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shurisneakers · 4 years ago

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shut in [4]

Summary: When your high profile mission goes terribly wrong, you’re forced to hide in a safehouse with a man you’ve never met before. With seemingly nowhere else to go, you’re forced to work together to figure out who is trying to have you assassinated before it’s too late. (Sam Wilson x Reader, Hitman AU)

Warnings: cursing, threats

Word count: 3.7k

A/N: greetings everyone!! how are we all doing? i have nothing to say here tbh so anyway stan sam wilson being a lil shit whenever possible.

i also appreciate feedback so if you would like to, please consider dropping me an ask or comment ly guys!! also if you want to be on the taglist, it’s mentioned at the bottom of the chapter.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing <333

Previous Part || Shut In Masterlist

“I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Alright, thank you.”

You hung up the call, trudging back to the house, discarding the battery along the way.

The air had a chill to it and there was an occasional breeze that went past, rustling leaves providing an eerily comforting background score. The temperature tended to rise as the day went on but nights were especially cold due to the abundance of trees.

Even though the stress of the situation you were in constantly consumed all your waking thoughts, you still found the time to appreciate how beautiful your surroundings were.

The last few days were barely memorable. Sam and you tended to stay out of each other's way unless your meal time coincided or you watched the local news together. The schedule had worked out favourably.

He wasn’t very hard to live with.

Most of the time.

His commentary and small jokes were never-ending but were not as unwelcome as you initially thought. It brought some much needed light into your otherwise dreary day. When it came to figuring out how to do laundry due to your now extended stay or whose turn it was to do it, things got a bit messy but were resolved quickly.

He used to disappear often for hours on end. You never concerned yourself with going after him to find out where he went, figuring that unless he was hatching a plot that led to your demise, he was entitled to his own privacy. He’d return a while later, calmer than when he left.

It was fine. Nothing to write home about. Neither of you were dead yet.

“What are you doing on the bed?” You were reconsidering your last thought when you walked into the bedroom to resume your self-interrupted sleep, only to find him face down on the sheets. “It’s my day today.”

“Just give me some time. I’ll be out of here soon enough.” His voice was muffled as he spoke into the sheets.

“You can take all the time you need tomorrow when it’s your turn.” You swatted at his legs, earning a grunt of chagrin from him.

“Go eat some soup and maybe you’ll calm down,” he fired back, unmoving.

“Today’s not soup day. Which you would know if you paid attention to our schedule. That we made. Together. The same schedule which says it’s my turn today.”

He groaned, shoving his face deeper into the pillow. “My back’s killing me. Just give me a few.”

“Why, what’d you do?” you asked curiously, letting go of his leg.

“Combat training. Took a few beatings, fucked up my spine.”

“Does it hurt a lot?”

“It comes and goes.” Sam finally rolled onto his back, giving you a view of his face. His bone structure was amazing, even from quite possibly the ugliest angle you could have over him. “You should’ve seen the other guy.”

You just stared at him as he linked his arms behind his neck, elevating his head to look at you. He had a small stubble that was starting to grow longer. You wondered if he would shave it. He looked good regardless.

“How’s your beloved?”

“Huh?”

“The person you keep sneaking around to talk to on the phone. I’m not your dad, y’know. You can talk to them inside the house, ‘m not gonna ground you,” he quipped, a small, teasing smile on his face.

“He’s not my lover. Just... an acquaintance.” You felt the awkwardness starting to set in after you trailed off. “Anyway since you’re awake, we need to talk.”

“‘Bout what?”

“What happened that day. We’ve been avoiding it but we need to figure out what went wrong. Or at least a clue.”

“Okay,” Sam agreed, wincing as he sat up straight. “How do you want to do it?”

“Just talk me through how you got put on this mission and what exactly happened that day, I guess.” You took a place on the bed, leaning backward on your hand for support.

He nodded, delaying for a second to collect his thoughts before beginning.

“So basically-”

The sun was particularly relentless that day.

The ringing bell above the door of his favourite coffee shop was a welcoming sound. The barista smiled at him in greeting, asking if he wanted his usual to go.

His park bench was empty as it always was. Sam liked to think of it as a small gift from the universe; the fact that it was perpetually unoccupied.

He liked to sit there and watch people’s day go by. His iced coffee-

“I don’t really require that much detail.”

“Patience. I’m getting there.”

It was arguably one of the most peaceful days he had had in awhile, and he was hoping to keep the streak going. Nothing seemed like it would phase him, not even the phone ringing, drawing his attention away from the scene in front of him. Caller ID didn’t trace who it was.

“Hello?”

“Wilson.”

Sam gripped the cup so hard he thought it might spill over onto his jeans.

“I told you not to call me, Ransone.”

“But honey we had such a good time last night,” he faux cooed, “You know I have needs-”

“I’m not getting involved in your stupid organisation, Vincent. I told you I’m done,” Sam broke in, not wanting to waste time listening to his stupid dramatics.

“Listen here, Wilson.” The swift change in his tone was looming, threatening. “You’re done when I say you’re done-”

“Wanna bet?” Sam took a sip of his coffee. “I thought we made it clear in Detroit that we’re done. Honey.”

He added the last part out of pure spite just to get a rise out of him. Much to his glee it seemed to work as Ransone let out a deep exhale before continuing.

“That was before we found out there’s a mole in my gang. I want you to kill him.”

“This is way below my pay grade. Have one of your interns do it. Your shitty murder warehouse hasn’t seen much action in a while.”

“This is Pierce we’re talking about. If he’s working for another organisation, his ass is going to be so guarded, these kids couldn’t wouldn’t even get past the gate. Besides, you know my murder warehouse is for special guests only-”

“Man, it must suck real hard to be you right now,” Sam didn’t wait for him to complete his sentence. He finished the last bit of the drink he had left, gathering his things before standing up. “Find someone else. I’m out.”

“You might want to reconsider that. We found him.”

He stopped in his tracks.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam said steadily, grip on the phone tightening.

“I think you do, though. Had us fooled for a while there, thinking he’s dead. A little more research, some cash into the right pockets and boom! There he is, clear as day.”

Sam felt a chill go up his spine.

“He doesn’t know we know. We’re just keeping an eye on him for now.”

“If you even fucking think of touching him-” his fists were balled up, struggling to keep his anger from rising.

“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t.” Ransone laughed. “I’ll just have one of my interns do it.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Ransone. It’s not somethi-”

“Do this hit and I’ll leave him alone,” Ransone interjected. “You’ve worked so hard to pull him from our radar, Sammy. It would be a shame if it all went to waste.”

Sam’s jaw clenched. Suddenly the day didn’t seem as bright as it was a few minutes ago.

“I’ll text you the details. You tend to leave me on read so I thought I’d make it more fun. Do you want the confetti with the message or the lasers-”

Sam just hung up the call, feet firmly rooted in his spot. He had no idea what he was going to do.

The notification of a new text alerted him. Pierce’s address along with the exact timeline of when he’d be home.

It was across the country. If he botched the mission on purpose, Ransone wouldn't be able to find him for a few days at least, much less reach him. He could go on the run-

‘Do it or he dies.’

His train of thought was interrupted by a picture that made his blood boil.

Especially when it exploded with the stupid confetti effect.

“Okay, basically he threatened you with something to go do the hit.” You didn’t ask him what exactly he was threatening him with and Sam didn’t really elaborate.

“Yeah. Didn’t leave me with much of a choice. He’s batshit fuckin’ crazy anyway, I knew he’d do whatever he felt like.”

“So you ended up going.”

Pierce didn’t seem to get many visitors. Not that anyone could be blamed, this guy was one of the biggest pieces of shit Sam had had the misfortune of meeting.

Over the two days he had staked out in front of the mansion to find out if this guy had as much security as Ransone had boasted of, Sam had come to the conclusive truth that no, he very much did not. He had a standard home security system which was lacklustre compared to the rest of the house.

Maybe he just assumed that being a senior member of the mob would garner some fear to his name. Dumbass.

He found the tall shrubbery surrounding the property to be out of the line of sight of the camera, and climbing it wasn't very hard. He landed softly on the manicured lawn, adjusting his gloves and checking his surroundings before pulling his gun that was secured in the waistband of his pants.

He removed the safety, keeping it close to him as he stalked through the front yard.

The red car parked at the side earned an eye roll from him. If he had one, there was no doubt there’d be more. He just had to find a basement or garage.

Walking around the house, he kept close to the wall, searching for any opening to the basement.

It didn’t take long before he found a set of stairs to the exterior entrance of the basement. He checked to see if anyone was around before making his way down them. The lock was unsurprisingly easy to pick.

The basement was mostly dark save for a few strategic lights placed to highlight the magnificence of his several race cars. The man was moved slower than the second coming of Jesus. The cars just seemed like an overcompensation.

The switchboard was not difficult to find. He pulled open the cover, glancing at the switches before turning all of them off, plunging the whole basement into darkness. If his security system was as outdated as Pierce was, it would have turned off along with the rest of the house.

“Oh, that’s why the cameras weren't working when I showed up.” Bits that seemed amiss were beginning to place itself together the more his story progressed. “I assume you entered the house through the window on the side?”

“Sure did.”

Your guess was right. He’s the reason why it was ajar by the time you arrived.

As soon as he entered he had his gun raised. Scanning the room as he went past, his senses were dialed up to eleven. If he was really under the protection of Serpentine, they were doing a terrible job. He had gotten in completely unscathed.

As he made his way deeper into the house, the sound of some movie playing became louder. But he had cut off the power supply to the house.

His eyebrows pulled together tightly into a frown, he made his way down the hall towards the sound. No one was in the dining or living room he canvassed.

Finally, Pierce’s silhouette became clearer. He appeared to just be sitting there idly while a smaller screen played in front of him. It wasn’t a TV, just an iPad.

If Pierce was asleep it would just make the job easier. Gun raised, Sam made his way into the room silently.

Pierce was still. Sam raised the gun, taking a step closer.

A floorboard creaked.

He immediately cringed, shoulders tensed as he came to an immediate stop. It seemed like forever as he waited for Pierce to wake up, to brandish a gun and try and defend himself.

He didn’t.

Taking a step to the side, Sam moved diagonally. Each one was slow. Ready for any sudden movements from his end.

He finally stopped in front of Pierce.

A bullet hole in his forehead. Eyes open. Chest still.

He was dead.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Sam breathed out, lowering his gun. Pierce’s glassy eyes stared blankly ahead. He didn’t look like had been dead for too long.

A soft thud in another room made his head snap up. It was in the same direction from where he came.

He silently moved backwards to the corner of the room, hoping that the darkness was enough of a disguise as he saw someone stalking down the hallway.

“And that’s when you come in. Thought you were comin’ back to make sure he was dead.”

“I had just got there. Saw that everything was off, and just assumed it was a power outage.”

“What about you? How’d you end up there?” Sam had his legs crossed, leaning forward to listen to you.

“Ransone told me that there was a spy who was sending information out for nearly two years. Needed him gone and he wasn’t sure if his other agent would show up-” you mentioned to him- “I guess that’s you. Told me I had an opening at 8pm. When I got there, the CCTV was off. Found the window open so I just used that.”

You were replaying your memory, step by step to remember what exactly you had seen.

“Heard the movie playing, found no one when I went down the hall. I saw the car keys on the island, which came in handy later. Entered the room, pushed his head with the gun and he just slumped over like a damn rag doll. That’s when you made your grand entrance.”

“Got one chance to make an impression. Had to make sure I looked cool, emergin’ from the shadows and whatnot.”

“It doesn’t make sense though.”

“Ouch. Thought it was pretty legit, actu-”

“No, no-” you waved him off. “Not your entrance. The henchmen thing.”

He paused, mulling over what you said. “If he was working for Serpentine, he would have been more careful. Why did they show up after he’s dead?”

“I don’t think they work for Serpentine. If Pierce was giving them information, they wouldn’t kill him.” You had good reason to be confident about that. You thought you did, from previous assessments.

“Unless they were scared that he’d switch again,” Sam suggested. You looked up from your fidgeting fingers to him. “Didn’t want any of their secrets going back to Ransone. They got to him before we did.”

“Why’d they shoot at us then? If they killed him and left, why’d they wait for us to show up? Why did they try to kill us?”

“I think we’re ignoring the important thing here,” he paused. You looked at him expectantly, prodding him on. “How did they know we were coming? They should have killed him and disappeared but they expected us.”

You tilted your head. “Are you saying-”

“There might be more.”

“Pierce might not have been the only one,” you finished. “There are more spies.”

“Tipped ‘em off. Told them we were going to be there.”

“And killing us was just to poke Ransone with a stick,” you murmured, eyes downcast, fidgeting with your fingers again. “But that just seems random. It doesn’t make sense.”

“None of this makes sense, sweetheart.” Sam scoffed, leaning back again.

“We’re missing something. There’s something wrong.” You looked at him. “If it’s just a random attack, why did they release our face to the whole fuckin’ country? Why are they specifically targeting us?”

“Finishing what they started. Covering all their tracks from that day. If we’re not dead, we’re a liability.”

“What if it’s not Serpentine at all? What if it’s another gang?”

“Serpentine has the most motive.”

“We don’t know that.”

He looked at you incredulously. “I think there’s substantial evidence to suggest they fuckin’ hate us. Besides, they’d want me dead specifically.”

“Why?” you inquired, eyes narrowing.

He opened his mouth like he was going to explain but closed it a second later, leaving you guessing.

“Fine, but it doesn’t mean they’re the only ones who do.” You made a point to ask him later or at least conduct your own research into it.

“Okay,” he said, shifting to lean on his elbows, “who else could it be? If Pierce was working for Serpentine and Ransone found out, sends someone to kill him, it’s essentially an attack on one of their own members. I’d say that's a pretty good motive.”

“I don’t know. Hydra doesn’t like us either. There’s Ten Rings too. But Serpentine just doesn’t work out.”

“How are you sure?” he asked. “You a spy for them too?”

You rolled your eyes at him as he raised his eyebrow. “It doesn’t make sense. What if we’re missing something? Did we go through everything?”

“I just went through my entire story down to the most irrelevant details. Twice. Nothing’s missing on my end.” He pushed himself off the bed, taking a long stretch before looking back at you.

“I think we should do it again. Just to make sure.” You rotated your torso to look at him. “We can figure it out-”

“You’re going to lose your mind if you keep at this any longer for today. Take a break.”

“I can’t take this lightly. Everyone’s out there looking for us and there is no one we can trust-”

“And going through our stories for the third time today is going to solve that how?” He had his hands crossed over his chest like a stern parent.

“I’m sorry but our faces are probably plastered in every damn police precinct in the country,” you snapped, “And I think that us remembering something some stupid detail might actually help rather than, I don’t know, taking naps and eating sandwiches. So no, I’m not going to drop it. Because I actually want to get out of here.”

You didn’t mean to sound so angry with him. He had told you everything twice already and patiently answered questions that you had. You didn’t think he was lying. You had no way of knowing but you hoped that some sort of allegiance was being formed between you both.

There was silence for a minute, leaving enough time for the guilt to creep in when he didn’t fire back. It’s what you expected.

“I’m not asking you to drop it. I’m saying take a break,” he said calmly. “You’re thinkin’ enough for the both of us anyway.”

You let out a small exhale, forcing the edge to retreat from your voice.

“I’ll be back in a while.” With that he turned around and left the room. A few minutes later you heard the backdoor open and shut.

Great.

You massaged your throbbing temples, eyes closed. He was right. Your mind wasn’t clear and you had been at this for hours. You wouldn’t be able to think critically.

Or at all.

You dropped back on the bed, grabbing a pillow and pressing it to your face. The coolness of the fabric felt nice.

You just let out a sigh, turning to your side to hopefully get some sleep.

_____

You woke up what seemed like hours later to a dark room.

It took your eyes a while to adjust stepping out into the hallway illuminated by the light in the kitchen.

“Hey,” Sam’s voice rang out. “Made you a sandwich.”

You rubbed your eyes groggily, looking where he was pointing. Sure enough, there was a sandwich on the table. He sat at the seat adjacent to it.

“Thank you.” You contemplated sitting next to him for dinner. It would be a first.

In the end you just grabbed your plate, giving him a half smile before making your way to the couch. You settled on sitting on the floor instead, leaning your back against the foot of the sofa.

The TV was already halfway through playing Megamind so you just let it continue, mindlessly chewing on the bread. As far as peanut butter sandwiches go, it wasn’t all that bad.

“Wilson,” you called out sheepishly, eyes not leaving the movie. “I’m sorry for snapping at you. It wasn’t right.”

“It’s okay.”

How he let go of it so easily was beyond you. The sandwich was surprising too, but you took it, not wanting to change his mind. He couldn’t have poisoned it. You had checked his stuff.

You sat in silence for the rest of the movie. Your mind kept slipping in and out of thought but it was a comfortable atmosphere you found yourself in.

After the credits started rolling, you went to leave your plate in the sink. Sam brushed past you, grabbing the blanket at the foot of the couch, launching himself onto the cushions.

“What are you doing?” you asked, puzzled as he snuggled in.

“Going to sleep?” He tilted his head to look at you.

“Use the bed.”

“It’s your turn today.”

“Your back’s fucked up. I’ll take the couch.”

He didn’t budge.

“Go on.” You mentioned to the room with a shrug of your shoulder.

“You’re not going to let me argue, are you?”

You pressed your lips into a straight line to hide a smile, shaking your head lightly.

“Well, okay.” He let out a small noise as he got up. “Guess I’m sleeping business class tonight.”

Sam walked past you, careful not to bump into you. You swapped places with him, making your way to the couch, readjusting the blanket that was haphazardly left there.

“Y/N.” You peered at him from the corner of your eye, only to fully turn when you caught his gaze. “I appreciate it.”

You just nodded, tossing the blanket over yourself as he switched off the light.

Next part

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kentparsonbirthdaybash · 5 years ago

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Cards Close to the Chest

Prompt: Supernatural

Characters: Kent, Aces Ensemble

All of the guys chirped Parse for buying a pack of tarot cards. He might have been their star-talent rookie, but that didn’t mean he was above some healthy razzing. Especially since he bought those cards, at all fucking places, a Barnes & Noble. The guy lived in Vegas but he bought his occult knicknacks at a store that was designed for bougie soccer moms. Seriously, who did that?

“Since when does Barnes & Noble even have tarot decks?” Carl wanted to know, raising his voice to be heard over all the hooting and hollering.

Parse just shrugged, looking cool and collected as ever. “I think it was part of some special promo. They were in the section with all the books for twelve-year-olds about vampires.”

“Oh, God, I think I saw that,” Max recalled, his face scrunched up in memory. “Edmonton, right? God, what a hellhole. Couldn’t even find a decent coffee place, so we had to go to ’Noble’s in-store cafe. They fucked up my latte, too.”

Parse swept his gaze over the assembled team. “Anybody want me to do a card reading for them?” he offered, brandishing the deck at them. “I think I’ve about got the hang of it.”

His generosity was met with a chorus with a chorus of scoffs and eyerolls until Burnsy, one of the vets, volunteered.

“Always wanted to have my fortune told by somebody,” he said easily, shooing Carl out of his own stall and sitting down beside Parse. “Go ahead, Parser. Solve the mysteries of the universe. Or at least tell me how I’m going to do in our next game.”

Parse had Burnsy select three cards from the deck (“Six is the usual for reading an entire future, so we have to scale that down to focus on just the game.”) and then did his best to decipher them. The rest of the locker room either feigned disinterest or listened with skeptical expressions, curious in spite of themselves.

“So, it looks like you got the Page of Cups, which means a happy surprise is coming your way. Then there’s the Three of Swords, which means there’s gonna be some suffering. And then we have the Nine of Wands, which means … resilience and determination. Huh.” Parse squinted at the foldout page of instructions. “So, I guess you’re going to suffer, get a nice surprise, and then recover? Can’t be sure of that order, though.”

“What’s there not to be sure about?” Carl asked scornfully. “He’s going to get hurt and then get better. That’s generally how that works.”

“Well, at least we know I’m not dying,” Burnsy said cheerfully. “Thanks for reading my fortune, bro. I guess we’ll see if it comes true or not.”

While Parse still got grief from some of the guys about giving up hockey and becoming Vegas’s next great stage magician with those cards of his, everyone forgot about the prediction for Burnsy. That was, until their next game, when an attempted slapshot at the Flyers’ goal in the last four seconds of play rebounded off of Burnsy’s thigh, entering the net and giving the Aces their victory.

“Wait a minute, that’s exactly what you said would happen,” Jello recalled when they were out for drinks later that night. “Parse, you said that Burnsy would suffer, but there would be a happy surprise, and then he’d get over it. Well, the dude took a slapshot to the leg, got us a goal, and now he’s left with a hefty bruise where the puck hit him. But he’s still gonna be okay.”

“Hey, that’s right,” Parse said, but he didn’t seem especially amazed. “Guess that did happen, huh?” There was a teasing look in his eyes, which were blue that day.

“Just a coincidence,” Carl insisted. “If he broke out those cards again and tried to make sense of them, none of it would come true.”

“Wanna bet?” Jello challenged, raising his chin stubbornly.

So, with fifty dollars riding on the outcome, the next day Parse did a full card reading for a neutral party: Max.

“Something you’ve wanted to happen for a while is gonna happen soon,” he informed Max as he pored over the cards. “But there’s strings attached, and it’s going to be difficult at times but rewarding at the end of the day. And also—” he tapped the Empress card, “—this one means motherhood, so possibly a kid will be involved?”

“God, I hope not,” Max said fervently. “Neither Lauren or I want kids.”

But just a few days later, when they were on the road, Max got a call from his wife, telling him that their elderly neighbor had fallen and broken her hip. The lady would be in rehab for the next six weeks and wouldn’t be able to take care of her dog even afterward. What would he think about them adopting a four-year-old Golden Retriever?

“I mean, we’ve always wanted a dog,” Max explained to the other guys. “We’ve talked about getting one but never really got around to it, so we’re totally going to do this. I really like that dog, too, she’s a real sweetheart.”

Jello was emphatic that the circumstances proved him right. “Lauren getting a dog is basically her becoming a mom!” he insisted. “She’s still responsible for another living creature. And some people refer to their pets as their kids!”

“One, no it’s not,” Carl said flatly. “Two, those people are freaks. Three, this proves nothing.”

But a number of the rest of the team was convinced that it did, and suddenly Parser was regularly performing card readings for several of his teammates. Skeezy wanted to know if he should move into a development with an HOA (Parse predicted an inevitable sacrifice of freedom for contentment), Red was questioning how meeting his girlfriend’s parents would go (Disastrously, but through no fault of Red’s, and to his ultimate benefit), and Chazzer checked to see if his holiday plans would go smoothly (They wouldn’t and would just leave him disappointed).

One by one, each of Parse’s predictions came through. Skeezy found out that he couldn’t build the dream deck he’d always wanted if he moved into the HOA neighborhood, so he decided to look for a house elsewhere. Red went to meet his girlfriend’s parents, but her father announced during dinner out that he was divorcing her mother, rendering the rest of the visit extremely uncomfortable. His girlfriend, however was enormously impressed by him sticking it out with her despite the awkwardness. And Chazzer ended up stranded at the airport for nearly forty hours due to a blizzard taking place during his layover, missing his visit home entirely.

“So, like, everything he says is going to happen ends up happening,” Max concluded during a team breakfast. “He has a gift.”

Carl snorted. “No, he doesn’t. He’s making guesses and some of his guesses work out. You could read your horoscope in Seventeen magazine and get better results.”

“Yeah, how fair would it be if God or Buddha or whoever made Parser made him psychic and a total beast when it comes to hockey?” Jazzy put in.

“Maybe he’s so good at hockey because he’s psychic,” Jello suggested. “Everyone has always said that the reason he can score like he does is because he can anticipate where the puck is going to be. Maybe he’s not anticipating. Maybe he already knows before it actually happens.”

They all paused to think about that, even those of the team who were more skeptical about Parser.

For his part, though, Parser didn’t seem bothered one way or the other about if his predictions turned into reality. Whenever someone came up to him and began talking excitedly about how the cards had been right, he responded with a modest shrug and a small smile, casually engaging with his teammate but not seeming very moved by what they had to say.

“Do you even believe any of this mumbo-jumbo?” Carl demanded one day as he and Parser tossed a medicine ball back and forth between themselves during sit-ups.

“Not especially,” Parse replied easily, amusement glinting in his green eyes. “Definitely not as much as I’ve convinced some of the guys on the team to.”

Carl scowled. “Then why the Harry Potter act? Is it just a joke to you? A way you can secretly chirp the other guys?” Maybe Parser was just out to make fun of everybody. Maybe he was just trying to be a dick.

Parse tossed the medicine ball at him with unnecessary force. “No,” he replied flatly. “I don’t care if they believe it or not. I just think it’s good for them to believe in something, like destiny or fate or some bullshit like that if they’re already stressed out about what’s going to happen next. Helps them deal with it, weirdly enough. Guess they figure there’s nothing they can do if it’s already in the cards.”

“Pathetic,” Carl snorted.

“No, it’s not.” Those weird mood ring eyes of Parser’s went stormcloud gray. “Not if it helps the guys deal with what’s bothering them. Some people struggle with not knowing what’s going to happen in the future. This is a solution for that.”

“Huh.” Eyeing Parse and seeing the frown on his face, Carl decided that continuing this line of conversation would only increase the danger of Parser lobbing the medicine ball at his head. So he wisely changed the subject. “You ever use those cards to find out something for yourself? Like, about what’s going to happen to you down the road, I mean.”

Actually, he was really curious about the answer, about if Parse had ever believed in the cards to tell him the future, or if he’d originally bought them with the idea of tricking the guys and helping them cope. If it was the second one, then that was super weird.

Parse’s eyes went even darker, going nearly black. “No. Not ever.”

But Carl somehow got the feeling that he was lying. He noticed that when Parse spoke, his thumb was stroking that Memorial Cup ring he’d won back in Juniors, the kind that were given to only the captain and the alternate captains of the winning team. When they’d seen that Parse still wore it after being drafted into the actual League, Carl and some of the other Aces had assumed it meant he was an arrogant prick.

Now, though, Carl wasn’t quite sure what it meant. He also wasn’t sure why Parse lied about those cards—it wasn’t like the chirping had seemed to bother him before.

Still, the next time he saw Parser surrounded by teammates, each of them with a specific question they wanted him to answer by reading the cards, Carl kept his mouth shut. If their hotshot rookie wanted to do something to help out the team in his own freak way, Carl wasn’t going to stop him.

#submissions #prompt week #submission #parse prompt week #kent parson #omgcheckplease #omgcp

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starrybbarnes · 5 years ago

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Caught in the Act [b.b]

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader, Peter Parker x Reader (platonic)

Summary: you would like a pole. you have acquired it. you use it.

Word Count: 1.8K

Author’s note: Hello everyone, this is the start of an era. please enjoy this one-shot! it’s been a while since I’ve written, so drop an ask and give me some inspiration! Feedback is appreciated!

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I said so.”

“You’re ridiculous, Tony.”

“And have you leave this for a couple more cents? Absolutely not.”

You rolled your eyes as Tony Stark stared you down, judgment practically oozing out of him.

Life had been good so far. You were a good friend of Tony’s “intern,” Peter, who was in college and was a couple year than you. The two of you had hit it off, and soon you became an ‘honorary Avenger.’

Today, however, was not good. You had read in an article that there has been a trend on pole exercising. Which basically meant working out with a pole. The ones that exotic dancers use. And you desperately needed to get your hands on one now.

“I really don’t see the issue here, Stark,” you argued, “I just wanna work on my core, you square.”

“And seduce the poor kid? Not a chance.” Tony fought back.

“The kid is 20, Tony.”

“A toddler basically!”

You huffed. This was getting ridiculous. Irrational, even.

You put rested your hands on your forehead and sighed loudly.

“Don’t give me that attitude, y/n”

“I JUST WANT TO LEARN HOW TO POLE DANCE. I NEED ROCK HARD ABS LIKE JAMES”

“Well you could’ve just asked me, doll. I will gladly teach you.”

You whipped your head around and saw at the doorframe a bulky man leaning against it. A hearty laugh escaped his mouth.

Bucky.

The man was a “tall glass of water” as you told Peter once in a conversation. You couldn’t lie to yourself: you knew an attractive man when you saw one.

“Don’t make this about you, Buchanan.” You started, pointing an accusatory finger at him.

“Why can’t you call me Bucky like everyone else, y/n?” Bucky half-heartedly whined.

It was true, you would call him everything but Bucky. You’d claim to keep it professional, but in truth, you’d start falling for the tin man more by calling him by his adorable nickname.

“With all due respect, Sir “ you joked, “I gotta maintain my ‘profesh’ image.”

“You call Peter ‘Penis Parker’” Bucky said as he raised an eyebrow.

“right, and?”

“You’ve called me ‘frosty the snowman’”

“duh.”

“And Sam ‘bird brain.’”

“Your point?”

Bucky was about to open his mouth when Tony inserted himself into the conversation.

“As much as I’d love for you to become the embodiment of elastigirl, it’s not gonna happen,” Tony interjected.

“You can put it in my room, out of everyone’s hair!” You compromised.

Tony just gave you an incredulous look, shook his head, and walked away.

“Oh, I’ll get that pole.” You mumbled, a smile creeping up on you. You turned to Peter, who saw the plan to form as he saw your face.

“Peter,” you said with a voice 2 octaves higher than you normally do.

“Oh god who are you,” Peter said, wide-eyed.

“Come, young Peter, we’ve got some work to do,” you declared, hooking your arm with his.

The two of you started walking out the door before you heard someone clearing their throat.

You stopped in your tracks and remembered that someone had been there all along.

“Do you need a cough drop, James? Your throat sounds hoarse,” you joked.

“And where do you think you’re going, sweetheart?” Bucky questioned as he covered the doorframe.

“Oh you know, outside to get some fresh air,” you replied.

“To do what?”

“Jeez, Barnes, you sound like my parents. Peter and I are just gonna, you know, do young people stuff.”

“Name one thing young people do when they go outside,” Bucky tested.

“Fight crime?” Peter peeped, to which you just sighed and covered your face in complete embarrassment.

Bucky just raised an eyebrow and called the two of you ‘nerds’ and grumbled about keeping an eye on you while walking towards his room.

As he closed the door, he said a little too loudly, “anything you two do, is never gonna get past me.”

Down the elevator you went with Peter, pondering about the interaction you had with the winter soldier, leaving a small smile on your face.

It wasn’t your fault he was a dreamy man, and you scowled at the fact that he was chastising you for wanting a stronger core.

Peter saw the face you made and consoled you by saying that even though you couldn’t tell, but maybe Bucky had some preference over you.

You laughed at that statement as you and Peter were people watching outside the compound.

“It’s true!” Peter reassured you while stuffing some chips in his mouth. Crumbs fly out as he spoke to you. “I’ve seen the interactions, Y/N, and I really think he enjoys your company.”

“Psh, whatever,” you interjected, “he doesn’t take me seriously as a colleague, much less a potential lover. He seems to always speak to me in a condescending tone, it’s annoying.”

“Hey, man,” Peter replied, “Trust me, guys are horrible flirters. I mean, have you seen me trying to talk to MJ?!”

You laughed. He does have a point. If anyone was worse than Bucky at flirting, it was Peter.

“I still want that damn pole, just outta spite now,” you huffed.

Both of you then sat in silence until Peter’s eyes widen, an idea forming, “don’t you have a good friend that’s like, part construction worker, part interior designer.”

A mischievous smiled appeared once again.

“I’m gonna make a couple of calls.”

。。

A week had passed, and Bucky hadn’t seen any trace of you or the spider boy. High and low he looked, from the building terrace to the coffee shop down the street, he even looked under his bed for once.

He knew he wasn’t being hard on you, but he kept racking his brain to pinpoint at which moment in which he had annoyed you or driven you away.

Not that he cared that much, because you guys weren’t a couple or anything. But he was certainly concerned for your wellbeing.

Bucky finished his lunch and was walking towards the couch when a small blurb crashed into him.

“Whoa, whoa, what’s the rush kid? Don’t tell me Stark told you to do his laundry” Bucky cackled.

“Oh no, not this time!” Peter chimed, receiving a look from Bucky, “I’m actually going to work out a bit!”

“That’s great kid,” Bucky commented, “so what’s your routine focusing on today?”

“Not much actually,” Peter replied, “I’ve been working on strengthening my upper body and also I’ve been working on my core strength!”

“Both are good starts, I’m sure you’re gon— wait a minute.”

Bucky stared down Peter, eyes narrowing and mouth closing to a fine line. Peter immediately stopped smiling, eyes popping out of his head. He started stuttering and backtracking on what he said.

But it was too late. Suspicions are growing and the silence kept growing in the air.

Peter kept fidgeting with his hands and finally said, “So, uh, I’m going to my room and actually study for a test. I gotta go.”

Peter ran towards his room and harrowingly escaped the winter soldier's grasp. Bucky kept jiggling the door open, but it was no use: Peter must’ve escaped out the window, probably to go warn you.

Bucky was about to give up when he sensed vibrations through the floor of the compound. Faintly, he could hear some music. Using his super-sonic hearing and stealth, he began his quest to find the source.

The music slowly began to get louder, as Bucky had to go up 3 floors, to which opened to a long corridor and 2 doors. He immediately remembered that on this specific floor there was an abandoned studio, and sure enough, the music was blaring and the bass was at its highest.

Bucky was curious as to what was behind the door. And as he opened the door, surprised became an understatement.

There you were: high on a pole, in a compromising position, and slowly spinning to the ever so sensual music. You were upside down, one leg extended out, the other sustaining you on the pole. Either way, you the pose did nothing hide that you were just in yoga shorts and a sports bra. FRIDAY sensed the door open and abruptly stopped the music.

“FRIDAY, what the hell! Why did you — oh.”

You and Bucky locked eyes for what seemed like an hour. You were still midair, but then slowly started sliding down the pole. You slowly walked to get your cardigan, and swiftly put it on.

Bucky blankly stared. You blinked.

Suddenly, the door bursts open to a panting Peter: “Y/N! Holy Shit you need to stop everything, Bucky is on his way up and —“ he stopped as he saw the two of you just staring at the poor boy.

Peter just sighed, “I’ll be in my room.”

The door closed behind him, the silence engulfing the room again.

Bucky cleared his started and started, “So this is where you’ve been the past week?”

You coughed. “Yeah basically.”

“Does Tony know?”

“Of course not. I had my friend Mark install it.”

You couldn’t really read the room. You were embarrassed, empowered, and everything in between.

“Y/N, I really don’t know how to react.”

“Well, that makes two of us. And you caught me in my favorite part of the song.” you joked.

A dry laugh left Bucky’s mouth, “As much as I don’t want to talk about this, it’s gonna be engraved in my mind, doll.”

“Oh, stop it you,” you fused as you lightly smacked Bucky on the arm, “I was just trying to see how long I can last hanging in the air.”

“I’m still impressed though,” Bucky commented, and then adding, “you looked really good practicing it.”

“Easy there, Barnes,” you warned, “Just because you saw me do this once, doesn’t give you a free pass to drop in whenever and expect a striptease, you perv.”

Bucky’s face turned pink and shyly hid his face. Now was his chance to make a move or forever hold his peace.

“That’s why I kinda uh, wanted to ask you if it was possible to um, you know,” Bucky stuttered as you raised an eyebrow while leaning on the pole.

“No, I don’t know, James,” you chuckled.

“Get a free pass one of these days. N-not as in a striptease though. As in a date,” a flustered Bucky said as he kept looking at his shoes.

Your face softens, and a smile appeared. “I’ll gladly go on a date with you, James. It’d be an absolute delight.”

It was now Bucky’s turn to smile, his eyes shining brighter than before. “How’s about tomorrow at 7 sound?”

You nodded your head as you gave Bucky a kiss on the cheek, “I like the idea of that.”

“Maybe then I can reciprocate the favor and use the pole to dance for you, doll,” Bucky said suggestively as he grabbed you closer.

“In your dreams, Barnes,” you snorted.

。。

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dwindledglow · 5 years ago

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001. MEET JAMES

FULL NAME: james rasheed asrani. PREFERRED NAME: james. NICKNAME/S: he doesn’t have any. DATE OF BIRTH: april 2nd, 1993. GENDER & PRONOUNS: cis male & he/his. ORIENTATION: hetero. RELIGION: agnostic. RELATIONSHIP STATUS: married to rose asrani. OCCUPATION: model. RESIDENCE: southampton, suffolk county.

002. CHECK JAMES’ BACKGROUND

HOMETOWN: anaheim, california. NATIONALITY: american. ETHNIC BACKGROUND: spanish, american. LINGUISTICS: english which is his native language and spanish and french in a fluent level. EDUCATION: he has graduated from high-school. CRIMINAL RECORD: clean. BIRTH ORDER: first and only. FATHER: javier zafar asrani, born on october 5th, 1965 in san josé, california, residing in los angeles, california. he’s the CEO of asrani halle and a high-profile lawyer. MOTHER: alyssa louise asrani, née astaire, born on november 19th, 1967 in houston, texas, residing in los angeles, california and working as the head of the physics and astronomy department at caltech. she worked at nasa for twenty years and despite no longer working on the research field, she still lends a hand whenever its needed at nasa, as well as other researching agencies. SISTER/S: none. BROTHER/S: none. SIGNIFICANT OTHER: rose asrani, née johnson. CHILDREN: alexis sofia asrani, born on november 2nd, 2017 in los angeles, california. esme grace asrani, born on october 31st, 2019 in southampton, new york. OTHER RELEVANT FAMILY: neelam asrani, cousin. EX/ES: blair grant and delilah campbell. PETS: luna, a japanese spitz, bachi, a golden retriever, saint, a husky and meeko, a blue merle australian shepperd.

003. GET UP CLOSE & PERSONAL

HEIGHT: 6′2″ or 188 cm. WEIGHT: between 165 lbs or 75 kg and 175 lbs or 79 kg. BODY BUILD: james is slender — his body is overall toned due to the daily exercise routine and he has put on some muscle throughout the years, without turning too muscly. as a courtesy of the years he used to swim, he has rather broad shoulders and, as a result of all the years boxing, he also has muscular arms and legs, and a six pack. EYE COLOR: coppery-brown, hazel green; depending on the light his eye color can change from a coppery, warm shade of brown to a hazel-green hue. EYESIGHT: his eyesight is perfect. HAIR COLOR & STYLE: for the vast majority of the time, and unless work requires otherwise, james keeps his hair longer at the top and shorter or shaved at the sides. despite his preference, however, he's not afraid to play around with different hairstyles. in the past, he has allowed his hair to grow to the point where he could tie it in a bun and he's, also, opted for haircuts that most people deemed questionable. on top of that, he enjoys playing around with colors as well — he's had his hair pink, black with green tips and silver before. DOMINANT HAND: right. NOTABLE PHYSICAL TRAITS: when you look james' way, the most enticing, and perhaps most notable, distinguish feature he has are his eyes — from their doe shape to the mischievous sparkle to them, to its unusual color and his insanely lengthy lashes, it's hard not to enthralled. likewise, his sharp and angular bone structure is quick to attract the attention. amongst other things, some other notable physical traits of his are his thick brows, towering height, pouty lips, tan skin and dimples in the small of his back. SCARS AND MARKS: on the right side of his neck, and as the result of a biopsy he had to do when he was fifteen, there's a faded scar. as a courtesy of him accidentally hurting himself while on set, there are a few minor scars, nothing too evident, scattered throughout his body, as well. james also has very faint freckles across the bridge of his nose — which aren't truly visible unless someone's really close to him — and he has two distinctive birthmarks ; a tiny, light-colored and heart-shaped one on the left side of his right knee and another one directly above his hanger tattoo which is placed behind his left ear. TATTOOS: behind his left ear, james as a small hanger tattoo meant to represent his career and his love for fashion. inside his right wrist, in small, uppercase and bold font, he has the date 14th may which is his little cousin's neelam birthday. in his left hand's middle finger, he has a small swallow which represents his freedom. along his left hip, he has the quote ( and personal reminder ) love and show, hate and hide. in his right collarbone and tattooed in arabic, he has the proverb nobody can destroy your dreams — something that works as a reminder for himself when things get tough. on the inside of his left arm, he has the word perspective — reference, meaning how every situation can be seen in different prisms, depending on the light shed on them and on who's judging it. along the side of his right arm, he has the quote only the good, representing how his focus is on the positive side of his life and not the negativity. behind his right ear, he has alexis, his daughter's first name and on the right side of his left wrist, he has a circle which is a representation of karma and the saying what goes around comes around. besides it, he has an intricate mandala creeping from his hand up his arm, and on the back of his neck, he has rose petals surrounding a R0903, which is essentially a tattoo for his wife followed by her initial and the date of their anniversary. PIERCINGS: none. VOICECLAIM: jorge martin. ACCENT & INTENSITY: in spite of living in new york city for a good part of his adult life and picking up a lot of new yorker's expressions and catch phrases, james doesn't have — and never had — a new york accent. amongst jokes about how you could take the boy out of california but not the california out of the boy, there seems to be some truth to it. his accent is your typical southern california one, and it has only grown stronger ever since he moved back to los angeles. ALLERGIES: insects. PHOBIAS & FEARS: deep waters. MENTAL & PHYSICAL ILLNESSES: none so far. ALCOHOL USE: sometimes, mostly on social situations. SMOKING: rarely, he’s succeeding at stopping the vice. NARCOTICS USE: he doesn’t use anything. INDULGENT FOOD: sometimes. SPLURGE SPENDING: it happens occasionally. GAMBLING: no, never.

004. DIG DEEPER

CAN THEY DRIVE? yes, he can drive. CAN THEY COOK & BAKE? yes and no. CAN THEY CHANGE A FLAT TIRE? yes. CAN THEY TIE A TIE? yes. CAN THEY SWIM? yes. CAN THEY RIDE A BICYCLE? yes. CAN THEY JUMP START A CAR? no. CAN THEY BRAID HAIR? yes. CAN THEY PICK A LOCK? no. EXTROVERTED OR INTROVERTED? extroverted. DISORGANIZED OR ORGANIZED? organized. CLOSE OR OPEN MINDED? open minded. CALM OR ANXIOUS? calm. PATIENT OR IMPATIENT? in-between. OUTSPOKEN OR RESERVED? outspoken. LEADER OR FOLLOWER? leader. OPTIMISTIC OR PESSIMISTIC? in-between. TRADITIONAL OR MODERN? modern. HARD-WORKING OR LAZY? hard-working. CULTURED OR UNCULTURED? cultured. LOYAL OR DISLOYAL? loyal. FAITHFUL OR UNFAITHFUL? faithful. NIGHT OWL OR EARLY BIRD? night owl. HEAVY OR LIGHT SLEEPER? heavy sleeper. COFFEE OR TEA? coffee. DAY OR NIGHT? night. TAKING BATHS OR SHOWERS? showers. COCA COLA OR PEPSI? coca-cola. CATS OR DOGS? dogs. NETFLIX OR CINEMA? netflix. SHOWS OR MOVIES? shows. LAPTOP OR GAMING CONSOLE? laptop. HEALTHY OR JUNK FOOD? healthy food. ICE CREAM OR FROZEN YOGURT? ice cream. PIZZA OR HAMBURGER? pizza. LOLLIPOPS OR GUMMY WORMS? gummy worms. BEACH OR POOL? beach. SNOWBALLS FIGHTING OR ICESKATING? snowballs fighting. LITERATURE OR SCIENCE? literature. HISTORY OR ART? art. CHOCOLATE BARS OR COTTON CANDY? chocolate bars. XBOX OR PLAYSTATION? playstation. FACE-TO-FACE OR PHONE INTERACTIONS? face-to-face interactions. DRAMA OR SCI-FI? drama. HORROR OR COMEDY? horror.

005. JAMES’ FAVORITES

FAVORITE ACTIVITY: drawing. FAVORITE ANIMAL: wolf. FAVORITE BOOK: the kite runner by khaled hosseini. FAVORITE COLOR/S: red. FAVORITE CUISINE: japanese. FAVORITE DISH/ES: sushi, yakitori, sashimi, okonomiyaki, ramen, japanese curry, yakisoba, dango and mochi ice cream. FAVORITE DRINK/S: black coffee and peppermint hot chocolate, whiskey and martinis. FAVORITE FLOWER/S: ume - japanese apricot. FAVORITE GEM: red diamond. FAVORITE MOVIE: fight club by david fincher. FAVORITE SONG: pyramids by frank ocean. FAVORITE SCENT/S: the scent of sea air, vanilla and musk. FAVORITE SHOW/S: sense8, money heist, narcos, mr. robot and black mirror. FAVORITE SPORT/S & TEAM THEY SUPPORT: basketball, he supports la lakers and houston rockets, and american football, he supports new york giants and los angeles rams. FAVORITE SEASON OF THE YEAR: spring. VACATION DESTINATION: bali, indonesia.

#── ✰. ┊ james : — HEADCANON. ❜

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comebackolivia · 6 years ago

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I have some feelings on how Stephanie and Jason get treated in canon and wanted to explore that, so here. Have some character exploration of my two favs.

Posted on my AO3 as chapter 5 of F*ck This Family.

Jason stumbled out of his bedroom, reeking of alcohol and stale cigarette smoke, still dressed in the hoodie he’d been wearing the night before, but it was on backwards and his boots were on the wrong feet. He was pale, his eyes were bloodshot, and overall, he looked like death warmed over as he trudged into his kitchen, gaze trained on the coffeemaker.

He startled, then grimaced when he noticed her sitting on his countertop munching away on a pop-tart.

It took him a bit, but after he’d poured himself a mug of black as pitch coffee and downed half of it, he managed to croak out some words.

“The temptation will be to judge me. Don’t.”

Stephanie smirked, amused. “I got a very interesting text message this morning.” He shot her a glare that was very unimpressive on his hangover from hell complexion, so she continued, undeterred. “Roy asked me to drop by this morning to check that you were still alive and hadn’t choked on your own vomit. Apparently, you drunk dialed him a few times last night, and since he’s all the way across the country, he couldn’t come and check on you himself. How do you feel?”

“How does it fucking look like I feel?” he snapped, and Stephanie’s smirk morphed into a frown. Jason was a lot of things, but he wasn’t usually mean. Not to her at least. He didn’t get roaring drunk either, which meant he’d probably been given a good reason to go out and get wasted.

She’d bet good money it was a fight with someone in the family.

“Who was it?” she asked, more seriously. “Bruce?”

Jason scowled and turned away to rummage through his fridge. After a moment, he corrected, “Dick.”

Stephanie hummed sympathetically. “What happened?”

“He said something stupid and I got pissed off. Then we screamed a lot.”

She grimaced, glad she’d missed that. From what she’d seen lately, Dick had been stretching himself thin and was feeling the pressure. Prolonged stress made him crabby and shortened his temper, which was always more explosive than people believed of him. It wouldn’t have taken much for him to snap at his brother, and Jason never took that kind of thing well.

“Wanna talk about it?” Steph offered after a moment of silence.

Jason laid some strips of bacon on a hot pan and turned his attention to scrambling some eggs. “He’s a fucking dick. What else is there to say?”

Stephanie pursed her lips. As much as he joked around about it, the second Robin didn’t tend to drink in excess. Not with their lifestyles and not with his personal history. He’d told her once that his father had been a mean drunk. She knew what that was like, and knew it likely meant avoiding getting drunk altogether for Jason, at least until shit hit the fan.

“Whatever he said, he’s wrong,” she piped up, making Jason’s shoulders stiffen where he stood at the stove with his back to her. She probably shouldn’t have said anything. It wasn’t her business and Jason and Dick didn’t need her butting in, but she knew what it was like, to never be fully part of this family—to be considered the problem child—the easy target when the others were passing around blame.

From the beginning she’d had to fight her way out of the shadow of Jason Todd. She’d been compared to him left and right, told she was too much like him and it would get her killed one day. She was constantly looked down on as not good enough, too wild, untrainable. Whatever. How much worse was it for Jason who was the standard of badness she’d been judged against?

It was bullshit and she’d raged against it more than once. Because now that she knew him, she could see that she and Jason were nothing alike. Sure, they had similar backgrounds, their personalities meshed well together, and they made a great team in boardgames, but they operated completely differently. Jason was a planner, always had his eye on the prize, a big picture thinker. But, he wasn’t tied to it. He could shift or adapt if he needed to, and the second he felt that the victim was more important than the big picture, he’d throw the big picture right out the window. She respected the hell out of that, because what was the point of it all if they weren’t helping the victims? The individuals. The people who deserved justice, but couldn’t be heard amidst the bureaucracy, corruption, and bullshit. She might not always like his methods, she’d never approve of him killing, but she respected his motivation. She felt that same drive.

But that’s where the similarities ended. They had the same compassion, but where Jason was a planner, Stephanie wore her heart on her sleeve and followed wherever it took her. Jason only appeared impulsive. Stephanie actually was. Over time though, she’d been able to turn it into a strength. Impulsiveness transitioned to adaptability and that was a major asset to have in the field.

The fact that she still took crap for it drove her nuts. The fact that she was still constantly compared to Jason drove her even more nuts.

It wasn’t fair to either of them. They operated differently, had different strengths that helped them be effective in the field. What the others did and said diminished them. It ignored their strengths and compounded their weaknesses. And it was total and utter bullshit. Neither of them got enough credit. They were both good at what they did, and they were good in different ways. The fact that the rest of the family, some of the smartest people on the planet, couldn’t see that? Well, it pissed her the hell off.

So whatever Dick had said, even if it had been coming from a place of stress and exhaustion, she knew it was wrong. Jason needed to know that too.

“You ever get sick of it?” he asked after a moment, voice scratchy and shoulders hunched. He still hadn’t turned away from the stove.

“Of what?”

“Being the family punching bags,” he retorted. “The ones they lash out at when they’re feeling pissy. Bruce does it all the fucking time. Dick too. He won’t with Tim, Damian, or Cass, but you and me are fair game. Every time.”

Her gaze darkened. She knew exactly what he was talking about. She’d experienced it countless times. Bruce was stressed so he’d ream her out for something she did in the field. Something small and insignificant that hadn’t affected anything whatsoever, but still wasn’t what Bruce would have done so clearly it was stupid, impulsive, childish, whatever. Barbara had a tendency to do it as well—snap at her whenever she was stressed. Chew her out for something that had nothing to do with anything. She didn’t get a lot of it from Dick, but she had been snapped at by him plenty of times. And yeah, they didn’t tend to handle their stress in functional, healthy ways, and she’d seen Damian and Tim get snapped at plenty of times. But it wasn’t the same. It was never quite so acidic with them.

“Yes,” she answered plainly because it was true. She often found herself wondering what the hell she was even doing with them when it was so clear she would never fit the way they wanted her too. She almost hadn’t come back after Black Mask, and sometimes she questioned why she had at all. She had her reasons of course, but in her weaker moments she wondered if it was worth it.

At her reply, Jason finally turned from the stove to face her. His face was still pale, and she thought that maybe his red eyes were a little waterier than they’d been when he first walked in. Her stomach clenched in sympathy.

“You ever consider saying ‘fuck ‘em’ and walking away from it all?”

It was like he was reading her mind. “Yes,” she admitted.

Jason frowned and turned back to the stove. Steph watched, suddenly feeling tired as he loaded a plate with bacon, scrambled eggs and toast. She was surprised when he handed the plate to her and fixed another one for herself.

They ate in silence.

“I don’t want to let them be right about me,” she spoke up once they were almost finished.

“They’re not,” Jason answered immediately. “Spite’s a hell of a motivator though, so keep proving them wrong.”

Stephanie smirked, feeling the heaviness that had settled in the room finally lift a little. “I am a kickass vigilante fueled by bitterness and spite,” she declared wryly.

Jason snorted into his coffee, then raised the mug. “Here, here.”

“Seriously though, you okay?” she asked after another smaller stretch of silence. There was a little more color in his face after eating breakfast. Greasy breakfast foods weren’t her go to hangover cure, but it seemed to do a decent job of dragging Jason back from the brink of hangover death.

“Yeah. It’s only a matter of time before Dick tracks me down or finds my new number and apologizes. It’ll take longer for me to accept the apology though. I’ll probably hold off until he starts bringing me food and shit.”

“Nice,” Stephanie replied, bobbing her head in approval. Then she paused and asked, “When did you get a new number?”

“I haven’t yet, but I vaguely remember chucking my phone of the roof of a building last night, so I’ll have to do that at some point.”

Stephanie snorted. She couldn’t help it. The mental image of grumpy, drunk Jason throwing a phone off a Gotham roof was hilarious. He was so overly dramatic.

“What the hell were you doing on top of a building wasted? That’s a health and safety no-no, you know,” she retorted with a teasing smirk. “What were you doing, serenading the pigeons?”

“Performing Hamlet with the gargoyles if you must know.”

“Oh god,” she exclaimed, cracking up at just the thought of drunk off his ass Jason dramatically declaring “To be or not to be” to a gargoyle audience. “You have no idea how much I’d give to have seen that.”

“Yeah, well it was a one time performance so you snooze you lose, Blondie.”

“Yeah, well your hoodie is on backwards,” she retorted, snickering at his surprised look as he realized it was actually on backwards.

“The fuck?” he wondered quietly, pulling at the hood that had been settled at his neck. How he missed this while eating was beyond Steph.

“And your boots are on the wrong feet.”

Jason looked down and groaned loudly, much to Stephanie’s delight. “Fucking hell. I knew something felt off.”

“You also stink. Like horrendously. What’d you do? Bathe in vodka and cigarette ash?”

“Shut up. I fed you and this is the thanks I get?”

“Yeah, you fed me, but does it really count if there weren’t waffles?”

“Yes, it absolutely counts.”

“Whatever. Go shower. I’ll find something for us to watch on Netflix.”

“Ugh, fine,” Jason said, standing up and heading towards the bathroom. “But it better not be one of those sad wildlife documentaries where the baby animals die.”

“That was one time!” she called back. “I didn’t know they were going to die!”

Still, as she settled into the couch, she googled the next episode of Planet Earth to make sure there’d be no surprises. All the while, a warmth spread through her chest because Jason was letting her keep him company. They might sometimes be the punching bags for the rest of the family, but it was nice to know that she had his back and he had hers. They could handle the others.

#jason todd #Stephanie Brown #batfamily #these two deserve better

73 notes · View notes

egoiistas · 7 years ago

Text

Time Lost

ao3

a/n: HAPPY EARLY BIRTHDAY @meiosis2! Conchi, this also serves as your Christmas present bahahha! Have some angst.

Word Count: ~4500 || Rated: T Angst/Hurt/Comfort - Royai

Eastern Amestris, 1910

As of late, Riza Hawkeye’s lips acted on their own accord without any say on her part. Surprising her in arbitrary moments throughout the day where she had been lost in thought. Never in a way that could endanger herself or Lieutenant-Colonel Mustang, like blurting classified information, but it was equally as dangerous in her eyes.

Riza was catching herself smiling.

The danger sprung from rather intrusive thoughts. The danger was in the evenings, when the work day called for late nights and the fatigue would dismantle the professionalism and allow more than just camaraderie to slip into their conversations. The danger was jokes that brought out tears and hurt her sides from laughter. In those times, her mind would think more of meanings in his gestures, like hands brushing or silent, awkward rides home - as if they were waiting to say something. It felt like they were toeing the line, approaching something far from innocuous, and she felt that in her chest, despite nothing ever actually happening. She was reminded of all this staring out the train window as the scenery of the late fall landscape passed them by in rapid succession.

Some days, it had been necessary to do an hourly reminder of where exactly Riza’s place was in the grand scheme of things. He was a walking reminder of what had happened in the desert - what she carried on her back and yet, there were things about him that made it easier to forget.

“You’re awfully quiet today, Lieutenant.” Riza looked over to him. He was flipping through the documents he’d pulled from her bag.

Of course he forgot his, Riza thought, wiping away a smile just in time for him to look up.

“Something on your mind?”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve visited the countryside, sir. It’s a different place, but very reminiscent of a lonely, little town out there somewhere.”

He stared out the window before dark eyes landed on her. “It’s not too far. Perhaps a quick detour wouldn’t hurt?”

The tracks in her mind switched. That’s not something she wanted. Not yet. The thought of it chilled her. “That’s not necessary, sir.”

The Lieutenant-Colonel shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He handed her the files, effectively changing topics to her relief. “Will you run by me these details again so I make sure I have them accurately?”

Their fingers briefly touched beneath the folder, and she told herself to make nothing of it. “Absolutely,” she said without faltering, but swallowed thickly as she separated the sheets of paper. Riza briefed him on the main points of their mission: “An inspection, ordered by General Grumman of East City, is required to investigate the rumors of alchemists transmuting coal and other materials into gold and other precious metals and gems in violation of Official Code of Amestris Annotated Section 16-3-1.

“Local military and policemen have been unable to capture these alchemists due to their hasty departure or diversions, such as setting buildings on fire or creating massive low-visibility dust clouds. The smaller towns are suffering from coal shortage, especially with the approaching winter. We are to investigate, but are explicitly ordered not to engage unless sufficient backup is present.” A tiny smile emerged as he scoffed, but she continued. “There’s enough evidence in this file from testimonies and forensic portraits to believe we are looking for a “Felix Scuttle”, but could be going by a different alias.

He and his crew were last heard of in Giribaz working their way down from Fisk.” She presented the mugshot of man with a deep frown in his late 30s measuring tall at 6’1” with average features including wavy brown hair and with a brown eye and a cloudy eye in the other. “He should be easy to identify. Doesn’t exactly look like the townspeople in these parts.”

The Lieutenant-Colonel inspected the photo. “Looks like someone trying to bring about economic disaster.”

She snorted from his remark, “Consider him armed and dangerous, sir, as with the rest of his crew. ” Riza spread out the rest of the photos across her lap.

“Heard loud and clear, Lieutenant.”

She secured the files backed into the safety of the folder. Riza pulled back the sleeve of her thick jacket for the time only to be met with a watchless wrist. She asked, “Do you have the time?” as the train attendant announced the proximity to Giribaz.

“Quarter after five,” he responded and tucked the silver watch back into his pocket. “Too late to start covering ground now.”

Her legs ached to stand and move around. “We should start early. There’s a car ready for us from one of the smaller military offices.”

“And a room from the local inn is secured as well?”

“Two, actually.”

“Oh, good.” He said it in a way to end the conversation and she urged herself to not read further into his silence as he looked out the window.

They arrived with a whine and a bout of smoke from the steel giant’s whistle. They had embarked on the midmorning train and now, the sun was beginning to sink under the horizon in rich gradients of red and vibrant oranges. Without question, it’s a town significantly smaller than East City by population density and size with smaller municipalities dispersed far and wide. Giribaz had been a wonder to a younger Riza whenever she left the true countryside for supplies not available back home. Like the other areas their perpetrators have hit, it doubled as a mining township with occupations centered around the success of the mines.

The inn was around the same size as the manor she grew up in. She wondered why she had made the comparison. Riza felt both solace and annoying disappointment when they ate dinner with little conversation. She succeeded in making no show of any it. As a female officer, Riza grew aware that it was far more prudent to be scant when it came to emotions - which is why her smiling problem was a concern. It happened before she realized it. They retired to their respective rooms and Riza stared at the ceiling that night. Her mind elsewhere, she searched for the watch that she had forgotten back in East City.

The wild goose chase began at the break of dawn.

Riza set out before the Lieutenant-Colonel woke up. A layer of dark blue dampened the wood buildings and dirt roads, hanging around and waiting for the sun to chase the shadows away. Enroute to the local military branch, she saw miners beelining to the mines with the handles of pickaxes over their shoulders. Vendors set up shop, and their children, she assumed, with yawns tugging at their mouths with sleep still heavy in their eyes. It was all too nostalgic for Riza.

By the time she returned to the inn with a vehicle, he was sitting at a table enjoying a cup of warm coffee with two eggs sunny-side up and a single slice of toast. His usual. “Good morning, sir. Lieutenant Hawkeye reporting for duty.”

He waved her down. “I don’t know how anyone can get up so early,” he rubbed his eyes, “I already have enough trouble getting up at 0700.”

“Merely a habit, sir.”

He ate quickly. “I trust you’ve already procured the vehicle.”

“Yes, sir.”

A smile and she shoved away the delight. “Good. Let’s get this over with.”

Except it was not as easy as getting it over with. From the moment they set out from the inn, they questioned and interrogated the people of Giribaz. Mine workers covered in earth, mothers with babes in their arms, and the elderly on their way to a game of shoji, the reply was the same: the alchemists in question were seen for no more than a few hours within town before stealing away a good amount of coal. In spite of this, the local authorities offered them a tip that Scuttle’s crew were heading to the town of Crawley, an hour or so northeast of Giribaz, but it was vague and with no real assurance there’d be anything there should they spend the hour drive and back.

“We’re don’t really have a choice, Lieutenant.” The Lieutenant-Colonel said as he settled the suitcase in the trunk of the car and chivalrously helped her with hers.

“I just think there’s more to be investigated here if our intel says this is where they were last seen.”

He moved in closer, close enough that she held her breath, but she convinced herself he did it for discretion. “Don’t you think it’s a little suspicious that everyone had the same story to tell? Besides…” His eyes flickered between the walking townsfolk. “There’s something missing here.” She stood there, processing it, while he shut the trunk with a good shove. “Time to go, Lieutenant.”

Upon arriving, Crawley consisted of a single strip of buildings that made up the “town.” A post office, a small inn, and a tavern. The rest of it was farmland belonging to private farmers growing crops like grain and tobacco. Riza asked the people within the main part of town if they could identify the man in the photos, or any of the rest. After coming up short, they visited the small military office consisting of a total of three officers: a lieutenant and two privates. Lieutenant Blast, or as the Lieutenant-Colonel liked to nickname him “Lieutenant Last” on account of his deliberately slow cadence and gait, showed them the scorched farmland belonging to a family acres away. Riza heard the man assure them that the investigation was exhausted and the trail had thus gone cold. Skimming through Crawley’s evidence files proved as such.

Something kept the Lieutenant-Colonel silent while he looked through the photos on Blast’s desk; probably engrossed with the manner the fire was used.

“Have you heard anything from any of the other areas? From other offices?” Riza inquired, notepad and pen in hand.

“There was…,” Blast slowly sucked in breath, “...a disturbance one ...other town.”

“Spit it out, Blast.” She heard the subtle bite in his voice.

Lieutenant Blast nodded slowly. “Three hours from here… South. Past Giribaz…”

Riza gripped her pen tighter. “Yes, and the name of this place?”

What was probably seconds felt like hours as his beady little green eyes glazed over trying to remember. “Chasteaux.”

In her peripheral, Riza saw the Lieutenant-Colonel’s head snap up as her own body failed to respond for a moment.

“Did I hear that right?” He closed folder holding the pictures and documents. “Did you say Chasteaux?” She knew the answer to that just as well as he did and that made for a painful silence in the car.

The entire way, he had this look on his face like he wanted to ask a question. Not the question when they sat in silence for seconds in front of her apartment building. It was a questions he didn’t know how to word or how to even form the words, because it might hurt or reopen wounds that were never treated properly. A festering that would rather be put out of sight than ensure it didn’t turn gangregious. The weight in her chest was heavy and it sunk further as she saw the hilly outskirts of her old hometown come into view.

Dusk was beginning to chase away the day. Chasteaux always looked like a place time forgot. The buildings were ancient, as were the houses. She was sure that had it not been for the invention of synthetic fabrics the people would look exactly the same. In her time here, the only alchemist she ever knew was her father and, by extension, his apprentice Roy.

A new building had been erected in her year of absence, she noticed, and it stuck out like a sore thumb.The inn was colored in pastels and brightly shone with lights, dwarfing the other establishments around it with the multiple storeys. It would be better, she reasoned, if they stayed at an inn than if they stayed at her abandoned house - to track their movement should the military need it. Riza told the Lieutenant-Colonel as much.

He parked the car in front of it and turned to her, hesitating. She didn’t want to look at him. Riza didn’t know if she could take that same look of pity when it mirrored the last time they were here, so she leapt out of the car before he could say anything.

There was still enough daylight to ask a few people around, but she felt securing a room was equally important. Luckily, she didn’t recognize the innkeeper. Wearily, she approached the old woman with glasses looking over a ledger until she saw Riza approach. “Hello, how can I help you, dear?”

“Two rooms please.”

Riza was given a sympathetic look. “Apologies, miss, all our rooms all but one are occupied”

Incredulous, and after 5 hours of stuck in a vehicle, she said tiredly, “What? Who can possibly be taking all the rooms?”

“The Winter festival has become a bit of a big thing for this old, forgotten town. It’s brought new life to it.”

She’d never heard of any festival in Chasteaux save for the Harvest. Even then, that was sparse event drawing a paltry number of attendees from nearby towns. Mystified, she asked, “How?”

The old woman smiled. “The people were tired of being forgotten.”

Riza felt that sentiment hit too close to home. Whether it was because of being mentally spent or not, she didn’t know. Accepting, she said, “All right, I’ll take the one room.” She could stay in her own house. It’s just one night. She clenched a fist, imperceptible to the the older woman writing in her log; maybe she was putting it off long enough.

“One bed, okay?”

It made no difference to her. “Perfect.”

Riza was given the key with a key tag labelled “6-11”. She left the brightly-colored building to find the Lieutenant-Colonel and found the car alone instead. Her hands ran through her face, feeling the fatigue all at once.

“Riza?” Every muscle suddenly became taut from her name. “Riza Hawkeye, is that you?” She turned around to see Mrs. Tilde walking towards her; a baker back when Riza was a girl now wrinkled with streaks of gray hair and gripping a cane for support.

“Mrs. Tilde,” she said courteously. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“You’re the pleasant surprise. Why, look how you’ve grown and in the military too.” She grasped at Riza’s arm and tugged gently. “Come, let’s go see who’s around.”

“Oh, my apologies Mrs. Tilde, as much as I’d love to, but I’m actually on duty right now and--”

“I thought I saw Roy running around here, is he here with you too?”

The old woman glanced at Riza’s hands. “But I don’t see no ring.” She smiled deviously. “Let me guess, shotgun wedding like your mother and father?”

Please don’t bring them up. Riza blinked several times before she got over the embarrassment, “No, he’s my superior officer.” She really needed to leave, but she knew, to them, she’d been gone for four years. The people assumed Roy had taken over the Hawkeye estate when he went into town for her first aid supplies to treat her burns. Riza tried to make a move to leave but she didn’t know how without using force and the old lady wouldn’t take a hint she had places to be.

“I see,” Mrs. Tilde’s face fell. “Well, I told this to Roy the last time he was here. We’re sorry about your father and that we all missed his funeral.”

Riza chewed on the inside of her cheek. Quietly, she said, “I didn’t know anyone would come to the funeral of a recluse.”

But it was too low for Mrs. Tilde, or she ignored it. “I’m also very sorry about your house. Beautiful architecture.” She shook her head in the way grandmothers do disapprovingly. “It burned everything before anyone could do anything about it.”

“What are you talking about?” There had been no question about what she had just heard, but her head went light.

“Aren’t you here to investigate the fires, dear? And to find the awful, awful hooligans who did it?”

“What fire?”

Mrs. Tilde’s eyes widened and the lamplight casted a shadow over them. “Did… “ She began to let go. “Did no one tell you? Write you?”

Out of breath, she shook her head slowly and said, “No. ...I’ve only just arrived, Mrs. Tilde.” Riza glanced around, breathing quickening - she wasn’t sure what she was looking for as the tears pooled in her eyes. “I’m sorry, I have to go.”

Lacking the keys to the car, she walked the route she knew back to her house on the dirt road she travelled on so many times. The fatigue pushed to the back of her mind. It always took half an hour on foot - past the tree with a split trunk, over the bridge separating her property and the town, beyond the browning open fields until she saw the rusted mailbox barely standing off the side of the road.

Morbidly, she thought it looked better burnt down than it did up. It didn’t, however, stop the suckerpunch she felt in her stomach, stealing her of breath. The dilapidated manor was reduced to charred rubble with only a few weight-bearing studs jutting from the foundation. Riza walked through the creaking metal gate. The sounds of life and night were far-off.

Walking into what was once a foyer, she thought it ironic that the house of Berthold Hawkeye, the master of fire alchemy, should be demolished by the element of his specialty. It was ironic that it was within those walls that she had his protege burn his secrets off her back.

It was ironic that she wasn’t the one to do it.

She wanted to -- fiercely. It’s why she left. It’s why she didn’t come back. She’d meant to keep her mother’s belongings at a time when she was ready and to organize the skeletons placed in her closet. To lock the proverbial door and throw away its key. She always said she’d return to burn the notes, the books, the clothes, the cold keepsakes, and the memories of cruel man who taught others alchemy and taught her pain and fear.

Right then and there she wanted to blame him for everything that happened her. The resentment. The secrets. The poverty. Riza could see the events of her life rolling like snowball, gaining size down a mountain. Left with no choice, she enlisted because there was nothing left to her name, not even enough money to bury him, no family to turn to. She envied the kids who enjoyed going home because she had a very different definition for hers. The burden of a responsibility she wasn’t worthy enough to even look at, bestowed her father’s secrets to the one person, she thought, had showed her kindness because she was naive and young. She still was! She indebted herself to his cause out of the guilt from his betrayed trust. All a result of something she didn’t ask for. All because ...perhaps, her father held no love for her. This was the truth she was trying to avoid and the subsequent loneliness of its wake.

She held herself, covering her mouth. She wanted to curse Berthold Hawkeye who lied in his grave ignorant to his daughter’s misfortune. For everything, everything.

But what good would that do now? Anything that mattered has been blown or washed away in her absence. It wouldn’t bring back her mother. It wouldn’t save those Ishvalans. They would remain as pictures in her head, fading with time, as with these ashes surrounding her.

The whole situation felt like a sardonic joke. A punishment was better suited for it. She was the joke as she wasn’t as quick on the draw as she liked to believe; another addition to the list of things she took too long to act on.

There was a wetness to her cheeks and suddenly the realization consumed her that she hadn’t grown up from the scared girl from before. She was still scared. She hadn’t grown; she only succeeded in masking her with the face of a murderer.

Stepping forward, she kicked something on the floorboard. It was hard to see with the sun now settled beyond the horizon. The moon was enough to point her in the right direction. In her hands, she held the face of a watch; the bands burned at both ends, but somehow the face had been spared by the fire. The glass was cracked and the mother of pearl underneath gave off a sheen. It released from her like a river’s rush during a downpour with a sob that wracked her body, holding her mother’s watch in her gloved hand. She turned quickly to get away until she slammed into something solid.

Unmoving, Riza knew better than to be surprised. She gripped the lapels of the stiff, woolen coat, but she still wanted to be angry. She needed that ire to fuel her - to change her, but it was useless. To her father’s dismay, she wasn’t someone who would be consumed by fire; she melded with it. Worked with it. Guided it. And there’s no one else who would care coming out this far, certainly no one from town. Only the military or apprentices from Central or Flame Alchemists. But she asked anyway, “How did you find me?”

“After I found out what happened here, I realized they hadn’t left Giribaz when nothing was touched there. I called Eastern Command to dispatch so we can arrest them in the morning.” The words resonated deeply in his chest. “I went to go look for you after that.”

She wanted to laugh. Laughter would have been nice, but she made no sounds. Riza stood there, forehead to his chest. Her arms were now dead beside her and he made no move of his own. She stepped back and the wind picked up the air of burnt wood. With no place to stay the night, she said, “It’s time to go back, sir.”

He made jokes about how they should invest in infrastructure out in the rural areas instead of human weapons on the bumpy ride back. She was silent all the way to the inn and that’s when she could hear the worry in his voice.

She sat on the side of the bed, back to him and the door. He said something, but she was lost in her own thoughts until a hand rested on the shoulder of her uniform that yanked her from drowning in them. She jumped and he sounded apologetic. “Sorry, I said I was going to get food. I wanted to know if you wanted anything.”

Without looking up, Riza grabbed the hand on her shoulder. “Stay,” She worried that if she threw in the word “please” she would break.

“Lieutenant...”

She tugged the arm toward her center and looked up, hoping the tears would stay at the corner of her eyes. “Riza is asking you to stay.”

Something in his face changed. She couldn’t read what it was.

Her inexperience with people thus far had limited her social cues, but she had Rebecca to thank for normalizing her to society again. She pulled him on the seat next her without staring at him in the face and the bed gave into the weight. “I need…” She released his hand and unclasped the button, then two, of his coat. Her eyes met with his, “...someone.” Comfort.

“I don’t understand,” he said unsure. She let the fall of his coat off his shoulder communicate for her and he received the message. Roy was still for a moment and she watched the gears turn behind his eyes. He shook his head. “Riza.”

“It doesn’t have to be complicated.” She didn’t know herself anymore. The things she wanted to ask for, it wasn’t her. Her emotions were wrapped in something foreign; it became unrecognizable. She wanted to make a choice of her own for once. “I don’t want to feel. No one has to know in some forgotten town in the East”

“It’ll become too complicated. We- I’m sorry. You’re my subordinate. And..”

Riza let go of him like he burned her. The embarrassment settled right next to her sunken heart. Smiling sadly, she turned forward and wiped a tear off her cheek before he could notice something so childish. It couldn’t have been worse, she realized, than suggesting something as insolent as making advances to a superior officer. “No, I should be the one apologizing. I’m coming to terms that nothing will be as before. I should know better. That time is gone.” She spoke to the fingers on her lap. “It won’t happen again.”

If he made any semblance of a response, Riza didn’t hear it. She saw him leave her side from her peripheral, and heard the boots cross the room until the door opened and closed. She shut her eyes with it so that the tears that were pooling at the bottom of her eyelids could finally be freed. She wrapped her arms around herself, clenching teeth and eyes, as a sadness hollowed out a void in her chest. Her breath stilled in her lungs if only to deny herself the agonized cries begging to be released. Everything felt so wrong and she had no clue how to make it right. She isolated herself to a profession she had no love for. She had nothing else, but she dragged that through the mud because she couldn’t keep silly, little emotions in check. If he didn’t transfer to another unit for insubordination, she would feel the urge to resign herself were it not for the alchemy she felt responsible for.

Riza jumped when the door opened. Her arms fell like dead weights. She didn’t turn from the cowardice of staring him in the face after her folly, but she took a deep breath. This time, his footsteps were hastened as he walked past the front of the bed, and stopped in front of her. None of her muscles moved, with or without her willingness, for the few seconds he didn’t say anything.

Her eyes travelled upwards by the nudge of two fingers under her chin. He swooped in to kiss her. Her arms supported her against the plush bed as he nudged her further on to it. Her legs were lifted and she was centered on the mattress followed by his weight over her. She took the entire gesture in stride without a moment of hesitance. Her coat fell off her in the middle of it, then his shirt, then their ranks.

“No one can know,” he murmured against her lips.

She nodded. To make up for lost time.

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thathpheadcanongirl · 7 years ago

Text

How Audrey Might Have Met Percy...

OF MAGIC AND COFFEE by LittleLauren

"You can't just run away, Jude!" Audrey scolded her sister. She knew she was eating the teen's ear off, but this was the fifth time this has happened this month alone. "I'm far too busy for your antics. And I can't have you lounging about in my dorm room, when I have work."

"Slow down, will you!" Jude called out, holding onto Audrey's car dashboard.

She was driving rather recklessly, but Audrey had to get to work on time. She just had to.

"If you cost me my job, I swear…" Audrey muttered, swerving here and there through traffic.

"You could spare one of them," Jude complained. "You never come round anymore."

Audrey rolled her eyes and sighed as they pulled into her old street. She stopped the car right before she reached their parents' house. "When you're my age, you'll understand. Besides, you should be going to college. You have revision, yeah?"

Jude picked at her nails, and she mumbled a, "Yeah…"

Audrey reached over to inspect her sister's hair, to which she had dyed red blotchy streaks in her blond hair. "Do Mum and Dad know about this?"

Jude gave Audrey a guilty look, causing the older sister to tisk at the younger sister. "Judith Miranda Lee Tilly …"

"It's not a cry for help or anything!" her sister reasoned. "I saw Christina Aguilera have this exact thing in Teen Magazine!"

Audrey adjusted her rear view mirror, and sighed again. "You know Mum is going to blame me when she sees you, and I don't need that."

"'M sorry, Audrey," Jude mumbled.

As much as Jude running away was a huge inconvenience, Audrey really just wanted the best for her. She did not have enough money to move her out of their parents' crazy, "carnie act" household. She knew Jude didn't enjoy being part of The Topsy Tilly Magic Act just like Audrey. She could go her whole life without being a magician's assistant ever again, especially with her self-centered, delusional parents. When Audrey was younger, they'd spend so much money on the latest illusionist equipment and costumes that they'd forget to pay the utility bill. It got really bad when Jude was born and Audrey would run away to hustle her little magic tricks on the street for money to buy food. Although it sounded like a terrible childhood, she would not have learned to work for her aspirations. She was proud to say that she singlehandedly funded her way to University through scholarships and balancing 3 jobs. She believed it gave her character and independence. She chose to ignore the fact that her parents didn't seem to care about her academic endeavors.

"I'll make a deal with you," Audrey gave in. "If you keep up your grades this term, you can visit me after exams. Because I miss you too."

That brightened Jude's mood. She smiled, and hugged Audrey from the other side of the car. "Love you, Bug," she muffled.

Audrey rolled her eyes at her old nickname. "Love you, Beetle," she reciprocated. "Now, get out before the neighbors tell Mum and Dad that I was spotted!"

Despite not wanting to be seen, Audrey watched her sixteen-year-old sister run back home. She disappeared around their hedge. No doubt, a minute later, Jude would be in her pajamas, red dye taken out of her hair, black eye liner cleaned off her face, and in bed for their mother to "wake her up". That was Jude's specialty; she was the family's disappearing act. It's a wonder their parents didn't catch on.

She glanced at the time. "Shit!" She was definitely going to be late for her shift at the coffee shop this morning. She quickly debated whether or not she could make it without stopping for gas. Deciding against it, she fled down the highways. She prayed that her boss would cut her some slack…

"Shit…" she muttered again, noticing all of the good parking spots were already taken. The only spot she could find was a two-hour parking limit. She could afford to pay the fine, but she definitely couldn't afford to lose this job. "God, forgive me," she whispered as she parallel parked.

She ran into the coffee shop, quickly wrapping her apron around her and putting up her dark blonde hair. She breezed passed her co-workers to go behind the counter.

Just as she was about to take someone's order, "Tilly!" came a rough voice from behind her.

She winced. "One moment," she smiled at the customer. She turned around and already had a story ready. "I'm really sorry, Mr. Minchin. My sister ran away from home, and-"

"My office, now," he said, beckoning her to the back room in the kitchen.

She hung her head as she followed. This was the longest job she's had, but with her terrible schedule, she knew Mr. Minchin was just waiting to let her go.

"Sit," he commanded. He looked at her from the other side of his small desk.

"I'm really sorry, sir," she tried again. "It won't-"

"-Happen again?" he finished for her. He chuckled in spite of the situation. "How many times have I heard those exact words come out of your mouth?"

Audrey slumped.

Mr. Minchin considered her for a moment. "You're a good worker, Tilly. One of the best. But your tardiness overshadows that." He bent down and whispered, "And the terrible workers have to pick up your slack before they even have a chance to pick up their own."

She couldn't help but look guilty.

"I run a business here, and I can't afford to have you coming in whenever you're good and ready." Before Audrey could retort, he raised his hand. "I'm sorry, Audrey."

"Can't I at least finish out the day?" she pleaded quietly. "I'm here, aren't I?"

Mr. Minchin scratched his beard in thought. "Very well, but I need you to hand in your apron tonight," he said somberly.

Audrey worked the floor like she's never worked before. She took as many orders as she possibly could, well beyond the number of the slackers currently employed. She had a sliver of hope that Mr. Minchin would see how diligently she worked, with no break, and would take back her being fired. But, at the end of her shift, she just took her slender portion of tips, and handed in her apron.

"I wish the best of luck for you," Mr. Minchin told her as she went on her way.

She wouldn't be sad if she never stepped into that dying establishment again anyway. It was just slowing her down for a job that aided to her talents.

She counted her tips grimly as she trekked back to her car. "Bollocks!" she swore, when she noticed a parking ticket on her windshield. She knew her earnings for her last day at the coffee shop was all for naught, knowing that she literally worked to pay off a ticket.

She lowered her head, knowing what she had to do. "I'm going to hate myself…" she muttered, swiping the ticket off of her car. Her body and soul was screaming at her to just go home and see if she could knick some food from one of her roommates. But she was a proud and stubborn young woman. She got into this mess, she could get herself out.

Parking in a narrow alleyway, she hoisted a small table and a decent sized bag out of her trunk. She thought her days of hustling were over, but people seemed to like getting cheated out of their money for a cheap thrill.

"Step right up!" she called, intricately shuffling her deck of cards. "Do you have what it takes to win twenty quid? All you have to do is follow your card. It's as easy as one, two, three!"

"Mummy, Mummy!" cried a little boy. "Look at the lady with the cards!"

Jackpot.

"How about you, handsome?" she said with a winning smile. "How would you like to have twenty pounds in your pocket?"

"I could get the new Sonic game!" His eyes glistened with wonder.

"You can buy much more than that," she lied. She placed three cards on the table.

"No, Kevin," the boy's mother tried to pull him away. "It's a scam."

"Come on, Mummy!" the boy whined, tugging onto her purse.

"Yeah, come on, Mummy!" Audrey joked. "Just one little game?"

Her charming smile won the tired woman over. "Alright, but just one game."

Audrey played them like a fiddle! Pretty soon, a crowd surrounded them, joining in the fun of the game. She'd bet the twenty, but she knew he wouldn't get it the first time. Then she'd make it easier, lessening the price. Once he thought he was on a roll, his mother would bet in that she could guess because it was a "simple game". This is when the public started to get involved. Once they raised the bet it fifty pounds, double or nothing, that's when she'd change out the cards. That way, the odds will be in her favor, no matter what.

Just as she was shuffling the cards on the table, readying the card up her sleeve, she heard a cheer from the other side of the street. Everyone turned around, except the boy, who was concentrating hard on Audrey's shuffling.

There, across the street, were two red headed young men, also hustling… in her territory.

"Mummy! My card is in her sleeve!" he yelled, pointing grandly. "It's in her sleeve!"

She expertly slid the card from out of her sleeve and into the deck before anyone else could accuse her of cheating. "I assure you all, there is absolutely nothing up my sleeve," she said swiftly, but panicking inside. She exposed her now bare sleeves and continued on with the game.

Slowly, her crowd dwindled and found its way across the street. Even the boy and his mother seemed bored with her game. To stop him from whining, she let them go with half of her tips from the coffee shop. She was intrigued too.

From the lack of business on her side of the street, she decided to scrutinize her competition. She had seen the one before, but with his twin. The two were so jovial and charming. Their illusions seemed so flawless, and yet, she could never figure out how they had such success in hiding their secrets. This time, there was only one of the twins. His eyes were sunken in, he wore the ghost of a smile, he hunched his shoulders, and, most grotesquely, he was missing an ear. He was accompanied by another man, although he could have also been another brother. This man had curly red hair, horn-rimmed glasses, and a slight clumsiness about him. He definitely did not have the charm the other brother had.

Soon, she found herself part of the crowd. For the life of her, she could not understand how their tricks were working. She even went up when the curly-haired one asked for a volunteer to get a better look (the earless one was behind him, hands in his pockets, seemingly uninvolved). She could tell that the curly-haired one was so nervous and fumbling all over the place. He had her take part in the ball-in-cup trick. He showed her which cup he put the ball under, shuffled up the up-turned cups, and asked her to pick the correct cup. She knew this simple trick up and back: whatever cup she picked, would be wrong.

"It's in your hand," she said, folding her arms and looking rather pompous.

He smiled, and said, "Thinking outside the box, eh? Well, as you can see, the ball is nowhere on my person." He showed his palms, sleeves, and pockets.

She indicated to the cups, but the ball was not underneath those either. "Where is it then?"

"Why don't you check your own pockets, then?"

She could not believe it! Her pockets and sleeves began to overflowing with little Ping-Pong balls. She was absolutely flabbergasted and enraged as the crowd laughed and cheered. She stomped back to her station and watched the rest of their act from afar.

Figuring that it was useless trying to scrounge for another hustle, she turned in. She arrived back in her dorm room.

"You're home early," said Dawn, one of her roommates. She sat by their small television as she studied.

Audrey plopped down next to her friend. "I had a bad day," she admitted simply, mindlessly changing the channel.

Dawn glanced up from her notes, and declared, "I'm thinking Chinese. How about you?"

Audrey sighed. "I didn't make enough tonight."

"It's on me, love," her friend smiled.

And as she ate her dinner, she racked her brain for every possible explanation as to how the brothers were doing those tricks. It simply did not make sense.

Audrey took pride in knowing that she would always succeed academically in school. She had the very sensible goal of becoming a secondary school Literature teacher. But top marks didn't excuse her lack of income, and another flexible job was difficult to come by. So, she had nothing else better to do than to hustle on her corner.

No matter what she tried, people ended up gravitating towards the red heads and their masterful tricks. She debated whether or not she should relocate, but she knew that this was the busiest street in London. She would be losing more money if she left. Plus, she wasn't one to give up. She was there first. She owned this turf.

She scrutinized the two over the next few days, and she could have sworn they were using some sort of slender remote in one hand, controlling most of their tricks.

She decided to confront the curly-haired one, since he seemed the most susceptible to interrogation. She waited until they were packing up for the day. But before she got a chance, she was interrupted by the earless one.

"I don't know, Percy," he called over his shoulder. "But I think we have a fan."

"I'm interested in your act is all," she said airily. "Maybe we could exchange some tricks. I mean, us illusionists have to stick together."

He made a face and laughed. "Yeah, okay. Did you know magic is real?"

"What?"

"George! Who's your friend?!" Percy interjected, knocking down a few items off of their small table.

"Audrey," she said, holding out her hand. Percy shook it, smiling. "I run my own stand down the street."

"Is that so?"

"I remember you!" George said. "You used to come by a few years ago. Back when Fr- when we… I was here."

Percy glanced at George, who began to sulk again.

"We should get going," Percy said quickly. Audrey saw him packing up everything in a briefcase that definitely looked too small to hold all of their equipment, and yet, he closed it with no problem. He grabbed the suitcase and table, and with his glasses slightly askew, said with a sparkle in his eyes, "Until we meet again, Audrey." She watched the pair turn a corner and disappear from sight.

And she did meet George and Percy again. She strategically placed her station closer to the brothers' territory. Her and Percy would have silent competitions to see who would get more attention. It was always a pretty close call, but the brothers would win at the very last minute every time. Audrey was getting frustrated, while Percy looked more and more pompous. But Audrey was not one to give up. She soon figured out how to do some of their tricks (or how she thought they were doing their tricks), which made both of their acts unoriginal.

After a rather uneventful day, Percy walked up to Audrey's stand. She was ready to fight back his teasing, but to her surprise, he put out a hand for her to shake.

"I really admire your drive, Audrey," he said, smiling. "I don't think you realize how much you helped out George." They both glanced over at the brothers' stand, and George was laughing and entertaining what little audience he had. "We've been dealing with a lot over the passed few months. And your persistence gave him a reason to continue what he likes to do best."

Audrey didn't have the courage to ask what happened to his twin, but she could already deduce that it would not be a happy conversation. "I'm glad to help." She started to pack up.

"You're not going now, are you?"

"I'm afraid so," she sighed. "You ran me out of business."

Percy's eyes widened. "I never meant to do that! I'm so sorry."

Audrey shrugged. "It's alright. It was bound to happen anyway. I can't make a living on street performing, that was my mistake."

"This- this was your entire income?"

"For now, yeah," she said. "I don't have much, but I get by."

They both looked at each other for a moment, and Percy's ears turned slightly red. "Do you like coffee?"

Any other time, she would have sworn off coffee altogether. She knew that if she said yes, then they'd go to the coffee shop she was fired from a few blocks away. Then again, she didn't think she'd pay much attention to the exasperated look of old Mr. Minchin. Audrey gave a half-smile. "I love coffee."

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ignis-scientia-estrogen-brigade · 7 years ago

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@thirdstreetcettin is solely to blame for this one-shot; I practically needed a cigarette after reading this fic she wrote featuring everyone’s favorite strategist getting some—ahem—roadside service, and was immediately inspired to write my own smutty scenario revolving around Ignis and the Regalia.

The good news for any fans of my redheaded OC is that I brought her out of the woodwork to write this fic; the bad news is that in spite of this being titled Part 7 of the series, it technically takes place before Part 6, which is where her story ultimately ends. I even drew a little companion piece to go with it (full-view under the cut); it was getting late so I left it mostly unfinished, but perhaps one day in the near future I’ll take a stab at rendering it more fully.

As always, click on the link above or the cut below to read the full text; Astoundingly NSFW.

Of all bloody days, the redhead thinks, wrapping her coat a little tighter around herself.

Her footfalls echo against pillars of concrete as she shifts impatiently from foot to foot. It wasn’t entirely out of the ordinary to find herself waiting for the strategist’s midnight signal in the underground parking structure of his apartment complex; although she usually listened for the sound of his front door unlocking from the shadows of his floor’s elevator landing, on occasions when the crown prince stayed up abnormally late and trolled the hallways—he lived just three units down from Ignis—more clandestine measures were sometimes required.

It made little difference to her where precisely she waited for him, but the dimly lit garage was thirty feet below street level and several degrees colder besides, and rainy nights like tonight made it all the more frigid. The soft ringlets she had coiled into her tresses had long since atrophied into limp waves despite the umbrella she had brought along with her; she wouldn’t have bothered curling her hair at all knowing he would rake his hands through it within five seconds of liberating her from her clothes, but today was a special day, and she had hoped he might take note of her extra effort.

But the strategist wasn’t even there to comment on her crimson lipstick and silk skirt—still upstairs entertaining his royal charge, presumably—and the clock on her cellular tells her he’s kept her waiting forty-five minutes longer than their customary agreed-upon time. She steps slowly toward a familiar black sports car parked in a private valet space and runs her fingers along the single word affixed to the bumper in raised letters, blowing out a frustrated sigh and tucking herself behind the vehicle in an effort to shield herself from the worst of the evening chill.

It’s only when she’s checked her mobile five more times in as many minutes that she finally hears a second set of footsteps echoing throughout the quiet parking structure. She knows it’s him by the sound of his stride; his long legs and rigid posture gave his gait a distinct air of authority that could be heard even before being seen. She smooths down her skirt as best she can—the light drizzle on her walk over to his apartment had left it slightly damp—then moves out from behind the car as she spots his lanky figure approaching.

“Having trouble putting the baby to sleep?” she teases.

Ignis’ spectacled features materialize into view as he steps into the glow of a nearby light fixture, his expression a mixture of annoyance and guilt. “Apologies. It appears Noct has an important final tomorrow he forgot all about, and is currently pacing my flat in a state of utter panic.”

He’s wearing his leather jacket, she notes, which wouldn’t have been odd except for the fact that he was presently shoving his hands into his driving gloves as well. “Going somewhere?”

“An errand,” he replies quickly, then tosses her a quizzical glance. “Haven’t you been outside? You’ll catch a cold wearing a skirt in this dreaded weather.”

She ignores the hint of disapproval that laces his voice and closes the distance between them. “Aren’t you going to ask why I’m wearing a skirt in the first place?”

She knows it’s not the fear of being witnessed that causes the strategist to shy away from her when she moves to touch him; the parking structure had multiple surveillance cameras stationed at strategic points along the interior, but the spaces reserved for royal use were left unmonitored specifically for the purpose of obscuring which vehicles the prince entered and which were decoys. It’s why Ignis had always told her to wait behind the Regalia whenever she was exiled to the garage—the very car she was standing beside right now.

“I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience,” he says carefully, “but I’m actually going to have to ask you to leave.”

Her face falls. “You’re joking.”

“I’m afraid not. A midnight tutoring session was the last thing I was hoping to deal with this evening, but I can’t very well let Noct fail his exam.”

“What are you going to do? Take his test for him?”

“No, but I can run to the convenience store and pick up some Ebony. That ought to keep him awake and studying for another couple of hours.”

She narrows her eyes, then retrieves her wet umbrella from her purse and sets her jaw. “I’ll go with you.”

He finishes tightening his gloves and meets her defiant gaze with a infuriatingly blank one of his own. “That would be… inadvisable.”

“Why?”

He then fishes his car keys from his pocket and moves to the driver’s side of the Regalia. “Because while we might be safe from prying eyes here, there’s no less than ten security cameras trained on the garage’s exit ramp.”

“I’ll hide in the back seat, if that’ll put your mind at ease.”

“That doesn’t resolve the dilemma of being seen together outside the Citadel.”

She might’ve laughed, had the vein in her temple not suddenly begun to throb. “It’s one o’clock in the morning, Ignis. Who’s going to care at this hour?”

“I care,” he says sharply. “I’d rather not risk my reputation over a few cans of coffee, if it can be helped.”

The redhead wouldn’t have deigned to presume he would ever entertain her in any official capacity; the fantasy of being wined and dined by him publicly at fancy restaurants and luxury resorts was just that—a fantasy, one she knew would never realistically occur while they were both chained to their loyalties to the crown. It would take nothing less than the complete extinction of the Lucian family line to make Ignis Scientia renounce his vows to the king and heir, and indulging in silly delusions was a wasted effort entirely.

But the few hours of privacy she shared with him each night was the only thing she’d ever really had to look forward to since swearing her oath to Insomnia and its constituents, and she wasn’t about to relinquish that small mercy without a fight, especially since she’d been on her feet since early that morning assigned to mundane gate duty. She might’ve been in a less combative mood under different circumstances, more sympathetic to the strategist’s plight, but today was a special day, and her temper is eating away at her patience.

“Your reputation already precedes you,” she snaps. “What difference does one more notch in your belt for people to gossip about make?”

She had never seen the strategist angry before, and even goading him now does little to dent his enduring stoicism; still, her remark hits a visible nerve—whispers surrounding his numerous romantic dalliances had reached her ears long before she had ever met him in the flesh—and she can see a spark of ire flash behind his emerald eyes.

He taps a button on his keys without breaking her stare. “If you’re going to bark at me like that, let’s at least resolve our differences behind closed doors.”

His canine metaphor mercifully stops short of referencing any female dogs, and the soft click of the Regalia unlocking breaks through the roar of her pulse rising in her ears. She returns her umbrella to her purse before grudgingly dropping into the passenger seat as he settles in behind the steering wheel; rather than inserting the keys into the ignition, however, he simply places them on the dashboard and pushes back on his glasses with a gloved hand.

“Care to enlighten me on what this is really about?” he asks, the irritation in his voice unmissable. “You don’t generally get this testy with me unless I’m tripping you with my lance on the sparring mat.”

She resists the urge to roll her eyes and casts a heated glance in his direction. “Perhaps I was simply unaware of the full extent of your duties to the prince. Do you audit his classes for him while he’s out playing hooky as well? Kiss his scraped knees when he falls off his bicycle? Read him a bedtime story before he turns in for the night?”

“Don’t be obtuse. I do what is required of me, regardless of the circumstances.”

“Well, then I suppose we’re all rather doomed if the future king of Lucis can’t even remember to study for his high school exit exams.”

He props a hand on the steering wheel and turns in his seat to face her. “What would you have me do? Go up there and kick him out?”

“You’re the one who let him waltz into your apartment uninvited,” she counters. “If you ask me, I’d say you were somewhat of an enabler.”

His grip over the steering wheel tightens. “I didn’t ask you, and that’s not really your place to comment.”

She isn’t quite sure how she went from being a glorified bed warmer to an expert on his relationship with the crown prince, but the look of ire on his face silences any further argument from her. “If you weren’t interested in my opinions,” she mutters, "all you had to do was tell me to keep my mouth shut and look pretty.”

Several uncomfortable moments pass before either one of them speaks. “I was under the impression you understood the limitations of what I could offer,” he says finally. “I’d just as soon bring our dealings to an amicable end if you’re finding them no longer favorable.”

The fire coursing through her veins is quickly replaced by cold tendrils of defeat; the strategist wouldn’t have been the first man to abruptly part ways with her, and the redhead was cynical enough by now to promptly extinguish any feelings of sentimentality before they could leave a lasting scar on her heart. “Perhaps I did allow my expectations to grow a bit lofty.”

“There would be no lingering resentment on my part, I can assure you.”

It isn’t so much the act of terminating their partnership that feels like a swift kick to the teeth, but the painful indifference in his voice; perhaps the rumors that Ignis Scientia had a magitek generator in place of his heart were true, after all. “How kind of you.”

“I’m sorry if this wasn’t the resolution you were hoping for.”

His face is angled toward her, but she can’t see him, not really, because her eyes are welling up despite her best efforts at clamping down on her emotions. “Of all bloody days,” she whispers.

“I beg your pardon?”

A sharp bite to the inside of her cheek is enough to stay her tears, and she sniffs once before focusing her attention on the folds of her skirt. “Did you know today was my birthday?”

His hand falls from the steering wheel, and she can hear the creaking of the leather seat shifting beneath him. “I did, actually.”

Of course you did, because you know everything. You just have all the answers, don’t you? “I see.”

“I even baked a cake with your name on it, if you’ll believe it. Literally.”

The aching in her chest eases a tad. “Literally?”

He’s fiddling with the buckles of his gloves when she finally returns her gaze to him. “Indeed. I piped the letters in buttercream frosting, but I had to toss the whole thing away rather suddenly when Noct came barging through my door wailing about functions and derivatives.” He then offers her a halfhearted grin. “Couldn’t have any incriminating evidence about my personal life lying around.”

Maybe the strategist really did have a magitek generator humming inside his ribcage, or maybe she just didn’t know him well enough to discern whether his apathy was simply a byproduct dictated by an increasingly demanding profession. But the redhead wasn’t aware of any MTs who were skilled in the art of confections, nor one with a smile as endearing as his, so she reaches across the divider and touches a tentative hand to his own.

“I didn’t mean to imply I was dissatisfied with our arrangement,” she says quietly. “Only that I was hoping to spend the last few hours of my birthday with enjoyable company. I don’t have any family within a hundred miles of Insomnia, and sitting alone on my couch nursing a bottle of wine didn’t seem quite as fulfilling. I ought to have known competing with the prince for your attention would be a losing battle.”

His fingers tighten around hers, the shadows of the dimly lit parking structure dancing across his angular features. “I’d certainly rather be sharing a bottle of wine with you than helping Noct with his overdue math homework, if I had the choice.”

“You don’t have to explain. I understand where your priorities lie.” Her lips then twist into a wry smirk. “Although I daresay I look marginally better in lipstick and a skirt than the prince.”

He releases her fingers and traces a hand across the curve of her jaw. “You look beautiful. You always do.”

His touch is warm even through the soft leather of his gloves, and her eyelids fall shut as he runs a thumb across her cheek. “Thank you.”

“Do let me make the night up to you at some point. I’d offer to salvage a slice of cake from out of the garbage, but I fear my impromptu houseguest would plunder it for himself before you even had the chance to taste it.”

“I’m sure I’ll think of a suitable alternative.”

She can’t see him through closed eyes, but she can hear him lean across the divider, can smell the scent of his cologne swirling in her nostrils. And she can feel the warmth of his breath on her face when he presses his lips gently to hers, and soon she is drinking him in and forgetting all about the chill of the words they exchanged moments before.

His hand drifts from her cheek to brush away a stray lock of her damp hair, lingering on her ear briefly before trailing down the crook of her neck. Her own hand fingers the lapel of his jacket and settles in on his chest, his heart beating like a metronome beneath his dress shirt as she moves to deepen their kiss. He yields to her advances, sampling the flavor of her lips, probing her tongue with his own, tightening his fingers around the back of her neck, until the heat in her lower abdomen reaches the surface of her skin and the windows of the car begin to fog up.

A thought occurs to her, a notion she would’ve never entertained in a hundred years under polite circumstances. But today was a special day, her special day, and it was undoubtedly starting to become rather warm inside the Regalia.

She pulls away from him slightly and lowers her voice. “Ignis?”

One cocked eyebrow appears over the top of his spectacles as he watches her shrug out of her coat. “Yes, Darling?”

“How long do you expect it’ll take for the prince to grow suspicious of your whereabouts?”

“I’m not sure—fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. The convenience store isn’t terribly far from here.”

That ought to be time enough, she thinks, tossing her jacket onto the seat behind her. “I might’ve thought of a way to make things up to me, after all.”

A second eyebrow materializes above his glasses when she reaches across the divider and rests a hand on the waistband of his pants. “You can’t be serious.”

But he doesn’t move to stop her when she loosens his belt buckle, she notes, nor does he flinch away when she nuzzles her nose against his neck. “You wouldn’t deny a birthday girl a simple request, would you?”

“I would if it involved abusing my privileges to company assets.”

“We’re not vandalizing anything, merely repurposing it temporarily. And besides—you’ve already thrown out my cake.”

“I know, and I sincerely regret that our evening plans were spoiled, but I really don’t think…”

Whatever protest he had intended to raise against her is abandoned when she lowers the zipper of his trousers and slips a hand inside. She can feel his burgeoning erection beneath the fabric of his briefs pressing hard against her palm, and he tightens a gloved hand around her wrist when she rakes her teeth along the tender spot under his ear; only then does he finally shy away, and only to turn his face toward her and capture her lips with his own.

“This is highly inappropriate, you realize,” he says hoarsely. “The Regalia is property of the crown, and an expensive one at that. It’d be irresponsible of us to treat her like some teenager’s jalopy.”

She traces the outline of his bulge with light fingers and tosses him a wink. “Knowing you, she’s probably already seen her fair share of excitement.”

For a moment, it appears as if he might attempt to make one last appeal to her reasonable side; she can see the wheels of conflict turning in his mind, can sense his desire to fulfill her needs at odds with the utter lunacy of her proposal. But the tenting in his trousers isn’t softening in the least—even a man a disciplined as the strategist had two brains constantly trying to override the other instead of just one—and soon the decision is made for him when his hips grind against her hand seemingly of their own volition.

His lips never leave hers once they’ve returned to her face, not even after she’s pushed aside the hem of his dress shirt to better access his briefs; a barely audible growl escapes him when she withdraws the warm flesh scorching his thighs—now standing at full and upright attention—and she trails one last kiss along his jaw before dipping her head below his waist. He releases her wrist to tangle his fingers in her red locks, twitching slightly in his seat when her lips meet the silky smooth skin between his legs.

His grip over her hair tightens, however, before she is able to fully envelope him in her mouth. “Darling,” he whispers, “it seems hardly fair of you to do that. We should be celebrating you, not me.”

But she loves tickling the strategist’s fancy like this, because she loves to make him happy, because nothing brings her more satisfaction than witnessing Ignis Scientia at his most vulnerable. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to return the favor,” she purrs.

The tension in her scalp then eases, and her destination is finally left unimpeded when he relaxes into her ministrations. She takes him in slowly at first, circling her tongue around the sensitive tip, gripping at the base with a firm palm, listening to his breath shortening inside his lungs. His hands move from her hair to drift down her neck, not precisely urging her on, but not willing to let go of her, either; she takes this as a positive sign, and allows a bead of saliva to trickle down his shaft before carefully pressing onward.

The redhead doesn’t need to see the expression of restrained ecstasy on his face to know how badly he wants this, because his fingers are digging into the thickest part of her shoulders now, his hips rocking gently as she settles into a steady rhythm. The hard tissues of his shaft grow increasingly more engorged with each passing stroke of her tongue, and she has to pace herself in order to accommodate his full length; a deep breath helps to widen her jaw and quell any unsolicited reflexes, until she feels the tip of his head bumping up against the back of her throat.

With any other partner, her actions might’ve felt like a bit of a chore; roadside service was fairly high up on the scale of tacky sexual endeavors, sandwiched somewhere between glory holes and toe fetishes. But Ignis had always been a gentleman of the highest class, and even if he’d had a proclivity for feet, he would’ve likely found a way to somehow romanticize the act of extremity intercourse, just has he had presently found a way to thrust his entire manhood inside her mouth nearly to the scrotum without even smearing her lipstick.

But it was admittedly getting a little hard to breath with a partially obstructed windpipe, and she knows he can sense this minor complication as well; he doesn’t say a word, and simply covers her mouth hungrily with his own as he draws her away from his naked loin and out of her seat. His lips then trail down her neck as she navigates the precarious path across the divider, settling into his lap only after she has thoroughly disentangled her knees from the drive shaft. It’s a tight fit, what with two bodies and four legs nestled in a seat designed for one, but no less comfortable, and when he crosses his arms over her waist, the warmth of his chest against her back is a welcomed distraction from the cold dampness of her skirt.

Her skirt isn’t the only thing that’s damp, however—her panties are even more of a sopping mess, and her cheeks redden when she feels his erection pressing up against the wet undergarment. But the strategist evidently has a solution to ease her embarrassment, just as he always seems to have a solution for everything in life, because he’s already gripping the lacy fabric with two eager hands and pushing it down around her knees.

Her breath leaves her lungs when he glides his hard flesh back and forth between her folds, but he doesn’t immediately plunge his shaft inside of her; instead, he props his wrists on the steering wheel, nuzzling his nose in her hair as he quickly removes his right glove. His bare hand then drops to her thigh, caressing the smooth skin there before moving up her skirt and burying themselves firmly within their target.

A cry escapes her, but he’s already pressing his lips to her ear and shushing her softly. “Quiet,” he murmurs. “The windows may be tinted, but there’s a security guard stationed fifty yards to our left.”

She bites her lower lip to prevent a second gasp from bubbling out of her throat, but the strong fingers he is probing her walls with is chipping away at her resolve. So she redoubles her efforts, sealing her eyes shut and clutching desperately at the drive shaft in an attempt to express herself physically rather than vocally. She can feel him moving tantalizingly close to her entrance, running the full length of himself between her thighs, only to withdraw from her at the last second like the bloody devil he was. His left hand releases the top two buttons of her blouse before slithering beneath it to cup one of her breasts, while the fingers of his right continue to penetrate her warmth methodically and without relent.

A moan breaks loose despite her best efforts when his thumb grazes her aching nub. “Darling,” she pants. “Please don’t draw this out like you always do. I’m going to ruin these leather seats if you don’t get on with it.”

Another grind of his hips; another wayward moan. “I can’t very well get on with it if you don’t show a little bit of restraint. Now, are you going to try and keep your voice down, or am I going to have to help you out with that?”

His lips are saying one thing, but his hand buried to the knuckles in her sex is speaking a different language entirely, and she’s forced to swallow yet another cry as he sustains the agonizing pressure on her nub. A wordless nod is all she can muster when she feels his teeth sink into the softest part of her neck, and her patience is finally rewarded when he shifts in his seat and positions her wetness directly over the head of his shaft.

The strategist may have been endlessly talented with his fingers, but it was his searing heat inside of her from which she had always derived her greatest pleasure; she would’ve held her breath if she’d had any left to speak of, but her lungs empty themselves entirely of their own accord when she lowers herself onto his cock. Her hand is clutching the drive shaft so hard now she is certain it’ll break off at any moment, and it’s only when he begins to thrust against her walls that the threads of her resolve finally snap and she is unable to contain herself any longer.

A gloved hand reaches up to stifle her rapture, but the quiet remark he whispers in her ear—There’s a good girl—serves only to fuel the inferno already raging in her belly. The flavor of leather mingles with the blood she can taste from biting the inside of her own cheek, and she exhales forcefully through her nostrils as his grip over her mouth tightens with each drive of his hips. His free hand wanders over her trembling form, tracing the curves of her abdomen, caressing her breasts, slipping beneath her open blouse to lightly pinch at her nipples; she releases the clutch and braces herself against his strong thighs, angling her pelvis toward him until he is meeting the full edge of her resistance.

It isn’t long, however, before his hand returns to her aching sex. Another, less competent lover might’ve mistakingly attempted to stimulate her arousal by massaging her nub with all the nuance and subtlety of a carpenter vigorously sandpapering a plank of unfinished wood; Ignis, on the other hand, is more purposeful in his approach, teasing his ring and pinky fingers delicately over her sensitive hood with a precision benefiting from his expertise with a set of daggers. Her response is immediate, her body practically begging to be ravaged, and she lets out a muffled cry into his glove as she digs her fingernails into his legs.

There was an artistry to his method, and had she been in a more coherent state of mind, she might’ve commended him for his ingenuity; his cock was the hammer to his palm’s anvil, his right hand strong enough to curb her writhing as he directs his thrusts against the spot just below her navel. She isn’t quite sure which source is activating the familiar pressure in her lower abdomen more—the fingers he his circling around her hood with growing intensity, or the rock hard shaft gliding in and out of her like a well-oiled machine—but it doesn’t matter now, because the tingling her spine is making her teeth gnash against his glove as she draws precariously close to her tipping point.

Her thoughts are as cloudy and muddled as the steam fogging up the windows, but there is clarity as well, and she can see the culmination of his steadfast efforts just on the horizon of her mind’s eye. She had long since given up on trying to silence herself—the hand pressed firmly across her mouth is doing a suitably appropriate job at quelling her moans—so she simply grinds against his hips with a uncontrolled fervor, tossing her head back against his shoulder as she reaches the cusp of her imminent release.

How he is able to remain so composed when her climax causes her to buck like an untamed chocobo across his thighs is entirely beyond her, but he holds fast nevertheless as she shudders violently through each wave of her orgasm. His fingers refuse to budge until he’s coaxed the last bit of trembling from deep within her walls, and he loosens his grip over her mouth only when he is certain she has uttered her last feeble whimper. Where seconds before she had felt like her insides might burst into a million points of light, her body suddenly feels as heavy as a boulder, and she collapses against his chest as she struggles to draw enough oxygen into her lungs.

For a long moment, the only noise that can be heard is the sound of her heart resuming a measured pace inside her ribcage. “I know what you’re going to say,” she murmurs after a time, lifting a hand to caress his cheek.

“Hm?”

“We’re not leaving it at that.”

He snorts softly. “It’s your birthday, not mine. Why should I reap the benefits?”

But the strategist isn’t the only one with a method, and when the redhead clenches her walls mischievously around him, she’s rewarded with an audible gasp. “Really, it’s fine,” he groans. “Noct is probably blowing up my phone as we speak.”

“Then you best hurry up.”

“I’ll only make a mess of things. It’ll cost a fortune to get the Regalia detailed on my own dime.”

But his protestations don’t quite meet his voice, and indeed his idle fingers are already drifting toward her breasts. “Not unless you plan on finishing all over the steering wheel,” she says, relishing in the sensation of her nipples hardening under his touch.

She then feels his warm breath on her neck, his mouth dragging over the soft skin there before stopping at her ear. “Are you sure about this?”

Actions speak louder than words, she surmises, so she covers his hands with her own and arches herself against his groin. The lips he is brushing against her ear are soon replaced with his teeth, and he nibbles gently at her earlobe as his grip tightens over her chest; he somehow feels even harder than before, his drives more deliberate, his heat more acute, and even through each of his disciplined thrusts, she can sense the shackles of his restraint beginning to waver.

His will is still marginally stronger than hers, however, because she doesn’t need to clap a palm across his mouth to silence him; he’s already muffling his own ardor by tilting her face toward him and fighting for dominance over her tongue. Her hands fall to his thighs once more and she spurs him onward, her movements timed perfectly to his in a way that had only been achieved through hours of intimate practice they’d shared together. His features are both intense and serene, his touch urgent yet tender, and the look behind his spectacled eyes tells her there is a lust inside of him that is struggling to be contained.

So she does what intuition dictates of her, which is not to curtail his passion, but to encourage his more carnal instincts, because the redhead knows the only time Ignis Scientia ever dares to let himself to lose control is when they are behind closed doors—vehicular or otherwise—with solely the Astrals and herself to bear witness to his human fallibilities. She spreads her legs as wide as the undergarment tangled around her knees will allow for and bears down against his searing heat, gripping his thighs hard and stifling the urge to cry out loud enough to alert the security guard stationed fifty yards to their left.

There always comes a point in their lovemaking, however, when her efforts become negligible compared to the autonomous energy that abruptly possesses him like a daemon, and it’s happening right now—he pins her shoulders to his chest while his hips move like pistons, his thrusts growing ever more erratic against her slick walls. His eyes are pressed shut and a light sheen of perspiration coats his forehead and cheeks; she can see his jaw flexing tightly as he grits his teeth, can hear him exhaling forcefully through his nose, can feel his erection strengthening through his final drives.

She then feels the base of his shaft pulse angrily against her sex, followed by a warm sensation spreading throughout her belly. His mouth parts slightly and his lips move, but barely a whisper escapes him; his silence is little indication of his true condition, she knows, because the way he is twitching on the seat beneath her speaks volumes. It’s only when he’s deposited every last ounce of his seed inside of her that his pelvis finally slows to a halt, and only then does he loosen his vice grip over her shoulders and draw her back against his torso.

There was something rather extraordinary about the body’s response to stimuli in the immediate aftermath of strenuous activity; little things the redhead would’ve never noticed before now seem incredibly obvious to her heightened senses. She can almost hear the strategist’s eyelids blinking behind his spectacles, for instance, and she suddenly becomes fixated on the droplets of moisture collecting at the corners of the Regalia’s foggy windshield. His heart beats like a drum between her shoulder blades, his labored breathing as soothing as white noise, and she wonders briefly if the sound of her exhales was as comforting to his own ears.

But the moment of peaceful silence doesn’t last—it never did, much to her everlasting disappointment—and soon he is reaching into his coat pocket and withdrawing a handkerchief. “Here,” he says quietly. “You’ll probably be needing this.”

She takes his offering and grips the steering wheel, slowly extricating herself from his lap as she maneuvers back across the divider to the passenger’s side of the vehicle. She takes care not to lower herself onto leather seat until she’s stopped the flow of fluid trickling down her thigh with the handkerchief; once she’s returned her panties to their rightful place, she buttons her shirt and collects her coat and purse.

He’s already standing outside the Regalia and slipping on the glove he’d abandoned prior when she steps out of the car, his dress shirt tucked back into his trousers and his belt buckle cinched to its proper setting. She might’ve resented his ability to immaculately disguise any evidence of impropriety—her own skirt was wrinkled beyond all help—had his consummate professionalism not been the very reason they’d been able to carry on their dalliance as long as they had; she gives one last futile tug on the hem of her skirt and tosses on her coat, then circles around the back of the vehicle before stopping beside him.

“I’m sorry for derailing your coffee run,” she says, watching with curiosity as he pops the trunk. “You’ll have to spin one hell of a lie if the prince sees you returning empty handed.”

“Never fear,” he replies. “I always have a backup plan, just in case.”

Her eyebrows furrow in confusion, until she sees him withdrawing a familiar item from inside the compartment. “You had that hidden in the Regalia this whole time?”

He sets a six-pack of Ebony on the roof and locks up the car. “My secret stash. I don’t like getting into it if I don’t have to, but sacrifices sometimes have to be made.”

She tries not to let her amusement show, but her lips curve into a smile just the same. “I’ll remember that the next time I’m banished to the garage for hours on end.”

She then retrieves her umbrella from her purse and unfurls it; judging by the deluge of water sweeping past the parking structure’s exit ramp, the rain outside was coming down much harder than it had been when she’d arrived. But the strategist blocks her path before she can take her formal leave, withdrawing a twenty-credit bill from his wallet and pressing it into her hand.

“Paying me for my services now, are we?” she teases. “I didn’t realize we had that sort of an arrangement.”

He tosses her a tart glance, but the smirk tugging on the corners of his lips is unmissable. “For the cab fare. Wouldn’t want you to catch a cold on account of me.”

It’s a small gesture, but it’s not lost on her; still, she’d be remiss if she allowed his kindness to go entirely unpunished. “You sure you can afford it? Those stains you left on the seat aren’t going to pay for themselves.”

He then hefts the cans of Ebony from the Regalia’s roof and feigns a sigh. “I’ll manage somehow.”

Her heart is somehow both brimming with affection and fractured beyond repair; she’ll never be wined and dined by the strategist at the infamous Maagho in Altissia, will never spend a holiday with him on the white beaches of Galdin Quay, will never be more than a glorified bed warmer as long as a king sat on the Lucian throne. But she has moments like this to remember him by, a few hours here, a stolen glance there, and it’s just enough to satisfy her soul until the next time they meet.

A mask of indifference settles in on her features—the one she learned from him—and she tips her umbrella in farewell as she moves away. Before she can make it a dozen paces, however, his voice echoes out against the concrete pillars. “Darling?”

She slows to a halt and turns toward him. “Yes?”

His face remains impassive as he approaches, except for the hint of softness behind his green eyes. “If I didn’t say it before, Happy Birthday.”

She offers him a wry grin as he stops beside her. “Not in as many words, but you made the sentiments clear enough. Although I must admit, I’m a bit sad about the cake.”

“I’ll bake you another one sometime, I promise. And I do hope our earlier grievances didn’t spoil the evening too much.” The softness in his eyes has spread to his lips now, and her face warms slightly when he leans down to brush them gently across her cheek. “If you ask me, I rather like our arrangement.”

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