn’t—Carmen is as foreign to him as a stranger. Darkness closes in—

She staggers, trying to regain control. But in real time, Carmen has barely moved. She smiles at him pityingly, mirroring the look he’s given her so many times over the years. The look of someone who knows they’ve won. “Won’t it?”

Realization dawns on his face at the same time she opens the rod, turning up the power. “Being VILE faculty has its perks.”

Underwater, Carmen screams.

“You’re a dirty traitor like Shadowsan,” she says.

“This isn’t the real you,” he pleads.

She doesn’t care. No, she does. No—

“Goodbye, Gray.” Carmen smirks. “No, wait. You prefer Crackle.”

The last hope of reaching her in his eyes dies as he reaches out a hand. “Please, Carmen—”

The rod fires.

Gray flies back, head cracking against the floor.

His hand goes limp.

His body stills.

And as Carmen walks away, she’s not thinking anything at all.

...

The eighth and final time they meet, Carmen is walking through the corridor of a train, hands rubbing her arms to ward off the cold. She’s wearing her usual red sweatshirt, and her hair is tied up in a knot on her head. The dark jeans she wears are warm enough that she’s not cold, but the breeze coming from one of the cabins is very much trying to undo that statement.

Her hands shake and she absently checks the note Chief gave her, even though she’s already memorized where she’s supposed to go. “Just in case,” Chief had said, handing it to her with a wink. ACME’s fearsome leader, it turns out, has a weakness for meddling. Figures.

Still, Carmen is grateful. Chief has been nothing but helpful regarding her true parentage, and her own side of the story from the night of her father’s death gave Carmen a sense of fulfillment she’s never felt before.

She stops in front of one of the rooms, a smile curving her lips. “First class? Sweet.”

“My treat, Red,” he says, and she can hear the smile in his voice. “You earned it.”

“Is it weird that I’m nervous to be back in Paris?” she asks absently, setting her bag down. “Be honest.”

“I don’t think so. You have a lot of history here.”

Carmen laughs. “Understatement. But you’re right. I guess I’m just thinking about him.”

“Gray?”

Her mouth droops at the mention of his name. She knows he’s fine, Chief told her so weeks ago, but the courage to visit him still eludes her. “Yeah. I wish things had turned out differently. Maybe I should ask Chief about where he is…”

“You might see him sooner than you think.”

Carmen’s brow furrows. “What?”

But the device has gone silent in her ear. Player is gone.

And the door behind her slides open.

“Well, well.”

Carmen pauses, afraid that if she turns there will be empty air. That she’ll be imagining things.

But then she sees the reflection in the window.

“Blast from the past, eh?” says Gray, and his smile is still the same: all boyish charm, now mixing with something kind, assured.

He seems to realize she doesn’t know what to say. Those dimples reappear. “In case you were wondering, you can call me Gray.”

And as the crack that has followed her since the night she saw him at the Sydney Opera House begins to close, Carmen finds herself smiling. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Carmen.”

#carmen sandiego 2019 #redcrackle #gray x carmen #carmen sandiego spoilers #im obsessed with them sorry #mine

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chelsfic · 5 years ago

Note

Oh goodness, congrats on 900!! prompt wise Forget it, you’re a fucking asshole with good old Kandomere? If you feel so inclined.

Thank you so much for requesting Kandomere! God, I love this elf. This one was so fun to write. I kind of want to make it into a longer fic...

Being assigned as Agent Kandomere’s partner is an honor and a privilege of which you’re well aware. As a junior agent, not to mention a human, it’s impossible to forget the difference in your status--both professional and social. And Kandomere isn’t exactly one to let you forget.

Still, you like to think you’ve proven yourself to the haughty, exacting elf over your months working together. If nothing else, he hasn’t demanded your reassignment yet. That’s something. Especially considering the string of partners he burned through before you came along. It gives you a secret thrill to think that he’s pleased with you...maybe even impressed. You feel you have a lot to prove, as a new agent, as a human and...well, there’s the matter of your budding crush on the impossibly attractive elf.

Ugh. Just thinking of it makes you burn with humiliation. The thought of being lumped in with the elf-chasers...humans without dignity who grovel at elves’ feet just for a chance to sleep with them... That is not you.

But, your stupid crush won’t be an issue much longer because no matter how much you respect this man, no matter how competent he is, no matter how physically alluring--he is still an asshole.

---

“I can’t believe you let me walk into that situation blind!” you fume, sliding into the cool leather passenger seat of Kandomere’s car. You hate his stupid luxury vehicle and his stupid thousand dollar suits and his stupid handsome face. You’re positively shaking with rage and lingering fear after the shit show that he just subjected you to.

Kandomere, to his credit, looks rattled. His silver-flecked eyes widen as he watches you come apart.

“Y/N, I didn’t realize how far things would go. If I had--”

“Oh, of course not!” you snarl, and you're mortified to feel tears pricking your eyes. “You think the whole world is just as cold and calculating as you--”

Kandomere interjects with an edge of anger in his voice, “I’m not--”

“I think I deserve to speak now, don’t you think?” you growl. “How do you think it made me feel to have all of those elves looking down on me? To be forced to kneel at their feet like some kind of--some kind of--”

You can’t complete the sentence. Your pride and dignity are mortally wounded. You thought you were partners. You thought Kandomere respected you. You even thought...in your secret self...that maybe he was starting to think of you as more than a colleague. Stupid!

---

All Kandomere tells you about the undercover assignment is that you’ll be going to a nightclub in Elf Town. You’ve been following a lead on a ring of drug dealers peddling Fairy Dust, a new concoction that causes hallucinations and dangerous magical anomalies. For elves and orcs it’s a mind altering party drug. For humans it can be dangerously addictive and even lethal.

You don’t question when Kandomere asks you to wear something flashy and revealing--it seems appropriate to the setting. When he undoes the silver gorget from around his neck and places it on yours you just go with it. Some kind of elven fashion statement.

“Just follow my lead,” he says to you as he pulls up to the valet. “You don’t even need to talk. You’re here for...verisimilitude.”

Whatever the fuck that means… This is fine. It’s all fine because you trust your partner.

It isn’t until you get inside that you realize how far he’s betrayed you. The club is dimly lit, small cocktail tables are arranged around a dance floor. Everywhere there are elves sitting, dancing, socializing. And at their feet, kneeling like subservient slaves, sit humans. Your eyes flash to Kandomere’s, broadcasting your discomfort. He shakes his head infinitesimally at you and leads you into the throng with a hand on your arm.

The night is pure torture for you. Does Kandomere not realize how mortifying it is to be seen as his sex slave? The fact that you’ve nursed foolish feelings for him only makes it worse. This is what humans are in his world. Subservient, unimportant, relegated to groveling at their masters’ feet.

Kandomere tracks down the dealer, insinuating both of you into his circle near the back of the club. When he takes his seat, Kandomere catches your eye and glances pointedly at the floor beside the chair. You clench your jaw in suppressed anger and humiliation but force yourself to bend your knees and settle on the floor next to him. You try to keep track of what is being discussed over your head but at a certain point it becomes easier to bear the degradation by simply letting your thoughts drift. At one point Kandomere’s hand reaches down to your shoulder and gently squeezes. You hate yourself for leaning into his touch and savoring the comfort.

“Care to test the product?” the dealer asks and you feel Kandomere’s leg stiffen. When did you start leaning into it?

“No, I never partake myself,” Kandomere answers breezily.

Laughter. “Don’t get high on your own supply. Smart. Why don’t you let your little pet try? You have to see what it does to them. They absolutely melt.”

Suddenly the dealer is bending down to look you in the eyes, he’s brandishing a small tray holding a pile of glittery powder. Kandomere grabs your shoulder and pushes you back.

“I don’t--She hasn’t--” you’ve never heard him at a loss for words before.

The dealer’s eyes harden and his voice holds suspicion, “What are you playing at?”

You’re looking up at both of them, your eyes flicking back and forth. Fuck, you’re about to get made.

Kandomere’s face suddenly smooths into the marble mask you’ve seen so many times. He’s cool and collected once more. He looks down at you and his tone is offhanded but the words are a command, “Go ahead. Try it.”

You’re about to refuse and blow this whole operation when you feel the dealer’s hand grab you by the back of the neck. He pulls you closer to him and dips the fingers of his free hand into the glittery powder.

“Come here little pet. You’ll love this,” he says. He shoves his long fingers into your mouth, massaging the powder into your gums before releasing you with a shove that sends you toppling into Kandomere’s legs. “Take her in the back. They go feral on this stuff. She’ll be jumping your bones in a second.”

You feel like you’re underwater. The sights and sounds of the club feel distant to you. Kandomere is grabbing you by the arms, lifting you up and away from the table with the bad people. Kandomere is touching you. You can feel his bright, silver-blue elf beauty bleeding out of his skin and wrapping you up in a blanket.

“Kandomere…” you breathe, leaning your body against his and whispering into the shell of his perfect, pointed ear, “You’re very pretty. If you kiss me I’ll turn into a princess for you…”

“Shhh. You’re going to be alright, Y/N,” your partner shushes you, holding you tighter against his chest as he maneuvers you through the throng of hostile elven eyes. His voice still sounds far away but you can tell it’s shaking a little, like he’s scared. How funny…

---

“I could have died, Kandomere,” you whisper, turning your head to stare out the window at the city lights flashing past. You don’t want him to see your tears. He’d taken you into the club’s bathroom, frantically flushing your mouth out with water. All the while you were trying to wrap yourself around him. You kept calling him pretty. Fuck, you’re never going to live that down.

“I’m so sorry about that, Y/N. I never thought they’d force that on us. But--but you’re fine now and now we have these monsters. Thanks to you…” the words sound hollow and placating.

You turn to stare at him with glassy, accusing eyes, “I just think I deserved to be told up front what I was walking into. I could have prepared…”

Kandomere is shaking his head and he’s actually smiling slightly, “You never would have agreed to it if I told you the kind of club it was.”

Rage takes over again and you punch your clenched fist into the center console, startling the unflappable elf.

“You’re damn right, Kandomere! Do you even realize how humiliating it was to have all of those people think that I’m some pathetic, human sex slave?...And to have you treat me that way…” you trail off, waiting for a reply that doesn’t come. Kandomere’s elegant hands flex on the steering wheel, the muscle in his jaw ticks, but he keeps his silence. Finally you turn away with an angry growl, “Forget it. You’re a fucking asshole.”

When he pulls up outside your apartment your hand is already on the door handle, getting ready to make a hasty exit without another word. You’re too afraid you’ll lose control and either break down in sobs or haul off and punch his smug face.

Before you can flee Kandomere stops you with a gentle hand on your arm, “Wait, please.”

Kandomere is never anything but perfectly controlled. But now his words sound like a plea from his soul. You turn to him with wide eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N. I was wrong. I should have been up front with you about what tonight was. I just...I wanted to get these guys so bad. But I put you in danger and that’s--that’s unforgivable,” his voice is rough, broken. He won’t even meet your eyes. His hand still lingers on your arm and his fingers are stroking absentmindedly into your flesh. It’s probably the remaining drug still in your system, but his touch sends electric pulses through your nervous system.

You swallow your tears and pull the gorget from your neck, fingering the gleaming metal.

“It’s just...I know what you think about humans,” you murmur, eyes downcast. You trace your finger over the elven script on the gorget. “Elves above all...Above all elves? I just thought...I thought it was different with you and me.”

Kandomere lets out a choked sound from the back of his throat and his grip on your arm tightens. When you look up you’re astounded to see tears glistening in his hypnotic eyes.

“It is different with you, Y/N. You’re...you’re special to me,” his words are halting, but you can feel the truth of them through his touch. “When he forced that shit in your mouth? When I thought you might--might die, I--”

Suddenly he’s leaning forward across the console, faster than you can track with your mortal vision. His face is inches away, his lips hovering so close to yours. He stares into your eyes intensely, you’re falling into the silvery pool of his irises. Can this be real? You knew he tolerated you. You hoped that he respected you. Can he really feel...more?

“I don’t deserve to kiss you, Y/N,” he whispers, his breath ghosting across your lips. “But I’m going to.”

His kiss is like magic. His lips slide against yours in perfect harmony, like he can read your body’s intentions and match them. He’s soft and hard, fierce and gentle, hot and cool at all once. He cups your face in his hands and you feel a thrill that this immortal being who can kill a man with his bare hands is using them to stroke your cheeks so gently. He pulls away too soon and you try to trail after him with your lips.

His pupils are dilated and his breath is quick, matching your own. He looks down at you and his face is softer than you’ve ever seen it. His perfect brows knit together and his voice pitched low as he asks, “Am I forgiven, then?”

Has he known all this time? That you were hopelessly falling in love with him? The thought should be mortifying but your body is still ringing with the force of his kiss. Kandomere knows what he’s doing. How can he question that you’d stay angry after a kiss like that? He’s still an asshole. But…

“Yes,” you whisper, grabbing his tie and tugging him back toward your lips. “Forgiven.”

#kandomere #kandomere x reader #bright netflix #edgar ramirez

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summahsunlight · 4 years ago

Text

All For You, Part 7

Rating: T

Word Count: 2k+

Pairing: Poe Dameron X Pilot!Reader

Summary: Your life in the Resistance was not easy, being married to Commander Poe Dameron and a skilled pilot yourself. When you unexpectedly get pregnant, your life is forever changed. Raising a child on base is hard, but never having parents of your own as a child, you are determined to love your little girl and give her the best life. Poe is equally as devoted to you and your daughter, vowing to keep you both safe from the impending threat of the First Order.

Taglist: @thescarletknight2014, @elmoakepoke, @xxidontwikeitxx, @liadamerondjarin, @marvelofwitch, @blushingwueen, @april-14-blog, @softly-sad, @agents-assemble, @paintballkid711

Taglist is still open! Just let me know if you want to be added!

Being confined to your bed had some perks. One of them being that you saw more of Poe throughout the day than you normally would. He would bring you meals, pop in to make sure you were still in bed, and when he wasn’t available, he’d send BB-8. You found that the little droid was far more enthusiastic and eager to take care of you than you thought he would be. Somedays you wondered if Poe sent BB-8 along just to make you smile.

Leia wss doing her best to keep him on base now that you were on bed rest, but you knew that sooner or later, she was going to need him again to go on a mission.

Doctor Kalonia informed you that the baby could arrive any day now at your last check-up--which had taken a painfully long time to get to since Poe made you walk so slowly. You rubbed your belly now, feeling the building excitement and dread at the thought of finally welcoming your baby girl into the galaxy. She was still very active, always on the move, which you blamed her father for.

Poe would just smile at you when you complained about the baby’s constant movement and how she had inherited it from him.

“Hey, sweetheart,” your husband greeted you as he entered the quarters.

“Hi. Please tell me you brought lunch!” you exclaimed.

Grinning, Poe handed you some food. “I did. You didn’t think I’d let my girls go hungry now did you?”

You stuffed some of the sandwich in your mouth. “Well, considering how late you are today--for a while there I thought you might have forgotten about us.”

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Poe leaned forward and pressed his lips to your cheek. “Never, baby. I could never forget about you or our little girl. Speaking of our daughter--is she still active?”

“Constantly on the move. Just like her father.”

“Nah, she's just excited to come out and join us.”

“Well then she gets her enthusiasm from her father.”

Poe chuckled and then his eyes grew serious. “Leia needs me,” he simply said.

Swallowing, you gently nodded your head. “How long will you be gone?”

His fingers slipped along your back. “I’m not sure. At least a day; I can leave Bee with you...’

“No!” you cried, suddenly. “He needs... he needs to go with you!”

“Sweetheart I can get another droid for the mission,” Poe said.

“No, you can’t! I only trust Beebee to take care of you!”

“Now you sound like BeeBee-Ate.”

Tears streamed down your cheeks. Your emotions were running so high already but the thought of Poe going out on a mission without BB-8, who on a few occasions was the whole reason Poe was still alive--it made you terrified. You couldn’t lose Poe now, not with the birth of your child so close. Your daughter was going to need her father. “Please, please, take him with you.”

Wiping the tears from your cheeks, Poe sighed. He shifted on the bed to pull you into his arms and whispered, “Okay...I’ll take Bee if it will make you feel better.”

Hiccuping, you buried your cheek against his shoulder. “Yes. It would make me feel better.”

“I’ll have Rose check-in on you,” Poe promised, kissing the top of your head.

“O-okay,” you whimpered, hating how scared you sounded.

“Sweetheart, I’ll be fine. Promise.”

“I know you probably will be, but I’m still worried.”

Poe wished there was more to say to you to ease your fears--but there wasn’t. He pressed one more kiss to your hair and then untangled himself from your arms. He had to get moving; Black Squadron was taking off in the next thirty minutes and he had mission prep. Taking your face in his hands, he studied every feature and then he smiled. “Don’t have that baby while I’m away.”

You laughed, even as tears streamed down your cheeks. “I don’t think I have much say on when the baby decides she’s ready to come out into the galaxy. Just get back before that happens, okay?”

His thumbs stroked your cheek. “I love you.”

Blinking back tears, you rasped, “I love you, too.”

Poe kissed you, lingering longer than he probably should have, but it was breaking his heart leaving you right now when you were bed ridden and could give birth any day. But he needed to go; he needed to go to ensure that you and your baby were safe.

-----

Twenty-four hours turned into thirty-six that Poe was away.

Rose did indeed check-in on you frequently to make sure that you were comfortable, fed, and helped you get to the refresher. She tried to keep an upbeat attitude but you knew she was nervous that Black Squadron was away so long as well. After all, this was supposed to be a reconniance mission.

You busied yourself with watching holo-movies or reading. Sometimes Kaydel would stop by and work with you. Still, your fears that Poe wasn’t going to return were ever present.

As it passed the forty-eight hour mark that Poe was gone you noticed how increasing uncomfortable you were. By the tine Rose stopped by to bring you lunch, you were in mild pain.

“Do you want me to call the doctor?” Rose questioned.

“No,” you responded. “I’m nine months pregnant. There’s just no comfortable position to sit in.”

“Y/N--I think you’re in labor. We need to call her.”

“Labor? Rose...I’m not in labor. Go back to work.”

Rose hesitated. She was pretty certain you were going into labor but she also had learned over the last two days not to argue with you--Poe had been pretty clear to her that she shouldn’t upset you and that it could make the stress on you and the baby worse. “Fine, but I’m coming back in an hour and if you’re still in this pain, I’m calling the doctor.”

You agreed to those terms and watched her leave. Trying to get comfortable, you started reading the book Rose had left you. Or you attempted to read the book. The pain was getting worse; was it possible the tear was getting worse? You weren’t sure how that was possible, you had barely moved from your bed for the last several weeks.

Wincing, you tried to grab at the commlink on the nightstand, but your hand was shaking so hard that it fell to the floor. You cursed watching it roll across the floor. You had two options here--get up and get it, which you were sure you could hear Poe yelling at you from wherever he was--or just wait until Rose returned.

Under normal circumstances you probably would have waited for Rose, but the sharp pains coming from your abdomen sent you into a panic. If you were not in labor then something was wrong and you had no way of letting anyone know unless you got off the bed and went to get the com.

Making your decision, you rolled out of bed and waddled towards the discarded commlink. It was not easy--nothing really was these days as big as your belly was--but you managed to pick the com up. Fumbling with it for a few seconds, you got a hold of the medbay.

Just as the medic told you that she was going to send someone to come get you, you felt something warm and wet trickle down your inner thighs. Glancing down, to your horror you saw not only a pool of clear liquid underneath you but blood as well. “There’s blood! I’m bleeding!”

“Captain Dameron, please just stay calm. The team is on the way.”

“Stay calm? My baby could be dying!”

“Everything is going to be fine. Breathe, ma’am.”

“Poe isn’t here! He’s gone!”

The medic was still talking to you on the commlink, but the blood thundering in your ears drowned her out. The baby could not come yet! Her father wasn’t on base! He should be here! You felt sick to your stomach, you felt dizzy--the pain only grew in intensity and you just wanted to curl up into a ball and sob.

Hands gently grabbed a hold of you; you were not even aware that the team of medics had arrived and used override codes to get into your quarters. They were helping you down onto a gurney. A needle pricked your arm and you anxiously swatted at the droid that had done it.

“Captain,” the nurse explained, “we’re prepping you for surgery.”

“Surgery!” you gasped.

“Doctor Kalonia thinks it will be safer to deliver the baby this way.”

“What do you mean safer?”

The nurse helped the medical droid continue preparation to move you to the surgical bay. “The tear in your placenta has obviously enlarged and you’re bleeding. A natural birth would make the tear even worse and you could end up hemorrhaging. She just wants to make sure that both you and the baby have a safe, healthy delivery.”

You wanted to scream that this was not how things were supposed to go. Poe was supposed to be here and you were supposed to hold your daughter the moment she came into this galaxy--now, you were going to be in a surgical bay, probably semi-unconscious, and Poe was still not on base.

Everything hurt, everything was falling apart and you could barely breathe...

“Y/N! Breathe!!” Poe’s voice shouted through the haze.

“Poe?” you responded, weakly, opening your eyes.

Bright lights flashed overhead as the gurney was pushed through the base, but there was Poe, his concerned face right beside you. He managed a smile, even if you could see the fear in his brown eyes. “I’m here, sweetheart, it’s gonna be fine. Just breathe. You scared us for a second there.”

Somehow, even in this panicked state, Poe made everything seem like it was going to be okay. His hand gripped yours tightly, and he continued to smile at you, assure you that it was alright as you were moved into the surgical bay. Doctor Kalonia immediately checked your vitals, instructing her team to prep for the baby and you saw Poe’s jaw twitch. “Is she... is she okay, doctor?”

Kalonia smiled at you. “Your baby is fine. Heartbeat is strong. Let’s get her out of there and bring her into this world, okay? I think she’s ready.”

You managed a weak nod of your head as Poe pushed your hair back and kissed your forehead. It was really the last coherent moment you had, the last thing you even remember happening before you heard your baby’s first cries. You couldn’t see her, thanks to all the medical droids and nurses around you, but you could hear her.

Trying to lift your head so you could catch a glimpse of your baby, Poe gently eased you back down onto the cot. “Sweetheart, don’t move okay. She’s fine. I can see her! I counted ten little fingers and ten little toes! She’s perfect, just like her mama.”

“Can...can I see her?” you asked. Force did you sound tired.

“Lemme get her, alright?” Poe said, letting go of your hand.

He returned a few moments later, your little baby swaddled in a pink blanket, softly mewing. Seeing your baby for the first time brought happy tears to your eyes, mirroring Poe’s. She looked so much like you, but you could see Poe in her--especially her wildly curly hair. You prayed she never lost it.

Poe gave the baby a little kiss and then situated her so she was close enough to you that you could give her kiss also and run your hand over her soft hair. She was perfect and you never wanted to stop holding her the moment Poe gently laid her across your chest.

You were so busy focusing on your baby that you were not aware that Kalonia and the nurses were still working or that Poe’s expression changed from positively beaming when he looked at your daughter to positively terrified when he glanced at the doctor. “Poe,” you said, softly, but still loud enough to grab his attention, “she needs a name. What are we going to call her?”

“I liked the last one you came up with,” Poe said, smiling at you.

“Emmeline?”

“Yeah. I think it’s perfect for her.”

As if on cue, the baby little out a little cry. You brushed soft kisses on her cheeks. “Emmeline. I like it.”

Poe saw the doctor step back out of the corner of his eye. She gestured for him to take the baby from you. “Honey, I need to take her now; the nurses need to do a little check-up. Everything is fine though, okay? You rest.”

Reluctantly you handed the baby back to your husband and watched through heavy lids as he handed her to the nurse. “Poe, I’m sleepy.”

“Go to sleep, baby,” he coaxed you. “Both Emmeline and I will be here when you wake up--and probably BeeBee-Ate too, he was rather worried about you when we arrived.”

“Then go tell him I’m fine,” you said, as you began drifting off to sleep. “I don’t want me to worry, Poe.”

Licking his lips, Poe watched as you fell asleep thanks to the anesthesia. If BB-8 knew what was happening right now, that you needed an operation to stop the internal bleeding from your placenta tear--he’d be worried, and perhaps just as terrified that you were going to die as Poe was.

#star wars #star wars imagine #poe dameron #poe dameron x reader #poe dameron imagine #200 followers celebration #all for you #reposting because it didn't show up in the tags the first time!

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fuckyeahharryhart · 4 years ago

Text

PART 2 HARRY HART FAN FICTION Because they better give him a good story for the last Kingsman. In case they don’t, I wrote something myself.

PART 2

FAN FIC

KINGSMAN III: REDACTED

MULTI PART SERIES:(My version of Kingsman 3)

Harry Hart x Original Character

Warnings: Reference to violence

Word Count: 5,900

OVERVIEW: After the events of Kingsman, The Golden Circle, Harry, Eggsy and the rest of the survivors rebuild their agency to it’s former level of integrity. A new player arrives unexpectedly, carrying memories of the past that will change the future of Kingsman.

CHAPTER SUMMARY: Harry and Eggsy try to discover who this new players is, how they were at the right place and the right time, and what they know about kingsman. A marksman of that caliber isn't someone to take lightly.

------

Bloody hell. Harry's hand was still stinging with heated pain from having his key fob, of all bloody things, shot out of hand. His knee was out of sorts from dropping, face down, to the pavement. Hearing gunshots ring out from, not one, but two different directions did not improve his mood or his state of mind. Continuing to roll as he hit the ground, he switched to his side so he could draw his weapon. But first, he turned toward the direction of the original fire. That was the shooter who caught his interest. A marksman with the precision to shoot a key fob from that distance, within centimetres of his hand without (well without significant) injury was someone not to underestimate. He could make a shot like that. He had plenty of times at the Kingsman shooting range. But that was aiming at a non-moving target in a controlled environment, under the best of circumstances. The only other time he fired a shot that exacting was in Cambodia. While wrestling a certain Agent Whiskey for control of a firearm, he was able to free Eggsy from a lasso looped around his neck by shooting clean through the rope. He assumed landing that shot was 1/4 luck, 1/4 technique and 1/2 his sheer force of will.

Very few marksman possessed the natural talent, training and skill to land that shot. Even less in London proper and he was almost certain that all of those individuals even close to that level, were under Kingsman’s employ.

Under the cover of shadows and partially hidden by a gate column, he spotted the shooter. At the same time, the shooter spotted him and they made split second eye contact. Obviously, the shooter did not want to be witnessed judging from the displeased look that he had noted. But rather than ducking out of view, they kept their stance, provided cover fire until the area was cleared and the threat was gone. And then, without a moments hesitation, the person holstered their weapon and turned abruptly in the opposite direction and began to walk off with long, measured steps. He and Eggsy dusted themselves, gestured to the other, nodded and made off in opposite directions in the attempt to cut the person off at the path. As he smoothed down his suit and adjusted his cuffs, he was quite certain that he was never going to enjoy a peaceful evening again.

——

She didn’t waste valuable seconds checking her phone, grateful that she took the extra time to map her locations in her head. Quickly referring to her orientation, she saw three viable options. Directly in front of her was the Royal Academy. Though it was vast and beautiful and filled with courtyards and eaves, arches, doorways, ideal to drop a tail, it was also closed and quiet. There was no crowd to get lost in. A single person moving in that space would surely be noticed.

She weighed her two other options against each other. Both were about equal in distance. No more than a 10 min walk in either direction. To her right was Mayfair. Situated in the heart of the city, it was one of the most expensive and exclusive areas of London with swanky five-star hotels, shops, restaurants, bars and pubs. Bond Street was sure to be packed with people enjoying the nightlife. Perhaps in another lifetime she could enjoy an evening out in such a place. Not at the moment.

On the plus side, the streets were more random, intersecting at odd places, without the usual grid format. That gave her more exit options. They would less likely follow the same path. Downside, as much as she would enjoy an elegant evening out, she was not appropriately attired. Of course, there would be the usual strong of tourists and visitors that would be similarly inappropriately attired. Even though she would blend in with part of the crowd, she didn’t want to stand out in anyway. Plus, if she needed to tuck into a shop or a restaurant, she wanted to blend with the locals and not the tourists. And she wasn’t going to do that with her nondescript outfit. Or, she would find herself in a situation where someone would ask to take her jacket. She would have to politely refuse because of her shoulder holster and her gun. They would insist. Then it would become an uncomfortable situation for everyone involved. Awkward and uncomfortable would be hard NOT to notice.

A ten minute walk to her left would drop her in ever trendy Soho. A little louder, a little more rowdy and relaxed, Soho was more happy hour than cocktail hour. The way there would have more traffic, both car and pedestrian, but it was also more direct and brightly lit. More importantly, she would be able to blend with the locals, not just the tourists. Maybe even slip into a pub or bar for the glass of wine she so desperately could use. There would be more viable places to manuever, evade, and find cover. More opportunity to lose a tail. And less likely for a messy confrontation.

Though she didn’t stick around long enough, she was fairly certain that the two men were following her. She kept in mind that they were trained with the same skills and likely had the same natural talent and instincts as she did. Part of her plan was to move slightly against instinct, find the ideal move and then, proceed with something slightly different. But they had to be thinking the same thing.

Shit. The shooters might still be in the area. Depending on whether or not they had backup, if this was an isolated threat on a personal level or if was on an organisational level, she couldn’t be sure that the coast was clear in that direction. When in doubt, take precaution. There were too many unknowns, too many unanswered questions and her preference was to get away without further contact. Since she couldn’t do it clean, she wanted to avoid any additional messiness.

Typical, she thought, making her way through the last of the shoppers and the first of the evening revellers. At the moment she was making progress and feeling more in control of her circumstances, some prick with a gun comes in and has to spray bullets over all the blocks that she spent the last month building. With care and precision, she arranged and rearranged, stacking and re-stacking, until she had created a platform where she could make her move. All her variables were in place. She calculated the possible outcomes and was so close to having a plan. There was some satisfaction, knowing that she had put an equal damper on their scheme, but when success of their plan meant the death of two people, and her plans would only work if those two people were alive, It didn’t leave her much of a choice.

Evasion was as much about mindset as it was movement. She took a mental pause, reset her outlook. Plans only fail if you allowed them to fail. Plans change and hers just did. Focus on clearing out first and then she could regroup and consider her options. If she let her frustrations distract her, she would end up missing details and she had not come this far to make bad decisions. Even in the smallest circumstances, she learned how to turn off emotions, cutting off thoughts and inconvenient emotions. Unfortunately, it was usually the thoughts about the situation she was in, that caused troubling emotions, such as her frustration at the turn of events. But if she walled off those thoughts for the time being, she would be more likely to operate with logic and clarity.

To her advantage, she had a head start, she knew the situation she was dealing with, two known variables on her tail, one unknown threat that could possibly be armed and still in the area. Likely, all three of them knew the area so there was no upper hand in that case. Two would be on foot, probably split to cover more area. It was to her disadvantage that there were two of them, but would be easier to confront them individually if it came to that.

She assumed that they also saw her as a threat. Regardless whether or not her actions had saved their lives, she was still an unknown, an armed and dangerous, one at that. She had to expect hostility, possibly aggression if confronted. It was a situation she would prefer to avoid.

Her steps were light and relaxed. She paced herself neither too fast, nor too slow. Rushing would call attention. She avoided looking around overtly, but she used her periphery to scan the people and places around her. On the plus side, two handsome men in Saville Row bespoke would definitely turn heads. Especially the tall one, who stood inches over the average person. They couldn’t take off their suit coats either. Not with their own weapons and shoulder holsters.

She took a quick left off the main road. A few blocks over and then she could make another turn toward Soho and break up the straight line she was currently traveling. Maybe stop in Central for a quick diversion. Stay on the move. Be aware of her surroundings. Those were her two priorities. Casually checking her 360 along the way by using any reflections she saw, footsteps, noises she heard, neck stretching every few steps to check blind spots. And for a little while, she did just fine.

That is, until she found herself caught in a standing rear choke hold. Fuck.

———

Wherever the hell this person had materialised from, Harry thought, these were not the customs of a novice agent. From weaponry, tactics and evasion, their actions were one hundred percent on point. They should be only a suggestion in the wind by now. The single reason he was able to catch them unaware was because of new Kingsman tech. Just developed, airborne nano GPS trackers. Designed to mark a large group of targets from a distance, they were tiny particles, almost invisible by the naked eye. Programmed to navigate toward the wavelengths of infrared radiation emitted by the human body, specifically at the signature of 12 micron. Best for outdoor use, or in large open spaces, these capsules were broken and released into the air where the prevailing wind would transport the nano GPS transmitters and attach to the nearest known radiation signature. The tracking range could vary depending on the windspeed, air density and how many capsules were released. They were handy to track large crowd movement, not typically used to track a single person. But it was all he had on hand. Since the street was empty at the time, they had a good chance that some GPS attached. Using the process of elimination to rule out unintentional attachments, they could isolated the movement they were looking for. They were looking for someone who moved like a spy.

This person, whoever they were, made all of the decisions that he would have and then added some surprise evasion tactics that he wouldn’t have thought of. They surely would have gotten away if not for the trackers. It wasn’t absolutely necessary that they locate the person. But they were an unknown entity. He wasn’t sure if they were an adversary, an ally, or a neutral player. Neutral players were not known for being experts at tradecraft. That left adversary or ally. With the events of the past two years and the most recent destruction of Kingsman by the Golden Circle, unanswered questions usually returned on their own, carrying an unfavourable answer. Granted, the person saved their lives, but they already knew too much of Kingsman. Knew of threats of which Kingsman was not aware. So when chance invited him to make a move, to quietly sneak behind the person at the last second, he took it.

——

This is not why I spent four weeks planning, she fumed silently. Her mood was grim. Of course it would be at this exact moment that she registered the slightest contact from behind, like a passing breeze brushing against her. But she knew displaced air when she felt it. Based on her position, facing forward, added to the position he was in, directly behind her, also facing forward, that would have to equal a rear standing choke hold. Instantly, she countered, dropping her chin to her chest like it belonged there, denying him the chance to press his forearm against the front of her neck. A chokehold had two purposes, either to crush the windpipe, resulting in death. Not the outcome she was looking for. Or, to cut off blood to the brain via the carotid artery, leaving her unconscious. Which wasn’t much of a consolation prize. Either way, she had just about 12 seconds to act. Since both options were less than desirable, she shielded her throat as best she could and waited for the window were she could counter like a small, but fierce animal.

The strength of his grip said that he wasn’t going for either option, but told her he using the hold as a restraint. So, she had that going for her, she thought darkly. Yet, he still had the capacity to follow through on either option. There was no give to his grip. Twisting out of the hold was not an option without more leeway. Not one to be held in a vulnerable position, her goal was to escape. Several ways presented themselves, few of which incorporated an unrestrained elbow or kick to the groin. Her aim was not to incapacitate, regardless of how satisfying that may be, but to extricate herself.

Based on sheer size and strength, she was highly disadvantaged. But, as a woman in the field, only relying on your strength, you’d get beaten every time. Women didn’t have to fight harder. They had to fight smarter. Not only did she have to use her size and weight to her advantage, she had to use his size and strength against him. With the obvious discrepancy in height, not that she was short. Five foot nine made her taller than average, but at 6’ 2”, he was also taller than average. Her best option? Leverage. Literally. Use him as lever. It was the move where he would be at a disadvantage and she would have the clear advantage. There was some consolation to be found, knowing they were also expert spies, but not enough to spare herself the embarrassment of being caught. Summoning her nerve, one deep inhalation, she thought, and she would be ready.

He smells nice.

The thought landed without warning. It didn’t merely land. It hit her. It hit her hard and with feeling. Her concentration stuttered. It was the scent of wood, leather, spices and a hint of something warm, rich and slightly sweet, like a velvety dark chocolate. And then there was a breath of something unexpected. A note she couldn’t identify. It was him, she realised. That was his smell. It was a good smell. A masculine smell. She was suddenly aware of his wool suit against her chin. She noticed the pinstripes against a navy as dark as the sky. The crisp white of his French shirt cuffs and the gold of his cufflinks that held them in place.

Her senses were wide open. They always were on hyperdrive when she was out in the field. That was expected. She relied on them to send her signs that she didn’t have the time to look for. But now, they were receiving all the wrong signals and sending all the wrong messages. Intensely. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the shadow of his hand. His large, wide palm was warm on the back of her neck. By pressing her neck forward and down, it was this hand that locked the chokehold in place.

What the hell? she thought. She felt the strength of his forearms underneath her own palms. Her hands were gripping him so tightly she could feel the cords of muscle through his sleeve. Suddenly, her body became all too aware of his own. The sensation of him, the entire length of his body against hers, awakened her own. He wasn’t just standing behind her, he was bearing the whole of his body into hers. Thus, she was counter balancing with equal force. Generating heat and pressure between them. Realising how close, how intimate, how physical, literally, their contact was at that moment, overwhelmed her reason, her logic, her objectivity. And most of all, she was aware of the man behind her. Not as a target, or a mark, or a tail or a problem to be solved. It was him. It was Harry Hart.

He must have sensed a slight shift in her energy because once that random, startling thought struck home, she didn’t dare move until she knew where it was heading and what she was going to do with it. She probably stopped breathing. Maybe that’s what he noticed because all of a sudden she felt dizzy and lightheaded. Maybe he was holding her a little tighter than she thought. He must have noticed a change because just as suddenly, his grip loosed by a fraction, not enough to escape, but enough to jar her back to the present. He was confusing her and she was angry at being confused.

She was on pause and someone had just hit the reset button. Instantly, she made her next move and she went into action fully committed. There was no hesitation in a move like this. To her advantage, their height difference meant that he had to lean down slightly to get his forearm around her neck, which shifted his center of gravity slightly forward. With his tight grip, she pushed against it, creating the energy of opposing forces to gain momentum. With her neck guarded by her chin, she quickly dropped down to one knee, gripped tightly onto his wrists and forearms, leaned back into him to get the tiniest bit of additional momentum, and then bent forward as sharply as she could from her waist, throwing the full force of her weight into the move and tucking in as tight as possible. Sure enough, with his weight already off center, using her body as a fulcrum, a pivot point, and using his height as a lever, she forced him to tumble over her head.

Normally, after a move such as this, that put her at a tactically advantageous position, she would either evade or go in for an attack move and neutralise the threat. This was not the way she wanted to introduce herself to these two men, but it looked like fate wasn’t giving her any options. She was not prepared for this situation. She didn’t have claim over the next move. It could be either of theirs. Brushing her hair away from her eyes, she cursed herself for not having a hair tie, of all things. She paused for a moment. Her cap got knocked off during her manoeuvre. Wonderful, all these identifiers, now facial features, and the damn hair. She should handover her passport and smartphone and just get it over with. How did this evening turn so sideways?

She took a mental pause. Footsteps. His colleague. Who didn’t know what he was walking into. She quite certain it did not look like afternoon tea.

When she heard the brushing noise of a weapon being pulled out of its holster she went back on high alert. They had most definitely past the “direct contact” portion of the evening. As much as she did not want to do them harm, she was more than willing to talk, she equally, did not want to be on the interrogation end of a gun. She had another split second to decide her course of action. Two was much more complicated.

All three of them knew the rules of weaponry in the field and in engagement. Never pull a gun in a circumstance you’re not willing to use it. Never aim at a target you’re not willing to shoot. It wouldn’t have been her first choice, but when she had a lethal weapon aimed in her direction, it left her with few options.

She never had an opportunity to use it before, but it was ideal for this circumstance and what she had planned. She palmed her carbonfiber graphene tactical knife, short, less than 5”in length, from its discreet sleeve at her hip. It’s description stated, “A device for specific close quarters combat manoeuvres in very focused special circumstance scenarios with high impact.” This circumstance would fall under that category, she thought.

The upper hand was all she needed to gain, to have a moment where they would be forced to listen to her. Grace, eloquence… She tossed those out the proverbial window. Her words would have the hardest strike. The most impact. Not her knife, not her gun, not any weapon. Now was not the time for finesse. Once again, she had to turn shitty odds in her favours before the man she just flipped could reorient himself. She wanted to be sorry that it had come to this, but she was just making her counter move. It didn’t matter if it was personal or not. This part, at least for her, was the business aspect of her work. Similar to negotiating a deal, but using weapons and lives as bargaining points.

The knife firmly in her grip, she raised the blade and held its lethal edge against his carotid artery with enough pressure to be VERY uncomfortable, and almost, but not break skin. He was smart and followed the direction guided by pressure of her blade hand and rose with her to a standing position. She stood behind him, angled slightly toward one side. He knew that any counter move on his part, which there were many he could take, and in this case his strength and mass would be at his advantage. She was in a very vulnerable physical position and he could take her down easily. If it weren’t for the knife at the side of his neck. The blade was very small, very light and most of all, it was very, very sharp and designed for close, personal combat. Easy to handle, low pressure point. Which meant, whether or not his move disabled her he would, no doubt, be pulling away with nothing less than a very serious neck wound.

“Stop.” she called out firmly. “Gun down on the ground.”

The man who was under her knife, indicated, Do what she says.

He placed his gun on the ground and stood with his hands in the air.

She knew he was weighing his options, just as she did her own.

Her voice was clear and just loud enough so he could hear her where he stood.

Seriously, like this was what she needed. Did they really have to go through all this fuss? Spies could be exhausting.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

She kept her voice conversational. Of no consequence or concern and certainly not threatening.

“Do you have enough time to disarm me and get help for your friend, Harry, before he bleeds out?”

She felt the slightest flinch when he heard the sound of his name. Not Arthur or Galahad. His given name.

“You’re quite fast, Eggsy, but not that fast.”

Now Eggsy’s turn as his eyes narrowed both suspicious and surprised. Not Galahad. Not even Gary, but Eggsy.

Ok, making progress, she thought. She had just shown her first card. She knew exactly who they were. Not just their code names. Their real ones.

To drive her point home. “Just the tiniest amount of pressure on his carotid artery, thats all I need. 68 seconds until he loses consciousness. My knife, which you probably can’t see from where you are standing, but he can certainly feel,” she nodded her head toward Harry, “is designed to pierce fast and deep. If I had a regular blade, he might come out clean, but not with this one. Please, sincerely, think twice, for his sake, about making any sudden movements.”

Good. Neither of them made an attempt to move. Not even a twinge. She continued. She didn’t know how long the odds would be in her favour. At this point, she was playing fast and loose. Something she rarely did and she was not used to. One of her biggest strengths was her ability to prepare. This was not a scenario that she had imagined.

“I know either of you could disable me, but not without me doing a fair amount of damage first.”

It wouldn’t be her first choice to do harm, but she was in no mood for additional fuckery and she wanted to make it abundantly clear that, though she was no match for them in terms of brute strength, she had plenty of ways to dominate a fight using strategy. She wasn’t stronger, but she could be smarter. She wasn’t above shedding blood to prove that she was not to be underestimated.

“I didn’t start this fight, but I’m more than happy to finish it.”

She added, “You see how well trained I am. You should be asking yourself why i haven’t killed him, or either of you, already.”

Did they really have to be so obstinate? Obstreperous. Truculent? They should have been asking themselves that question after she took the first shot. They could very easily be dead right now if it were not for her. She needed to prove to them she was not a threat to their lives. Against all of her training, she laid her second card down.

“And ask yourself,” she repeated. “perhaps why, then, I would let him go.”

Very carefully, very slowly, and very deliberately, she softened the pressure against his neck until the blade was no longer making contact. She continued to draw it far away from him, far enough to clear so not to do any damage, before she began to lower it. She took a few steps back, hands up, the knife still visible in her right, but with a carry hold, not an active grip.

Imagine her surprise when Harry turned on her, twisted her wrist until she had to drop the knife. Not without force. She resisted the split second she saw what was happening. She knew in this case, she didn’t have an immediate out, but that didn’t mean she had to make it easy for him. Rather than conserving her energy, she fought him and fought him with force, until she saw his face grimace with the effort.

Good, she thought.

She made some pretty satisfying contact before he was able to push her all the way back against the red brick warehouse. The wall gave her less room to maneuver. She landed one last, very satisfying kick to his shin. It wasn’t a fancy move. There was no technique involved. She just put all her grit behind that single kick and the connection she made was very gratifying, despite her situation. She hoped it left huge bruise to remember her by. It was obviously painful and hurt him enough that he shoved her away fairly hard. The back of her head knocked into the bricks with a force that she wouldn’t have considered gentlemanly.

Well, she did have a knife to his carotid just a few moments ago, she countered. She supposed turn about was fair play. This time, he was able to get his forearm across her throat and braced his right wrist with the circle of his left hand. Standing arm bar hold. She had no counter this time, seeing since Eggsy had his gun again and it being much harder to escape a bullet than a choke hold. So, that move did not have the impact that she thought it would.

She knew they had to have this conversation, but she was pissed. At them, but she admitted, begrudgingly, that she was mostly pissed at herself for letting her guard down. To be fair, they really had no idea who she was. And until they did, she would remain a threat. But she still had one more card. She was just waiting for the chance to use it.

——

What the bloody fuck had just happened? Harry Hart was not one to get caught off guard. But he was miffed that it happened this evening. Not only once, but three bloody times, and he had just quite enough of whatever fuckery was happening around him. First, the key fob, then the chokehold, then the bloody knife. Well, my dear, he thought, two can play this game. He wasn’t above fighting dirty. Sometimes the situation insisted on it. It seemed as if this was one of those times.

As soon as she let down her guard sufficiently enough for him to act, he twisted her arm, forcing her to drop the knife. But she wasn’t making things easier for him, or for herself, for that matter. Even though he clearly had the upper hand, she fought him the entire time. She, too, apparently wasn’t above a little dirty dealing when she landed a kick to his shin. A very hard, directed kick, not meant to disable, not in an attempt to escape, a kick just purely meant to cause him pain. A bit more than cheeky. He finally pushed her, maybe just a tad harder than he anticipated, until her head knocked back and hit the warehouse wall behind her. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eggsy had taken the opportunity to retrieve his gun and provide cover. Her eyes quickly darted in the same direction, confirmed the same thing that he saw and then stared at him furiously. Whether the fury was directed toward him or to her change in circumstance, most likely both, he could not be certain.

Making sure his arm bar would prevent any further roughhousing, Harry spoke, adopting almost the same conversational tone as she had. She wasn’t sure if he was matching her tone to respect her or mock her. This time she felt free to show as much aggression as she felt like. There was no consequence at this point. She tossed her damn hair out of her face.

——

As she flipped her hair to the side, Harry, by instinct, began to document her features so, if needed, he could provide a detailed description of her should it ever become necessary. Tall, 5’ 8 1/2 - 9. Slim build, but athletic, lean muscular rather than simply thin. Age was hard to determine, she looked both very young, but her eyes, they were both wise and melancholy. A look that only came with time and experience. Her eyes seemed to say that they had already seen too much. She was anywhere from mid twenties to mid thirties. He noticed that her eyes were grey. Grey, and they had a slight almond shape to them. Tilted just enough to give her an air of mystery. Dark lashes, dark hair and much of it. Long. Wavy. It was shiny and looked very soft. Dusky fair skin with just an undertone of warm olive. Cheeks pink, with displeasure, he thought, or embarrassment, certainly not because she was flattered by the attention. Her mouth was small and delicate, her lips pressed together in a firm line. Also pink. She was quite becoming. Beautiful even. He tried to determine her ethnicity, but found himself unable to place her exotic, yet subtle, delicate features.

Harry caught himself. He wasn’t just documenting her features. It wasn’t bloody like him.These were not the most appropriate thoughts for the moment.

She noticed him noticing her. She didn’t know what he was noticing, so she grew even more frustrated. She obviously didn’t care about keeping her expressions to herself any longer. It was quite loud and clear what she was thinking. It was written all over her face.

He came back to his words. In his calm, deep voice, he asked her three simple questions.

“Who are you? Who do you work for, and why did you shoot at us?”

A firm set to her jaw and with equal composure, she answered his questions without hesitation, but in her own order.

“I” she emphasised, “didn’t shoot at you.” she added under her breath, “I was aiming for your key fob.”

“I work for no one.” She halted, her eyes pulling their full attention to hers.

She laid down her last card.

“My name is Gwendolyn Mycroft.” she took a meaningful pause. “My father saved your lives.”

Glancing between the two of them, she saw that, as she intended, she had hit home. She added.

‘So, I suggest you release me, and let us go to a place where we can discuss this in a more civilised manner.”

She saw that both of the men were in a state of shock. She could understand. The evening hadn’t gone the way she expected either. She waited for a response that was something other than a blank stare.

“Do you like scotch?” Eggsy asked.

Well, that was a good of a start as any.

-----

If you made it this far, Thanks for reading!! Comments, questions, likes are always appreciated. Always feel free to reblog.

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gauntie-o-dimm · 5 years ago

Text

Andrew Milton | Toxic

You’re just a hostage in the Pinkerton’s plan, the Van Der Linde gang will certainly come looking for you. Andrew Milton will never be lured into your little pleasure trap. At least, that’s what he likes to think.

Word count: 2900+ Warnings: Smut, swearing, choking, hate sex

Thud.

Your head was practically drumming in pain as you regained consciousness. Every beat of your heart seemed to slam into your skull, crushing your brains. The side of your face felt warm and sticky.

Slowly, you managed to open your eyes, taking in your surroundings. Immediately, you noticed your own discomfort, body slouched against the wall in an awfully unnatural position, cold stone practically digging into your spine. You tried to shift, soon met by the sound of jingling chains that bound your wrists above you, chafing your skin with every movement.

You gritted your teeth as memories rushed back to you. The deal, the perfect plan to fetch the money from Blackwater, and then, a trap. You had been knocked out by something undeniably hard - the handle of a gun, perhaps? The darkness that had followed was in that case far from welcoming.

And now, you were taken prisoner, as it appeared. Would Dutch come looking for you? Hell, if he didn’t, Arthur most certainly would. Still, you had no idea what had happened otherwise than the failure of the plan, Dutch’s plan. One of his fucking magnificent plans. You rolled your eyes in annoyance.

The creaking of hinges made the hairs of your neck stand on end. You hadn’t even noticed the door in the corner of the room, the frame now revealing a man that you had never despised as much now.

“Mr Milton.” you mockingly greeted, voice dripping with venom. Said man entered the room, stepping closer and now you saw two other men that had joined him. They carried rifles and on their hips, revolvers. If you were to escape, you had no chance of survival.

“Miss (L/n), if I recall correctly. Or (Y/n), but that would take away all of the professionalism.”

“What the fuck happened? And what do you want from me?”

Milton chuckled, shaking his head. “Dutch van der Linde will certainly come searching for his little damsel in distress. I know what you mean to those bastards. It’s just a matter of time before we can pump ‘em full of lead on our own grounds.”

“They’re not as stupid as you are.” you taunted as he approached, his eyes boring into yours coldly, as if he was trying to see right into your soul. The gesture made shivers run down your spine. “Really, detective. I am thoroughly offended that you think that Dutch van der Linde is stupid enough to get me out of here.”

An icy stare was all you got, Andrew Milton unfazed by your words. He waved his hand to his men to leave the room, and they closed the door behind them. “Listen, Miss (Y/n).” he began, cracking his knuckles while he stepped in front of you, noses nearly touching. He reeked of cigarettes and cologne - you were embarrassed to admit to yourself that he smelled quite nice - wait, what were you even thinking? This man would kill you without a second thought while you pondered over the pleasantness of his scent - that was something that you really didn’t want.

“Dutch van der Linde is coming to save you and there is nothing you can do to stop him. Once he’s dead, well... I will most certainly enjoy killing you, after.”

“Why don’t you just kill me right now?” you questioned, eyes narrowing as you studied his face. Despite being a son of a bitch, you had to admit that the man carried a certain charm, something intimidating in a way that you had never seen before. It caused you to clench your thighs together, much to your dismay.

“Well, Miss (Y/n).” he muttered, his gloved hand touching the side of your face, an immediate sting searing through your head. “Word like that goes out way too fast. The whole trouble we went through will be for naught if Dutch called wind of your unfortunate death.” As you flinched away from his prodding into your wound, he tutted. “That’s a nasty wound you got there, Miss (Y/n). Too bad it will make a permanent scar on that pretty face of yours.”

A confident grin spread over your face. “You callin’ me pretty, huh? And you keep referencing to me as Miss (Y/n), not just (Y/n). If I didn’t know you this heartless, I’d say you have a thing for me.”

A humorless smile spread over his chapped lips, his face moving closer to yours. “And what if I did, huh? It isn’t like you can stop me from doing whatever I want to you.”

You grinned a little, leaning in closer to his face, as if you were about to kiss him. “Mr Milton, I had no idea you were able to feel things like that!”

The first strike he hit across your face was nearly painless, but the second slap he delivered was right upon your wound, causing you to hiss in pain and the previous thudding of your head to temporarily continue.

“You like it rough, huh?” you said with a chuckle, “When was the last time you fucked something else than your own fist?”

He sucked in his pockmarked cheeks, looking at your with eyes full of fury. “Oh, I am going to enjoy torturing you, (Y/n).” You widened your eyes in fake surprise, bottom lip pouting in a way to mock him. “No Miss this time? That’s no fun.” you murmured, “But I had never expected an asshole like yourself to be into that kind of stuff. Tell me, does it make your prick hard if you treat women like that?”

“You better shut the fuck up.”

“Make me.” you mused, well aware of the sexual tension that sentence held. You had seen your fair share of men in your life and you recognized the twisting face of Andrew Milton to contain confusion, anger, but all the more interesting: lust.

And thus you batted your eyelashes - if you were going to hang in here for a while longer, you might as well have some fun, and the whole idea of a man like Andrew Milton himself mustering such things towards you, well... It didn’t relieve you of the aching in the pit of your stomach.

“You are an odd lady, Miss (Y/n).” Milton spoke, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, his eyes flickering to your lips for a moment. “First you call me miss, now you call me a lady... Really, what am I to you, Mr Milton?” You were able to bring up your leg enough to softly run your bare foot along the side of his calf, enough to make the man in question let out a groan of frustration.

He shot forward, grabbing you by the collar of your shirt. You whistled through your teeth in an attempt to humor him, but you would lie if you’d say that the entire scene taking place didn’t turn you on - you were soon imagining yourself against the wall, his body against you until you were both sweaty and at a loss for words.

“You are...” Milton paused, studying your face from up close. Something stirred in his expression, something way calmer than you had ever seen him become. “You are a devil with the face of an angel, a bloody villain with eyes like heaven... Your soul is as dark as the desire you spark within me.”

You withheld with every fiber in your being from laughing pitifully, knowing that the man was serious - Milton always was. You and the gang had learned the hard way that this man was not to be messed with - but the last thing he said drummed within your skull like the headache that had been there for quite some time now.

You opened your mouth to say something, but the Pinkerton agent mistook it for something else - before you could comprehend what was going on, his tongue had already slipped past your lips, the taste of tobacco and whisky soon mixed with your saliva, the urge to fight soon dying down, the wish to kiss him back starting to grow immediately.

What you were doing was wrong, that you knew. But how could something wrong feel so damn good. Andrew’s hands were soon around your cheeks, tilting your face so he could delve in deeper and he tasted you with a hunger that made you realize that this man had been a long way from being loved, touch-starved to put it in other terms. The soft moan that escaped you was not helping to calm him down, either.

Whatever went through Andrew Miltons head was unknown to you, apart from that you were probably doing something right to turn him on - he nudged your legs apart with his knee and immediately put some pressure on the aching, searing hot spot in between. You whimpered against him, not only from the friction, but also from the lack of oxygen you soon began to feel. The man kissed you with such fury that he completely disregarded of your need to breathe.

And with every passing second, the thought of what you were doing faded away in a pool of pleasure. For a moment, you completely forgot you were imprisoned by this man, but the jangle of the chains as you tried to move your hands pulled you out of this blissful state. For the first time since he pressed his face to yours, Milton pulled back, an involuntary gasp leaving your lips as he did so.

“Unshackle me?” you said with a pout, gaze momentarily falling to his groin, that was obviously growing in his pants. His lustful eyes flickered to anger again, as if he just now realized what was going on. He gathered himself, taking in fiery breaths, brows knitting together in that same strict way they often rested upon you, or Dutch, or anyone from the gang for that matter. He radiated hate and fury.

“You fucking demon. You put a spell on me, didn’t you? Trying to glamour me, mend me to your will?”

“I think you’ve been reading too many fairy tales, Mr Milton.” you said with a smirk. “If I was a demon, you’d be long dead. For what it’s worth, I wish I was a demon right now, so I could take that handsome head of yours off your shoulders.”

As if he hadn’t struck you enough, he slammed the back of his hand against your cheek again, his teeth gritting as he eyed your unfazed reaction. “You fucking bitch! I should kill you right now!” You cocked an eyebrow.

“Then I suggest you go right ahead. But who is going to take care of little Andrew Jr, then?” You eyed at his erection. Milton was seething, face beet red and you could’ve sworn you saw a vein throb in his neck. Hm, how would he react if you pressed your lips against it?

Words seemed to fail the Pinkerton agent for once. “That’s what I thought, detective.” you murmured, pulling the man from his state of confusion. Milton spat: “You are only allowed to refer to me by my last name.”

“Or what?” you taunted, “Are you going to punish me?”

With a groan, he smashed his lips onto yours again, teeth clashing together in the roughness of the kiss, but you didn’t mind at all. He was quick to pull your pants to your ankles, leaving you butt-naked, shivering against the coldness of the prison tiles. You were able to shimmy one foot out of the trousers - that would be enough for now, anyways.

A gloved hand made its way in between your thighs and made you shiver as he gathered some of your sinful excitement on the rough material. Your confident posture was fickle now, knees soon bucking at the friction. “Look at you.” Milton darkly murmured, “Such a needy whore.” He pressed painfully against your clit, but you regained your composure and braced yourself against his fiddling. You wouldn’t fall to him, you told yourself.

But it would be a scene full of lies and deceit, you figured as Milton pushed you up against the wall, the shackles around your wrists causing the skin to break. There would be no love behind the thrusts he would make into you, there would be no sweet whispers or an afterglow. You didn’t give a fuck about it, either. All you needed was to ease the desire of your painfully aroused core, and a piece of Andrew Milton left in you. Who knew what you could do in the future after having such intimacy?

With one hand, Milton undid his belt, and his pants, and they were soon around his ankles, pooling at his boots. You licked your lips at the sight of his erection. Men with big mouths like him usually had tiny pricks, but you figured Milton was an exception. Sure, you’ve had seen bigger, but you swallowed in anticipation nevertheless.

He made no time for assuring, nor for small talk or foreplay, soon nudging the head of his cock in between your labia, coating his length with your slick. You were surprised at the sound that left his lips as soon as he pushed into you, rolling his hips in till the hilt until you felt the dark curls on his lower abdomen brush the sensitive bud hidden between your folds. You chewed the inside of your cheek at the scratch.

Your bodies fit together quite nicely, you ironically thought. The cold feeling of the wall behind you alongside the heat that came from the detectives body left you wanting more in no time. Tiny beads of sweat covered Milton’s forehead as he held you against the hard surface, pumping in and out of you with rapid speed.

The least thing you had expected him to do was to wrap his fingers around your throat and squeeze, causing you to gasp; or at least try to. The chains that bound you jangled as you tried moving your arms, slight panic washing over you as you realized that this man could literally fuck you until you were dead right here and now with no direct consequence.

The fear in your eyes seemed to egg the man on, encouraging him to only pound harder. The slap of skin against skin echoed, but he didn’t seem to mind, only grunting and panting until he opened his stupid mouth to speak.

“You’re looking so obedient right now, like a fucking dog. Fuck, the way you clench around me. I can snap your neck right now.”

You spat in his face, saliva dribbling down your chin. “Fuck you.” you sneered in between gasps for air, your vision becoming blurry.

“You are, right Miss (Y/n)? I wonder what Dutch would do if he found out about this. I would have so much fun seeing you all turned against each other.”

You struggled to breathe even more and you began to see stars. Lips turning blue, just like the spots in your neck where he was squeezing. The chains were noisy in the harshness of his thrusts and you pondered if anyone would come check up on this whole scene before you would slip into unconsciousness.

“It would be a sight to see, witness Mr van der Linde put a bullet in your skull like the treacherous bastard he is, betraying his own family, and then, I can kill him as well. Two birds with one stone... But to see that--”

He released your throat, causing you to heave for oxygen, lungs burning at the sensation of fresh air.

“--I need you alive.”

His now-free hand chose to tug your bare leg over his hip instead, allowing him to ride himself into you at another angle. This nearly caused you to lose your mind once again, but in a mixture of pain and pleasure. Whom was really controlling whom, you wondered.

And in the building of tension and unexpressed emotion, you felt an orgasm begin to form in the pit of your stomach. It began at your lower abdomen, soon spreading to lower regions. You just hoped Milton would be merciful enough to let you reach it.

But would you be able to lie to yourself? Milton was ruthless, unable to feel empathy, or anything for that matter.

Unannounced, he thrust his hips upwards in one final jolt, his length throbbing inside of you as you felt him spill himself into your depths. He grunted through gritted teeth, and as soon as his high was over - short but intensely - he pulled out of you, releasing your body like you were some kind of animal he had accidentally touched.

You swallowed your whimper at the loss of contact, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. Needless to say, you immediately felt filthy, not able to clean yourself off of him. The pleasure that had been pulsating through you faded like a thin layer of snow in the searing sun.

Andrew Milton was still panting as he reached for his trousers, putting them on again, disregarding your climax completely.

“You know, Miss (Y/n).” he stated, looking you firmly in the eye as he hoisted your pants up again, gaze as cold as it had been before, as if he hadn’t just emptied himself within you. “I certainly hope Dutch will wait getting you out of here for another day or what. After all, what harm can it do?”

He tipped his hat, his stupid bowl hat, and turned to leave the room, abandoning you utterly bothered and angry.

“Get the fuck back here, Milton!” you screamed, hatred welling up in your chest like it had been pierced with an iron bar. “Finish what you fucking started!”

It was no use, you knew. Maybe, just maybe, next time...

#andrew milton x reader #Red Dead Redemption #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption 2 x reader #rdr2 x reader #smut

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thewalkingfanfictions · 5 years ago

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Impromptu Cuddles

"Imagine having to share a bed with Spencer during a case, only to wake up in his arms."

~IMPROMPTU CUDDLES~

Part One // Part Two // Part Three

Description: During a case, Spencer and the reader are forced to share a room with only one bed. Cute fluffy shit happens.

⚠Warning⚠: Mentions of a really bloody case, probably some cuss words. Unless repressed romantic feelings are a problem for you, then nothing else, I don't think.

Genre: fluffy fluff with a tiny bit of angst if you squint your eyes and tilt your head exactly fourteen degrees to the left.

Pairing: Dr. Spencer Reid (Criminal Minds) x non gender specific Reader

A/N: guys, this was supposed to be a one shot, and somehow it turned into nearly seven thousand words. How. I don't even know where I was three quarters of the time, but I love it anyway. I'm breaking it into two or three parts so it'll be easier to read, enjoy! (Also, not my picture, credit to whoever made it :))

Words without A/N: 2006

Masterlist

<—————————————>

"Alright, team, let's head back and get some shut eye," Agent Hotchner sighed in defeat.

We had just found the fifth body. This one just a little boy, barely five years old. The unsub had been on a non-stop murder spree for the last week and a half, and he didn't seem to have a preference point for his victims.

Nobody was safe from this monster. His first victim had been an elderly Nigerian lady, and his second was a body builder from California. He was just killing whoever, or whatever he could get his hands on. Not just humans was he after. We'd found carcasses of dogs and cats, all the way up to cows decorating his path like some messed up Hansel and Grettle bread trail. All with the same or similar COD.

We had been following his path of carnage all around North America and we still couldn't get a lead. Most of us hadn't slept in over forty-eight hours and none of us were in any position to keep working. So Hotch finally decided to step in and get us one night to rest so we could be in tip top shape for the next days of continued hunting. Or, closer to that than we were now, at least.

Right now we were in some little rag-tag town called Prairie, or something of the like. We'd been to so many places in the last week they had all started to blend together.

"The only Hotel I could find on such short notice is a little place called the 'Budget 8 Motel', they've got eight rooms currently open each with either a medium or a twin sized bed. They've got a point six five star rating and do not provide breakfasts, but do have small kitchenettes in the rooms themselves. Oh– fascinating, did you know that the origin of the star rating scale didn't come into prospect by motel owners until well into the-"

"Spence... we got it."

"Oh yeah, yeah, sorry..." Why do people always cut him off like that? Personally I find his rambling to be absolutely adorable. So what he has verbal diarrhea at times, it was better than swallowing all of his feelings and thoughts and letting them eat him from the inside like the rest of the team did. And I almost always learned something new every time. It was good information to know none the less.

I swear the entire ride I could feel his eyes on me. Every once in a while I would glance up at him out of the corner of my eye and catch him quickly looking in some other random direction.

All of us (except Rossi, who would be meeting us at the hotel) had been crammed into one of the suburbans, and with seven people, it was a squeeze.

Hotch was in the drivers seat with a pregnant JJ in the passengers, which meant that the other four of us had to squish ourselves into the three seated back seat. Morgan was up against the window on the right side with Emily pushed so hard up against him that she was practically in his lap. Then was poor Spencer who, despite his dislike of touching people, was trying his hardest not to be shoving Emily any harder into Morgan, which in turn meant he was heavily pushed against me. He was trying so hard not to squish either of us that he was practically folding himself into a profiler taco.

We soon pulled into the car park of the little Inn. If the inside looked anything like it did on the out, we were in for some fun. Heavy sarcasm intended.

It was already dark out and the one street light that decorated the car park was incredibly dull, and flickering dangerously. There were four other vehicles parked around the place, each more menacing looking than the last. The large rectangle garbage bin was overflowing onto the cement and the smell was absolutely rancid. We hadn't even gotten out of the vehicle yet. We all just sat there for a moment staring at it. Tonight was going to be fun...

"Alright," Derek clapped his hands, "I'll go in and get us our keys. Be back in a sec." He opened the door and spilled out of it rather unceremoniously, pausing before walking stiff legged towards the door.

"Finally, some room to breath!" Cooed Emily as she scooted over into Morgans previous sitting space, giving some wiggle room to Spencer and I.

I sighed heavily and flopped back against the seat, closing my eyes and counting the seconds until I could go curl up in a ball and sleep. What I hadn't realized, was that I had fallen asleep right there.

I was awoken by a quiet voice speaking in my fac, and soft warmth across my top.

"Hey, (name), come on its time to get up, you can sleep once we get to the room," a soft voice hushed.

Sighing, I opened my eyes to find Spencer's face above mine, one of his hands on my shoulder gently shaking me back to life. Glancing down i noticed a jacket layed over me like a blanket, how had that gotten there? I grumbled slightly but didn't object as he helped me from the back seat and to the ground. He helped me gain my bearings as we walked towards the office, filling me in that everybody else was already in there talking to the guy behind the desk, Rossi had shown up, and there had been some complication with the rooms that he had only just caught wind of as he was leaving to come wake me up.

It was unbelievably cold, I watched out of the corner of my eye as Spencer shivered slightly, but when I tried to hand him back what I quickly realized to be his jacket, he waved a dismissive hand and laid the jacket over my shoulders. I sent him a thankful smile and listened to him talk, just kind of humming along, not really paying attention to his words, just listening to the sound of his voice.

We entered the office and we both automatically went quiet, listening to what was transpiring between the office manager and the team.

"And you're sure there's no other rooms? Or at least some with double beds?" Came the deeper voice of Morgan

"Nope, sorry, all full," this voice was higher pitched, but still distinctly masculine. It held boredom and irritation.

"I don't think you realize, we are federal agents, we've been chasing a psycotic serial killer for the last week and a half, and we are all very tired. So I'll ask you again. Are you absolutely certain that there are no more rooms available?" That had to be JJ. And she sounded homicidal.

"I... I'm so-rry miss but... there.. There's no ex-tra rooms, I'm sorry..." She scared him into stuttering! If I didn't feel like I was about to pass out I probably would have laughed!

"You guys'll just have to... have to double up?"

Spencer and I looked at each other over their conversation questionably. Finally walking into the room, we were greeted by the sight of a very angry looking JJ, an Emily who looked like she could pass out right then and there, three agitated and exasperated BAU operatives and a tall chubby kid who couldn't have been more than fifteen, who looked like he was about to piss himself.

"What's going on?" I asked in a groggy voice that honestly didn't even sound like mine to me.

"Turns out there is only half as many rooms as we thought were open so, yay, we all get to bunk up!" Morgan said sarcastically in a very humorless tone.

''But there was eight. Who gets to be partnerless?" Asked Spencer, who hadn't left my side since we came into the place.

Of course, we all already knew the answer to that one.

Hotch was the boss, and he had been working quadruple time trying to catch this prick, I'm positive that he hadn't slept in at least three days, if not more, and by the look of his disheveled state—one of which he rarely ever showed—he probably hadn't.

Nobody bothered to say any of it, though, all silently agreeing on it.

At some point during our telepathic conversation I had started leaning on Spencer, needing all the help I could get to keep from falling over. And, to my surprise, he didn't get all awkward and huffy. He actually turned slightly so that I was leaning more against his side than his shoulder, trying to make everything a bit more comfortable. Once I actually realized what I was doing I straightened up some and mumbled slightly through a yawn,

"Mmsorrymmm," when I looked back over at him to see if I had made him uncomfortable, he almost looked upset. Oh, I had been making him uncomfortable, but he is so warm I kinda wanted to lean into him again. I bit the inside of my cheek slightly, trying to keep from doing exactly that.

I barely had the energy to lift my head up from staring at the floor. When I heard the tail end of Rossi and the kid behind the counters conversation, I internally groaned. Our rooms were on the second floor, and they didn't have an elevator. I sighed and slowly began trudging after the waddling JJ. Slowly we climbed up the stairs, the thought of a warm bed gave me a bit of a second wind after a while though. Climbing a bit faster Morgan and I were the first to reach our doors.

We both stood there a moment looking at our surroundings. Everything, and I mean everything was decorated with an unhealthy layer of graffiti, dulled slightly by the thick layer of dust that coated it all too. The smell of mold and the other dark things that hid in the crevices of the walls was almost suffocating. This was really the only place open?

Hotch and Rossi and the rest arrived at the top whilst we were looking. They seemed almost as disturbed as Morgan and I were. While the others stopped in front if us, Aaron kept walking, picking a seemingly random room and calling out a half hearted "g'night" over his shoulder as he closed the door behind him.

"Let's decide this now so I can go to sleep," Morgan spoke. His voice groggy with sleep and sounding almost irritated. "Who's sleeping where and in what room." His question had sounded more like a demand, and when Spencer stepped forward, obviously thinking it would be he to stay with in the room with Morgan, Derek quickly looked over to Rossi who was leaned up against the wall. "I call you," he demanded and headed off to a random room.

Spencer almost looked hurt. But when JJ and Emily went off to their room and it was just us two left, his features lifted slightly. Then tightened down into nervousness.

"Guess its us then," I mumbled, already aiming for the door to the room that Spence and I would be sharing. I heard him mumble something inaudible back and follow after me.

I twisted the key in the doors lock and shoved against the door with my shoulder. I stumbled inside and went straight towards the little bed in the corner of the room. The room was one of those two room things that had the living room, bedroom, and kitchen all in one and the bathroom out to the side somewhere.

The bed was an oddity in itself. It looked to be something like a hybrid between a twin size and the next size up. Just a bit bigger that a twin, and it looked older than I am. I was right. The inside of the building did match nearly perfectly with our first view of the place from the car park.

#Spencer Reid #Spencer x Reader #Bed Sharing AU #Fluff #Spencer being the adorable bean he is #Cuddling #Spencer Reid x Reader fluff #Spencer Reid x Reader Cuddling #Spencer Reid x Reader Bed Sharing AU #I swear #This was supposed to be a oneshot guys #Its over seven thousand words now #What happened #Impromptu cuddles #impromptu cuddles part one

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venusinverted · 5 years ago

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Oops this became an essay

Day 2: Favorite Symbiote @symbruary I gotta say, my favorite Symbiote is a mix. Sometimes it’s Venom, sometimes its Sleeper, and sometimes its Scream. But, really, I think what makes me think of a Symbiote as my ‘favorite’ is how they’re portrayed.

Symbiotes have had a bad rep since the 2000s, whereas before 99% of the time they were viewed as either evil because of their nature (needing hosts to survive, but being mostly uncaring towards their hosts, leading to the host dying. Venom was the exception to the rule, and his children were not) or because of who they were bonded to (Donna, Cletus). Once the 2000s hit, and I suspect this is mostly because of the 2003 The Hunger and Venom run, where Eddie is functionally the victim for no reason, and Venom literally overtakes his personality, I believe in the case of the Venom run. Writers took this notion of what we in the fandom call “muh evil Symbiote” syndrome and ran with it. Venom became a villain not only to Spider-Man, but also to Eddie Brock, who was once it’s love interest and partner. Anti-Venom and Agent Venom were created from this, and while I do love both (and consider Agent Venom/Space Knight/GoTG Venom my favorite Symbiote-host combo), they’re just... Not Venom.

What I mean is, they don’t have that feel that the late 80s and 90s Venom had. Venom was harsh in their judgement of whether someone was innocent or not, sure, but they also were fair and kind to those who deserved it. Anti-Venom, being one-half Eddie and one-half non-sentient Symbiote, carries that same harsh judgement and compassion, yet he is misguided in his attempts and overall comes off as a prick. We can understand why, but it still doesn’t make much sense. Agent Venom, being one-half Venom Symbiote and one-half war veteran and ex-bully Flash Thompson, is also harsh in judgement but doesn’t exactly hold that compassion, at least on Flash’s end. He does have moments of being softer, especially towards the end of Venom Volume 2 and during Space Knight, but overall he takes a “shoot first, ask questions later” mindset when it comes to fighting. This makes total sense for a soldier, knowing that if he doesn’t take the first shot he will in turn be shot instead (especially knowing how he lost his legs), but it doesn’t make sense for Venom.

When it comes to Venom Volume 3, it was a breath of fresh air. We get the Symbiote being vindicated, leaving Flash due to the government’s involvement and finding someone who ends up abusing it, showing the host is the one who influences the Symbiote, not the other way around. Then Eddie, having moved past his “fuck Symbiotes” phase, and having lost his technically-grandchild, Toxin, seeks out his old partner and they immediately reconnect. It’s a rocky return, sure, but Mike Costa brings back the genuine feel of the 90s Venom comics. They’re loud, proud, caring yet harsh, and most importantly, happy together. They show the side that’s been missing for a decade and a half, and this is what I love most about Venom. This was when Venom was my favorite, along with the 90s. And then... Well, we all know what happened next.

Sleeper was a natural progression for the series. Venom and Eddie were happy, content, and in a routine they were both doing well in. Throwing a wrench into the formula is a great idea, to stir up drama. And, well, a baby is a great way to stir up drama. How will Eddie deal with it? How will Venom? Will they seek help, or try to do it themselves? The set up was amazing, subtle, and until you’re told the twist you don’t fully comprehend why Eddie’s acting so strange. But when you do, oh it’s a big eureka moment. Sleeper’s birth was done perfectly, with both putting in the effort and protecting their new child. Sleeper themselves had very little time to be a child, but all the same they were an adorable little blob-son.

First Host furthers Sleeper’s character, giving him ambitions and a goal to work towards with his father. When Sleeper bonds with Eddie, one might be scared that this will take a turn for the worst, especially considering what’s happened to Symbiotes bonded to Eddie in the past. Yet, nothing bad happens. Eddie tries his best to be a good host, while also saving his partner. When Sleeper bonds to the Skrull (sorry, I forgot her name), he does gain a more soldier-esque mindset, but that isn’t such a bad thing. Sleeper singlehandedly saves his parent, and is shown to be strong enough to take over and fully lobotomize a hundreds of years old Kree. He leaves for space, but we eventually find out he was a mercenary for a while. When Tel-Kar dies, he seems genuinely upset over it. Showing some remorse for having gotten him killed tells us he may actually fall into some of the pitfalls Symbiotes tend to do, despite how unique and independent he is. His wild protection for his family, especially during and after Absolute Carnage, is great to see. He goes out of his way to protect Dylan, and isn’t exactly the angriest when Dylan uses him to protect others. He takes the form of a cat to be non-threatening, and be able to slip past everyone and spy on him. Everyone assumes he’s just a house cat now, including the fact that he stops talking. Yet, when he’s needed, he’ll immediately stop his disguise and come to the rescue. I love Sleeper, I love that he’s independent and doesn’t need a host if he doesn’t want one. I love that he’s smart and cunning, and will voice his opinions loud and clear. His spunk and strong-willed nature makes him a very fun and interesting character. He may even be my overall favorite, edging out Venom with his uniqueness, not even going into his chemokinesis.

On the other hand, Scream is only a recent favorite. She, along with the other Life Foundation Symbiotes, were mostly ignored both by writers and the general public. They were created by extracting eggs from Venom, and forcefully growing them into adulthood pre-maturely. They were then forced to bond with several security guards who worked for the Life Foundation. While Eddie did try to be a father to them (read: Eddie standing completely naked with his arms outstretched going “COME TO ME, MY CHILDREN!” only to be knocked out by all 5), he could never truly come to see them as his own. Venom didn’t seem to care for them, probably not seeing them as their own children (and back then they didn’t care about their children, anyway). When Donna, the Foundation member who was bonded to Scream, was murdered, that was the end for Scream. She was buried with her. No-one expected her to ever come back. That was, of course, until Absolute Carnage. Scream came back, albeit under Carnage’s control, and found herself bonding to Patricia, who once had the Mania Symbiote. Scream came to her senses, and tried her best to protect her new host, her second chance. Until Carnage killed her, and threatened to kill the only other person to show her compassion, Andrea Benton. Seeing this as another chance, however slim, she took it and bonded to Andi. Andi managed to break free, escape, and survive Absolute Carnage, however she was now alone except for her Symbiote. She fell into a depression, to the point that she tried to commit suicide (that Scream stopped her from, saying she was there for her). Andi and Scream slowly grow closer, until they’re actually good partners. Andi clings to Scream as her only company left, and Scream clings to Andi as her new start, a chance to be a real hero now. Though Scream was not originally sentient, she grew to have her own personality, a cobbled mess of Patricia and Donna and Andi’s wants and passions, but very scared of losing her partner because of how her last two bonds went. So, when she’s threatened with Andi’s death, she takes it very seriously. Though right now we’re left on a cliffhanger, I can’t wait to see how Scream saves Andi (or, alternatively, how Andi uses the Hellmark to save Scream). Scream is a special case. She was originally a Symbiote I was indifferent towards, not really caring much about her or her host. However, when I heard of Patricia returning, I was very excited to see it. When she bonded to Andi, I was a bit apprehensive, but now I can honestly say I absolutely love Scream and Andi’s dynamic. I can’t say she’s my favorite overall, but she’s one of my top three.

I can’t choose a favorite, I feel like it’d be hard to decide for sure who I like most. It’d be like choosing a favorite child. However, I can say for sure that I like a certain type of Symbiote. I like Symbiotes that are emotive, expressive, open and honest, and actually have a voice and feelings, fears and passions. Symbiotes that aren’t just a plot device or tied entirely to their host. Symbiotes that are a little unique in the best way.

#my writing #Venom #Symbruary #Scream #Sleeper

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the-lone-wolffe · 5 years ago

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Entity: Chapter 4, Rewrite

Warnings: Some blood, some violence, Summer makes dumb blood loss induced decisions, angst (??)

Summer’s run turned to a staggering walk as the adrenaline wore off, breathing heavily from the sudden exertion and burning pain in her shoulder. Looking over at the newly created wound, she saw that blood was quickly seeping across the cloth of her coat.

If she wasn’t already pale from the blood loss, she was from the sight of the blood. She looked away, instead turning to look at Ollie. The kid’s eyes were wide with terror, as Summer dragged them along. They didn’t seem nearly as exhausted as she was which was good. Hopefully they’d be in good enough shape, and have enough common sense, to continue running if PSAE found the them again. Summer swallowed, grimacing as a spike of pain went through her arm. Darkness was spreading across the edges of her vision now, causing her stumbling to get worse. She thought she heard Ollie call out, as she nearly fell. The kid’s arms wrapped around her, trying to support her. She took a deep breath, leaning on them slightly. Looking up, she spotted something that gave a small glimmer of hope- A lake. She smiled shakily, looking over at Ollie with blurred vision. “Lake, u-up ahead….w-we’ll be safe n-now, hun” Her smile fell slightly when she noticed that their destination didn’t seem to comfort them at all. They still seemed as panicky and worried as before “S-summer you’re bleeding…and you’re really pale…what….what if they come back and you’re too weak to run or use your powers?” Ollie’s grip on Summer tightened slightly, as they struggled to hold the woman up, glancing around as if they expected a PSAE agent to appear out of nowhere. Summer grimaced, blinking slightly as a new jolt of pain darkened her vision further. There was something she was considering trying...though blood loss and lack of sleep was preventing her from deciding if it was a good idea. “J-just…focus on…g-getting…to…the lake…hun…” Words were getting harder now, the more muddled Summer’s brain became. Ollie chewed on their lip slightly, but nodded, “Ok…..” After a few moment struggle to get Summer near the lake, Ollie gently set the auburn haired woman down, kneeling close as she wobbled. They weren’t sure if she was going to be conscious much longer. Taking a shaky breath, trying to collect herself, Summer raised her hand to her shoulder. This was probably a horrible idea, but given that she could feel herself slipping out of consciousness, she didn’t seem to have much choice. Exhaling, she grit her teeth as a shock of cold ran through her body. It seemed to force her into awareness, as her wound froze, frost coating the undamaged skin. She looked over at a shocked Ollie with a shaky grin, “T-there, I should be fine now, hun-“ Ollie turned her so they could look at her now frozen gun wound, staring in concern, “–Did you just freeze your shoulder?!? Summer…that could, damage your blood flow!! Or…or give you severe frost burns!! Are you insane!?!” Summer chuckled quietly, nodding her head “Y-y’know…I might just be….’least I won’t bleed out, yeah?” Ollie didn’t look convinced, but sighed, “I...I guess…” As the rest of her vision cleared, Summer slowly moved closer to the water and reached her hand in. Closing her eyes, she forced herself to focus through the remaining fog in her mind. Once she could feel the water cooling, she whipped her hand around in an arc around herself and Ollie. The action had caused a jolt of pain from her shoulder, but it was soon replaced with numbness from the ice. Opening her eyes, Summer could feel the pride bubble at the sight the of the shield she had created around them. This was definitely a big step from tiny ice emojis. Ollie stared at the ice in awe, before moving over to Summer and huddling near her. The young woman placed a protective arm around the kid, as she rested her head against the ice. It felt nice to finally get some rest, though Summer’s thoughts were now plagued with worry for August. The rapid blood loss and panic from being shot at had prevented her from thinking about her twin, but now that she was in a relatively stable state, it was she could do to not panic with Ollie so close by. While she hadn’t gotten good rest last night, Summer knew how tired August was, not just from the late night run but from previous all nighters where he watched over her. Hopefully, if the PSAE agent found him, he would be aware enough to react properly. Before she could even begin to think of the what ifs, a crack in the ice broke the peaceful silence. Ollie startled up and away from the ice with a shout, while Summer’s reaction was a bit slower. They both stared in horror at the cause. _____________________________________________________________________________________ August had barely registered the loud bang of the distant gun shot when his legs began moving for him, forcing him towards the noise with what little stamina he had left. He hadn’t told Topaz, he wasn’t even sure if she knew he had started running. Was he breathing? He couldn’t tell, he felt numb. Whether from the amount of running he had done in the past several hours or from the fear of what that gunshot could mean, he didn’t know. He stumbled into the clearing where Summer had met Ollie, panting heavily as he looked around. He didn’t know if this was where the gunshot had sounded, but maybe it was close enough. August was certain his heart stopped when he saw the blood splatter on a nearby tree. He placed a shaking hand on the substance, praying it wasn’t Summer. Or at least, if it was, that it wasn’t from a fatal wound. “Jeesu-Fu-Ahhh-!” He jolted when a hand touched his shoulder, whipping around to see a breathless Topaz. The purple eyed woman smiled through heavy breaths. “S-sorry love, didn’t …mean to...startle you” She saw the blood, swallowing, “I-is tha-“ “Don’t know...” August continued to stare at the blood, fighting back pricking tears. If Summer was shot, then this was no time for crying. He continued looking around, barely hearing Topaz’s attempts to comfort him. Pulling away from the hand on his shoulder, he stepped near what appeared to be a recently made path of crushed bushes and plants. He knelt down beside it, pushing aside broken branches. His breath caught when he found footprints. Finally a wave of relief hit, when he recognized one pair of the prints as Summer’s shoes. Topaz had crept over, looking over her auburn haired friend’s shoulder. “Is…is that…” “Summer’s shoes...” August finished for her, a hopeful smile appearing. “She’s alive, Topaz…” The young woman knelt beside him, pointing at the other pair of prints, “She has company” Before he could respond, a noise rang throughout the woods, one that turned August’s blood cold, as his newly found hope was replaced with dread. The noise had been a pain filled shriek a ways off, one that sounded eerily similar to- “SUMMER!” August didn’t hesitate to start running once more, forcing himself to concentrate on readying his powers rather than on what could have happened to his sister. _______________________________________________________________________________ Almost face to face with Ollie and Summer, was a masked PSAE agent. Cold, harsh eyes glared into their very soul, nearly freezing them in place. The woman wrenched her wicked hunting knife from the ice shield, slowly stalking around it, never breaking eye contact. Snapping out of her trance, Summer grabbed Ollie’s hand, and despite her weakened state, attempted to make a run for it. But the agent was faster, moving with near inhuman speed and grabbing Summer’s damaged arm, using the green eyed woman’s momentum to slam her into the ground. She let out a pained cry as her arm was twisted, tears pricking her eyes as her head began to swim. In the distance, she saw that the force of the agent’s actions had caused Ollie to be ripped from her, and thrown into the sand a ways away. Hopefully the kid was still conscious, and would run away. Suddenly, Summer could feel the air being pressed from her as the deadly agent pressed her knee into Summer’s back, pinning her victim to the ground. Despite the pain and slow suffocation, Summer squirmed against her captor…until the deadly knife was placed against her throat. Summer’s eyes widened, freezing immediately. Swallowing, she looked up to meet the agent’s steely gaze. Something…felt painfully familiar about those eyes. Suddenly, it seemed that time had stopped. Everything had become slower… And then the agent went flying off of Summer, rolling onto the ground close by. Ollie had appeared next to their auburn haired friend, panting slightly. Along their neck were several glowing, cybernetic patches. They knelt down, helping a shaking Summer up as she gratefully gasped for air. “I’m…I’m...-aassuming those…w-were… your powers hun?” Summer panted as she placed her hand into the nearby water, not taking her eyes off of the slowly rising agent. Ollie nodded, still breathing heavy. “Y-yeah…probably...don’t have t-time to...explain” The duo watched as the agent started stalking towards them, shaking with anger, rage replacing the coldness in her eyes. Summer couldn’t run anymore, she was in too much pain, to tired. A single moment where she and Ollie’s eyes met was all it took to confirm that the kid wasn’t running. Summer took her hand from the water, gripping the newly made ice dagger. Ollie used their powers to appear behind the now running agent, as Summer swung her dagger to block the incoming attack.

#Entity #Oc story #original story #original characters #fantasy #action #sci-fi #superpowers #blood mention #Mild violence #my writing #rewrite

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shenanigans-and-imagines · 6 years ago

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Old Habits

Peter Vincent x Reader, Angst, Comfort

AO3 Link/ Support Me on Ko-fi

Trigger Warning: Mentions of past abusive relationship

Summary: You are trying to rebuild your life in Las Vegas working for the infamous Peter Vincent, but the past has trouble letting go.

A/N: I have no idea why I wrote this aside from I needed to. I’ve been a slut for David Tennant since 2009 and back on my bullshit, what can I say? PLEASE COMMENT AND REBLOG IF YOU LIKE THIS!!!

Word Count: 3.3K

You told yourself you would never go back to Las Vegas.

It was a long decaying playground in the middle of nowhere that should had died along with the seventies. But, it was home. And when everything in your life falls apart, what else can you do but go home?

You had needed to get out of New York. Too many terrible memories and mistakes haunted every corner of the city. You need familiar territory, someplace to ground yourself in the here and now. Luckily, you still had friends you could rely on.

Jane Brewster was the first person you called when you had finally decided to leave. She practically demanded you stay at her place until you had one of your own. Charley was off at college and wouldn’t be back until winter break. You talked her down, and with respect to your pride, she conceded a motel room would be best for the time being. That didn’t stop her from reaching out to a friend about getting you a job.

You were certain the story of how Real Estate Agent, Jane Brewster and Occultist Magic Performer, Peter Vincent became friends was a long and interesting one. The fact you could never get a straight answer from either of them as to how it happened, however, told you otherwise.

He was a little prickly about your employment at first; but, once you showed him a resume the length of his arm detailing the performers you had been either personal assistant to or represented, on and off Broadway, he started changed his tune.

Peter Vincent was, complicated, to say the least. On the one hand, he was a dick. One could say it was just because he was a perfectionist, but that was being generous. Fright Night wasn’t exactly the Royal Shakespeare company, and he had a tendency to snap at other performers and make-up people alike when he was even slightly irritated. At the same time, he had his own unique charm, an indefinable manic energy that couldn’t help but draw you in. Pair that with his more flamboyant tendencies, and he could be downright entertaining. It left you in a constant state not knowing whether you wanted to laugh or smack him.

He seemed to understand your predicament and made it his mission to leave you even more confused than before.

You wouldn’t go so far as to say you were friends. You never hung out after work, or disclosed anything too personal, but there was a comfortable familiarity to your interactions. You could call him an asshole and know he wouldn’t take it personally, while he could call you an uptight know it all, with the assurance that all you’d do is give him a light-hearted eyeroll. In short you liked him. And slowly, the idea of Las Vegas truly becoming your home once more didn’t seem so terrible. But, like so many things in your life, the good things could never last.

You were standing in Peter’s apartment when it happened. Another show had ended, and you were going over upcoming appearances at various occult conventions.

“No, no, no, please I’m begging you. I am literally begging you, don’t tell me they put me on a panel with that prick,” Peter complained, pouring himself a drink.

You shrugged. “You can’t deny Chriss Angel is one of the few magicians people can actually name.”

“But I’m not a magician,” he defended. “I’m an occultist, there’s a difference.”

“You put on a goth-tastic special effects show wearing guy-liner and skin tight leather pants, name me a difference that counts.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, but settled on making an exaggerated grimace before taking a sip from his drink.

“Besides that, I already RSVPed for you,” you continued. “Rest assured there will be a cabinet of alcohol in your hotel room you when you’re done.”

“I know I should be insulted, but that really does make up for it.”

Your lip involuntarily twisted upward at his sardonic response. “And auditions. Maggie is going off on maternity leave soon. I’ve already sorted through head-shots and just need your approval on who to call back.”

You handed him a small pile of photos. He took it, making a cursory glance at each of them without bothering to look at the resumes on the back before he tossed them into two piles.

“Yes. No,” he said pointing to the left and right piles respectively.

“Okay, just remember to be there Thursday.”

He let out a long groan. “Can’t you just do that?”

“You’re the one who has to work with them.”

“Sure, but I trust you to know which ones are idiots and which ones are actually going to hit their marks.”

You rolled your eyes. “If that was really all you cared about, you’d just have me do it.”

“You could,” he said, sounding oddly okay with the idea.

“I don’t think I can pull off a pho-leather corset,” you replied, sardonically.

He didn’t say anything, taking a moment to look you up and down before tilting his head to the side in thought. “Well…”

You pressed your lip into a thin line and raised an eyebrow. Immediately his eyes widened as he attempted to back track.

“You’re right, you can’t.”

You crossed your arms, your expression making it very clear you were not impressed.

“Not that you couldn’t if you wanted to,” he floundered. “It’s just it would perhaps be inappropriate for you to…” He stopped, as a realization dawned on him. “You’re taking the piss, aren’t you?”

You broke as a wide smile spread across your face. “Only a little.”

“Right.” He straightened up, trying to scrape together at least some dignity. “Let’s just erase the last minute of conversation.”

“Already deleted,” you assured.

He smiled in thanks, but before either of you could say something clever, your phone rang. You didn’t bother to check the ID before you answered.

“Y/N speaking.”

“Hello Y/N,” an all too familiar voice answered.

You froze. You could feel the blood drain from your face even as your heart pumped hard against your rib cage. You needed to hang up. You needed to will your limbs to do something other than stand there. Your hand began the process of pulling away from your ear when he spoke again.

“Don’t hang up.” There was no urgency in his tone. Only a casual confidence, as if he were standing in the room with you instead of thousands of miles away. Logically you knew it wasn’t the case but thought of it made you stop. On instinct, you brushed your hand against your throat as if to make sure there was nothing pressed against it but empty air.

“How did you get this number,” you asked, trying desperately to keep your voice calm.

“Believe it or not some of our friends still talk to me,” he replied easily. That was always his trick, wasn’t it? An easy answer to everything. “I just want to talk.”

“I don’t.” Your hands weren’t shaking so badly as before now the initial shock was gone. “Goodbye Eric.”

“Don’t hang up!” he snapped into the line. To your surprise, you didn’t feel the sudden urge to obey. Before you could question why, you hung up.

Immediately your phone began to ring again. You denied the call, clutching your phone tightly in your hand as if that would suddenly make the vibrations disappear.

He had no power over you here, you remined yourself. Your mind was clear. You had control over your limbs and thoughts. There were no hands are teeth pressed against your throat. He couldn’t hurt you.

You were so determined to repeat those thoughts over and over again in your mind, you forgot who else was in the room with you.

“Y/N,” Peter’s voice cut through the fog. “Y/N, what’s wrong?”

You didn’t know what to say. The truth was out of the question. You weren’t certain you knew the truth yourself. But there was no hiding the way you were shaking.

He looked lost for a moment, shifting back and forth, still deciding if it was safe to come near you.

You flinched as your phone began to ring again.

Peter made the first move. In a single stride he crossed the room, pulled the phone away from your death grip, and practically threw it into the closest chair before covering it with a pillow for good measure. The vibrations where now effectively muffled leaving silence in its wake.

He turned to you, keeping his voice as calm as possible. “Y/N.”

You met his gaze.

His eyes were soft and a little unsure. It was an expression you had never seen from him, but you felt just a little better at the sight.

“Who was that?” he asked.

You didn’t want to say his name again as if repeating would somehow summon him. All you could manage of a small, “Ex.”

Peter nodded in understanding. You weren’t sure how much Jane had told him, if anything at all, but you knew he was smart enough to tie your reaction to why you left New York.

“What do you need?”

You needed to throw up. You needed a ticket to a desert island with no chance of him finding you. You needed a death certificate with his name plastered all over it. But at that exact moment you just needed to curl into a ball somewhere private.

“I want to go home,” you said.

“You sure that’s a good idea?”

You nodded.

Peter took a breath, before nodding himself. “Alright, I’ll give you a lift,” he said, swinging on his jacket. “Don’t argue.”

You didn’t have it in you anyway.

The elevator ride down to the parking garage was a silent one, for which you were grateful. You couldn’t really explain how you were still standing up right.

Peter led you to his car, and the pair of you sped off into the night. It wasn’t until you were clear of the strip and well into the desert that he spoke again.

“You sure your ex isn’t in town?”

The questions took you by surprise. You had been preparing for yourself for the inevitable “what did he do”. But, it was obvious the answer didn’t matter to Peter, all that mattered was how what he did affected you. You had never been so relieved in your life.

“I don’t think he would have called me if he was,” you said, having given the matter a great deal of thought. “He’d just show up.”

“So why call you?” Peter asked, confused. “Why not wait until he knows where you are?”

“I think he was hoping I’d just tell him. He’s…” You paused, trying to find a way to describe what Eric could do without sounding completely insane. “He’s got a way of getting people to do exactly what he wants.”

“How?”

You shrugged. All you could really remember was the way Eric’s eyes would penetrate yours before the inevitable fog overwhelmed your senses until you couldn’t tell up from down. Once again, you hand went to your neck. The scars had faded, but the ghost of pain remained.

“He just does,” was all you could say. “I guess it doesn’t work over the phone.”

Peter noticed your motions but made no comment on it. A look crossed his features you couldn’t name, but it left you wondering if he knew something you didn’t.

“Are you going to be alright?” he asked, not allowing you time to dwell on the thought.

You let out a long breath. “I don’t know.”

Eric wasn’t the first. He was simply the latest in a long line of assholes you had allowed to control you. You didn’t know how it happened. Everything started off fine, but sooner or things would start to happen. They’d start screening your calls. Girls nights would be canceled because they claimed you weren’t spending enough time with them. Accusations of cheating would be leveled left and right to make you feel guilty at even talking to anyone else. Then, one night, they’d take it too far and you would run until you found someone else and the whole cycle would begin again. Maybe Eric was the logical end to all this. Someone who could quite literally take complete control. Maybe you had been asking for this.

“Do you ever feel like you’re making the same mistakes over and over and over again?” you said, quietly. “You get yourself in or put yourself in a situation, and every time you know exactly how it’s going to end, but you go through the same motions every time and it never stops; because for some sick reason you don’t want it to stop. Because there’s…I don’t know, a comfort in the repetition.”

“You’re asking the barely functional alcoholic this?” Peter said.

You laughed. You were surprised you laughed, but matter of fact sarcasm in his voice paired with a reassuring smile gave you permission to do so.

“Well, you ask a stupid question,” you mumbled sardonically.

Peter shook his head. “It’s not a stupid question,” he assured. “I think it’s just something people do. Good or bad, you stick to what you know.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment, allowing the truth of the statement to float in the air a while. This was the longest conversation you could recall having with Peter that didn’t involve you either reminding him of an appointment or ending in some kind of banter. But what was weird was it didn’t feel weird.

Still you felt obligated to say, “I’m sorry I’m laying all this on you.”

“It’s alright,” he assured. He sounded like he meant it too, even as a slightly awkward expression settled on his face. “I’m not sure how to not make this sound bad, but it’s kind of nice to know I’m not the only one with issues.”

You blinked. “You’re right. There is no way to not make that sound bad.”

He winced, his mind clearly working very hard to find a way to back track. Given the circumstances, you decided to show him some mercy.

“But, I know what you’re getting at,” you said, with a half-smile.

You could almost hear his sigh of relief.

“I wouldn’t have guessed it,” he admitted, after a short pause. “You always struck me as someone who would never let anyone tell them what to do.”

“I try to be,” you admitted, as your insides turned over. “But, old habits.”

He didn’t say anything more, and you were grateful. You each had given more away than either of you intended.

Soon enough had pulled up in front of your apartment, but neither of you felt the immediate need to get out of the car.

“Do you need someone here?” he asked. “You know, just in case?”

You shook your head. “I don’t think so. I might call Jane, see if she can come over.”

He nodded, but that awkward expression didn’t leave as he ran a hand through his hair.

“Or, I can stay,” he offered, “if you’d like.”

You stared at him a moment. You imagined inviting him in. You could see him entering your small apartment with the pile of empty cardboard boxes still sitting in the corner of your living room. You imagined sitting down on the couch side by side, the space fading between you until you could rest your head against his shoulder. You imagined those warm brown eyes staring down at you, before you pressed your lips to his and--

You tore you mind away from the thought before it could go any further.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you said, softly.

A flash of hurt played out behind his eyes before he got the chance to hide it. “Right, yeah.”

“No, that’s not what I—”

“It’s fine.”

“I didn’t mean—”

There was a pause. Neither of you could look at each other, but you also didn’t want it to end the night this way. Why did you always find a way to make things complicated?

“Peter,” you said, taking a long breath, “my life is a complete mess. I’m a complete mess. Bad things just keep happening and I… I don’t want bad things to happen to you. I’m sorry, I—"

“Don’t,” he cut in sharply. “Don’t apologize for something he did.”

You stopped then. There was a conviction in his tone that made you have to stop, even as your heart rate spiked. He seemed to have noticed, and his tone immediately softened.

“Y/N? Please, look at me.”

You did so, and in that moment, you wondered how you never noticed just how wide and open his eyes truly were.

“Look I don’t know if I’m crossing a line, or behind the line, or dancing a jig on top of it, and if I am making you uncomfortable, I’ll hop right back over it again, but I just…”

He stopped running a hand through his hair to get his thoughts in order. “So, you’re a mess, that’s fine because that doesn’t stop you from being a good person. And you are, Y/N, you are a good person. You’re so good. And you deserve…fuck, you deserve only good things to happen to you.”

You could feel your throat tighten. The way his eyes bore into yours reminding you again and again of the sincere place his words were coming from. A surge of emotion flooded your chest until it spilled over into tears on your cheeks.

“Shit,” Peter said, immediately going into a panic. “Shit, shit, shit. Look, what I said, if I—”

“No,” you assured. “No, what you said was perfect.” You tried to get a grip, but the tears continued down your face as your breath shook. “It’s just…you’re really nice.”

Peter stared at you, clearly unsure as to what to do. “I’m not though,” he said.

A sad smile came to your lips. “Yes you are.”

Before you could question your actions, you cupped his cheek, and closed the distance between you, placing a gentle kiss against the other. Your lips landed a hair away from the corner of his mouth, his light stubble feeling oddly comforting against your skin.

He looked like a dear in headlights by the time you pulled away. Neither of you moved, for a moment. You could only take a guess at what he was thinking. For a second you noticed his eyes dart to your lips. You wondered if he would close the gap and kiss you properly this time, but he made no move. You had drawn the line in the sand, and he was going to stay respectfully on the other side. Somehow, that made having to leave even worse.

Without another word, you pulled your hand away and walked out of the car to your apartment.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Peter stared after you as you walked through the door and well after it closed. He could still feel your hand on his cheek and the warm of your lips against his skin. His heart pounded against his ribs and in his throat, it was making it impossible to think clearly.

He leaned back against his seat trying to calm himself down. You weren’t in a good place right now. Putting aside the general obstacle that you were still his employee; you had just gotten out of an extremely toxic relationship with a man who was either a class A manipulator, or quite possibly, some sort of supernatural creature.

Of course, he couldn’t say that. Not without proof. And he hoped for your sake he wouldn’t get it.

You weren’t in a good place. Anything you said or did tonight didn’t count.

He let out a long breath, repeating the thought like mantra over and over again.

He really had wanted to kiss you just then.

With a frustrated groan he gripped the stirring wheel tightly before mumbling softly, and with feeling, “Fuck.”

#peter vincent #peter vincent x reader #david tennant #david tennant x reader #fright night #fright night (2011)#tw: abusive relationship #tw: past abuse

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thethoughtsfromthreeam · 5 years ago

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Lady of the Lake

Pairing: Ginger Ale/Elizabeth x Merlin/Hamish

Warnings: Smut

A/N: We’re now in the same modern day timeline as California. You’ll probably wanna read Chapters 8 through 12 if you’re lost.

Reminder: I haven’t seen Kingsman: The Golden Circle, so I’m just using the Wikia, IMDB.com, some gifs, and my own weird ass brain to make up this whole ass story.

Tag List:

@zeldasayer , @romanticgumchewer, @tarrevizslas , @coolmaybelateruniverse , @the-feckless-wonder, @lavenderl3mons , @pascalisthepunkest , @mandoandyodito , @randomness501 , @fioccodineveautunnale [please message me to be added or subtracted if you were just here for some Jack Daniels goodness! I don’t want people being tagged in something they don’t want]

[PART 1] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4] [PART 5]

Part 6

California Dreaming

Today

Ginger was typing away on some notes when the door to the tech room opened. She looked up and saw Shirley walk in with her arms full of folders and books, looking every inch of the spectacular researcher she was. She stopped at Ginger’s desk and set down a large folder stuffed with papers. She looked up when Ginger spoked to her.

“Hey friend, I wasn’t expecting to see you today!” Her voice and smile were cheery, but it faltered a bit when she really looked at Shirl. Though the librarian’s voice didn’t give anything away, something seemed off about her.

“Hey Ging, here’s that file you asked for. I’m still working on it, but I didn’t want to delay what I already had for you so you could get started.” While her voice held steady, Ginger sense that something was wrong only grew. Her questioning face was answered with a tight smile and shoulder squeeze. “I’ll see you later, ya?”

“Of course.” Came the reply. Ginger knew better than to push her friend, but she worried, nonetheless. The research she requested was on three dead agents connected to the Chicago office and she opened her file as Shirley left the room and began to go over the case contents. Her work on the California case was heating up and she was certain she had been able to track the killer’s patterns.

She wondered if Shirley’s behavior was tied to the subject matter. She never said anything directly to her, but Ginger wondered if she should start asking someone other than Shirley to help on this case given her deep connection to it. Even if the woman insisted everything was fine, her friends secretly thought Shirley was just telling them what she thought they wanted to hear.

She was engrossed in her readings when Merlin shoved open the door and strode up to her. She looked up and smiled before she saw his face. It immediately fell when she saw the serious look he sported and began to worry when he saw the panic in his eyes. Merlin doesn’t panic, but he was now.

“He’s here, m’eudail.”

“What? Who?”

“The killer you’ve been hunting. He was in the library and spoked to Shirl.” Ginger’s gasp was loud, and she dropped the file that was in her hand. He stood next to her, but before he could say anything, Chai’s radio went off and Champ’s voice filled the room alerting her to the situation.

Ginger began to feel a creeping cold in her chest at his tone – he sounded scared. She looked through her windows towards the library across the hall when she saw Tequila stalk by with his rifle out and the doors to the library swung open as Jack strode through. Oh god, oh god, oh god, she thought.

“Oh god, Hamish!” In her fear she used his real name in the lab without thinking about it and in his concern, he didn’t notice. He put his hand on her shoulder and nodded towards the CCTV monitors. She nodded back and they hurried over, with Chai on their tail. With thirty monitors, three sets of eyes were needed.

“Focus on the library, Elizabeth, he was in there with Shirley.” Her hands shook at the thought that her sister had been in the same room as the killer, as the man who tortured her all those years ago. The cold in her chest soon felt like a block of ice and she tried not to panic. The last time she felt such cold was five years ago and she forced herself not to think of California or its aftermath.

“I don’t see anyone out of place on this thing, though and no one going into the library.” Merlin’s voice was rough with frustration. She looked over at him. She realized he didn’t know half of it.

“We think he’s a Statesman.” His head whipped around to look at her. “Everything Shirley uncovered years ago and everything I’ve been working on points to it. He knows our tricks, Hamish, he’s going to be hard to find because we taught him how to stay hidden from sight.”

Jack entered the room, clearly trying to keep his fear and anger in check. “Anything?” He asked, his voice giving him away.

“Give me a minute, we’re still scanning the halls.” Ginger murmured as her face was practically against her screen, looking for something that would tell her where the bastard was. “I didn’t see him leave the library after the call came over the radio, so he had to leave before.”

She suddenly stopped and Merlin looked at her with heavy concern. They both turned to Jack and yelled in unison, “Whiskey, the boardroom!”

Jack looked stunned and paused a moment before he whirled around and ran out of the tech room. Ginger ran to Chai’s desk and grabbed the radio to relay her findings to the rest of the team. Chai stood still next to the monitors while Ginger ran to a lockbox in the lab.

She drew out her keys and unlocked it, revealing several guns. She pulled out one and checked to see if it was full. She put the safety on and tucked it into the waistband of her pants before turning around to Merlin. He nodded and they left the room.

Ginger took a hard left at the end of the hall and she saw a small crowd already gathering at the doorway to the board room. Champ stood in front of it, arms out and blocking access to inside. Brandy, Vodka, and Tequila, along with a few other agents were standing outside the door, watching the events inside unfold. Even from the hallway, Ginger could hear Jack’s voice.

They elbowed their way to the front and Ginger lightly gasped when she saw Jack tussling with what must have been the killer. She felt both Tequila and Merlin each grab a hand and she clung to them for dear life. Her eyes wandered over the Shirley, who stood in the corner not looking the least bit afraid. The tightness in her chest eased at the sight, but she was still worried for Jack.

The fight seemed to last forever and when the killer slammed Jack into the ground several times while strangling him, Ginger couldn’t hold back her sobs. Her friend was being killed and Champ wasn’t doing anything about it. She felt Tequila’s hand get tighter and she glanced over and saw his cheek muscles jumping. She knew he wanted to jump in and save Jack. They were like brothers and it pained him to see it all go down the way it was.

“Oh my god.” Brandy’s voice behind Ginger made her jump and she looked back into the room just in time to see Shirley drop a plant pot on the killer’s head before stepping back.

“What the fuck?” he screamed as he turned around. Shirley stood there looking at him.

“Get off of him.” Her voice was low. He laughed.

“Aww, the kitten has come to protect her man.”

“I said, get off him, you fucking prick.” Ginger gasped and dropped both men’s hands to cover her mouth. The man turned to her and the cold that seemed to ease a few moments ago grew bigger in her chest until she saw Shirley draw a gun and point it at the man. When the gun went off, Ginger jumped a mile and let out a squeak. She then watched the woman she’d spent five years trying to avenge walk over and sit on the man until he bled out.

She started to cry again as Shirley ran over to Jack and they kissed. The killer was dead, and this exhausting saga was done. Champ stepped aside and Tequila and Ginger ran to their friends. They fell into a heap and Ginger kissed Shirley on the cheek and hugged her before Tequila grabbed her. Ginger held her hand out to Jack who took it and smiled at her. Their foursome remained unbroken.

Merlin stayed back at the door with Champ, watching the scene unfold before him. His heart eased at the lightness on Ginger’s face and when he was asked to stay to help with the aftermath, he heartily agreed. Happy endings weren’t staple in their work, especially for cases like this one, so he wanted to enjoy it while he could.

It was over.

---***---

Several Days Later

“So, here’s what I know and what Malbec and I assumed. . .” The authority in Shirley’s voice filled the room and she, along with Ginger, Merlin, Chai, Tequila, and Champ closed out one of the agency’s longest running cases. A serial killer had operated inside the organization for years and over forty agents, recruits, and even retirees had been murdered by one Agent Kirsch out of the Austin office. Chai worked the computer, compiling the reports while Ginger created the digital timeline. She looked at back at the faces on her screen and her heart clenched at so many lives lost.

“Ginger, call Jackson Hole, Port . . . I mean Kirsch . . . said he killed a female agent from their office two weeks ago.” Merlin made the call instead and as they watched, the headshot of a woman with sparkling green eyes and curly red hair looked back at the crew as it popped up on the screen. She had been known as Agent Bourbon and she had been only thirty-three when she was tortured and killed. They all sat silent and Chai’s quiet sniffles could be heard.

“God, I hope that is the last of them.” Champ’s voice was roughened with emotion. Knowing so many of his agents had been killed so brutally by one of their own was heartbreaking. But the bastard was dead, and he knew that they had to be better about ferreting out these kinds of agents and getting rid of them – by any means necessary.

“I’ll notify the offices of this news and I’ll work with Cooper, Tannin, and Oak to create new policy to stop this shit.” Champ stood up. “The least we can do is make sure this never happens again and that no one can use our work against us. But first, I’m calling Austin. I’ve had it with Rum.”

Ginger couldn’t help the smile the played on her lips. Looks like he was getting Mezcal as Austin’s new chief agent after all. Shirley also stood and said her good-byes before leaving for lunch with Jack. Tequila and Chai sat together, talking quietly and Ginger briefly wondered if anything was going on between the two of them. Elizabeth, you got sex on the brain, she scolded herself before turning back to Champ.

Merlin sat at the desk working on the digital files while Ginger and Champ chatted about technical protocols that they could put in place now.

“Damn. I think I need Shirley back; I have questions.” Merlin looked at Ginger. Champ held up his hand before reaching for the phone and calling his assistant, Tannin.

“Go waylay Shirley before she and Jack leave. We need her here.” He nodded a few times before hanging up. “She’ll get Shirl.”

As they continued to talk, Tequila walked up to them and joined the conversation. Much of the work he and Chai did gave them some understanding of a final count, but he was certain they wouldn’t ever know the final number. When Shirley walked in, she was smiling at everyone and Merlin pulled her aside. She stayed for an hour and together the two had a completed case file to share with the rest of the Statesman offices. The look of satisfaction on everyone’s faces was contagious and the dark cloud was fully dissipated, the five-year saga was at an end.

“Let’s get lunch, Ging, I’m starving.” Shirley looped her arm through her friend’s. No. Her sister.

“Aren’t you having it with Jack?”

“Not anymore, he’s gotta be in his meeting with Brandy about those transfers about now. I think they’re going to be the last ones for a while. Kingsman is almost at capacity.”

“Then sure.”

“Good, then I can give you an earful for interrupting me before Jack could rail me on his damn desk.” Shirley said quietly as she glared at her friend and Ginger coughed in shock before laughing almost manically. Shirl just kept walking out the door, dragging the hysterical woman along with her. Sometimes sisters could be such little shits to each other.

#ginger ale #halle berry #merlin #mark strong #ginger ale x merlin #fanfic #kingsman: the golden circle

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thereluctantinquisitor · 6 years ago

Note

“I can hardly stand myself.”

In which Ralon and Cyrus bond (sorta, in their usual antagonistic way) in the Herald’s Rest over a lot of booze…

“I can hardly stand myself.”

Lowering his tankard from his lips, Ralon snorted wryly as he regarded his friend. “Yeah? Well, I can hardly stand you either, so… we’ve finally got something in common.”

Slumped at a table on the upper floor of the Herald’s Rest, Ralon and Cyrus had outpaced and outlasted even the most diligent drinkers for the evening. Now, they were accompanied only by the sound of their own voices and the gentle slosh of ale, the evening limping into true night, dark and cold as winter finally reached the mountains.

“Yeah… fuck you too,” Cyrus mumbled into his cup, voice echoing slightly. It was about as civil as their conversations got. “Piss-head.”

For a moment, Ralon considered firing back an insult of his own, but he decided against it, his drink-addled mind wandering down a slightly different path. “That’s real messed up, y’know.” He jostled his tankard, stretching out one finger to point in Cyrus’ general direction. “You’re kinda stuck with yourself, Prickles. Might as well enjoy it.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Could shorten it to Prick?”

Cyrus gave a unimpressed grunt; the kind typically used to replace words like sure, fine, and whatever. “Y’don’t think I know that?” he continued, jumping back to before Ralon had so expertly insulted him. He leaned forward and attempted to plant his chin on the heel of his palm. It took him two tries before he met success, his elbow sliding slowly across the tabletop. “Y’don’t think it’s a fucking nightmare, being stuck in skin you don’t even want to look at?”

After regarding the thoroughly inebriated Orlesian for a moment, Ralon huffed and raised his brows. Or at least, he thought he did. His face was kinda numb. “Well, shit… you’re a miserable drunk.” Without missing a beat, he reached out and snagged a bottle of ale Cabot had fetched for them before heading to bed and poured it into Cyrus’ tankard, filling it to the brim. “That’ll do ya. Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with your skin. I mean, sure, the rest of you could use some work, but…” He trailed off, not sure where he was really going with the comment, then shrugged. “Guess I don’t see the problem.”

If Cyrus could have delivered a glare, Ralon was certain he would have. But, as it were, he just blinked slowly in Ralon’s general direction, one eye a little slower than the other. Eventually, Cyrus reached up and gestured to his face. “This.”

Ralon squinted, as though peering into a wishing well and trying to read the year one of the coins was minted. “Yeah.. gonna have to be more specific.”

Huffing, exasperated, Cyrus gestured again, this time running his finger along the lines on his face. “This,” he repeated sharply. “This shit right here. Fuck me…” Picking up his tankard, Cyrus dove in for another series of gulps. Ralon waited him out, saying nothing until the man eventually thudded his cup back down on the table.

“The… tattoos?”

“Call the Nightingale, we’ve found her a new agent,” Cyrus drawled, rolling his eyes. “Yes, genius. The tattoos.”

For a moment, Ralon just inspected them, eyes following the pale lines running down Cyrus’ face. Sure, they weren’t the most flattering things, but he had just assumed the Orlesian possessed a quirky artistic side that he kept buried under layers of snark and bitterness. Although, thinking about it now, the theory seemed beyond absurd. “Why’d you get ‘em, then?”

It seemed like a perfectly reasonable question, but the second Ralon asked it he knew it was the wrong one. Cyrus’ expression, more open than he’d ever seen it before, suddenly closed off, snapping shut like a door in the Antivan’s face. He broke eye-contact, picked up his mug, and drained the entire thing in a serious of deep, determined gulps. When he finished, Cyrus shoved himself back, stool skidding across the floorboards. “’m done,” he slurred, then staggered, barely catching himself on one of the beams that lined the upper floor of the Rest. Ralon pushed himself to his feet as well, reaching out to steady his squadmate. When Cyrus belligerently shook him off, Ralon frowned.

“Hey, we had a deal.” He moved in again, this time hooking his arm around Cyrus’ waist, ignoring the man’s protests. “No. Listen. We’ve had a miserable couple of weeks, so we were going to get pissed out of our minds and help each other stumble back to the barracks. Remember?”

“Get off. ’m fine,” Cyrus hissed, but as he spoke he swayed, first away from Ralon, then back against him, leaving the Antivan to bear most of his weight for a moment as his legs all but gave out. “F-Fuck…”

Also drunk but not dumb enough to chug an entire ale as a nightcap, Ralon staggered but managing to regain balance for the both of them. “Whoa, alright. C’mon, short-stuff. Let’s get goin’ before I end up carrying you back.”

“‘m… not short…” Cyrus’ feet dragged slightly as he walked, but he managed to keep them under him, much to Ralon’s relief. “You’re jus’… giant…”

Reaching the stairs, Ralon snorted, resting one hand on the railing to steady himself as he began a slow and careful descent with his precious Orlesian cargo. “Of all things to be in denial about,” he mused, but let it go, deciding Cyrus had been through enough for one night. Maker, he’d pay double for it come morning. “C'mon. Easy does it. If we’re lucky, we’ll make it back in time for Connors to whip up that hangover cure of hers before training.”

Cyrus groaned, the thought of training clearly turning his stomach. “Ugh. Kill me.”

Barking a laugh, teetering slightly as they reached the bottom of the stairs, all Ralon could do was sigh in solidarity.

“Well would y’look at that? Another thing we agree on.”

#dragon age fanfiction #ralon #cyrus #the dawn squad #reluctant writes #reluctant replies #drabble prompts #ty <3 #bladeverbena

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trustonlylokiposts-blog · 6 years ago

Text

Diagnosis: Chapter 2

Stark Tower and Nailing an Interview: chapter two.

I said my goodbyes to Koda and summoned an Uber, they smelled better than Taxis and I wanted to impress my interviewer. My long brown hair was pulled back into a neat pony tail, I wore a black blouse and a black pencil skirt, a green silk shawl, a modest silver necklace. I opened my phone and checked my messages, a few friends from the clinic I used to work at had all spammed me with questions, apparently I should have elaborated on where I was going to interview, and who I was going to work for. And who I was going to be my patient, or patients. I was excited

Trust me, I’ve never felt this excited before. I mean, practicing medicine for the Avengers, that’s insane.

I also had a few concerned texts from my mom after I had told her what happened the night before. Coming from a small town in Utah meant that we never had to worry about cat calling, potential rapists. I reassured her I was fine, and that Koda does a fantastic job of keeping me safe. As we neared the tower the driver broke the silence, “Stark Industries? What kind of secretary are you going to be?” I snorted, “Actually I a medical doctor. I am applying to be the Avengers on staff physician.” After a moment of really awkward silence, “Oh, my apologies doctor..” We pulled into the entrance and I stepped out, waving goodbye and rating him at a salty 5 stars. I stepped inside and walked to the front desk and cleared my throat, a women with a tight platinum blonde bun looked up at me. She plastered a fake smile and asked how she could help me. I explained that I was here for an interview for The Avengers physician. I let her scan my ID and take my picture which she printed off and put inside a little clip labeled “visitor”

I made my way to an elevator and followed the directions on which floor to head to, as the elevator made it’s way up the tower I began to feel slightly nervous, this kind of job sounded amazing, what if a more competent physician applied? I knew I was brilliant and was known as a prodigy, (not to toot my own horn) But for an opportunity like this, there had to be all kinds of amazing doctors applying. The elevator opened and I stepped out, woah. I was greeted to something I would expect in a high end Penthouse. A large open room with tall windows that boasted an excellent New York view, near the windows were several luxurious couches and loves seats, to my left was a bar that had more high-end liquor than the entire state of Utah could ever allow in a single building. “Ah, look at that our young doctor appears!” I was fairly surprised to see that it was Tony Stark who greeted me, I stepped forward and shook his hand with a warm smile, “My name is Doctor Julie Stirling, it is my absolute pleasure to meet you, thank you for this incredible opportunity.” Stark grinned at me and lead me to the bar and pulled out a stool for me then sat down and gestured for me to follow suit, which I did while trying my best to keep my jaw from hitting the floor. “Can I offer you a drink? Water, tea, coffee, I wouldn’t recommend alcohol this early, but you do you.” I chuckled and declined his offer as I pulled out of resume, cover letter, and a list of my references and their recommendations and admirations. Tony skimmed through the information I handed him and let out a low whistle. “29 years old and already such an incredible physician, young, brilliant, capable, a genius among men! You remind me of myself” Stark added with a chuckle, “I did hear that you abruptly left your previous job while cursing your employer out. Care to elaborate on that?” I bit my lip and felt embarrassment rise through me, “I.. It’s not like me sir, he is a very disrespectful man and I had enough. I knew my skills and knowledge were going to waste and I couldn’t stand being belittled anymore. Trust me when I say I am very professional and my bedside manner is excellent I-“ Tony cut me off with a wave of his hand, “Trust me I know about Doctor Wallis, that creepy old man has brought nothing but complaints from the people I’ve asked. Plus hey, I need something with the backbone to stand up for themselves. You’ll be working with some thick headed assholes, myself included. I need to know you wont be pushed around when it’s unnecessary.”

Tony looked through my resume once more and added “You are young, and you don’t have as much experience under your belt as the other applicants but.. That might actually prove useful. I need a fresh mind, something who is willing to take a step into medicine that may be more complicated than what other doctors have studied and worked with. And reading about your incredible track record of absolutely blowing away the universities you studied under I am certain that you learn quickly, and you’re fast on your feet too.” We talked for a little longer, Tony explaining how things generally worked around the tower, “Most of your responsibilities are focused on the Avengers, however if needed I will have you tend to Stark employees as well. However they all have their own doctor they see when necessary. I guess you’re just a backup when needed. But I don’t think it would come to that, plus you will have enough on your plate anyway. With keeping up with the team and building your understanding of erm.. Otherworldly beings, Dr. Banner is also adapt in medicine and is incredible and will work along side you when it comes to finding things that can keep up with different physiologies and metabolisms.” Tony stood and motioned for me to follow, “I like you kid, come with me, I’m thinking I want to hire you. But I need you to meet someone first. He has been so gracious as to agree and let us heal him. He allows us the possibility to understand Asgardians and well.. He has no choice to be here and isn’t quite healthy enough to do much about it anyway.” I followed Stark through a set of doors and was led down a hallway and through another set of doors, I raised an eyebrow when I noticed what looked like two SHEILD agents guarding the entrance. Stark breezed past them and opened the doors and walked in, I followed closely but halted when I noticed a hospital bed, connected to a few IV’S and a heart monitor was the one and only Loki. He was propped up on the bed reading a book. He was pale, way paler than he was when he was last seen on TV. His hair was an absolute mess and while he seemed tired he also gave off the vibe that he was still not to be messed with. Stark cleared his throat and introduced me, “hey Prince of Jokes, we have someone who might possibly be tending to you. Say hello!” Loki looked at me and I felt myself tense, How in the actual hell am I suppose to take care of him?

“Hello, worry not mortal, I am under very direct orders not to cause chaos, else I am thrown back into my cells on Asgard which would not be pleasant due to my current condition. It appears that aiding Thor in stopping the Dark Elves from destroying everything and consequently being stabbed by a kursed blade only earns me a break from my imprisonment on Asgard, to one here. To be a test subject for idiot Midgardians to use their barbaric technology to learn how to heal their precious Avengers.”

Tony rolled his eyes and said “Don’t worry, Thor was able to get some direction to help heal him, under these special circumstances it would be difficult to keep him from dying without a little Asgardian aid, they have provided strong drugs to give his body the energy and… Cider?” “Seidr” Loki cut in, “Seidr, anyway, that is some of what we have running through his veins right now. His body heals at an incredible rate but what went through him on that strange elf planet puts up a lot of fight. Combining drugs that keep his energy from draining we can allow him to do most of the healing on his own. What you will be doing is keeping a stable eye on his vitals and pain. We do have very potent pain killers for when he needs them. Trust me you’ll know. You think he’s a prick now? Wait until his ouchie is hurting, he’ll bitch at you until you either decide to give him the precious drug or kill him.” Loki rolled his eyes, “I would hardly call it bitching, if you even could fathom the amount of pain I am forced to endure while under the mockery of mortals you would be irritable as well.”

I looked Loki over then looked back to Tony, “I think I can handle him, at least as long as he continues to be relatively harmless.” Loki sneered but said nothing, Tony clapped his hands together. “Yes! Okay, I am going to offer you this job. For the foreseeable future Loki is your main concern. Keeping his pain under control, his healing on track and making sure his bandages are changed and infection is avoided. He may be ‘godly’ but he still is vulnerable at the moment.” That earned an insulted scoff from Loki that Tony promptly ignored, “Thor was told that Loki’s estimated healing time should be a month if everything goes smoothly. After Loki is healed we will go from there. Oh, because you are our on sight physician I have provided a modest apartment here at the tower. Your home will be located on the same floor as the handful of Avengers who live here. Thor is off and on when it comes to being here on earth, but you’ll get to know Natasha Rominoff, Clint, Bruce, Steve, and of course myself.”

Over the next couple hours I was given a thick stack of nondisclosure forms, another thick stack of pretty much everything that Tony and I had discussed before, a bunch of notes on dealing with Asgardians, more specifically wounded Loki, an in-depth description of my salary, paid time off, and work related perks. I was given a set of keys and taken down to what was called “Avenger’s floor” I walked to the end of the hall with one of Stark’s employees, she was a bubbly redhead who seemed super pumped to be here at all times. “Here is your home!” She opened the door and waited for me to enter before following me. “You have two bedrooms and two bathrooms, a full bathroom with the master bedroom, and a half bathroom in the hallway.” Alex, as she had liked to be called stood in the center of the large room. To my right the apartment dipped down slightly into what would easily be a modest living room, tall windows that made me feel a little light-headed reminded me of how high up I was. Although you really did get a killer view from up here, and there were massive grey curtains that I could pull over if I needed to. To my left was a large dining and kitchen area, it was also very open, it already had a dining table that could gracefully seat six people. Behind the table was a rather cozy kitchen, I didn’t need anything fancy, in fact this really was more than I was expecting. Alex let me take it all in before leading me down the hall, the first door on the right she opened and gestured for me to follow. “This is the guest bedroom but could easily be a study, or anything you want really.” The room wasn’t small, but not overly huge either. I didn’t expect to have many guests so a study would be really nice. Alex made her way out of the room and guided me to the next door, “and here we will have the master bedroom.” I stepped in behind her and looked around. This room had to be about half the size of my old apartment. It had a nice window that let in sunlight and fresh air without making me feel like I was going to fall to my death. I walked to the end of the room and opened a door to find a master closet, “Huh, don’t think I have enough clothes to come even close to fitting in here.” I laughed to myself but Alex tilted her head, “aren’t doctors supposed to be rich?” I really laughed this time, “yeah, but not starting out. I’m in debt up to my eyeballs. My last apartment was pretty much a cement box.” My preppy tour guide shrugged and opened the door to reveal my bathroom. A freaking Jacuzzi tub sat at the far end of the room under a beautifully arched window, gorgeous white curtains were tucked back. I took in the sight, a large walk in shower, a complicated looking toilet.. A Bedit? And a marble sink blew me away.

Alex left me to explore the rest of the apartment on my own, there was really only the guest bathroom left anyway, and while it was a nice bathroom, it’s just a bathroom. Tony had given me a week to get myself moved and settled in, then it would be time to work. I was actually pretty proud of myself for convincing Tony to allow me to keep Koda, (it was less “convincing” and more me telling him that I am a package deal and Koda comes with me.) I had to show him every ribbon she’s earned, ever certificate and proof of vaccines. But he agreed and I was excited to bring Koda on this new adventure with me.

#Loki Loki fic Loki x Female OFC Avengers fic

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vagrantblvrd · 6 years ago

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Under Restless Stars (1/1)

Summary: For someone whose kingdom was on the brink of war with his closest neighbor since he was a child, the Mad King is a reckless man.

Notes: Prompt fill for For @miss-ingno who asked for Kings AU Trevinwood with fool/master spy Gavin acting as a double agent sho was sent to spy on King Geoff and discovering Ryan's got a new head advisor(spy master???) in Trevor with the two of them trying to suss each out. (And then idk, shenanigans that got away from me. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯)

AO3

For someone whose kingdom was on the brink of war with his closest neighbor since he was a child, the Mad King is a reckless man.

Tinkers with his redstone creations in his laboratory well into the small hours of the night without so much as posting guards outside its doors. (The only concession, if it could be called that, is the hound that has taken to trailing after the king wherever he goes. Years past its prime and a limp from an old hunting injury.)

It would be all too easy for an assassin to make their way past the guards tasked with patrolling the castle. Past scholars lost in their work as they map the stars. Castle servants just beginning to wake, headed to their daily tasks.

Down, down, down to the rooms built to withstand any mishaps that might happen within its walls. All kinds of odd noises and smells coming from it that the castle’s inhabitants have long grown used to. No longer question as potential attack, and honestly, it’s a danger.

So easy for anyone with to creep down here unnoticed. To glide past the iron golems lined along one wall, red glow of their eyes dimmed as they wait to be called to action and put an end to the heir of a bloody legacy.

The same mad blood running through his veins as his ancestors who would have had the world burn for their goals.

For all the stories of his vaunted intellect, prowess in battle and terrifying creations, the Mad King is but a man, and man is so weak. (Flesh and bone.)

“You would think,” Gavin says, knife against the thin skin of the king’s throat, “that someone of your marked intelligence would have learned this lesson the first time.”

The old hunting hound curled by the heating stove snuffles in its sleep but does not wake. The golems stand still and silent, loyal as anything that has no mind of its own.

The king holds himself still in Gavin’s hold, respect for the blade stronger than whatever foolishness is running through that head of his. (Smart and clever as he is, he puts too much stake in his little mechanical wizardries, the wonders he creates, to keep him safe. Forgets that all it takes is a single blade.)

“True,” he says, amusement threaded through his voice. “Although I’ve been informed on more than one occasion that I’m anything but.”

Fighting an endless battle to turn his kingdom around, destroy the legacy his parents and ancestors left for him. (Making enemies in his own court as he decries the way of things that everyone insists are the only way, planting seeds of hope in younger generations and unsure if he’ll live to see them sprout.)

Gavin presses the blade harder against the pale skin, just enough for blood to well up along the edge of the blade.

“You have a great deal of enemies,” Gavin says, because that is a king’s lot in life. “You’re more of a fool than I to allow them this kind of opportunity.”

The king is watching him, not a speck of fear to be found in his eyes.

“Such sweet things you whisper into my ear,” he says, lips curving into a smile. “I may swoon.”

Gavin huffs, and lowers his blade as he steps back.

“Unfortunate that such a lesson doesn’t seem to have gotten through that thick skull of yours,” he mutters.

The king hums, a low rumble of that ever-present amusement of his.

Fingers pressed to the thin line of blood on his throat, a reminder that his foolish recklessness has consequences. (Arrogance, really, for someone of his standing to think himself invulnerable no matter where he is.)

“Have you been sent to kill me?”

Gavin studies him, takes in the lines around his eyes, faint shadows under his eyes. Cheekbones more prominent now than when he saw the man last. The tired slump to his shoulders only a select few are ever privileged to see.

“No,” Gavin says, and offers up a smile, hint of mischief to it. “I’ve been sent here to spy on you.”

========

“A gift,” Gavin says, ornately wrapped package in his hands. “From King Ramsey.”

A low murmur spreads through the room as their king steps forward to accept the gift from the delegation from a neighboring kingdom, just now arrived.

He’s wearing a high collar to hide the mark on his throat left by Gavin’s blade the night before, and it had gotten a sharp look from the man at his side. (Tall and slender, eyes that seem to miss nothing, and Gavin knows one of his own when he lays eyes on them.)

The truce between the two kingdoms is still new as these things go. Little more than a decade in effect, and still both sides eye each other warily. Spies sent to infiltrate the other’s court and to take up positions close to the kings.

Intrigue and politics and utter ridiculousness from two powerful men who hold true respect for one another, but are far too paranoid to allow old habits die. (Better this, however, than the assassins of earlier times.)

“I’m sure it’s very lovely,” the man says, plucking the gift neatly out of Gavin’s hands before Ryan comes close.

Gavin blinks, looking up to meet cool eyes sizing him up and a smile aimed at him that’s just a shade too sharp to be considered truly friendly.

“Trevor,” Ryan admonishes quietly, but says nothing as the slender figure hands the package to a waiting guard.

Trevor harrumphs, corner of his mouth ticking up slightly at the look Ryan gives him before he turns those cool eyes back on Gavin.

Dressed in the colors of a king not his own, and accompanied by people he’s known a fraction of his life. (Jealous and bitterly resentful of how quickly Gavin earned King Ramsey’s favor, had been granted such an important mission for someone so young.)

Ryan turns back to Gavin and gestures for him to rise, thanks him for the gift and welcomes him into his court, even as one his journeys to take up his empty position in King Ramsey’s. (Concession or compromise, and their lives little more than insurance against hostile intent.)

Through it all Gavin feels Trevor’s eyes on him, and wonders what game his king is playing now.

========

“Your accent,” a voice says, faintly curious. “I’ve never heard anything like it before.”

Gavin glances away from the view the balcony affords to see the king’s advisor approaching.

Sharp smile and sharper gaze that rakes over Gavin, cool and assessing.

“I doubt you would have,” Gavin says.

His family came to this continent when he was a child, and his accent has changed accordingly over time. No doubt he would sound strange to his countrymen now, earn a second glance or even a third. (Always an oddity.)

Trevor makes a thoughtful noise as he joins Gavin at the railing.

There’s a flush high on his cheeks, either due to the wine that’s flowed freely throughout the night or the cool night air.

“My parents came here when I was a child,” Gavin says, when Trevor looks to him, eyebrows raised.

He doesn’t do the man’s work for him past that. If he’s climbed to such a lofty position as one of the king’s advisors he should be able to solve that little puzzle with the clues he’s been given.

Until then -

“I can’t quite seem to place your accent either,” Gavin says, because it’s been bothering him all day.

It sounds similar to ones people from the north tend to favor, but there’s a twist to it that doesn’t ring true.

“I doubt you would have,” Trevor says, glimmer of amusement in his eyes as he looks over the gardens, clearly as fond of these games as his king.

========

The old hunting hound remembers Gavin, it seems.

Half-blind by now and too old for much of anything, and still this king, heir to a throne of bones and lies. A man with murder in his heart treats it as though it is still his prized hunting hound. Bringing down game twice its size, and fearless as a lion.

Gavin smiles as he watches the hound lumber to its feet, ear pricked forward and tail wagging slowly as it catches his scent. Limps its way to the entrance to the hidden passage that ends at in the king’s private chambers, sniffing along the edges of the tapestry concealing it and lets out a quiet bark.

“Oh, and what have you caught now?”

Gavin takes his cue and steps out of hiding, feels his mouth curve upward in a smile to match the one on the king’s face.

“Such a mighty hunter,” Gavin says, crouching to greet the hound.

The hound barks again, forgetting its training as it crowds him, tail wagging madly.

“He’s missed you.”

Gavin looks up, and feels a smile sitting crooked on his lips for a the man standing before him. (King he may be, but still a man for all the responsibilities and burdens of his position. The rumors and stories that amount to little more than lies when it comes to the sort of man he truly is.)

Years since they last saw one another, Gavin sent to do his duty for his adopted kingdom, his King. Far from the only home he ever truly knew, alone with only his wits and what training his parents had been able to give him before their deaths. (Far too young to truly understand the dangers inherent in such a task ahead of him.)

And now, through some strange twist of fate he’s returned home.

“Yes,” Gavin says, because the hound is clear about its feelings in ways humans rarely are. “That much is obvious.”

The King - Ryan - snorts, expression softening as he holds out a hand to Gavin, small smile on his face and warmth in his eyes.

“I’ve missed you too,” he confesses, and Gavin goes to him as easily as he ever has.

========

The retinue that accompanied him here have left, short words and little sneers. Glad to see the last of him, unaware the feeling is mutual. (Too certain of their own import and how lucky Gavin was to be graced by their presence, no matter how undeserving he was to think otherwise.)

And now, Trevor is watching him.

Has moved on from keeping a wary on King Ramsey’s men when they were in the castle as honored guests to all but spying on Gavin.

Clever man with all the right words and excuses for being the same place as Gavin, but the man is watching him. (Sharp and clever and he reminds Gavin of nothing so much as the ravens the royal family have kept in the castle since it was built.)

In the morning after Gavin’s had his breakfast and that itch beneath his skin to make sure this fool of a King hasn’t allowed his security to become too lax. (He wouldn’t, Gavin knows. All too aware of the reputation his family has garnered and how so many fear he is like so many others who have worn the crown in this kingdom, but the man is infuriatingly reckless with his own safety.)

A stroll through the gardens where they scaled the wall as kids, stupid and reckless and an entire forest full of wild things who obeyed the oldest, truest laws and cared little for the petty ones humans came up with. Down to the stables where Gavin would play with the kittens birthed to the cats who kept the mice and rats under control, small fuzzy things on wobbly legs and demanding voices. The prince with a young pup tumbling along behind him, gifted to him by his father when he was old enough to join in the hunts. (For all that Ryan’s parents were tyrants, they did love him in their own way. Spoiled him when they could.)

“I’d hate for you to become lost,” Trevor says, as they come back ‘round to the stables. “This castle can be like a maze at times.” He looks around briefly, and leans in as though confiding a secret. “I’ve heard there are even hidden passages, and who knows where they could lead!”

Gavin slants a look a Trevor, takes in his expression of dismay at the thought of Gavin lost and wandering the castle’s halls. Perhaps stumbling on one of those hidden passages and coming to harm in some way. (A pity, really.)

A knowing look in Trevor’s eyes and a hardness beneath it that tells Gavin he knows about his nightly visits to the King’s chambers.

“I wouldn’t worry,” Gavin says, and he’s spent enough time playing the tedious little games nobles love to play, words made into weapons as dangerous as any blade. “I have an excellent sense of direction, and always go where I intend to.”

Trevor inclines his head in acknowledgment, look in his eye that makes Gavin wonder what might happen if he were to make an enemy of such a man.

========

If he had any choice in it, Gavin thinks, Ryan would have been a scholar of some sort.

Allowed to tinker and create, to learn, to his heart’s content.

Ink staining his hands, charcoal and chalk absently wiped on his cheek, forehead. Ruined robes and light of discover in his eyes and finally, finally content. (No dire conspiracies of life and death matters, no assassins sent to collect his head as proof of his death. No enemies plotting his downfall.)

Gavin watches him as he parades his latest creations and inventions before him, shy little smiles and awkwardness only a few have ever seen.

Here, with Gavin and the old hound as his own witnesses, Ryan is no king.

Here he is the bright young man he should have been allowed to be, had it not been for his family’s legacy.

“And this,”Ryan says, setting some strange contraption in front of him with a small flourish, “is Archibald.”

Gavin bites his lip as he examines the contraption. Soft glow of redstone, low hum of machinery at rest, and an utterly ridiculous name.

“And what,” Gavin mimics, fighting a grin at the raised eyebrow it earns him. “What does Archibald do?”

Ryan sputters, for surely it should be obvious at first glance, and yet.

Gavin feigns confusion, poking at Archibald until Ryan slaps his hand away with a scandalized gasp and demonstrates what his invention is meant to do.

Clever fingers manipulating buttons and small levers and an ominous grinding noise followed by Ryan’s quietly alarmed, “That’s not right.”

And then Archibald begins spewing out black smoke as Ryan frantically ties to set things right, look of mild panic on his face and low mutter and Gavin failing to smother his laughter. (Some things never change.)

========

“There is something about you,” Trevor says, catching Gavin on the archery range. “I cannot put my finger on it.”

Gavin gives him a look, because the man is not wrong.

“Odd,” Gavin says, watching as Trevor waits for the targets to be set up. “I could say the same about you.”

Trevor gives him a sharp look.

Ryan favors him, Gavin knows.

Speaks to Trevor as a true equal, gives him these small, sweet smiles when he thinks no one is looking. (As careful as Ryan is, someone is always looking and Gavin was raised to this. Taught games as a child by his parents that have made him an indispensable tool, weapon, for his King.)

“Would you care for a wager?” Gavin asks, checking the fletching on an arrow, edge of challenge in the smile he gives Trevor. “Friendly, of course.”

Trevor eyes him for a long moment, and Gavin can see him considering the wisdom of such a thing against the valuable information he can gather if he’s shrewd about it.

“I’m certain what skill I have could never compare,” Trevor says, eyes downcast as speaks, ever respectful of their positions even as he adjusts the bracer on his arm, movements confident and sure. “I wouldn’t want to presume.”

Gavin snorts, amusement building as Trevor looks up at him, corner of his mouth quirked. (Sly bastard, and thinks he understands what Ryan must see in him.)

“Humor me.”

========

It’s odd, being at court and knowing no one remembers him.

Would never look at the young noble in his finery and connect him to the bumbling fool that amused the King for so many years.

Masks and costumes and bells that rang out merrily as he tumbled across the floor for the king’s amusement. Pantomimes and pratfalls, silly props and sillier dances. (The scrawny boy who ran wild with the king when they were young, getting into mischief and paying heavily when they were caught. Flimsy excuses and blatant lies to draw the wrath of the king and queen to himself.)

“Do you miss it?” Ryan asks, voice dropped to a whisper as his new fool struggles to keep the eggs he’s juggling aloft.

A careful act, and he knows few watching have caught the lie. Know the sort of training it takes to make the fool’s bumbling, clownish antics so believable when the man moves like someone fully in control of his body.

“At times,” Gavin says, allowing his gaze to rove over the nobles watching the fool, all their petty games and machinations forgotten for the moment.

The anonymity acting as the king’s fool had afforded him had been invaluable, however -

The fool lets out a dismayed cry, and Gavin watches as gravity wins out, eggs falling out of the air. A few strike the fool himself, the other break as they hit the ground, and the audience cheers madly, laughter and clapping as the fool stands there befuddled.

“I find I ruin less clothing this way,” Gavin admits, smiling as Ryan chuckles quietly.

========

Trevor finds him in the hallway one night as Gavin prepares to visit Ryan.

Cool look in his eyes and this faint downturn to his mouth, mouth opened to speak -

There’s a sound, a noise that doesn’t belong, and they both freeze. Cock their heads, Gavin’s hand dropping to the small dagger he always carries. (A farewell gift that has saved his life countless times.)

He sees Trevor mirror him, catches a flicker of a smirk and then they’re moving. Silent as death through the stone corridors, soft hiss from Trevor as they come across a pair of guards sprawled in a pool of their own blood with their throats cut.

“Dammit,” Trevor says, staring at the bodies.

Gavin catches his eyes, jerks his head towards the only direction they could be headed.

“Ryan,” Trevor breathes, eyes widening, and suddenly Gavin understands why he’s been so...prickly when it comes to Gavin.

A stranger who’s been sent here by King Ramsey not so much as an act of goodwill but as insurance. Exchanged for one Ryan’s nobles to ensure their truce holds true, and yet. (Unaware of the truth of things, the lies within lies and Gavin’s true role in things, and simple jealousy.)

“The king,” Gavin reminds him, and they're moving again.

Pass a dead servant, doused torches and shadows growing darker.

They pause at a junction, Trevor turning his head to say something when Gavin senses movement, and acts without thinking as he dives for him. Feels the rush of air as a blade cuts through the air where he’d been standing and hears a wordless snarl.

“Go!” Gavin yells, pushing Trevor ahead of him, trusting him to protect Ryan while he deals with this distraction.

Trevor hesitates for a brief moment, but then a hard look comes into his eyes and he nods sharply – duty first – and runs down the corridor.

Gavin laughs, and turns to the dark-clad figure glaring at him.

Huge, hulking figure glaring at him over the cloth pulled up to hide his face. Heavy broadsword in his hands and stance of a fighter.

A mercenary, perhaps, hired to kill a king and not expecting much in the way of obstacles like Gavin and Trevor. (No remorse at the deaths of mere guards and servants, and Gavin shoves his anger down at the thought.)

Gavin smirks, drawing his blades and stalks forward to meet this utter fool who thinks he can win against someone like Gavin. (Trained from birth by his parents, the sword-fighting lessons he took alongside Ryan as children even though he preferred his knives and bow. Everything he’s learned since then in service to his king.)

========

He can hear Ryan arguing with Trevor.

Even behind heavy wooden doors reinforced with cold steel, the sound carries. (Dark passages that twist and wind, leading to a hidden chamber few know about. Last hideaway before being forced the flee the castle altogether.)

Anger and concern against so much more, and it causes him to smile. Pulls his focus from the sting in his side and the way he reeks of blood as he knocks.

Simple enough pattern, long memorized. (Silly secret for a fine pair of idiots.)

The voices cut off abruptly, and Gavin stands still waiting for the door to be opened.

Finds himself staring down the length of a blade, cool eyes and hard expression and prepared to kill anyone who poses a threat to Ryan.

“Quite the stubborn one, isn’t he?” Gavin asks, lips quirking at the little flicker of annoyance in Trevor’s eyes, rueful agreement.

Before Trevor can say anything, Ryan is pushing his way past, heedless of the possible danger.

“You’re hurt,” Ryan says, frown on his face, everything else locked away.

Gavin hums in agreement as he allows Ryan to pull him into the small room, hears Trevor locking up behind him,

“A scratch,” he says, even though it’s a bit more than that. “I’ll heal.”

Ryan sends him a dubious look as he insists on checking the wound itself. Helps Gavin remove his clothing to reveal the gash down his side, shallow and bleeding sluggishly. Mouth turning down as he brushes his fingers across the dark bruising already beginning to form along Gavin's ribs, a lucky blow from the mercenary.

“A scratch,” Ryan mimics, gratefully accepting the clean cloths Trevor brings him, a shallow bowl of water. “A scratch.”

Gavin huffs, watching fondly as Ryan sets about cleaning the blood away for a moment before he looks to Trevor.

Expression carefully blank, hands at his sides and a spatter of blood across his chest, the side of his face.

“The situation has been dealt with?”

Gavin came across other mercenaries on his trek here. A handful at most, lesser fighters who seem to have been picked for ability to move quickly and stay in the shadows. All easily dispatched and no real challenge, urgency speeding him here.

Trevor’s expression thaws slightly, and he smiles grimly.

“My most trusted is searching for any we may have missed,” he says. “They will not expect him.”

Gavin cocks his head, but Trevor simply raises an eyebrow.

“You both act as though I’m helpless,” Ryan says, mulish and stubborn. “I am your king.”

Gavin looks to Trevor, sees the same fondness he knows will be in his own eyes, because this fool of a king.

“Exactly,” Trevor says, warmth to it that has Gavin smiling in spite of himself. “Which is why it is our duty to protect you, even from yourself.”

Ryan opens his mouth to protest, and Gavin grins as he sits back and watches the two of them argue in circles as they wait for Trevor’s man to bring word to them.

========

Trevor spends most of time in the coming weeks rooting out conspirators. Brings forth a young noble with terror in his eyes and desperate pleas for mercy on his lips. Claims he was led astray, young and foolish and easily manipulated.

Related to several important figures in the kingdom. Crucial figures it would be foolish to anger, and is put under guard while Ryan contemplates what to do.

Pressure on all sides to act quickly, lest he be seen as weak, and no safe harbor to be found. New enemies he can’t afford to make, and it weighs on him.

Gavin is prepared to act on his part when word comes that the young noble was found dead one morning. A note of confession saying the guilt and shame became too much to bear, and so he’d chosen to take his own life, and hopes it will be enough to pardon his soul of his crimes.

Ryan offers up pretty words of condolences, smoothing any ruffled feathers and seeing to the welfare of his kingdom with Trevor at his side. (Gavin notices the light of satisfaction in his eyes, and says nothing.)

========

Gavin steps out of the hidden passage and stops at the sight Ryan and Trevor make.

Both of them frowning mightily at the chessboard between them.

Ryan doesn’t look up, seemingly engrossed in whatever strategy he’s planning, but Trevor -

There’s a nervousness to his movements when he sees Gavin, fingers fluttering before stilling against the wood of the table being used for their game. Still unsure about these “chance” meetings Ryan keeps arranging, quiet moments for just the three of them. (Unsure, but still he stays. Doesn’t beg off with some excuse or other, and it’s...promising.)

The old hunting hound is curled up at Trevor’s feet, lightly dozing.

As Gavin moves closer, Ryan looks up at him.

“Excellent timing,” he murmurs. “Trevor seems to think he can still win this.”

“Oh?” Gavin asks, aware of Trevor watching the two of them, stilling as Gavin rests a hand on his shoulder, as he studies the board. An uneven number of pieces resting off to either side and a bitter battle being waged on the board, while there’s an all too familiar air of smugness to Ryan. “I wonder why that is?”

Ryan raises an eyebrow, and Trevor laughs quietly, a lovely sound Gavin could become used to.

“He’s reckless,” Trevor says, relaxing slightly as Gavin takes a seat in the char set aside for him. “Makes foolish choices.”

That, Gavin knows well.

Ryan still thinks like a king at times, even with all the lessons Gavin’s parents taught him in secret. Lessons Gavin, and no doubt Trevor, have seen fit to continue. (And while it’s true that Ryan is a quick study, he has so many things to unlearn first.)

Gavin looks to Trevor, laughter building in his chest as he reaches out to make his move, brilliant bit of misdirection that costs Ryan a powerful piece on the board to Ryan’s disbelief.

“Reckless,” Trevor repeats, sly curl to his grin.

Another thing about Ryan that Gavin knows well, but as often as he calls the man foolish, it’s always to d with his own well-being, safety.

“Did you know,” Gavin says, “there was a time, when he was younger that it got him into trouble?”

More than once, really, and Gavin at his side in all of it, no matter that he was supposed to protect him.

Trevor perks up, delighted smile on his face and mischief in his eyes at Ryan’s put upon sigh.

“Do tell,” he says, settling in to listen.

Gavin glances at Ryan, sees the crooked smile on his face, and laughs. (Reckless and foolish, he may be, but he’s also a talented strategist. No mystery what he’s after with all of this, but seeing the look on Trevor’s face and Gavin’s own interest, he thinks it’s a victory they’re willing to allow him.)

#freewood #trevinwood #ragehappy #miss-ingno #Prompt Fills #kings au #Kings of Nowhere #vagrant fic #¯\_(ツ)_/¯

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