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whataperfectwasteoftime · 7 months

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Forgive These Bones I'm Hiding (Part 2 of 2)

Pairing: Serial Killer Marcus Pike x f!Reader (Reader is a police officer with the nickname “Cricket”)

Rating: E (explicit smut, 18+ only)

Word Count: 13.8k

Warnings: This is a Spoooooooky fic for Halloween season. Please heed the warnings; this is not darkfic, per se, but it explores dark themes and contains elements of suspense and horror. The following subjects are mentioned in the context of cases that the reader deals with. I do not go into explicit detail about any of these themes and any violence is implied rather than seen, but please heed the warnings for: child abuse, domestic abuse, alcoholism, drunk driving, implied sexual assault, suicide, drug use, drug overdoses. Whew. Okay, for the story itself, please be warned that there is: derogatory language (someone calls reader a “bitch”), murders, body horror (corpses!), Marcus Pike being a bit unsettling, Very Enthusiastic Pussy Eating, unprotected PIV sex (this is fiction! use protection and also maybe don't fuck a serial killer!)

Summary: When five paintings are stolen from their frames, an unusual crime for your small-town precinct in Hannibal, Missouri, it's easy for you to project your insecurities about being a female police officer in a tiny, Midwest town onto the handsome FBI Agent from Washington who arrives to help with the case. But as your disposition--and the solid walls you've built around yourself--begin to soften, you quickly find you have bigger problems than the charming man you can't help but develop feelings for. One by one, bodies are starting to pile up. Bodies that all seem to share one connection… You.

Additional A/N: OKAY, so things definitely pick up in this chapter! Please heed the warnings, as Cricket’s past cases feature in a big way. There are more corpses, more unsettling!Marcus, and, of course, more MURDER. Thank you to @littlebirdsbookshelf for being an amazingly supportive human, beta reader, and crime consultant! Thanks for making sure my self-indulgent fanfiction always has its roots in reality!! They can’t fuck if I can’t make it make sense first. PLEASE check out our Playlist for all the spoopy Midwest Gothic vibes. The title of this fic itself comes from Family Tree by Ethel Cain, which is of course on the song list!

Masterlist | Part 1

The next morning starts with a headache.

"Wha'th'fuuuuck," you croak. You’re so disoriented that it takes you a few moments to realize your alarm is going off.

You fumble for it, surprised to find it on the charger. You don't remember plugging it in. For that matter, you don't really remember getting home last night. Did… Did Marcus…?

Confusion and dread cut through the hangover, and you switch on the lamp as you sit up in bed.

You're still in your clothes from last night, but your boots are untied and placed neatly on the floor next to the foot of the bed.

You look around your bedroom, looking for more clues as to how you got here. There's a glass of water on your nightstand, and upon further inspection, two ibuprofen next to it.

You rifle around beside it looking for a note, but you come up empty-handed. It doesn't really matter; you can pretty much guess what happened: You got so wasted that Marcus Pike had to help you get home. He took off your boots, but clearly didn't feel comfortable taking off the rest of your clothes. He made sure your phone was on the charger and even went so far as to anticipate your need for water and pain medicine in the morning.

Something still feels off, though. Just call it a gut feeling, an instinct, some vestigial part of your hindbrain that's telling you something.

Maybe you forgot your purse…?

But no, when you finally drag yourself out of bed to check the entryway, your purse is there, hanging on its usual hook.

Shaking your head (probably a mistake, going by the ache that shoots through it when you do), you chalk up the odd feeling to the hangover. You don't remember the last time you had that much to drink, after all.

You feel slightly better after taking a shower and downing another glass of water, but your stomach still roils and your head still hurts as you throw on your uniform. You're thankful for the dark sunglasses that come with it when you step outside your house.

Fuck. Why did you drink so much?

You pull into the station about thirty minutes late, which isn't that bad, considering how many glasses of whiskey you had. How many, exactly? You lost count after three, but you know there were more. You were upset about Bobby and unsure of whether you even made a difference in this town and… wait, did you cry last night? In front of Marcus? An image flashes through your mind: Your head buried in the crook of his neck. A wet patch on his white dress shirt from your tears.

Oh, fuck.

The man in question gives you one of those characteristic grins when you enter, still wearing your sunglasses.

"Moving a little slow today, are we?" Marcus asks playfully.

"Jesus fuck," you murmur, collapsing into your chair with a sigh. "I guess so."

"I've never seen a woman put away that much whiskey," he comments with a wink in your direction.

"And you never will again," you groan. "I'm swearing off the stuff for life."

"I don't blame you."

"Jesus, I don't even remember what happened last night. I woke up this morning with no memory of how I got there."

Marcus laughs. "You don't?"

"I barely remember what the hell we talked about. Oh, God–was I an ass? Would you tell me if I made an ass of myself?"

"You didn't make an ass of yourself," Marcus promises.

"I feel like I got all maudlin about the job," you say, frowning.

"You did, a bit."

"Sorry if the evening was a sob-fest."

"I think you're allowed to be upset after finding Bobby Pearson like that."

Cold dread shoots down your spine. Heart in your throat, you stare at Marcus open-mouthed.

"Did… Did I tell you that last night?"

"Didn't need to." He holds up a copy of the Hannibal Courier-Post with a grim expression. Oh. Right. There it is, right on the front page, accompanied by a picture of you deep in conversation with the Coroner.

You shake your head, laughing slightly. "Jesus, guess I really am out of it this morning."

"You up for a ride?" Marcus suddenly asks.

"Huh?"

"To the St. Louis field office," he explains. "I texted you yesterday about forensics, remember?"

"Shit, that's right! I'm–I'm sorry–"

"Don't be. There was a lot going on," Marcus insists. "But they've got some stuff for us to look over. Wanna go for a little drive?"

"Only if it's you who's doing the driving," you say.

"Done."

"And if we stop for coffee."

"You drive a hard bargain, but I accept."

An hour later, with a latte in your hand and your head tipped against the cool glass of the passenger-side window, the fog of your hangover begins to clear and you start to feel much better. The sun glints off of the pavement of State Road 61 as Marcus speeds along in the left lane on the way down to the city. Everyone steers clear of what’s obviously an unmarked police car, and like all officers before him, Marcus takes full advantage. The tall grass next to the road blurs as you stare out over endless fields, dotted with the occasional farmhouse. The day is crisp; one of those beautiful fall days where the temperature stays low even though there’s not a cloud in the sky. If you squint your eyes, you can pretend you’re flying.

At the Field Office, Marcus breezes through security with his badge and his characteristic toothy grin. After you’re presented with a visitor’s badge, the two of you walk down the stairs to the basement, and down a dimly lit hall until you reach a door that reads “Forensics - Art Crimes.”

"Basement, really?" you ask, wrinkling your nose.

"Windows are bad for the degradation of paint," Marcus points out. Then, with a grin, he adds, "Plus, they always give Intelligence the prime real estate."

When he opens the door, your face brightens. Unlike any forensics department you've been in previously, this one is full of… well, art. You aren't sure why that surprises you, but Marcus chuckles as you gaze, open-mouthed, at the selection.

"It's like our own little secret museum, huh?" he says, eyes twinkling.

"Okay, I think I get why you like your job now," you say quietly as you examine what looks like an ancient Greek vase on one of the tables.

"Is that…"

"Fake," one of the lab workers says with a shrug. "Art museum still purchased it for two mil, though. Oops, right?"

"Oh. Is most of this stuff fake, then?" you ask.

"Nah. This one's a genuine Picasso that was recovered from the black market," the woman says, waving her hand at a colorful painting leaning against the wall. "We're in the middle of returning it to the rightful owners."

"Holy shit," you breathe.

"New to art crimes?" the woman asks.

"Not a lot of paintings to steal in Hannibal," you say with a smirk.

"Ah, so you're Rockwell.”

“No, I’m–oh. Haha, I get it.”

“Damon’s been taking the lead on that one. His office is there in the back; he’s expecting you two.”

Marcus greets Damon like an old friend while you stand by his side doing your best to look ‘official.’ Something about being here–in the FBI building–makes you feel like a country-bumpkin of a cop. Maybe it's just the ever-present chip on your shoulder (Okay, it’s definitely that.), but the moment makes you feel like you need to fight to take up more space, puffing out your chest and straightening your spine. And when Damon offers his hand for you to shake, you grasp it more firmly than strictly necessary, something you’ve learned over the years is an effective tool to assert yourself as a female officer.

“So you’re the lead detective on the case?” Damon asks as you shake his hand.

“Yessir.”

“Fantastic. Well, I hate to bring you all the way down here to deliver bad news, but running the prints didn’t give us any matches.”

Your heart sinks.

"But," the agent emphasizes, "your team did excellent work canvassing the area around the museum for CCTV footage, and we got some hits at one am at a few different places. Compiled it in a presentation for ya, if you wanna take a look."

At your eagerness nod, Damon turns his second monitor around to face you.

"So, first hit is at Main Street Bed and Breakfast," he explains as a grainy, black and white, blurry photo appears on the screen. Hard to ID, but it looks like we've got got male, maybe six foot, two-thirty, on foot heading away from the museum, which would be just across the street over here–" he points at the corner of the screen.

"Then the same individual shows up walking past Java Jive–" another grainy photo, not much clearer than the first, " –and then he turns down the alleyway behind the Dutch Country General Store, and gets into a white Pontiac Grand Am."

"He puts something in the backseat," you exclaim, pointing at the blurry shape.

"Mmhmm, something skinny and long," Damon says.

"...Like five rolled-up canvases," you offer, raising your eyebrows.

"It's not a lot to go on, but this is the only individual we saw out walking that night that didn't originate from any of the establishments we analyzed."

You watch the series of images, squinting as if it will help with the pixelation. The license plate, of course, is completely illegible as the car drives away.

"We've got people analyzing the plate, but best they can do is determine that the first letter is either a 'C' or an 'O.'"

"Better than nothing," you concede.

"Obviously, a Grand Am is gonna be a pretty common car in the area, but it's somewhere to start. We'll start pulling state records, and we'll be in touch if we–"

The loud ringing of your work phone interrupts Damon, and you wince apologetically as you pull it out and see 'SGT HUBBARD' on the caller ID.

"Hullo," you chirp amiably.

"Hey," Hubbard says on the other end. "We've got a body."

You straighten with a sharp intake of breath. Two deaths in Hannibal in less than a week? You don't think you've ever seen anything like it. Frowning, you duck out of Damon’s office and walk several paces away.

“I’m in St. Louis for the Rockwell case, but I’m finishing up,” you tell him. “I can be there in an hour and a half.”

“See that it’s quicker.”

You roll your eyes, mutter a “Yessir,” and end the call.

“Pike,” you bark, causing Marcus to look up with those pretty, soulful eyes of his. “We gotta go. There’s a case back in Hannibal that needs my attention.”

“Yes ma’am.” He gives you that wide, toothy smile again, and you remember how last night it had felt… unnerving to you. Like there was something lurking behind that earnest grin that no one else knew about. You shake your head. Jesus, you had way too much to drink last night. Get a grip, Cricket.

Lights on and sirens blaring, you zip past farms and woodlands. The official GPS time says one hour and forty-nine minutes, but you can do way better than that. Other vehicles automatically part for you, leaving them all behind in a blur of red and blue. Tongue poking out between your teeth in concentration and hands on ten-and-two, you think this might be the best part of the job. The part where you’re flying.

You drop Marcus off at the Station with your apologies and race to the address Hubbard gave you.

The coroner’s office and a local news van are already there when you arrive, and the Sergeant looks disapprovingly in your direction, as if you could have shortened the drive from St. Louis through sheer force of will.

“What is it?”

“Harold Dalton, 54. Apparent suicide.”

“What? What the hell is in the water that–”

“Hush. Keep your voice down. Right now, we’re waiting on State Police to come help with this one–there was a firearm involved.”

“He shot himself?”

Hubbard’s mouth is a thin line as he nods grimly. “Not a pretty sight.”

“Dalton…” you murmur to yourself. “Why do I know that name?”

“He’s got some priors,” Hubbard says. “Possession, some assault charges that were dropped, and–”

“Child neglect,” you whisper, as the realization hits you. “Oliver Dalton.”

“Shit, yeah,” the Sergeant says, realizing the connection at the same time. “God, how many years ago was–”

“Five,” you answer automatically.

“That would make Oliver…”

“Sixteen.”

“Mm,” Hubbard grunts. “Ever check in on him?”

“He’s bounced around from home to home,” you answer, trying to keep the emotion and bitterness out of your voice. “Doesn’t last in one place for very long.”

“It’s a fucked up thing for a kid to go through,” Hubbard mumbles. “Can’t imagine he’s all that well-adjusted.”

The two of you stand in silence on the run-down, rotting porch. What a fucking shithole, you fume, scraping a piece of flaking paint with the toe of your boot. In the distance, you can hear the faint sound of sirens coming closer.

“Know we’re not supposed to say it,” the Sergeant finally says, as the State Police car pulls into the gravel driveway, “but good fucking riddance.”

Dalton. Now that the connection has been made, you can’t believe you didn’t remember immediately. You suppose you have tried your best to put his name–and several others–in a tidy little box in the corner of your mind. It’s easier that way.

Except… Why does it feel as though you were just thinking about him? As soon as you hear it, the pang of familiarity rushes through you, but you can't put your finger on why…

Hubbard is shaking hands with the two state cops that just arrived when your phone pings. You pull it out and glance at the thumbnail.

“Hope everything’s okay! Talk to you later.”

It’s from Marcus. Something prickles across the back of your neck, and you slide your phone back into your pocket without responding.

“Officers,” you greet the newcomers, forcing a cordial smile and sticking out your hand to shake.

It was just the cold breeze making your hair stand on end. That’s all.

“Sorry I had to dump you at the station like that this morning.” You tap out the message on your phone as soon as you get back into your squad car.

“It happens, don’t worry I know how it is.”

After a few minutes, Marcus begins typing again.

“Want to meet up for a drink?”

“Fuck, no. You have any idea how shitty I felt this morning?"

"Noted. How about dinner, then? And some water?"

You pause. Drinks are one thing. But dinner? That could be considered "date" territory if you think about it too much.

You must be silent for too long, because your phone pings again.

“Had something I wanted to ask you about the CCTV sweep.”

It’s an obvious effort to sweeten the deal and get you to say yes, and you know it. You should tell Marcus you’ll discuss it tomorrow at work, pick up some fast food on the way home, and eat it in front of Jeopardy!–alone.

Instead, you find yourself typing, “Dinner sounds good. Water sounds better. Where were you thinking?”

Marcus begins typing almost immediately. “How’s the Mark Twain Dinette?”

You snort to yourself. “Just as bad as you’re thinking. But Finn’s Food and Spirits is surprisingly edible if you’re looking for local eats.”

“Edible, huh? That’s not really a ringing endorsement, but I try not to go to chain restaurants when I’m traveling, so… let’s do it! :)”

It isn’t until you get into the shower that the reality hits you of how strange it is to be washing off the remains of two very similar cases in as many days. Not just two consecutive deaths–but two suicides, in a town of barely fifteen thousand people.

And you knew them both.

What you find most jarring, however, is the difference in your own mood between the two days. Yesterday, the weight of Bobby’s death felt as though it was dragging your body down. Today, though, there’s a weight off your shoulders. A burden you didn’t even realize you were carrying, suddenly gone. Hubbard had said it well, earlier–said what you’ve been thinking the entire day since.

Good riddance.

You arrive a few minutes before Marcus, so you go in to grab a booth for the two of you–sitting where you can see the door, as you always prefer to do. Being a police officer has left you with some funny habits; it’s actually pretty nice to be able to talk to another person in law enforcement, for once. It isn’t like you go out much with Hubbard, who is both your supervisor and over twenty years your senior. Evan strictly works nights, so you don’t see much of him, either. You’re acquaintances with some of the officers in surrounding towns, but you don’t have much patience for their “I’m a cop” bravado–or even worse, the “Thin Blue Line” stickers on their car windows.

Marcus seems different, though. Sure, he’s got an air of confidence around him, but you can tell it’s not an act at all. And yet, despite that confidence, there’s a softness to him: something in the upturn of his eyebrows, in the way his lips part when you speak, the way he seems enraptured by your every word–

When the man consuming your thoughts enters, you jump slightly, afraid, for just a moment, that he could read your mind. His expression brightens the moment he sees you, eagerness written all over his face, and you shake yourself.

This is why you can’t let him in.

“Everything go alright today?” Marcus asks amiably as he slides into the booth opposite you.

“Yeah, yeah,” you wave him off, shaking your head. “Nothing big.”

The lie sits heavy on your chest. He’ll find out tomorrow–along with the rest of Hannibal–when the day’s Courier-Post arrives at the station. It’s just that you don’t want to talk about it, not tonight.

“Yeah,” you say again. “So what was the thing with CCTV?”

“Hmm? Oh,” Marcus says, taking his eyes off the menu for a moment and giving you a discerning look. “Why don’t we just save work stuff for tomorrow, huh? C’mon, take a break–what’s good here?”

You shrug. “The catfish is usually fresh-caught from the river, if that’s your sort of thing.”

“Is it your thing?” he asks, a glint in his eye.

“I make it a point not to eat anything that was recently pulled from the river.”

Marcus hums in response, scanning the menu again. When the waitress comes by to take your orders, he gets the catfish.

“Country-fried steak,” you say, handing her your menu.

Silence falls at the table; without reading material or decisions about food to be made, you aren’t sure how to talk to the man opposite you. He intrigues you; he attracts you… he also scares you, just a little. Is it possible to be too disarming? Too earnest? If so, Marcus certainly is, and something about his sincerity… puts you off.

Fuck, when you think about it that way, maybe you’re just an asshole.

“So the CCTV question was just a pretense to lure me here,” you say, raising one eyebrow in challenge.

Marcus holds up his hands in mock-surrender. “I plead the fifth. But I–listen, the truth is, Cricket–I can call you that, right? You, uh, you never gave me your first name.” When you don’t offer an answer, he forges ahead. “I’ve been told I’m forward, and that’s probably accurate, but the truth is, I think you’re one hell of a good looking woman, and I’d love to get to know you better.”

Your stomach flips over at his words. As much as you’d hate to admit it, you’re not immune to flattery, and certainly not coming from such a beautiful man in his own right.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

“I find it easy to talk to you,” Marcus continues. “I’m on the road a lot, and it can be… lonely. You don’t know how much of a relief it is to have someone to talk to who gets it, who’s been there, you know?”

You nod thoughtfully, tracing the rim of your water glass. “I do get it. I–I’ve been alone for quite some time, too, and there are few people in Hannibal that I can really sit down and just talk to. I–I guess what I’m saying is, it’s a relief for me, too.”

Marcus reaches slowly across the table and, in a barely-there caress, runs his index finger across the back of your other hand.

“I–” you say hastily, pulling your hand back and settling it in your lap, instead. “I want to be clear that I’m not in the stage of my life where I’m looking for anything temporary.”

“Me neither,” Marcus says, his eyes burning intensely into yours.

“Anything between us, is, by very nature, temporary,” you point out. “I live here in Hannibal. You’re going back to Washington upon completion of this case. I’m not against seeking mutual relief from loneliness, but I’m just… I’m not sure if I know you well enough to go down that road.”

Marcus’s eyes are full of understanding and acceptance. He draws his hand back and sits back against the booth with a small, wry smile.

“So, what’d’you wanna know?” he drawls, letting the Texan accent slip out in full force.

So… you talk. And talk.

And talk.

Your plates have long-since been empty and the ice in your water glass has melted, dripping condensation onto the checkered tablecloth–and you feel as though you’ve been given a glimpse past the toothy smile and confident demeanor, into a deeper, hidden vulnerability underneath.

“...She–She broke up with you via text message?” you ask, dumbfounded at Marcus’s most recent admission.

“God, when you put it that way, it sounds… way worse than it was, but yeah,” he chuckles. “But honestly, when I look back, the writing was on the wall. I was rushing, she was dragging her feet. There… there wasn’t a future there.”

“Do you do that a lot? Rush, that is?”

Marcus hums loudly as he seemingly deliberates his answer. “Mmm, I don’t like to see it as rushing.”

“How do you see it?”

“I’m a man who knows what he wants,” he says simply, dark eyes flicking up to meet yours.

It makes you shiver slightly.

“Has that made me hasty, on occasion? Impulsive? Sure. But I don’t see the point in hiding what I am only to be disappointed later. Eventually, I’ll find who matches me beat for beat. Someone who has the same ambitions, the same drive. The same passions.”

His eyes bore into you again, and you swallow.

“You are forward,” you comment, somewhat breathlessly.

“I know what I want,” Marcus says again–quieter, this time.

“I wish I had that degree of certainty,” you whisper, laughing shakily.

“I think you do. In here,” he says, placing a palm over his heart. “But you second-guess it in favor of what’s up here.” He taps his index finger against his temple.

“I happen to think humanity in general should obey their brains a little bit more, speaking from experience.”

Marcus laughs loudly, breaking the intense mood that had settled over the table. “I don’t think you’re wrong. But when it stands between you and your desires? Sad,” he comments, pouting his lip slightly.

“Some desires should remain just that–desires, nothing more.” Your voice wavers.

“I respect that,” he says lightly. Signaling to the waitress with a wide, friendly smile, he asks for the check. “But you don’t strike me as a person who indulges most of her desires. You put everything else first, don’t you?”

“Not always,” you object, bristling slightly at the blatant call-out.

“I’m sure,” he grins as he scribbles a signature on the receipt. “Well, Cricket, I hope I’m wrong. I hope you chase the things you want, that you indulge in the little things that bring you joy, that you live your life not being afraid to say ‘I’m doing this for me.’ After all, I’m seeing such a fleeting moment of your life, aren’t I? A blink of an eye in the scheme of things. You and I are merely ships passing in the night, never to be seen or heard from again.” He stands. “Have a good night, Cricket.”

And with that, Marcus gives you one last fond smile and disappears through the front doors, leaving you stunned–frozen to your seat as you absorb his speech.

You wake up confused for the second morning in a row.

Bright and loud. Why is it so bright and loud?

This time, the confusion resolves itself quickly as your brain comes back online and you realize that your work phone is ringing again.

The old-fashioned alarm clock across the room reads 5:23 AM.

“Hullo?” you croak.

“You’re not going to fucking believe this.”

At the sound of the Sergeant’s voice, you switch on your bedside lamp and blink rapidly in the harsh light.

“What is it?” you ask, trying to sound more awake than you actually are.

"Maisie Fletcher called the station around four saying her husband never made it home from the Waterhole. Evans drove the road from town to their house about a mile south just to take her statement, and found solid evidence of fresh skid marks leading into the river.”

Your heart sinks. The river.

“Any sign of a vehicle?” you ask, already suspecting you know the answer.

“No.”

You take a deep inhale through your nose and let it out slowly through your mouth. Pulling a body from the Mississippi is miserable, unpleasant drudgery. First, you’ll spend hours directing boat patrols back and forth in a cross-hatch pattern for miles south of the suspected entry point. Then, once you finally find the vehicle, the work to exhume it from the water begins. The fire department will need to be coordinated with, and, depending on the depth of the car, a SCUBA team or a crane.

“Fletcher…” you repeat, frowning. “Isn’t that–”

“The domestic disturbance couple, that’s right,” Hubbard confirms.

You snort. ‘Couple’ is a strong word, in your opinion. The husband, Gavin Fletcher, was single-handedly responsible for half a dozen trips out to their house along the river over the years, but every time you’d asked Maisie–with increasing urgency in your tone–if she’d like to press charges, she had declined. And every time, you’d leave the house with a lead balloon in your stomach.

You always worried it was a matter of time before the “domestic disturbances” turned ugly. Or worse… fatal.

And now… he’s in the Mississippi. Maybe. Possibly.

Is it bad if you find yourself hoping he’s at the bottom of the river?

Yes. Yes, it is.

“Understood,” you sigh into the phone. “Let me throw on my uniform and I’ll meet Evans down at the bank.”

After a long day of standing on the banks of the Mississippi, watching patrol boats pass back and forth in slow, deliberate lines while drizzle slowly seeps its way down into the innermost reaches of your clothing, a vehicle turns up around six pm. You watch as the fire department uses the Jaws of Life to pry open the driver-side door, sending a cascade of muddy water onto the ground.

It’s difficult to recognize the former person being pulled from the wreckage–even after less than twenty-four hours of being submerged, water can do a fucking number on a body–but a search of the wallet in the back pocket of its jeans confirms the identity of the swollen, bloated corpse that used to belong to Gavin Fletcher.

Predictably, the task of notifying Maisie Fletcher is handed down to you.

Your mouth is a thin, tight-lipped line as you drive down the gravel driveway that you wish wasn’t so familiar. You barely have to knock before Maisie is at the door and falling to her knees in a display of grief that you simply can’t find yourself to feel. Try as you might, you can’t force anything–any emotion other than ‘numbness’ onto your face as you deliver the news as gently as you possibly can.

Maisie, still weeping, agrees to meet you at the morgue tomorrow to officially ID her late husband, and as she shakily rises to her feet, you can’t help but note the not-quite-healed-over bruise on her temple.

You need a fucking drink.

Thirty minutes later finds you at the Waterhole nursing a cold beer and an even-colder mood in your still-damp uniform.

Palmer, ever the charmer, leans into your personal space with all the enthusiasm of someone attempting to disarm a bomb, and mutters, sotto-voce, “You smell like a goddamn fishmonger, Cricket.”

At your deadpan glare, he backs away, hands in the air, and makes a show of cleaning cocktail glasses instead.

You don’t much feel like talking.

For one–yeah, the lingering smell of river brine–with the barest hint of ‘bloated corpse’ underneath–doesn’t put you in a sociable mood.

But what’s really bothering you is all of those old “domestic disputes” hovering in the forefront of your mind ever since Hubbard said the name ‘Fletcher’ at 5:30 this morning. God, you had all-but-begged her to press charges; in hindsight, you probably sounded insane. And each time, you took her refusal personally–as if it were happening to you, not to her. You’ve worked hard over the years to put that hurt, that anger away in a tiny little box in the corner of your mind, but the death of Gavin Fletcher seems to have released it all over again.

He’s dead, you point out to yourself. There’s no point in resurrecting your demons.

“Back at it, I see?" a slightly amused voice calls out from your periphery, and you close your eyes in exasperation.

You can't do this dance now.

"Marcus," you say with a resolute sigh.

"Fancy seeing you here," he grins, and slides onto the barstool next to yours. "I'll have the same," he says to Palmer, who nods.

Seated next to you, you can tell exactly when the odor of your uniform hits his nose. He pauses, beer bottle halfway to his lips, and cocks his head in a way that would be comical, had you been in a better mood. His eyebrows pinch together, causing a little crease to appear between them, as he looks at you.

"Did you… get dumped in the river earlier?"

You sigh again. "Not exactly. Had a car go into the river last night. Had crews searching all day, and finally found it this evening."

Marcus lets out a low whistle. "Roads must have been slick last night with all the rain," he points out.

"Yeah, exactly," you agree. "Honestly, it's probably worth it to put a feature on hydroplaning in the local paper after the news comes out. Not enough people take it seriously."

"Occupants?"

"Just the one. Male, forties. I can't release any names until tomorrow, though."

"I know," Marcus says, smiling fondly. "So after a day in the rain and the Mississippi mud, you're so ready for a beer that you don't even change out of the wet uniform, huh?"

"Fishmonger," Palmer grunts from the other side of the bar.

"I wasn't going to say it, but…"

"If you two are gonna gang up on a woman drinking, I'll damn well go home and do it alone," you grumble.

"Nonsense," Marcus grins. "If I bought the second round, would that convince you to stay?"

"One," you say, holding up your finger. "You have me for one more drink. Then I'm going home and getting into a hot bath."

"Yes, ma'am," he drawls, a glint in his eye when you mention the bath. "Guess I'll have to get my fill in the span of two beers."

You drain your first bottle and set it down challengingly.

"...One beer," he amends.

"It's just as well," you tell him. "I'm less than pleasant company tonight."

"Impossible," Marcus promises. "Your company becomes more and more entrancing to me the more I'm graced with it."

"I guess if you can't handle me at my 'smelling like rotten fish,' then…"

"Don't make me beg to 'handle' it."

"Marcus!" You bark out a surprised laugh in spite of yourself.

"Ha! There it is," he crows triumphantly.

"Are you trying to cheer me up or piss me off?"

"You looked like you could use the former. Seems as though you already have enough of the latter."

You can't help but chuckle again. Damn him that it's working.

"Is it so wrong to desire the company of a beautiful woman who smells like the bottom of a river?"

"Leaving," you sputter through your stifled laughter, although you make no move to get off of your stool.

"You wound me."

"I'm not the one habitually insulting your smell.”

“If I smelled like that, I’d hope someone would ask why,” Marcus points out with a teasing grin.

"I guess if I had known I'd be doing… this, I would have gone home and showered first."

"Doing… what?" Marcus asks, a flirtatious glint in his expression.

"This. This… dance, this back and forth." You gesture between the two of you.

"This… dance?" he repeats teasingly. "Cricket, if you wanted to dance, all you had to do was say so."

"Do you ever stop?" you laugh, rolling your eyes.

"Of course I do," Marcus answers, sounding affronted. "I'd never push someone if I didn't think my feelings were returned."

You close your eyes and exhale shakily. "You know I do… I do feel the same way, Marcus. And it isn't like I haven't thought about what you said last night–in fact, I've thought of it a lot. But I keep coming back to the fact that I just… I don't want to just scratch an inch. I'm looking for…"

"Connection?"

"Yes," you say emphatically. "Exactly. Not to be melodramatic, but I'm just too damn old for anything else."

"I feel the same way," Marcus murmurs.

"If you feel the same way, how the hell do you reconcile the fact that we're from two different parts of the country?"

"I don't know," he says softly. "But I know I can't ignore what I feel for you–the connection I feel between us. I know that's real, don't you?"

You drain the last of your beer and set it down on the counter.

"Guess that's my time," Marcus chuckles resignedly.

"Walk me to my car," you say quietly.

Marcus nods, throwing some cash onto the counter and extending his hand to you. "Shall we?"

Not taking your eyes off of his, you gently slip your palm into his own. He walks you to your car, one hand resting perfectly at the small of your back and making the skin there tingle slightly.

“I won’t ask to kiss you,” he announces as you open your door. “But from one passing ship to another, I’ll just say that you look so goddamn beautiful right now under the streetlights.”

You turn carefully around. Marcus’s expression is open and earnest. His lips are parted, his eyebrows upturned as he watches you. He’s made his desires clear, and you… you simply want to bask in that all-consuming attention of his for just a few moments.

Slowly, achingly slowly, you bring your palm up to lay against his sternum. Your eyes meet–a question in his, an answer in yours.

Just as unhurriedly, Marcus steps closer. He gently cups your chin in one of his large hands as he tilts his head just slightly and lowers it to meet you.

His lips are soft when they slowly brush against your mouth. The kiss is sensual, full of longing and barely restrained passion lurking just under the surface. His lips are parted, but he makes no attempt to deepen the kiss; you never feel the careful slip of his tongue into your mouth or the sting of teeth. Despite this, it might be the most sexually charged kiss you’ve ever received. A wave of pure want surges down your spine and into the base of your core and your grip on his shirt tightens to steady yourself as a small, involuntary noise escapes from deep in your chest.

You expect things to escalate from there. You wait for your back to hit the side of your car, to feel the weight of Marcus’s body against you as he pins you against the door. You wait for his hand to grip your hip, his fingertips to dig into the back of your neck as he takes control.

Instead, he pulls back–breathing shakily as he does–and rests his forehead against yours.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have done that,” you laugh breathlessly, thinking of how the hell you were supposed to to work with him now.

“Maybe not,” Marcus chuckles back. “But I don’t regret it. I can’t.”

The orange light from a nearby lamp casts half of his face in shadow, making his features stand out in dark relief: the bow of his upper lip, the angle of his cheekbone, the strength in his brow, the line of his nose…

He’s the one who looks beautiful, you think. Out loud, you say something else.

Just one word.

Your name.

Marcus’s lips part in surprise, eyebrows turning upward as he realizes the gift you’ve given him. He could have used it all along, of course, had probably seen it in the city directory before he’d even met you.

But he waited for your consent, instead.

And oh, how sweet it sounds when it falls from his lips for the first time like this, his mouth just inches from yours.

“I can’t believe I let you kiss me smelling like this,” you joke, trying to dispel the heavy cloud of tension.

He laughs quietly, and murmurs your name again, his thumb brushing delicately back and forth against your cheekbone. “Go home,” he whispers. “Take that bath. It’s late.”

You nod, swallowing thickly. “See you tomorrow.”

Marcus steps back, giving you a fond, warm smile. “Sure will.”

Christ, what have you done?

The thought doesn’t hit you until the wee hours of the morning, when you bolt upright in bed before your alarm and realize that you’re going to have to continue working alongside Marcus for the foreseeable future.

You don’t know him, not really; you don’t know how he’ll act in a professional setting after a very unprofessional moment between the two of you. He brings out a softness in you that you don’t recognize, a deep yearning at the very core of you that had been shoved down and suppressed for years. Vulnerability is punished in your line of work, especially as a woman, and you’ve gotten so well-practiced at stamping out any trait that could be perceived as weakness that you, unknowingly, eradicated it from your personal life as well.

How long has it been since you’ve let someone in?

How long have you denied yourself the comfort of another’s touch?

Damn him.

He’s brought all of these feelings to the surface, and now you have to worry about not only his reaction to seeing you at work today, but yours as well.

Will you be able to hide the way your body seems to gravitate toward him? Can you keep your face from betraying you?

Will he be able to remain aloof and businesslike, or will the mask drop–showing everyone the hunger in his eyes?

You shudder slightly. Please, let the day go smoothly.

As it turns out, all your nerves were misplaced. There’s no awkward reunion, no shy smiles or stilted small talk.

“They ID’ed the guy!” Marcus exclaims loudly as you walk into the bullpen.

The outburst from the typically softspoken man surprises you so much that you nearly drop your coffee.

“What?”

“Your Norman Rockwell thief! His name is Reuben Porter, and he lives in Moberly.”

A slow smile spreads across your face. “No way.”

Marcus grins back, dimple on full display. “Fancy a drive to the field office today?”

“Hell yes. Gotta be sooner than later, though,” you add, thinking of Maisie Fletcher. “I’ve got a meeting at three.”

“Yes ma’am,” he smirks. “Shouldn’t take too long. They’ll share all of their files, and you and your precinct can be the ones to make the arrest.”

“Wait… you’re not doing that?”

“Told you it was still your case,” he points out. “Yeah, before you know it, I’ll be out of your hair and on a plane back to D.C.”

“What a relief,” you joke, but the words hardly have any bite to them. Back to D.C.? Part of you wants to have your fill of him first; that kiss last night only left you craving more. All you can think about is his lips on yours, and wonder about the feel of his body as it pins you to the bed.

“I’m sure it is.”

Marcus’s voice deepens, his tone tinged with amusement, and you fight the urge to avert your eyes like a schoolgirl.

“Shall we, then?” you say lightly, raising your eyebrows and tilting your chin upward.

“You’re driving, this time,” he says with a boyish smile.

The car is where the tension finally returns. The air feels dense, each lull in polite conversation pregnant with what goes unmentioned and unacknowledged. To your surprise, you find yourself itching to address the elephant in the squad car, even after what feels like hours of giving yourself pep talks before work, promising yourself you wouldn’t be the one to slip.

“When… when is your flight?” you ask instead.

“Tomorrow.”

“...Oh.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” Marcus says seriously.

You blanch. “You do?”

“Mmhmm. ‘Good Riddance,’ right? Mister Big City Agent, finally getting out of your way so you can arrest the jerk who had the audacity to defile the Mark Twain Museum.”

You bark out a surprised laugh. “I can’t tell if you’re making fun of Hannibal or not.”

Marcus makes a show of appearing offended. “I would never poke fun at the birthplace of Samuel Clemens.” Sobering, he adds, “I hope you know by now that I care very deeply about every art case.”

You can’t help but beam at him. Taking a leap of faith, you respond. “And I hope you know by now that I’m not hoping the door hits you on the way out.”

“Yeah?” he asks quietly.

“‘Course.”

Marcus slowly reaches his hand over to you and drags just the tip of one finger from your wrist and down your hand to the end of your pinkie finger in a barely-there caress.

You let out a shaky exhale as the squad car pulls into the lot of the St. Louis field office.

Damon greets you and Marcus cheerfully as you enter the Art Crimes Department. He shakes your hand, offering his congratulations, as you follow him back to his office.

“Here you go,” he says, handing you a singular flash drive. “The final identification reports identifying Reuben Porter as the thief, and all related case notes.”

“...That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Oh,” you say, turning the flash drive over in your hand. “Why not just email it?”

“File’s too big,” Damon shrugs.

“Got some stuff for you, too,” Marcus adds, pulling out his field notebook and a manila folder and handing them to you. “My notes, and my formal report of my involvement in the case.”

“Thank you,” you say, looking at Damon, and then at Marcus. “For your expertise and your support. I’ll–”

You’re interrupted by the loud ringing of your work cell. Grimacing, you give the agents an apologetic smile and duck out of Damon’s office.

“Yeah,” you say impatiently into the phone.

“Hey,” Hubbard replies, sounding, for once, incredibly hesitant.

“...What’s going on?”

“Can you go on a call?”

"I'm at the St. Louis field office with Pike," you tell him. "You'll have to call Evan in."

"Evan is already here," the Sergeant says, making you frown in confusion.

"He is? Then why–"

"We’ve got a body, but Cricket? …It's Johansson."

You don't realize your legs have given out until you feel the cold chair underneath you. Your breath comes in short pants after hearing That Name. That fucking name.

"Jakub," Hubbard continues, as if you needed to be told.

"H-How?"

"Looks like an overdose, but the autopsy will have to confirm it, obviously."

You feel as though you're floating above yourself. That fucking case. You hadn’t been on the force long; it was the first time the system had failed you. Failed her.

"I just thought you should know," the Sergeant is saying. "If you need to take a few days–"

"I don't," you interrupt. "Thanks for telling me. You still need me to come?"

"Nah," Hubbard says. "Have fun in St. Louis."

"Yeah," you hear yourself saying over the blood rushing in your ears. "Thanks." You robotically set the phone down on the table, eyes unseeing as you process the conversation.

A warm palm lands on your shoulder, and you exhale shakily. "S-Sorry, just give me a minute."

"Are you okay?" Marcus's voice is full of concern.

"Yeah, it's um… just a name I haven't heard in a while, is all."

But that’s not true… is it? The name is fresh in your brain, feels familiar when you silently form the shape of it with your mouth. Jakub Johansson. You’ve tried your best to put him–and all the other cases that keep you up at night–in the past, but ghost after ghost keeps turning up this week, in more ways than one.

“Do we need to get back to Hannibal?” Marcus asks.

“Nah. No. They’ve got it handled, they were just–it was one of mine, so… informing me, I guess.”

“One of your… what?”

“Sorry. Just an old case. Someone connected with it, anyways.”

“Everything alright?”

“They’re dead,” you deadpan. And even as you say the words out loud, a weight you didn’t realize you had been carrying seems to lift from your shoulders. Finally unparalyzed, you turn and look at Marcus. His gaze is burning, his eyes searching your face with unrelenting intensity.

“Do you need to take a moment?” he asks softly, plush lips barely moving and his wild eyes never once leaving you.

Suddenly, the windowless Art Crimes Department feels stifling, like there’s not enough air. You can’t speak; you can’t breathe. Instead, you nod as you quickly rise from your chair and all-but-bolt from the room, walking quickly down the hall and up the stairs until you reach the lobby, then rushing out of the main entrance. It’s only then that you feel as though you can suck in a deep, ragged breath of crisp autumn air.

You’ve carried this case with you for almost seven years. Seven years of feeling like you were the one who failed–not the system. You. You could have collected more evidence, you could have fought harder, you could have–no. You pace the sidewalk, repeating the statements the Force’s therapist gave you all those years ago. You did everything you could do. You helped a woman in need and brought a bad man to justice. His light sentence is not your fault.

And now he’s dead.

Why doesn’t this feel like relief?

That feeling, the one you've been having all week, returns. That feeling of wrongness, like you’re forgetting something important.

“Hey.” A soft voice cuts through your thoughts.

“I don’t understand what’s going on,” you murmur, not turning to acknowledge Marcus. “What the fuck is happening this week? Pearson, Dalton, Fletcher, J-Johannson… I’ve seen more dead bodies in one week than I’ve seen in a fucking lifetime.”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Marcus points out, “not a dead body.”

“The case with Johansson, it… it fucked me up for a while,” you say quietly, not looking at him. “I had to take time off, I was appointed a therapist to speak to, I–”

“The details must have been really upsetting to you,” he says gently, laying his hand on your forearm.

“I had panic attacks,” you whisper, feeling the leftover shame wash over you. “We’re supposed to keep our own emotions out of the job, and I… I failed–”

“That’s not a failure–” Marcus starts, but you interrupt quickly.

“I failed her,” you grit out through clenched teeth, spinning to face him head-on. “I thought I was doing everything I could, but it wasn’t enough.”

The soft sound of your name causes a sob to catch in your throat.

“Listen to me,” Marcus says softly. “You did everything you could, I know you did. You’re a caring, capable, brilliant cop, and you did everything in your power. And besides, the universe has a way of making things right, doesn’t it? He came to justice in the end.”

You snort. “He fucking overdosed in his own home, and his victim was left with a lifetime of trauma. If that’s justice, the universe has a funny sense of humor.”

You deflate with a sigh. Checking your watch, you give Marcus a humorless smile. “We’ve gotta go, anyway. I need to be back to meet with the wife of a drowned man at the morgue.”

Maisie Fletcher’s demeanor is far more stony than it had been the day before. Head held high and lips pursed, she strides confidently into the observation room and watches expressionlessly as the sheet is peeled back to reveal Gavin Fletcher.

“That’s him,” she confirms with no emotion in her voice.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” you say, because it’s what you’re supposed to do.

Maisie snorts, the first time her facial features have changed since she walked in. “Really? Knowing what you know about him? You might be the only other person who knows the truth about what he really is.”

When you don’t answer, she speaks again.

“This might be the best thing that's ever happened to me." The words are whispered, barely audible even in the cryptlike silence of the morgue.

You nod at the mortician, Milo, who you remember from a few grades below you in school. He nods back and carefully replaces the sheet.

You escort Maisie back out to her car with a heavy heart and brooding thoughts.

"What are you going to do?" you ask quietly.

"I'm leaving town. Soon as I can. I–I never meant to stay here, but…"

"It's hard to leave," you murmur. "The town, mean," you correct quickly. "It sucks you in. Believe me, I know."

"You could go, too," Maisie points out. "Every town needs cops."

"And leave all this?" you joke. "I'm good. Really. Just been a week for the record books."

As Maisie drives off, you turn and see that Milo is watching you from the front entrance.

"There a problem?" you call out.

"Nah, just wanted a second opinion on something. You busy?"

You shake your head, walking back into the morgue behind the mortician.

"Lot of new tenants this week," Milo says. He pauses, looking over at you as if waiting for your laugh. You manage a weak one, but it seems to satisfy him. He stops in front of one of the metal drawers and turns toward you. "This one, the one they found yesterday? The autopsy hasn't been completed yet, but I wanted to run something by you to see if you agree with my analysis."

You shrug, holding your arms out in a gesture for him to continue. He grabs the handle and pulls, revealing the pale, stiff corpse of Jakub Johansson. You suppress a flinch.

"It doesn't take an autopsy to conclude that the overdose killed him," the mortician says. "We've got all the classic signs of a fatal dose of Fentanyl. Should be cut-and-dry."

You pause, a small frown on your features. “If it’s cut-and-dry, why am I sensing a ‘but’ there?”

“Well, the overdose is cut-and-dry. No one walks away from that many drugs in their system, but… well, it looks like he got into a fight or something right before.”

“A fight?”

Milo sweeps the sheet back from the corpse’s arm. “Here. See, there’s the puncture from the needle, but look–” he gestures at the upper arm, where, through the discoloration of the already-decomposing skin, you can clearly see five purple marks.

“Someone grabbed him,” you say quietly.

“Mmhm. And here.” He points to the forearm, where a larger bruise runs horizontally across the skin.

Staring at the marks, the image starts to crystalize in your mind. “It looks like… like someone grabbed his upper arm, and held his forearm in place with their knee, or something.”

“That’s exactly what it looks like,” Milo nods grimly.

“He was held down,” you murmur, barely audible in the silent room. “He was held down and given a fatal dose.”

“The injuries were perimortem,” the mortician adds. “They would have been sustained just before he overdosed.”

“How long before?”

“No way to be precise, but…” he clicks his tongue, “...no more than an hour or two.”

You thank Milo in a daze, heading back out of the morgue with rapidly swirling thoughts. You can no longer ignore the facts: All the people who have died this week, with the exception of Bobby Pearson, were on your list of ‘Cases that Haunt your Dreams.’ That list… subconscious, but so vivid that you may as well have it written down on a piece of posterboard and hung opposite your living room couch. They were the cases that kept you up at night, the reason you…

… the reason… you…

…drink… to… forget.

The phrase seems to set off a chain reaction in your mind. You hear it again and again, but not in your own voice…

In the voice of someone else.

“They say there’s only two kinds of people,” Marcus says. “Those who drink to remember, and those who drink to forget.”

You remember his soulful eyes, the understanding in his expression as he acknowledged that he knew exactly which of those people you were.

“I drink to remember.”

“The living, and the dead.”

The dead.

Images flash rapidly in your brain. Him telling you the work matters. Urging you to tell him the names. Pouring you another drink. You, crying against his dress shirt. Him pleading with you to let it all go, the burdens you carried.

The names…

Nothing makes sense, anymore.

Well, actually, everything makes sense, it’s just that you don’t want it to.

Everything that’s happened over the past week is leading you to one conclusion–and you simply aren’t ready to face it. Not yet.

You can’t face it… but you can’t let it go, either. It would be against everything you thought you stood for. So rather than go home and drown your suspicions in more whiskey, you go back to the station.

Not bothering to turn on the lights, you sit down at your desk and power on your computer. The blue light is harsh in the dim bullpen as you open the FBI’s website and search for the Art Crimes department. You glance at the directory–Supervisory Special Agent Marcus Pike at the very top, of course–then navigate over to the department’s news page and scan the recent case headlines.

Wilton Man Admits Operating Fraud Scheme

Palm Beach Art Dealer Sentenced to Federal Prison for Laundering Money From Art Fraud Scheme.

Lips pursed, you open up a second tab and search for ��Wilton.’ It’s a small town in Connecticut–and you find the town’s local newspaper easily. You click back to the FBI page, look at the date the man was arrested, and look through the newspaper archives on and before the same day.

No major headlines stand out, but when you read the obituaries for the week, goosebumps begin to rise at the back of your neck. Elliott Bradford, 42. Overdose. Mark Hampton, 38. Suicide.

Those kinds of deaths are common everywhere, you try to tell yourself. But, pulling up yet another tab, you search for the first name. Immediately, article after article appears in the results. Heart in your throat, you click on the first.

Sex Offender Elliott Bradford Implicated in Trafficking Ring. The news is from over a decade ago–but the details are enough to turn your stomach. He’d been sentenced to ten years in prison, which means he would have just been released… last year. Mere months before Marcus would have been there for work.

When you search for Mark Hampton, you find a similar story. Marjorie Hampton Files Suit Against Husband Mark Citing Repeated Abuse. And just a few years later, he’s dead, too.

A little voice in the back of your head tells you to stop digging, but you can’t seem to quit. You repeat the search with Palm Beach, and find that again, the obituaries are filled with accidental deaths and suicides from the town’s most violent men.

Minneapolis. North Hollywood. Palmdale. You’ve gone as far back as 2016, and every town has the same pattern: Marcus Pike arrives for a case, and days later, known abusers start turning up dead.

Every.

Single.

One.

It’s nearly two in the morning when you finally force yourself to stop. Your mind is swirling with names, dates, and heinous crimes. And all of them died within weeks of the town being visited by a certain FBI Art Crimes Detective. There’s still a part of you that can’t believe your conclusions are real–that the sweet, kind man you can’t deny your feelings for any longer is actually a killer. Which is why, hands trembling, you do the one thing you definitely should not do at this moment.

You text Marcus Pike.

“I need to talk to you.”

You regret it almost immediately. Part of you hopes that he’s asleep. He has to be, right? It’s two AM. Shaking your head and inwardly chastising yourself, you slip your phone into your pocket and start shutting down the computer.

When you get up to leave, however, your phone pings.

“Where and when?”

"I–I need to talk to you,” you blurt out the moment the hotel room door opens, but the sight before you almost makes you swallow the last few words.

Marcus is shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of gray sleep pants low around his hips. You can’t help but stare at the sight, taking in his broad shoulders, the light musculature of his arms, his slender waist and the soft skin on his stomach. A light trail of hair disappears below the waistband of his pants, and you swallow thickly as you drag your eyes back up to his face.

"So you said," Marcus says quietly. If he’s amused at your obvious staring, he doesn’t show it.

"You–what're you doing up so late?"

"Never did sleep much," he says with a crooked grin. One of his eyebrows raises as he looks you up and down. "Why are you up and at my door at this time of night?"

"Losing my fucking mind," you murmur shakily.

He steps forward, reaching his hand up to tenderly cup your cheek. Your eyes flutter closed as your body instinctively responds to his touch.

"Marcus," you whisper.

"And why does that bring you to me?" he asks, his voice deepening. His thumb traces back and forth across your cheekbone.

To confront you, you want to say. To make you tell me I'm not crazy. That I figured out your secret.

Instead, you reach out and touch one trembling hand to his sternum, indulging in your desire to touch that expanse of golden skin.

You open your eyes to find him watching you with a hooded, coal-black gaze. His eyes flick down to your hand on his chest, then back up to your face.

The moment feels like the drawing back of a bowstring. It seems to linger, seconds stretching out longer and longer until the inevitable moment where everything snaps.

Suddenly, Marcus is pulling you forward, shutting the door, and pressing you back against it in one swift, fluid motion.

His entire body molds to you–hips, hands, lips–with far more ferocity and less restraint than the night before. You feel the sting of his teeth, the grip of his fingertips as he takes from you.

You aren't exactly idle, either; your hands map the planes of his chest, hips canting up to grind against the hard length you can feel there. When he pushes right back, you groan loudly and dig your fingernails involuntarily into the meat of his upper back, and he hisses.

"Sor–"

"Again," he growls, so you scratch harder.

A low, feral sound escapes from deep in his chest he breaks away from your lips and kisses a frenzied path down your neck.

"This was always going to happen," Marcus rasps into your skin. "You, and me. Can't you feel it?"

"Feel–?" you gasp, arching your back at the little nip of teeth at your shoulder. What you feel, right now at least, is the hard, thick length of his cock pressing insistently against your stomach, and it empties your mind of all other thoughts.

"Feel the electricity between us. The connection," Marcus clarifies between kisses back up your neck until he gently nibbles your jaw.

"Mmhmm," you whimper. Your knees almost buckle.

"Tell me," he orders.

"I feel it."

You reach down and grasp his erection through his clothes as if to punctuate your meaning, and Marcus’s knees do buckle slightly as he sags against you with a broken groan.

"Every fucking night," he growls, "I pictured how you would look spread out on this bed. You'll forgive me for indulging that, now."

"Tell me," you parrot coquettishly, staring up at him coyly from behind your lashes.

Another low sound emanates from deep within Marcus's chest at your command. Spinning you around so fast you nearly lose your sense of direction, he pulls you further into the room and deposits you on the bed before crawling over you.

"Tell you, huh? Tell you what? How I would close my eyes and think about the sounds you'd make for me? Or about how I'd get so worked up imagining the way you'd taste, the way you'd look coming undone beneath me that I'd have to fist my cock just for a little relief?"

"I wanna see that," you say lazily, licking your lips and making a show of pulling your shirt over your head.

"Next time," Marcus promises darkly. “Next time I'll do it just like this, with you staring up at me, watching me fuck myself for you. But I don't think I can go one more night without being inside you."

"Please," you whisper, staring up at him with wide eyes.

"Yeah?"

"Fucking… yes, Marcus, shit–"

He chuckles, straight, white teeth showing as he grins and starts to unbutton your pants. You let him draw them down your hips, along with your underwear, your breath getting shakier as you see the hungry look in his eyes. It makes you feel powerful, the way just the sight of your bare center seems to affect him.

When your pants reach your ankles, he yanks them off the rest of the way and casts them aside in the corner of the room. His gaze is almost predatory, but you get the feeling you are the one who has him under your thumb at the moment. Giving him a sly, crooked smile, you spread your legs wide.

Marcus pitches forward onto his elbows, dropping down onto the bed as if deep in prayer, but everything about the man in this moment is sinful. With his mouth inches from your pussy, he breathes in, closing his eyes and shuddering visibly. When he opens then again, they're deep obsidian. They don't move from your face as he lowers his mouth to you.

You aren't sure who moans louder at the first generous lick of his tongue into your pussy. Rather than start at your clit, he dives in; thrusting the wet, warm muscle as deep into your cunt as he can while his nose presses deliciously against you.

He devours you greedily, licking up into you as if he could pull pleasure out of your channel with just his tongue. He seems to be getting almost as much satisfaction out of doing it; his eyes are closed as if savoring you, low, muffled moans from deep in his throat punctuate every lap into your pussy, and every so often, his hips thrust slightly against the bed as though he can't help but seek a little relief.

His hands scrabble at your hips, yanking you closer as soon as he can find purchase, and you throw your head back on the pillow as he buries himself even deeper than before.

Christ, how is he even breathing?

His nose rubs back and forth against your clit, and you can feel your orgasm starting to build. Growing bolder, you rock your hips subtly against Marcus's face, and by the loud groan that escapes him when he feels you do it, he enjoys it.

He pulls at your hips again, wordlessly commanding you to continue.

"Fuck," you murmur. "Marcus, your mouth–"

You slowly grind on him, gyrating your hips as you chase the sensations that feel best for you. It causes everything to pull up tight, and before you even realize what's happening, you're falling apart on his tongue.

"Have to have you," Marcus pants in your ear, having surged up to cover you with his body even as you were still trembling with aftershocks. "Tell me I can have you."

"Yeah," you agree. "Fuck, take it. It's yours." Make me forget.

"Condom?"

"Clean. You?"

"Clean. You–You sure? Tell me now, because I don't think I can wait any longer."

"Please," you whisper, reaching up to gently wipe away some of the slick above his upper lip with an amused smile. He looks wrecked already–the only time you've seen him with a hair out of place–and it's incredibly endearing.

You don't have time to dwell on that thought, because with a broken sound, he sheathes himself within you.

The noise that escapes you is involuntary–an instinctual, guttural reaction from somewhere deep in your subconscious brain. You can feel Marcus everywhere at once, pressing against nerves deep inside of you, nerves you didn't even realize you had.

Anyone would be forgiven for expecting sex with this clean-shaven, softspoken man to be just as gentle and sweet as the man himself. You would have thought the same thing, except for one feature of his that always made you feel as though something darker was lurking underneath: that smile. Wide, toothy, eager; the rows of straight, white teeth; the boyish little dimple it exposes.

It's his eyes when he smiles like that that have always made you wonder what he's hiding; what demons are being concealed behind pearly whites and laugh lines.

But you think the way Marcus fucks might expose far more than anything else about him.

The fire that dances in his eyes has certainly hinted at a deeper passion, but you've yet to experience anything like the way it feels to be on the receiving end of this much intensity.

He's unrelenting in his pursuit of pleasure; fervent and raw and so very physical. He doesn't shy away from the messiness of sex; he licks an escaped tear as you reach your second peak, he spits on your clit and rubs it in with his fingers, and when he finally pulls out and finishes on your chest, he immediately covers you with his mouth and sucks himself off of your nipples.

You'd also be forgiven in thinking Marcus was done with you. That, given the late hour and the vigorous, explosive way he had fucked you, he'd collapse on the bed with a tired, sated sigh.

Instead, he pulls at your hip and guides you to turn over on your stomach. You're about to open your mouth and question his motives when you feel his hot, wet tongue press against your other hole.

You squeal involuntarily, burying your face in the pillows as you surrender to the onslaught of Marcus’s attentions. In this, just as in every other way he's already had you tonight, he's incredibly vocal. He straightens his tongue and pushes it inside, and moans loudly as he feels you give way for him.

"Good girl, so fuckin' good, gonna make me hard again, aren't you? Mewling so prettily into the sheets like that while I take you apart. You like that, don't you? Filthy fucking girl, huh? Good. I am, too–told you we were made to do this."

Marcus is merciless, giving you his tongue, fingers, tongue again, over and over and over in your pussy and your ass until you come undone again with a wail.

You're boneless and pliable as he hauls your trembling body up onto your knees and enters you again, this time from behind.

He's equal parts brutal and reassuring: ample, generous praise spills from his lips with every rough punch of his cock.

You're so overwrought with pleasure, you can't even speak. Marcus is destroying you in every delicious way, and you aren't sure how you're supposed to come back from this. How you're supposed to confront him after he's made you feel things you didn't even know how could feel.

His lower hands are pressing down on your lower back, intensifying the arch in your spine and causing his cock to hit the perfect spot inside you.

"Gonna–" you gasp.

"I know," Marcus answers. "Together, this time. With me, yeah? I'm so close, but I'm waiting on you. Cum for me, let me feel it baby."

You sob into the pillows as he fucks you through your orgasm, your walls aching and ultrasensitive from the relentless onslaught of his cock.

You're only barely aware of him pulling out and letting you collapse forward onto the bed. You aren't sure why it surprises you–perhaps just the intensity of the moment before–but you aren't expecting the warm, gentle arms encircling you as Marcus follows you down and wraps you up, pulling you into his chest.

You're still panting, trying to catch your breath and regain equilibrium as you hear his voice behind you. It's not rough and rasping like before, but soft and soothing as he croons into your ear.

"So good for me, so perfect. Took me so well, look so good in my bed. Incredible.”

Giddy and overwhelmed, you start to laugh breathlessly.

Marcus chuckles too, nuzzling the spot behind your ear with his nose with a satisfied hum. His fingers start to trace a path up and down your stomach, and you sigh bonelessly and settle against him.

"This… this wasn't what I came here for," you murmur after a few moments.

"No?" Marcus nips playfully at your jawline just below your ear.

"No, I… I…"

The teasing kisses continue, causing sparks to shoot up and down your spine.

"Marcus," you sigh, as you feel another little nibble on your neck. "Marcus. Stop."

Slowly, cautiously, he pulls back. You turn in his arms, frowning slightly.

"I came here… Jesus, this sounds–I need you to convince me I'm just being jumpy. That I've been spooked, scared of my own shadow…"

“You’re under a lot of stress,” Marcus says gently. “You’ve had a hard week.”

You scoff. “Hard week? I’ve had hard weeks. This week was devastating. I’ve seen more deaths in one week than in almost my entire time on the force, and–” you swallow and look up, meeting his dark eyes, “–they’re all connected to me.”

“It’s not your fault,” he whispers. “They were bad men, and they all had their vices…”

“Every single one,” you forge ahead, “was connected to a case assigned to me. But that’s not the only connection, is it?”

Marcus cocks his head to the side, not dissimilar to a confused puppy. “What do you mean?”

“They were all connected to cases that keep me up at night. Cases that didn’t end in justice. Cases that I confessed… to you.”

Confusion melts away into an easy, casual smile. Marcus chuckles softly. “I thought you said you didn’t remember anything we talked about that night.”

“Details might be blurry, but it’s the only thing that makes sense,” you say, laying back to stare at the ceiling. “I was upset over Bobby. I was disillusioned with the job. You were all too eager to lend an ear, to let me drown my sorrows and whisper the names of the men whose faces I’ll never forget. I cried on your shoulder, Marcus. And you… you took those names, and—”

“Are you saying you’re accusing me of being some kind of one-man vigilante justice machine?” Marcus asks, beginning to laugh outright. “Cricket, do you have any idea how that sounds?”

“It sounds crazy," you say, turning toward him again. "So convince me otherwise. Tell me I've lost my fucking marbles on this one."

"I think it would be natural for anyone to look for some kind of reason behind a string of deaths of people they know," he offers gently. "And these men, they've… they've affected you more than most–let's not mince words, you were traumatized by these cases. It's only natural that you would look for answ–"

"Answers?" you interrupt. "My job is to find answers, you should know that. I've been researching you on your own website, what do you have to say about that? I know where you've been for other cases."

Marcus chuckles, although it seems… deeper, this time. "That's publicly available information on the government's own servers. I'm not sure what your point is."

"I also looked up all the newspapers from the times you would have been there," you say. "And just like in Hannibal, there's a rash of suicides and accidental deaths, and all of the victims? They all had rap sheets miles long."

"Cricket," Marcus intones softly. "I know you're desperately trying to find connections here, but you have to realize these all sound like huge coincidences–"

"You got sloppy," you accuse, picking up steam and confidence as you continue to talk through it. "Did you know that? Johansson's death was no accident. He was held down and given a fatal dose. It was rough; whoever did it wanted it to hurt–"

"Stop." Marcus cuts you off, his voice harsher than you've ever heard it. "You're grasping at straws. You're under a ton of stress, and you've concocted a wild fantasy to cope. It's a good story, but that's all it is. The things you're accusing me of, the person you've made me out to be… it's not rational, and it's dangerous. I'm an agent with the US Government, and you're throwing around some pretty serious allegations."

"I know what I've seen…" you murmur, shaking your head.

"You haven't seen anything," Marcus insists. "I'm not sure what your game is here. You come to my hotel room in the middle of the night saying you want to talk, you come onto me, we have sex… and now you're telling me you think I'm, what? A serial killer?"

"I–I think I should leave," you say quietly, getting up from the bed and padding over to pick up your uniform–where your gun is still holstered in your belt. You grab the pile of clothes and retreat to the bathroom to breathe and regroup. You splash cold water on your face, trying to ignore the fact that your hands are trembling slightly.

Get it together.

The pull you've felt for the man all week doesn't matter. Put it aside. Do the job.

You take a few more deep breaths, then pull on your clothes. With a set jaw, you unholster your gun and slowly open the bathroom door.

"Marcus Pike, you're–"

You freeze mid-sentence, staring at the now-empty room.

"...gone?"

Epilogue (1 year later)

“I know it’s not much, but–”

“It’s perfect,” you breathe, walking into the small office, carrying a paper box full of your belongings, all waiting for a home among the bookshelves and desk space.

“Sure,” the other agent laughs.

It might not have a window. It might not have much charm. But it has a door–a real door that closes and everything–and even more importantly, it bears your name on a plaque.

A real office.

Yours.

“You’re coming to us from… Saint Paul?”

“Saint Louis,” you correct amicably.

“Welcome to White Collar Crimes,” your new coworker says with a wan smile. “It’s like Organized Crime, except instead of bodies, you’re examining accounting spreadsheets.”

“Good,” you say emphatically. “I’ve had enough death for several lifetimes.”

The other agent makes a face. “What the fuck was going on in Saint Louis?”

You huff a laugh through your nose. “You don’t wanna know.”

You set the box down, taking out some of your most prized possessions: A Mark Twain bobblehead, your Bachelor’s Degree in Criminology from the University of Missouri, and more recently, a certificate from Quantico labeling you as a Special Agent with the FBI.

It had taken most of the year to coordinate your exodus from the tiny town of Hannibal where you grew up. Sure, you could have simply gone to another city to be a cop, but the endless parade of speeding tickets, accidental overdoses, and orders to break up tent cities was wearing on you. Were you really making a difference where you were?

No.

You wanted to go after the real criminals. Those who swindled the vulnerable out of their hard-earned money. Those who gamed the stock market only to make a few million more than they already had.

White collar crime.

“Well, welcome to D.C.,” the other agent says, his tone tongue-in-cheek, but your smile is genuine nonetheless. He leaves you to your task–setting up the tiny, cramped space that serves as your office.

You unpack a box of your favorite pens, your stapler, a potted plant (fake) to add some greenery. Maybe when you get an office with a window, you can get some real plants, you think as you rearrange your notebooks on the small bookshelf beside your desk.

You glance down at the badge on your lapel and smile.

It had been a year since your strange run-in with the Art Crimes Agent that changed the course of your career.

After Marcus Pike fled the scene of his own hotel room–leaving most of his belongings behind–you couldn’t find it in yourself to continue down the road of being a small-town police officer, handing out tickets and misdemeanors and investigating every tragic case that came across your desk. And they were all tragic, make no mistake.

After a few months of being angry and indignant, you’d grown to respect Marcus Pike. You’d realized he was telling the truth all those months ago: he’d felt useless as an Agent, cutting through all the red tape and bureaucracy, and he’d simply taken matters into his own hands in the end.

He used his connections within law enforcement to gain access to the world’s undesirables: the violent, the unhinged, the maladapted, the unacclimated.

The bad men who had gotten light sentences or slaps on the wrist when they should have been removed from polite society for the gain of humanity.

Compared to you–fighting through the red tape of Government at every turn–Marcus was unstoppable. You guess that’s why so many people like to read about comic book heroes who spend their time doling out vigilante justice. Fighting for prolonged sentences within the criminal justice system was one thing. Living by your own creed of law and order? That was another.

Marcus simply… went around the law.

Did the ends justify the means?

That was a question that kept you up for months on end–that still causes you to shoot up in bed, panting and sweating, fighting off the remnants of a nightmare.

Even now, you aren’t sure of the answer.

That, on top of the real job opportunities that the FBI awarded you, is what really brought you here.

Marcus Pike… is a murderer.

You’re here to keep an eye on him.

Putting aside your… more personal connections, the man is dangerous. After all, you have no way of substantiating that his moral code, the way he kills for his own perceived sense of good, will always match the general sense of human morality. Is Marcus the type of man who would take a personal slight and warp it into his own twisted sense of justice? Would ever kill to satisfy his own grievances? Would he ever simply kill for the sake of it? You have no way of knowing.

A soft tap on your office door interrupts your reverie.

“Got a briefing on the Waters case in five. I’m assuming you read the file I emailed over?”

At your nod, the other agent continues. “It’s in conference room 2E63. Since this place is a bit of a labyrinth, thought we could walk there together.”

“Appreciate it,” you say cheerfully, snapping your laptop shut and grabbing your notebook.

Time to work.

“Got any questions for me before the meeting?” your coworker asks as you navigate through the halls.

“Are other departments involved in this case?” you ask. “There’s the embezzling scheme, stock fraud, that’s obviously us. But what about some of the company’s other operations? The file mentioned something about illegal smuggling and money laundering, surely that’s–”

“Organized Crime, yup. We’ve got two representatives from that team, they’ve been heavily involved. It was recently discovered that some of the goods smuggled were uh, famous paintings or something? So we’ve recently added someone from—This is us, by the way.”

Your coworker opens the conference room door, and across the room, a familiar set of deep brown eyes flicks up in surprise.

“Anyway, yeah, we also recently added someone from Art Crimes to assist in the recovery of the, uh–” your coworker trails off, turning to the only other agent in the room that you happen to know, apparently hoping for him to complete the sentence.

He doesn’t. Agent Marcus Pike is still staring at you, lips parted, his face white as a sheet. Fear lurks in his wide eyes.

When he blinks, though, the mask suddenly drops back down over his expression, his agitation replaced with cool confidence.

“Cézanne,” he answers patiently. To you, he extends his hand. “I haven’t seen you around here,” he says carefully.

To anyone listening, the words are straightforward, said by a stranger, but you catch the hidden, underlying message. I’ve seen you before, but in a different world. You are out of context.

“Just started today,” you comment lightly before giving him your name, taking his hand, and shaking it firmly. Very firmly. Marcus blinks. You see a flash of that wild intensity that you know lurks beneath his unassuming exterior.

When he smiles, you take in the rows of perfectly straight, white teeth and his singular dimple.

A warning. Or a promise.

“I look forward to working with you.”

#Marcus Pike #Marcus Pike x you #Marcus Pike x reader #Marcus Pike x f!reader #Marcus Pike fanfiction #the mentalist #the mentalist fanfiction #pedro pascal

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bkwrm523 · 7 years

Text

Enhanced Training

Title: Enhanced Training Rating: Explicit Fandom: Red vs Blue Pairing: Agent Washington/reader Word Count: 3536 Warnings: smut? Tags: @mysupernaturalfics @vintagevalentinexx @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @cookingglitterfairy @kittenofdoomage @catsoftheapocalypse @medicatemedrmccoy @goodnightwife @star-trekkin-across-theuniverse Summary: The reader helps Wash with his anger issues. Author’s Note: Let’s just say soundproof walls are cheap and plentiful in the future, okay? Prompts: "hey, you're not alone." & "Take it out on me." Beta’d by @yourtropegirl and @outside-the-government . And @joanne-egberp deserves credit for poking me into doing this.

You’d heard Agent Washington’s yells of frustration from the training room earlier that day. Apparently, training wasn’t going well. You had decidedly mixed feelings about not being in the training room that day. On the one hand, angry Wash wasn’t good news. On the other hand, angry Wash was incredibly hot. At least you hadn’t managed to embarrass yourself that day.

The planet was Chorus, and you were in the Federal Army of Chorus. Wash, Sarge, Doughnut, and a robot named Lopez were guests of the Federal Army; even on this backwater planet, you’d heard of the heroes who’d taken down Project Freelancer. General Doyle had promised to help them get their friends back, but that would take time. Washington had apparently decided to pass the time by helping with training.

It wasn’t going well.

You were busy fixing the vehicles from the motor pool (you couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn, and thus were almost permanently stuck as a mechanic, which was fine with you), and thus saw Wash storm out of the training room, and head straight for the sleeping quarters. You slept in the common room with most of the other privates, but Wash was one of those that rated his own room. And the mess was in the opposite direction.

You checked the clock, and realized that your own shift had ended half an hour ago. A fact you totally hadn’t missed because you’d been transfixed by the sound of your crush’s voice from the next room and lost track of time. Nah, blame it on a strong work ethic.

You quickly packed your tools, and finished clearing your area, before heading out. You stopped by the mess hall, grabbing a pair of bananas and headedfor the sleeping quarters.

You ate one banana on the way, hardly noticing your surroundings as you engaged in a fierce internal debate. You kept arguing with yourself the whole way there, still trying to decide if you had the courage to do this.

Before long, you found yourself in front of Wash’s door. You took a deep breath, and knocked. Too late to back out now.

The door whooshed open; Wash’s back was to you. “What is it?” Wash asked, sounding tired.

“Umm,” you started. Great. Wonderful first impression. “I’m sorry to intrude, sir.”

“It’s not a problem.” Wash replied, still sounding tired. “What do you need?”

“Nothing, sir. Sorry, I- I just couldn’t help but notice you didn’t eat. My workstation is right by the training room. I, uh, I brought you this.” You held out the banana like a peace offering, stuttering through your words. Hopefully he’d chalk it down to hero worship, like the rest of the Federal Army.

Wash turned to face you. He was still in his armor, as were you, so neither of you could read each other’s expressions. He hesitated a moment, before taking the banana from you.

“Thanks.” He said, and you swore you could hear a small smile in his voice.

You had a pretty good idea how he felt; there wasn’t a person on Chorus, on either side, that hadn’t been worried sick about the fate of a friend or relative by now. It always ended badly. But-

“I’m sure we’ll find your friends, sir.” You tried to reassure him. “They’re like, heroes. There’s no way the rebels would dare to kill them. Besides, you’re the guys that killed the Meta. I’m sure they’ll find a way to survive. Maybe even escape on their own.”

“You clearly haven’t met them.” Wash chuckled. “But… thanks.”

“We’ve all been there.” You told him. “This war’s been going on for a long time.” Your words sounded lame even to you. What did that even mean? “Just… try to take care of yourself, okay? Your friends wouldn’t want you to starve yourself, or work yourself into the ground.

Wash chuckled again, and looked down at the banana in his hand. “Yeah… you’re probably right there. I’ll eat it, I promise.” You gave an awkward little nod, and started to shuffle back towards the door. The last thing you wanted was to make this weird. No need to outstay your welcome.

“I just,” Wash started, as your back was turned. You looked back at him. “I hate just sitting here. I should be doing something!” He was half turned away from you, and even with the armor on you could see he was tense. He glanced down at his hands then, noticing the crushed banana in one fist. “Great. I break everything I touch.”

“That’s not true.” You argued, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Just look at the training room! I know you feel like you’re not getting anywhere, but we’ve never done so well! I mean, our guys are doing a lot better in the field! You’re good at this and it’s showing! You’re saving their lives!”

“How do you know so much about the training room?” Wash asked, amused and suspicious. “I don’t remember you being there.”

“Uhm…” you let go of his shoulder and gave a nervous laugh. “I, uh, well, you, uh, you see so many people in there, um… you couldn’t possibly remember them all. Right?”

“I would’ve remembered you. What’s your name?”

“Y/n. I’m just a mechanic.” You told him. “My usual post is right outside the training room, I hear you yell a lot.”

“That still doesn’t explain why I haven’t seen you in the training room.”

Shit. This was starting to backfire on you.

“I can’t aim.” You finally admitted, a little ashamed. “Can’t hit a building. So, I’m kept on mechanic duties. I’m actually good at that.”

“I’m sure I could fix that. You probably just haven’t had time to receive proper training yet. Tell your C.O. to talk to me tomorrow; we’ll fit in some time to practice. I’ll have you sniping in no time.”

Much to your horror, you blushed. Thank goodness for the helmets; he couldn’t see you. You mumbled a thank you and glanced away. You turned and started to leave, still not wanting to get creepy. You hesitated a half a step away from the door, a question weighing on your mind. Should you bother? Before you could stop yourself, you turned and blurted it out.

“Take it out on me. Your frustration, and everything.”

There was a long moment after you blurted out your offer, and you were grateful for your helmet to hide your burning cheeks. You internally braced yourself, waiting for the inevitable rejection. The most you could hope for was him letting you down gently.

"All right. Take your armor off." Wash replied.

"Wait, what?" You blurted again. Wash turned and stalked towards you, looming over you and making you wet.

"Something wrong with your hearing?" He asked, his voice going into a deeper register.

“Uhm.” You couldn’t quite manage words, backing into the wall and looking at him with wide eyes.

“You have two choices.” Wash began, standing inches from you. “You can leave now, and we’ll both pretend this never happened. There won’t be any punishment or judging. I’ll just train you tomorrow and it’ll be like you never suggested anything else. Or, you can stay, and help me work out those frustrations. Starting with you taking your armor off.”

“Yes, sir.” You swallowed, still not quite believing that this was all real. You pushed off from the wall, and pulled your helmet off with trembling hands. Wash never moved, just watching everything from behind his helmet impassively. Eventually, your armor littered his floor, and you were just in your underarmor jumpsuit. You glanced up at Wash’s impassive helmet, anxious for approval. For a long second, all he did was look you up and down. Then, he lifted his hands, and slowly removed his helmet.

Comically, time seemed to slow. You’d asked around; no one had seen him outside his helmet before, and you were excited to finally see what he looked like.

The helmet was removed, and tossed carefully aside. You didn’t notice where. He had short blond hair, and piercing blue eyes. His eyes were dilated, and you saw hunger in them that soothed your nerves and excited you. He lifted his hands to frame your face, hesitating only a moment before he leaned in to kiss you.

He was… surprisingly gentle. Hesitant. You had a fraction of a second to wonder if it had been awhile since he’d done this. You leaned into him, grasping blindly at his armor and kissing back with all your limited experience.

Wash’s armored body pushed you back into the wall, growling a little as the kiss grew more aggressive. The breath left your body in a soft moan as he kissed you forcefully.

You gasped for air when his lips finally left yours, nuzzling down your jawline to attack your neck. Your arms made their way around his shoulders, clenching tightly on his armor. He attacked your sensitive skin with lips and teeth, sucking and biting so much that you were sure you’d be littered with marks tomorrow. One of your hands drifted up to bury in his hair, and the other tightened on his armor until your fingers hurt. You hardly noticed. Wash moved below the spot behind your ear, biting your neck harshly before soothing the spot with his tongue. His mouth latched on, sucking hard until you saw stars. You writhed, pressed between him and the wall, your hips desperate to find friction. Wash stuck a thigh between your legs, pushing them further apart. You ground down against his thigh with a grateful moan. Your hand tightened in his hair, pulling a little on the short locks as his teeth bit into your neck.

An eternity later, Wash pulled away from your neck and stepped back. You sagged against the wall, the room spinning a little as you tried to adjust. When you did, you saw that Wash was already out of most of his armor, quickly stripping it off a piece at a time and setting it on his armor stand. You gaped for a moment, before you began struggling out of your underarmor. Your hands shook as you worked, and it took you twice as long as normal to get the thing off.

By the time you stripped it off, Wash was laying on the narrow cot, his erect cock sticking up. His cock was… well, big enough to make you wonder what they’d fed the agents over at project freelancer. It was proudly erect and weeping, making you lick your lips unconsciously.

“Get over here,” Wash ordered you. He beckoned with a hand, smirking a little at your obvious response to his naked body. You crossed the room to him before you realized what was going on. He lazily stroked his cock as you walked over to him; when you reached him, he glanced down at his cock, and then at you, a command in his eyes. You bit your lip, and scurried onto the bed. You knelt over his legs, and planted your hands on either side of his hips, supporting your weight as you leaned down to deliver kitten licks onto his cock. His hand fell away, dropping to tangle in the blankets as you tentatively attacked the head of his cock. You moved one hand to circle the base, holding it steady as you pulled the head into your mouth and sucked on it hard. You glanced up, hearing a strangled moan above you. You couldn’t quite suppress a smirk around your mouthful, flushing a little with pride.

You took him deeper in your mouth then, pulling out everything you could remember, albeit distantly, about about sucking a man off.

You stroked his base with one hand as you bobbed on his cock, getting wetter as he moaned and thrashed below you. His hands fisted tightly in the blankets of the cot, and his back arched. His cock surged in your mouth, and you knew he was close. You tried to suck harder, running your tongue along the underside of his cock and moaning. He came then, crying wordlessly as you tasted his cum. He came hard, spilling so much you almost worried, before he collapsed back down to the bed. You let his cock fall out of your mouth then, gazing up at him with curious concern.

He was panting hard, staring at the ceiling for a long moment. You fidgeted, wondering whether you should get up and leave. Then you felt his eyes on you.

“Get up here.” He commanded, still breathless. You almost let out a ‘meep’, your eyes flicking back up at him. You quickly obeyed, crawling up his body. His trembling arms pulled you up his body once you were within reach. He held you to him and kissed slowly you with all of the passion that he did before. His hands were on your back, holding you on top of him.

“Thank you for that.” Wash said when he finally broke from your lips to let you gasp for air. “It’s been a long time.”

“My pleasure,” you replied. And it certainly had been. The sight of him moaning and thrashing below you would fuel your dreams for quite some time.

“Not yet.” Wash replied cryptically. “But I’d love to return the favor.”

He swallowed your protests with another quick kiss, carefully turning you both on the narrow bed until he had you under him. He nipped his way down your jaw, nuzzled gently at your pulse point before he sucked on it until your eyes rolled back in your head. He chuckled into your skin at the groan that erupted from you. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, burying a hand in his hair as his mouth on your neck made you lose track of time.

He paused all too soon, resting against you for a moment. Before you could protest, you felt fingers at your entrance. You gasped, jolting in his arms as he tentatively stroked your outer lips. His thumb moved between your folds, circling your clit gently as a finger moved inside you.

He grew in confidence the more you moaned, watching your face studiously and his fingers curled and searched inside you. His thumb carefully caressed your clit, making you thrash in his arms. You scratched at his shoulders, and locked your legs around his hips.

“You're so wet for me,” Wash murmured. “You really liked sucking my cock?” His fingers found your g-spot then, and you cried his name.

“Answer me, sweetheart.” Wash ordered you. “Tell me, or I won't let you come.” His fingers slowed then, and you whined in protest.

“Y-yessir.” You managed to stammer out finally.

“Yes, what?”

Motherfucker. You groaned; trying to remember how to speak wasn't easy with what his fingers were doing to you.

“Y-yes, I loved sucking your-aah!” You managed to blurt the words out, and his fingers attacked your g-spot before you could finish speaking. Your muscles clenched hard around his fingers, and your pussy spasmed and came. Your back arched, and you cried his name. Your eyes leaked tears, pleasure overwhelming your senses. Wave after wave of pleasure assaulted your brain, until your brain shut down.

You finally collapsed back down on the bed, panting hard. Wash’s arms were around you, stroking your messy hair gently.

“You all right?” Wash asked, his voice soft and gentle now.

“Fuck, yeah.” You panted.

“Ready for another round?” Wash replied with a dark chuckle.

“Oh, god.” You groaned.

“If you want me to stop, say ‘red.’” Wash told you, vanishing beneath the blankets.

You felt his hands on your breasts, tweaking your nipples as he nipped and kissed his way down your ticklish belly. He spent what felt like minutes making you squirm, slowly moving down between your legs.

A sharp nip on your hip bones, then nothing but his body sliding down yours, moving between your legs. You felt his breath on your bare, wet pussy and shivered.

You were tense, waiting for the first touch from him. When it finally came, you felt his tongue swipe across your folds. You jumped despite yourself, startled at the sudden contact. He hummed wordlessly, sounding pleased. He nuzzled your clit gently, licking it and teasingly, until you were squirming.

“Wash!” You protested. “Will you ju- mmmf!!” He chose that moment to suck your clit into his mouth. You felt his fingers in you again, going right for your g-spot. You were still oversensitive from the last orgasm, and you found yourself nearing the edge alarmingly fast. You clenched the blanket in tight fists, and tried to warn him. But you couldn’t manage intelligible speech with his fingers inside you. Your eyes rolled back in your head and you started panting. You wondered, for about a second, how thin the walls were, and if everyone could hear what he was doing to you. A moment later, you spasmed and came, screaming his name to the uncaring walls. It felt like every muscle in your body tensed, as your pussy clenched around his fingers and tongue.

It felt like an hour later that he emerged from the blankets, stroking your hair out of your face and holding you while you tried to catch your breath. You felt his cock, enormous and erect, pressed against your thigh and groaned.

“How are you ready?” You snapped at him breathlessly. Wash chuckled a little.

“Only the best for Project Freelancer,” Wash explained. He shifted, rubbing the head of his cock against your wet, exhausted pussy and groaned. “Fuck, you’re so wet down there, sweetheart.”

You whined a little, lifting a leg to wrap around his hips in a silent invitation. Wash nipped at your lips, before dropping his head and began thrusting slowly into you.

He was very slow, careful, and gentle. Your body struggled to adjust to him, perfectly walking the line between pleasure and pain. You tossed your head against the bed, panting hard. He finally bottomed out in you, and rested his forehead against your shoulder. You could feel him panting against your sweating skin, giving you goosebumps and making you clench a little around him. Wash didn’t move, waiting for you to adjust with the occasional strangled noise.

You started squirming a little under him after awhile, the need for him to move overriding anything else. You tilted your hips up into him, trying to signal that you were ready.

Wash took the hint quickly, but his thrusts were careful and gentle. He buried his head in your shoulder as he moved. You clung to him, rocking your hips into his as he thrusted.

“Damnit, I’m not breakable.” You growled, frustrated. You heard Wash chuckle next to your ear.

“Careful what you wish for,” Wash teased.

His next thrusts rocked the bed.

You cried out beneath him, heedless of who might hear (honestly, in the middle of a planet wide civil war that had been going on for years, no one would really care that much). His cock filled you, stretching you perfectly and brushing your g-spot on every thrust. Your legs squeezed his hips, clinging to him with every limb as he rocked you into the stratosphere. His ass flexed under your heels as he pounded into you, making the bed frame creak and groan. You hardly noticed as you wailed under him. Still sensitive from the orgasms he’d already given you, you were teetering close to the edge. You babbled his name, arching into him as you clenched tightly around his cock. You felt him come inside you, pushing you over the edge. You screamed wordlessly, barely noticing the alarming swaying of the bedframe as his hips slammed into yours, his cock driving into you and pushing you higher. Tears leaked from your eyes, and you lost the ability to focus on anything but the pleasure flooding your veins. Eventually, you blacked out.

When you came to, you were lying facedown on Wash’s chest. A blanket covered you both, and you felt pleasantly sore. Sore enough that you knew your shift tomorrow would be a little bit difficult.

Not that you had any regrets.

Eventually, you looked up into half open blue eyes. They snapped all the way open after a moment, your stirring getting his attention. Wash smiled at you, a clear unburdened look that you hadn’t seen from him since he’d come to your base.

“Thank you for that.” Wash said quietly.

“I think you already expressed that enough, don’t you?” You replied impishly.

“Can, uh, do you want - I mean, if, uh…” Wash flushed, stuttering a bit adorably.

“Are you trying to ask if I want to stay?” You interrupted, taking pity on him.

“Yeah.”

“It’d probably generate the wrong kind of talk if I did. What we did was one thing, but…”

“Right.” Wash replied quickly. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. Thanks for offering, though. I think your bed is nicer than mine.”

There was a long pause for a moment, before anyone spoke again.

“You don’t have to leave yet, do you?” Wash asked, his voice a little wistful.

“I guess I can spare a few minutes.”

#red vs blue fanfiction #red vs blue smut #agent washington/reader fanfiction #agent washington/reader smut #agent washington x reader fanfiction #agent washington x reader smut #fanfiction #writing

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cynicaljapanophile · 3 years

Text

in which washington tries to convince you to adopt a cat

“no.”

“what?” washington looked at you in shock, looking back and forth between you and the small bundle of fur in his arms. “i didn’t even say anything to you yet.”

you let out a deep sigh as you dropped your arms ever so slightly. you could already see his pout as you kept your eyes focused on the book in front of you. “i know,” you paused. “it’s just that i already know what you’re going to say.”

shaking your head, you paused for a second before glancing up from the corner of your eye. “and the answer is no, we’re not getting a cat.”

“it’s really not that big of a deal.”

all you could do was groan as you shook your head, burying your face back into the book in your hands as you tried to focus on the words that you just glossed over.

“but,” he interjected before you cut in. “y’know, there are quite a lot of health benefits that come with having pets like cats.” washington tried to persuade you as you continued to read the book in your hands having finally focused back on the words passing by your eyes. despite his attempts, you refused to look up in an attempt to keep your resolve.

“can you really say no to this face?”

you let out a deep sigh, closing your eyes as you hit your face against your book. the sound of your annoyance was muffled by the thin paper you buried into your face. “jesus fucking christ,” you muttered to yourself as you shook your head.

(he really had no idea how to give up.)

waiting a few seconds you finally looked up, focusing your attention on the two in front of you. your eyes narrowed, focusing onto the small kitten in front of you as you leaned in closer to the small feline.

“i don’t like you,” you said sternly as you continued looking at the small animal in front of you refusing to even blink.

washington blinked in confusion at your words. “are you talking to me or the cat?”

you refused to look away. “why don’t you take your pick wash.” you said as you continued to stare down the young animal, you could feel your willpower slowly start to drip as you continued to keep your eyes on your target.

eyes twitching, you let out a deep sigh. dropping your head, you finally looked away as you finally relented under the pressure of the two. “fine.”

(“just ignore the fact that we’re both in the military and most likely can’t handle a pet of all things.”)

“yes!” you heard him shout in a whisper in his excitement and attempt to try and keep quiet.

hearing him, you let out a sigh and rolled your eyes. with that type of response you were sure that whether you agreed or not wouldn’t have changed what he would’ve done anyway.

“just—” before you could finish speaking you were interrupted as washington took your face in his hands, freezing as he pressed a hundred small kisses across your face.

it wasn’t until a few seconds after he let you go that you realized what had happened, shaking your head in an attempt to shake away the growing heat rising to your face.

glancing over at the blonde from the corner of your eye you felt yourself smiling in spite of yourself. “i guess you’re kind of cute.” you looked away before he could get a look at you and the small smile on your face.

he looked up at you, blinking at you in confusion before a small, impulsive smile made it’s way up to his lips. “so,” he said. “who are you talking about this time?” he asked.

you let out a soft laugh under your breath. “i don’t know wash, why don’t you take your pick? i won’t mind either one.”

#rvb #red vs blue #rvb agent washington #agent washington #rvb fanfiction #agent washington x reader #washington x reader #wash x reader #wash is soft and i don't take criticism #i just like writing fics where he's happy 🥺#also i have way too many wash x reader fics that i'm writing rn #this is what happens when i don't have requests i simp and write fics that nobody ever asked for #hana.txt

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mexicancarolina · 4 years

Text

HC: Reacting to their s/o clinging to them in their sleep

Characters: Grif, Simmons, Caboose, and Washington

Rating: General.

Requested by: @bootyshakerkegrimm

Word count: 433 words

Warning/s: None

Grif

You have no idea how someone can sleep for so long.

That doesn’t stop you from too, falling deeply asleep by his side and lose all consciousness until the next morning.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t move around the bed as much when you are lying next to him.

Hs snores are interrupted as he wakes up to feel a pair of very familiar arms wrapping around his body and clinging to him.

Your body is suddenly too close, pressing against him, just to nuzzle your cute face in the crook of his neck.

He thinks it might be difficult to fall back asleep with you clinging to him, yet the first minutes he tries to make you comfortable, he gives up and falls back asleep.

Simmons

He is a light sleeper, so he immediately wakes up when he feels that your face is pressed against the cold metal of his arm and that your legs are tangled with his.

He is self-conscious for a moment. Are you comfortable? Are you cold?

His body tenses completely, he is unable to move and he doesn’t even want to breathe in fear of disturbing you.

You let out what seems to be a pleased sigh as you nuzzled close, not opening your eyes to wake up.

He slowly accepts that you feel comfortable, that the heat radiating from you is nice, and he slowly moves his body to nestle you against his body before falling back asleep.

Caboose

You are not clinging to him, he is clinging to you.

You practically have a very soft and beefy boyfriend to cling to.

Best cuddles 100/10

Clinging to him while you are asleep gives him hope and warms his heart, he cannot believe you are such a wonderful person to share his love with.

Washington

This poor man doesn’t sleep, so expect him to be awake and watching how you are peacefully asleep next to him.

You groggily wake up for a moment, moving from your place at the far side of the bed to his side.

He is amused by how easily you go back to sleep and how comfortable you look and how relaxed you are.

He stares at your face, pressed against his chest and he thinks you look almost angelic.

Suddenly, he starts to feel tired, his eyelids are heavy.

He can’t help but turn to face your body to embrace you properly and finally, let sleep pull him into a deep slumber.

#rvb fanfic #rvb fanfiction #rvb x reader #rvb headcanons #rvb washington #rvb caboose #rvb simmons #rvb grif #agent washington #caboose x reader #washington x reader #grif x reader #simmons x reader #MXCarolina Writes

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chezzkaa · 7 years

Text

Caboose x Reader - Nightmares

A/N: Okay, I can explain. See, I was looking at my inbox messages and feeling incredibly guilty, and came across 5 - YES FUCKING 5 - old prompts asking for Caboose angst/fluff. So, I’m so, so sorry, and I hope this makes it up to you. I’m not currently taking prompts right now, but i’m going to try and slowly empty my inbox.

Summary: Caboose relies on you for comfort, but tackling the nightmares isn’t easy. You do your best, creating a world filled with late night adventures and cookies; with a special appearance from Agent Washington.

WC: 1190

You roll over in bed, snuggling deeper into the mound of blankets and searching for sleep. But the sound of the metal door sliding open has your eyes fluttering, the cold stinging your nose as he shuffles inside. You sigh into the darkness, focusing on the figure now stood at the end of the bed; faint light illuminating his face streaked with tears.

“Nightmares again, Caboose?”

The young man nods. A small whimper escapes his lips as he jams a fist against his eyes, crying softly into his palm. Cloaked in his blanket, his bright blue eyes don’t leave the sympathy oozing from your expression as you sit up. The floor nips at your toes despite the rugs you’d tosses across the metal sheeting, cursing the men who designed the living quarters. The nights were always painfully cold.

Standing up and slipping your feet into slippers, you smile at Caboose, collecting your own blanket, fabric pooling to the floor. Opening your arms he curls in, the tall man becoming a tiny child as a tremble of sobs burrow into your shoulder. Your hands work his back, rubbing soothing circles as tentative hums resonate between your lips, fingers brushing back the mess of dark curls tumbling over his eyes.

Clinging to you, the back of your shirt tugs tight in his fingers, Caboose holding on like you were the only thing that existed. His shoulders hunch beneath the blanket; torment aching in his wails as tears soak your collar. Your heart pounds, chest heavy as you listen to his sobs. Broken and lost as he struggles, trapped in a world that had haunted him every night for months.

You wish you could take away the pain, somehow steal the agony wracking through his body. All you’ve ever wanted to do is shield him, protect a man who deserves nothing but joy; but you can’t. It’s your job to pick up the pieces, to bring him back to a place of warmth and love. And it was time to clock in.

Between your murmurs, his tears begin to slow until only soft sniffles remain. Tilting his chin, you smile gentling into his warm eyes, their depths tracing your features. In the moonlight his bags are darkened, the curve of his jaw and cut of his cheek produce elongated shadows that act like bruises. Purples bloom across his childlike innocence, plunging him into a state you found so incredibly familiar.

“You ready for another adventure?”

At your words he brightens. Colour returns to his cheeks and burns your fingertips. Taking your hand in his, he nods eagerly, excitement washing away the fear and anguish that had gripped him moments before.

“I’m the best at adventuring,” he states, letting you lead him from your room and into the hallway, “even in the scary places.”

“You’re the head adventurer,” you encourage, tracing through the darkness of the base. Shoes whispering against the metal as you pass the others’ doors locked tight, gentle snores slipping across the sheets. Caboose presses a finger to his lips, noisily forcing a ‘shhh’ as you try to suppress your giggles.

“Well then,” you start, finally pulling into the mess hall and flicking on the lights, blinded by the intense glare. “Are you ready for the mission?”

He straightens, blanket still tight around his body, his hands forming fists against his waist. “I was born ready.”

“Are you sure? It could be dangerous,” you prompt, approaching him and taking the fabric, tying it like a cape around his neck. He does the same to you, fingers lingering against your jaw, a warm thumb tracing the angles.

“I’m not afraid of anything.” He’s certain, foolish bravery stretching a goofy grin across his face, memories of the nightmare quickly dissipating. “I’ll protect you from the monsters.”

“But can you protect me from the lava?” In a smooth bound you leap up, landing on one of the many tables littering the hall. Caboose panics before scampering after you, making sure his cape wasn’t dipping into the magma.

“There’s a fresh batch of cookie in the kitchen,” you inform, jumping to the next table, pretending to wobble, “and they’re in danger.” He follows your lead, moving forward, his long limbs always seeming confused. Cupping your hands around your mouth, you look to him, unable to hold back the grin as he continues to launch between the tables, small noises of effort muttered with childlike glee. “Only you can save them, Caboose.”

He glances back as you hurtle forward, metal scraping against metal with each small movement. Caboose is ahead of you, only a few tables away from the entrance to the kitchen, eyes alight and brimming with joy.

His face twists in terror as he glances back, mouth hanging agape to stir concern inside your chest. “No,” he whispers, eyes fixated behind you. Turning, you let out a relieved sigh, Agent Washington standing in the doorway with accusations in his eyes.

“What’re you doing?” he asks, tone telling you that he really didn’t want to know. You shrug, motioning to Caboose as he continues to be dramatic.

“Wash, quickly,” Caboose gestures to the closes table, urging him to hurry. “The floor is lava, you’ll burn up.”

“I’m not getting involved; I just wanted a snack–”

“You’ll die, Wash!” Caboose wails, and David releases a rattling sigh, eyes catching yours as they glint encouragingly.

“Oh no,” he jokes flatly, eyes tired and blond hair a mess as a hand runs through it, “I’m dying. You’ll have to go on without me.”

“David,” you scold, and he sighs with his shoulders, clearing his throat. Sinking to his knees, Washington makes his best death noise, holding up a hand as he’s engulfed in the lava; Caboose’s laments ringing out.

“Oh no, I’ve made the most foolish blunder. Go on without me, Caboose the great. Save a cookie for my grave.” His eyes flash to you, the corner of his lips tugging upwards when he sees you’re satisfied, revelling in the light of your face. Seeing you so joyful and so far along the road of recovery filled him with hope. He never thought Freelancer’s could have a chance, but you’d proved otherwise.

He watches as his friends’ giggle, Caboose holding out a hand for you to leap, your bodies clattering together. “Don’t worry,” claims Caboose heroically, holding you close, dipping you over the edge the way he’d seen in movies. “I’ll save you.”

“Oh, Caboose the great,” you call, letting him lift you before swinging onto his back, arms winding around his neck, “you are truly the bravest adventurer.”

“And the best,” interjects Washington. Caboose whips round and yelps with glee, David’s eyes widening when he realises he’s gotten too involved.

“Washington, you are alive!”

“No, I mean no I’m not. Err, I’m a ghost. Boo.”

“Come, ghost, we must save the cookies.”

“Fine,” grumbles Washington half heartedly, clambering onto the benches, a smile playing around his lips.

You cling to Caboose, his cheek nuzzling into your arm until he launches into the kitchen, shrieks of delight bubbling from your chest as the smell of cookies fills the air.

#red vs blue #rvb #red team #blue team #caboose #Michael J Caboose #caboose x reader #agent washington #red vs blue fanfiction #red vs blue fanfic #red vs blue x reader #Rooster Teeth #rooster teeth imagine #Red vs blue imagine #red vs blue fic

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rosepetals-flyingbirds · 4 years

Text

Tortured Souls. (3)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader.

Summary: Y/N Stark is Tony's adopted daughter. She becomes a deadly agent and part of the Avengers.

Note: I truly appreciate comments guys, once I read that ‘coments are the only payment fanfiction writers receive’ and it’s completely true! I’m ain’t gonna lie and say that the likes don’t make me happy, but comments would make it all worth it.

(Gifs go to their rightful owners.)

Warnings: Language, angst and mysteries (get your overcoat, hat and glasses kids, let’s unravel this mystery/or get more deep into it!).

Word Count: 4,711.

1 Month After.

Things remained agitated in the past weeks. Bucky kept his distance and didn’t even look at you as you told so, Tony was making travels nonstop searching for old documents of you (which was completely lost of his time since traffic wasn’t a legal thing).

The team kept going on missions but Fury didn’t allow you to go, at first Tony told you couldn’t go on missions, your response was a roll of eyes and the phrase “I’m not 15 years old, I do whatever I want.” But the rest of the team didn’t allow it either. Both because the last mission that you got injured and all the mess about Artem, so you had to suck it up and obey Fury’s orders.

The tension in the Compound was too tense to bear. Maybe it was your mind making pranks or your teammates did look at you differently after you told the truth about your past.

So you decided to rent a small apartment in Queens for a few months until things settled down.

The absence of missions and feeling out of the picture made you mad, all you wanted was to keep living normally and doing your job, but apparently, people don’t need you anymore.

You were cleaning your apartment for the third time in the day when someone knocked on the door. You took a deep breath and looked at the peephole recognizing America’s favorite golden boy.

You opened it and Steve smiled and took a bouquet of wildflower behind his back. “What is this for?” The flowers were beautiful, he smiled at you and you couldn’t keep mad at him with those big blue puppy eyes.

“It’s a ‘hello’ and ‘I’m sorry you couldn’t go on the last mission’ apologize-gift.” He handed it to you, basically took out your capacity to breathe with his hug, and walked into your apartment.

“Wow, that is a very clean apartment.” He looked around and saw that everything was in perfect place and the floor was almost shinning.

“Yeah, I got bored and I have nothing better to do, so…” You trailed off and found a vase to put the flowers on. “Also it is like my mind couldn’t focus in a messy place, whenever I clean where I am physically it is like my mind get easier to deal with, I guess.”

He hummed. “How are you?” He sat on the couch and propped his elbows on his knees.

“Steve I don’t want to be impolite, but honestly? How do you think I am? I ain’t working because something I did years ago is coming back to haunt me. Tony is traveling place to place trying to find stupid documents that he won’t find because he thinks if he finds those it will make Artem get in jail, and somehow will protect me of prison if he proves what I did can be justified as ‘a act of good intention’.” You said it a little too loud and felt embarrassed that your emotions were taking control of your actions. “I am not going in missions and my body misses it so much! I swear I ran for three whole hours today and my body still kicking trying to burn some steam. And I don’t see you guys so frequently as before and this hurts.” You lowered your head and sat on the couch beside him.

He nodded. “You can go back at the Compound at any moment Y/N. It’s your home too.”

You sighed deeply and looked into his eyes. “I can’t Stevie, not when everyone is looking at me with pity because of my past or scared I’ll invade SHIELD and shot Artem.”

Steve crossed his arms over his chest and gave you the ‘cap voice’ “We are not pitying you if this is what you’re worried about.”

You scoffed and shook your head playfully. “Steve you had been really touchy with me after I told you the story, not that I mind it’s you, you can always hug me, I love when you do so! But it has the opposite effect on me, it doesn’t make me feel like ‘I have a friend that cares about me’ it’s more for ‘my old friend that now feels pity for me’ and I can’t live with that. Also, I’m not impulsive okay.” He knows you weren’t, you knew how to fix things properly and in missions you were always the one to find the better strategies, but the last ‘solo’ job it sort says the opposite. “Do I want to kill Artem? Yes, I sure do, but I won’t enter S.H.I.E.L.D. and kill him there.”

A couple of hours after Bucky name came to the conversation, Steve took a deep breath. “I want to talk about Buck, Y/N. He misses you.”

You avoided his eyes and opened your fridge throwing a water bottle to him. “He told you that?” You grabbed one for you and took a few gulps waiting for his answer.

“No, but I know that punk. He isn’t himself, he isn’t since you got shot. And after you told us everything he became worse, he hasn’t slept for days.”

“It wasn’t the story,” You mutters under your breath but failed as Steve has a super hearing, he tilted his head and remained for a more elaborated answer. “After the story and everyone followed their respective lives I went to the gym later that day, I was so mad and I was shaking with adrenaline so I needed to do something with that. I started to punch a punching bag and I kept going and going I was so deep in my thoughts punching and kicking then I was screaming until he took me out of it, my knuckles were open and bleeding and I had displaced my left wrist. He took care of my wounds and then I confronted him and asked why he hadn’t talked to me for so long and then he started to leave but I wasn’t having it so I told him that if he passed through the door he didn’t have to even look at my face again, and apparently, he did since it was four weeks ago.”

His face went to perplexion to wonder. “Wow, I didn’t know, Sam told you two had a discussion but he didn’t know much and when I asked Buck he just avoided the talk. He is so stubborn it’s unbelievable.” He rubbed his face. “Please talk to him.”

“Steve, I know him okay? I know how his mind works and he got mad at himself for not being there to protect me, but I can’t run after him every time. I’m sorry but I can’t, I love him! I really do, he is very important to me but if he can’t talk to me about his feelings I won’t run after him. I can’t.”

Steve nodded and the conversation flowed leaving Bucky aside.

When it got darker he prepared to leave and said he needed to go back to his apartment and when he didn’t tell you why you teased him so he answered that he, Sam and Bucky would go out for a few drinks, so you nodded and hugged him goodbye before closing the door.

While Steve was at your house you showered and ate so you have nothing else do to, maybe go for another run wouldn’t hurt.

Knock Knock

You opened the door expecting to be Steve but you were met with two armed SHIELD agents. “Y/N Stark you are being arrested.”

Firstly you thought it was a joke but their expression remained professional. “Why?” They tried to grab your arms but you moved it and was prepared to fight them. “Don’t touch me! What is this about? Do you have an arrest warrant? I don’t think so.”

One agent tried to handcuff you but you grabbed his armed hand directing it up to the ceiling making the gun shoot and kicked the other agent in the stomach making him retrieve but also bringing pain to your foot since he is using an anti-bullet vest.

The first one unleash the gun to the floor -probably having order to not hurt you- and tried to punch your face, which you avoided and grabbed his hand and tossed it making him moan in pain, his partner grabbed the gun and pointed it to your leg and you tried to hit him again but you heard someone saying “enough” on the stairs and both agents stopped their ministrations and gave a step behind. Fury.

“Hello Y/N, I’m sorry but you need to come with us.” His voice was serious, so serious to the point that you had never heard it directly to you before, only to the bad guys.

“What?” The agents kept staring at you and grabbed their guns going in ‘soldier mode’ again. “Why?”

“The feds want you in jail for murders and for leaking private information about SHIELD and the Avengers protocol.” You glanced at his eyes and tilted your head in pure confusion.

“What?” The murder part you can understand but leaking information?

He nodded and gave you the ‘you better come’ look. “Come with us.”

You shook your head. “No, I’m not leaving until you tell me what is happening Fury. Murder? About the traffickers? Okay, I get that. But what the fuck ’leaking information’ means? I never told anything to anyone!”

Fury lowered his head and intervened when one of his agents tried to grab your arm again. Your face was red with rage. “Please, I need to get you there for interrogation.”

You understood it was useless and Fury wouldn’t hurt you so you nodded. “Can I at least grab my jacket first?” He nodded, you walked to your bedroom and couldn’t help but look at your window and the thought of running away seduced you, but it would be useless so you grabbed your jacket and walked out with them.

Fury wouldn’t hurt you, but also you hadn’t discovered yet who had leaked your information to Hydra, could it had been him?

…

The S.H.I.E.L.D. building was in Washington and being in New York you had to enter a quinjet to get there faster.

Inside the quinjet, the agents kept with their guns close to their bodies watching you with all their attention, you kept staring at them and felt a bit proud of your ministrations to make them uncomfortable. You imagined hundred of different scenarios where you stole their guns and got out of the situation, but you knew you were innocent, at least Fury said it wasn’t any need to put you in handcuffs.

In Washington you walked inside the building to the upper floors, some people you knew waved at you and a few other just shook their heads when saw you.

In the interrogation room, you felt sordid. You had entered in that room before, but you never was the one to be interrogated.

You sat in the chair and Fury stood on his feet. “Do you have any idea why you are here, Y/N?”

You took a deep breath and nodded. “Because I committed murder with horrible people that were selling children for prostitution.”

“Not that reason, even though Stark asked for spare you for a few months to fix the situation you are currently in, you are here because you had leaked private information about missions and every one of the Avengers.” His voice was firm and he looked you the whole phrase trying to find a glimpse of reaction. “Also for invade our prison with two other men last night and have released a federal prisoner;” Barely able to believe the new information you looked in complete perplexion. “Artem.”

Your eyes widened and you grabbed the armchair. “Artem is not here? Wait he escaped?”

Fury’s expression stood seriously. “Y/N I know you since you’re a mere pre-teenager, please spare me of stupid lies.”

“Fury I am not lying, and why you are interrogating me if that man is out there?”

“Because you released him!” He shouted.

You let out a laugh and tilted your eyebrow. “This is insane okay? Why would I do that? Why! With all due respect but you are insane if you actually believe I would help that man in any possible way.”

“I would say the same things if someone else told me so. Matter fact I said that two hours ago when a special agent showed me the evidence.” He grabbed a small remote out of his coat and clicked a button that made a footage appear in the black glass window they have in interrogation rooms. You saw two men using ski masks and… you?

You were using a black overcoat that hides your body, your (y/h/c) was loose but your face moved directly to the camera before you shoot it. You couldn’t believe what were you seeing, what is this?

The next minutes the men that were accompanying “you” executed some agents and security guards, then you walked out with Artem by your side before entering a big SUV without the vehicle plate numbers on it. You blinked a few times and pinched your arm not believing in what you had just seen.

“Ready to confess now?”

“Fury it wasn’t me, I swear, I don’t know how it happened but I swear it wasn’t me! For fuck sakes you know me for years now, do you really believe I would do that?”

“Honestly? No. But you may recall that I’m in that business for years now, and sadly I had been betrayed several times with people I thought it would never do so, and it breaks my heart to think you are more one betrayal on my list but I cannot say I am surprised.”

You scratched your hair and looked at the screen again, Fury was right, people tend to betrayal each other especially in that way of life. “It has another footage I want you to see.” He clicked and appeared your face, you were using a Mets hat and was a video call with Artem.

“That is an important information Y/N, do you have sure you want to hurt your loved friends?”

“They are nothing for me, you know that! Just make sure to be at Uchami’s base when S.H.I.E.L.D. get there, they will take you to the States and you can’t let them know you know me, are we clear? I will deposit money into your account so your family will have everything they may need.”

“What about your daddy? Wouldn’t he try to kill me? I mean if they believe in our little story.”

“Tony is not a killer, even if he tries Ross Everest wouldn’t allow, bad publicity.”

“What about the one-eyed black man?”

“Don’t you worry about Fury either, they will throw you in jail but I will take you out, it will take probably a month but don’t worry, their jails are great, have good food even.”

Your voice was different. “Fury that is not even my voice okay?” He just hummed and pointed his finger at the screen and keep silent, you darted your eyes over it once again when you heard.

“I still don’t understand why you’re not talking with me in Ukrainian, my brother had told me you had made agreements with Ukrainian buyers along Mikhail, he said your Ukrainian was as perfect as your Russian.”

“I’m using an app that changes my voice a bit sadly it doesn’t have the Ukrainian option so I had to use it in English, also we don’t know if the phone is clamped so if they found it out I can at least play coy and say that my voice is different or any other shit they probably will believe.”

Fury kept it playing and you heard about what Bucky arm was made of, how Tony made the repulsors of his armor, along with Natasha’s tactics and even the whereabouts of Tesseract. Top Secret information that only a few special agents knew along Fury and some teammates.

You would never sell it, especially not to Hydra! “I will let you alone for a few minutes to think if it’s really the best option to keep lying. I will call Stark and tell your situation. Is not like you care for him anyways.”

“Fury, can you tell me where all the footage came from, who brought it here?”

He stood at the door and looked at you. “Was agent Carter.” He said and left the room, leaving you alone with the small control to watch the footage again.

Agent Carter, Sharon.

Fury.

Fury couldn’t believe that you would be another one to betray his trust, but most importantly he couldn’t believe you would betray Tony and your other friends, but especially Tony since he is the man that saved you all those years ago.

He walked into his office and typed the name Tony on the tablet display it had on his glass table linking the call to his earpiece.

“Hello.”

“Stark, I need to tell you something, it won’t be easy to digest it but I need you to come to D.C cause I need to tell it personally.”

“Fury I’m in an Indian wedding I ain’t suppose to leave at least the next two days.”

Fury rolled his eyes. “I try to go easier on you but you always make it so damn hard. Y/N is here and the feds along the council want her in jail.”

“What? You and Ross promised to give me a few months to collect enough evidence to get her out of it.”

“Isn’t about the murder Stark. Y/N had betrayed all of us, she made all that show and invaded the building yesterday and released Artem, besides the footage we found of two months ago when she was leaking private information for Hydra.”

“Fury do you think Y/N would really do that?” Before he could response Tony answered his own rhetorical question. “That’s a no!”

It had crossed Fury’s mind that this whole situation was wrong, he tried to find a logic explanation, he analyzed the recordings footages for hours examining each detail to find a good solution for all of this. He was lying when he told you the betrayal hadn’t surprised him, cause it definitely had.

“Do you think I would believe it without seeing it with my own eye? It was her, she is here and we won’t release her. The council wants to get her in jail as soon as possible and even with me trying my best to prevent it I don’t know if she deserves my help.” He told Tony and felt a sadness in his heart.

Betrayal was never easy, because it always comes off the ones you weren’t expecting to.

Tony took deep breaths and Fury could hear a gasp over the phone and since he deals with anxiety and post-traumatic stress disorder after all the event in New York all these years ago, Fury shook his head blaming himself for hadn’t wait to say it face to face, not like Tony made easier on him, having his difficult personality and all. “Breath Tony, drink something. Will do no good to do that there, come back to the USA and I will try to arrange a preliminary so she can stay in home confinement until she confesses.”

Tony grabbed the nearest cup with juice and propped his body close to a water fountain to sustain his body steady. “I go away for a few days and everything starts falling in my head.”

Tony sipped the drink and when he calmed his shaking hands and breath he asked Fury to prevent anyone else to go talk with you because he would go back to Washington in a few hours.

Y/N.

You played the footage over and over again, of course, it wasn’t you but you need to agree that whoever is behind this were a great shammer.

It probably had been brewing for a long time, whoever did this was smart and knew you, SHIELD and the Avengers too well.

The leaked information made you wonder who did this could be more close than you queried before, such information was locked seven keys away from public eyes or even normal agents. It had crossed your mind each one of your teammates, especially the girls but you know Wanda and Natasha too well, Nat has a history in double-agenting but could she hurt you in that way?

You wonder about SHIELD's agents too. Maria and Sharon and a few others that knew you or at the least thought so. Maria never had a beef with you and your encounters always were more professional, even at parties your longest conversation with her had lasted thirty seconds. The other two agents didn’t have access to such information and Sharon never acted suspiciously around you, of course, she didn’t like when you and Steve walked talking and even laughing around SHIELD, if she was the one could she be so low at the point to try ruin your life out of jealousy for a man that was only a mere friend, right? Expectedly no.

The most fearing issue at the moment you were avoiding. Your biggest fear was not Artem being out there probably planning to kill you really painfully, but the fact that Fury believed what he saw and heard.

You cannot blame him howsoever, he was right you would not be the first case of betrayal if you actually did what he thinks you did, he had too many betrayals and pain in his life. But if he was smart and professional believed, could your friends believe it too? Could Tony or Steve believe it? Fury looked not only professionally but also personally, your friends will definitely see in a personal way.

You growled in frustration and turned the screen off. All the years ago you didn’t presume you would be caught, but even if you were you would go to prison with your head high knowing you did a bloody difference and saved thousands of lives both directly and indirectly.

But going to jail because something you didn’t? Being locked away from society for something you hadn’t done instead of being out there fighting for justice as an Avenger? Oh no.

The door opened and you saw Tony using Indian clothes, you narrowed your eyes but his serious face made your possible sarcastic comment flew out the window.

He propped his back on the door and crossed his arms over his chest. “Fury called me? Is he telling the truth Y/N?”

You shook your head with a ‘no‘ gesture and let out a puff of air. “Tony, I swear this ain’t me,” You pointed to the black window making him wonder what you are talking about. “I swear for everything that it’s more sacred in this life!”

“I need to see it.“ He walked to the table and propped his hip there waiting for you turn the fake footage on.

You nodded and turned the footage on again. Tony saw the first video and then the other one where you told personal pieces of information about the team.

When it ended he made the same expression he did a month ago when he played the footage of Artem and Fury. “This ain’t you?” His question wasn’t firm, it was pure mockiness. Wait, Tony doesn’t believe you?

“Is not!” You answered firmly trying to confirm your innocence.

He took a deep breath and started to walk in the small room, making circles here and there while his hand rubbed his face. “Well, so we have to agree that the person who made that definitely deserves an award for best director don’t you?”

“Are you serious Tony, do you think I did that? Me?“ He looked at you and you only felt pain. His face held nothing but pure disappointment. “I know this is hard to believe, but please please you know me! Do you think I would be able to do such a thing with you and all of my friends? With Steve?”

He shook his head but his breath kept coming harder and harder making his nostril flares and his eyes watering. “ I don’t know, because honestly, I didn’t know that three years ago you went on that kamikaze adventure in Russia when I thought you were helping animals in Australia, Y/N! And now I see all the videos and what? What you wanna tell me this is some sort of prank or someone else have your same face?” He was shouting and your heart was throbbing as your eyes were watering.

He propped his body against the door again and took a few accelerated breathes panting trying to stead his heartbeat, his hands shaking. “Tony breath!” You stood up and walked to his encounter. “Please look at me, look at me.” He shook his head but he always did that in this cases. You held his arms and lowered your body to the floor bringing his too making him sit. “Breath with me. One, two, three.” You breathed in each number and nodded your head for him to copy your action. “One, two, three.” You kept doing so until he recomposed his breath. “See? Do you truly think I would do something that horrible to you? While I’m the one that saves you of a heart attack every day?” You smiled and he let a small chuckle.

“Considering the majority of the stress is caused by you,” He answered with a sarcastic comeback and you smiled. “Do you promise me that isn’t you?” He pointed to the black screen.

You nodded and gave him your pinky.

He rolled his eyes. “Okay, this ain’t an episode of Full House, move your ass because I want to get up.” You laughed and helped him. “Fury told me he was asking for home confinement. We can fix this at home right?”

You were scared of how you will prove your innocence, but with Tony by your side, you felt less lonely. “Right!”

Fury managed to get you a document and they even gave you an electronic anklet. You looked at it but smiled knowing it would be easy peezy to hack it and get it off of you in Tony’s lab. With the right tools, it would come off without sending any warnings to Ross or Fury.

Tony asked if you wanted to go to the mansion in Malibu but you refused. You had to fix whatever was going on, and running away wouldn’t help.

You went to your apartment but knew it would be the first place Artem would find. You called Steve and asked if you could crash at his apartment, he agreed and started to leave the bar he had been with Sam and Bucky.

He, Tony and you grabbed all your personal belongings and took it to Steve’s apartment. He asked why you were leaving so suddenly since a few hours ago he was there with you and all were normal. But with your expression so serious alongside Tony’s he nodded and said whatever it’s happening he would always be by your side.

You hoped so.

…

Sorry if it’s becoming a soap opera, I swear the fake Y/N isn’t her lost twin sister.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #buck x reader

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talesfromthefade · 5 years

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Author Ask Meme

tagged by @apostatetabris

Author Name: @honestly-wilde (formerly 4vraFangirl) / @talesfromthefade

Fandoms You Write For: Oh goodness, so many. Let’s see... Kingsman, Turn: Washington’s Spies, Pacific Rim, Dragon Age, Mass Effect, Once Upon a Time, Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., Marvel Cinematic Universe, Bioshock, Sherlock BBC, Yuri!!! on Ice, Detroit: Become Human, His Dark Materials, Good Omens, SyFy’s Tin Man, SyFy’s Alice, X-Files, Lie to Me, Harry Potter... I’m sure there are more I’m forgetting or some I’m still working on polishing up before I feel comfortable enough sharing/publishing them.

Where You Post: Tumblr, Ao3 (although I haven’t put anything new up there in a while, hopefully soon.)

Most Popular One-Shot: Smut. It would be smut. XD “Any Excuse Will Do” with Eggsy Unwin x Harry Hart from the Kingsman fandom. Sometimes I think I’ve gotten a lot better at writing smut, but seeing this one is still my most popular, I’m not so sure... maybe it’s just that this fic has been up longer than some of my other attempts at it.

Most Popular Multi-Chapter Story: “Colors Seem to Fade” Whew. So relieved and thrilled that my most popular multi-chapter is a finished one. I always hope to go back to some of the unfinished ones, but some of them have been neglected for quite some time now, much to my frustration and shame. This was actually my first multi-chapter I shared on ao3, written for Hartwin Week 2015.

Favorite Story You Wrote: I don’t know that I could pick a single favorite. I have little bits and pieces, lines, descriptions, etc that I might love from each, but on the whole, I would have a hard time picking any one out that I was entirely satisfied with or didn’t feel I could go back and somehow make better. It’s kind of a miracle that I’ve let go enough to share any of my work, it’s often a matter of forcing myself to. I love to write, but opening it up to possible criticism is absolutely nerve-wracking.

Story You Were Nervous to Post: All of them? See above. I suppose this would go double for those where there is a character in the story I especially relate to, or where I’ve filled in some of the gaps of their characterization with elements of myself. Writing is a fantastic means of therapy for exploring yourself, but making it that intensely personal, even if the reader can’t possibly know when and where you’ve done that makes it difficult to share sometimes. And I suppose, I’m always a bit nervous about the stories I write for the smaller fandoms or rarepairs that they’ll be seen as silly or a waste of time to write because they don’t have the same following as the bigger ones, though, speaking as an enthusiastic rarepair shipper and reader, that could just be paranoia on my part.

How Do You Choose Your Titles: I title everything when I am initially writing it “NOT YET TITLED” just to annoy myself into coming up with something better. Sometimes if I can’t come up with anything else I will use a poem or song lyric. It just depends.

Do You Outline: For any of my longer and multi-chapter fics, I find it’s an absolute necessity to help me organize my thoughts. That said, I have nearly as many drafts of outlines as I do drafts of the actual story if it’s one I’m pretty invested in, since I prefer to have the characters drive the story so I may find something I had planned doesn’t work so well as I thought or there’s something that would fit their characterization better.

Coming Soon Eventually: As far as fanfiction goes, I am currently working hard on finishing up a lengthy one-shot for “Good Omens” (Aziraphale x Crowley), and another for “Detroit: Become Human” (Connor RK800 x Hank Anderson), as well as chipping away at prompts from/for the @dadrunkwriting group. I’m still in the drafting stage, but also working on an original work I hope to share more about once I finish the full first draft.

Do You Accept Prompts: Always! Some of the fics that have taken me most by surprise and proved my favorites have been sparked by a prompt/request that someone sent me. I love getting prompts. <3 Feel free to spam my inbox anytime!

Upcoming Story You Are Most Excited to Write: I’m excited about most stories I work on, otherwise, I don’t write them. Not to say there aren’t moments/scenes, etc where it can get a bit nerve-wracking wondering if I’m doing it all right or it’ll turn out the way I want, but I write because I love writing, if I don’t I’m doing something wrong.

#about the writer

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fierysafrina · 7 years

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Stubborn Love | Nash Gold Jr. x Reader | Chapter 1

Fandom: Kuroko no Basket

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 6.042

Genre: Action | Drama | Romance | Hurt/Comfort

Summary: You lived many lives, but only one was always real.

Notes: I had this idea. It looked and sounded nice, but I had no idea how to start it. It’s kinda like mafia AU thingy with multiple chapters because the idea itself turned out long. I was conflicted about the title and when I ran into song, with the same title, it all fell perfectly. I also blame NCIS LA for coming with this idea - but totally worth it.

CHAPTER 2 |

Fanfiction

Your heart was beating against your chest as you stood in front of your new boss. Moving from Washington DC to Los Angeles after a mission gone wrong, you were terrified to go back on the field. Going undercover felt even worse.

You were in a city where you knew no one. Even though your new colleagues were nice to help you out with anything you asked, it was still scary. You weren’t the outgoing agent and that was the reason why you were sent to Los Angeles under cover in the first place. No one could suspect you as an agent.

“You’ll be going in as Amelia Anderson,” Special agent-in-charge Wilson began, handing you a file. “Your age is twenty-five. Born in London you graduated from Kingsbury High School and Cambridge. Worked at club-almost owning it-before you left for LA; got fired. You’re searching for a job and got it at Star Café, which is owned by Nash Gold Jr., our main person in this undercover.” Wilson looked at you while pointing at photo of a young man with golden hair. He stood beside two dark-skinned men.

You nodded in understanding and Wilson immediately continued. You listened, but your eyes lingered on the photo of the mafia boss. Knitting eyebrows together and biting your lips, you looked at the file in your hands. You went through all information for your undercover and what you needed to know about Nash. He was handsome, you had to admit.

“If you need any kind of help or backing up, the team will always be at disposal. All you have to do is call the number and you’ll be out before you know it.” Wilson said, his dark eyes looking right at you. “Can you do it?” he asked.

You stared at the photo for a moment more before raising your head. “Yes, sir.” You nodded. Wilson smiled and nodded back. “When do I start?”

“Tomorrow morning. Be ready.”

You knew about mafia. Handling them better than mission alone, you were confident, but not enough. There was only one thing that confused you. If Nash was as bad as everyone made him look as, why did he open the café? There were so many underground and illegal things he could do, so why café?

You stood in front of a middle-aged woman, who eyed you from head to toes. Her eyes sent shivers down your spine before turning her gaze back on the paper in her hand. There was silence, people’s voices heard from the other side of the doors, but you didn’t pay attention to that. At least not at the moment even though some voices grew louder. Before she opened her mouth, doors opened behind you.

She raised her head, ready to argue with the intruder, but stopped herself, standing up. “Director, I didn’t expect you to come to the café today.” she spoke with a strict, but gentle tone.

Director? You frowned and turned your head, meeting with blue eyes that seemed to focus on you and you only. He made you feel naked. Nash… You tried hard to remain composed, but stood up as well.

“I heard someone signed up for job as a waitress.” Nash answered, but his eyes remained on you. You wanted to avert your gaze, but you couldn’t. You were mesmerized by his eyes. “You’re from London?” he asked once he looked at the paper the woman handed to him.

“Y-yes,” You stuttered, your cheeks turning bright red.

“Why coming to a café when you had a club?” he asked, his eyes back on you.

“I-I didn’t own it yet.” You answered and tugged your long hair behind your ear, embarrassed. “I almost got it, but it went into other hands and I left. Not wanting to have anything with clubs, I wanted to try something quieter.” Biting your lower lip out of nervousness, you averted your gaze to the side, but quick back at him.

“You graduated from Cambridge, almost owned the club, but here you are.” He snorted. “Almost makes me think you’re undercover to find something to get me into prison.”

Your eyes widened and you parted your lips, but he began laughing. He confused you.

“It was a joke.” He said, handing the paper back to the woman, who was smiling. “I wanted to see what kind of expression you’ll make. It’s pretty obvious you wouldn’t pull being a cop. You’re too shy and too expressive.” he looked at his two friends, who snorted. “You’re hired.”

Everything happened so fast. One moment you felt angry at how he talked to you, but the next he was already gone from your sight. The woman was explaining all you needed to know. You pulled yourself together and followed the woman, whose name you learnt was Kacey Deep.

You were working the next day in the morning.

Smiling at the customer, you watched the teen leave the café before your eyes caught the blond hair. You narrowed your eyebrows, but smiled when Nash walked in.

“Good morning,” You greeted.

All you received was silence. You didn’t need to guess that something was wrong. Looking at one of his friends with brown hair, Mark, who spoke: “Bring the espresso and don’t bother us.”

With a silent nod, you turned and worked on making the said drink. With an apologetic smile, you excused yourself from the customer, and walked into one of VIP rooms behind. The doors weren’t completely closed, letting you hear bits of conversation.

“...can’t let them off…”

“I know, but-”

“We’re cutting the deal off.”

“That will lead to war between mafia and gangs.”

“We’re-”

There was silence. You stood there before doors were abruptly open, revealing a black haired young man Sam. He was also beside Nash when he walked into café.

“The fuck?” He cursed when he saw you standing there. “Knock and don’t eavesdrop.” He glared at you as you carefully passed him by and walked towards table, where Nash was sitting.

Your cheeks were dark, embarrassed to be caught eavesdropping. With small stumble, you placed the espresso in front of Nash and turned around to leave, but he held your wrist. You looked at him in surprise when you saw his eyes already looking at you. Suddenly you hated those blue eyes that seemed to know everything. He made you feel vulnerable and you didn’t like that. It was first time since you went undercover that someone made you feel that way.

“Sir?” You asked quietly.

“A car will pick you up towards the end of the week or maybe next. Be ready.” He said and released your wrist.

“O-okay…” You nodded in confusion and left, already missing the way he held you. With lowered gaze, you left the room and quickly went back on your position that was taken by Kacey, the café manager. “Thank you,” you thanked quietly.

“It’s my job to walk in when I see the need.” She shortly explained and eyed you from the side. “It’s your job now to give director what he wants. His eyes are on you and I hope you’re not one of those girls that are after his money.” Turning back in front she smiled, leaving you confused. “He may be a criminal to the world, but those close to him know the truth.”

“What do you mean?” You asked before you could stop yourself.

Kacey nodded to the customer, ignoring your question. You couldn’t blame her. She was working there longer than you, knew more about Nash and was perhaps even in relation to him.

If he really was a criminal, why did he open café? The thought came back to you. Looking at the customer in front of you, you smiled. “Good morning, what can I get you?” You asked, but your thoughts were filled with questions.

Throughout the day, the café was visited most by students, with college nearby. It was a good place for anyone to hang out in if they wanted to get away for a while. There were private places that could hide anyone if asked. Young families with children came, asking for dessert. And though you prepared yourself for it, you couldn’t.

Those small faces and hands pointing out to cakes and ice cream, their eyes wide and full of life, made you weak. You couldn’t help but stare at the twins that stood in front of you, staring with those big green eyes.

“Help!”

“It’s hot!”

“Mommy!”

“Ow! Sammy, open your eyes! We need to leave!”

“-lia. Amelia!” Kacey’s voice woke you from your thoughts. “Are you alright?” Her voice was filled with worry, something that made you feel horrible. “You look pale.” she commented and touched your forehead, her eyebrows knitting together.

“I-I’m fine,” You turned your head and looked at twins. “I apologize. What would you like to order?” you asked, completely ignoring the look Kacey was giving you. The last thing you wanted was to end up fired before you could even begin.

Biting your lower lip, you were writing into your notebook before biting the edge of the pen. Your gaze rose when you heard voices of Sam and Mark leaving the VIP room. Nash wasn’t with them. Following their backs, they left the café, leaving you wondering where the director was. But before that, you had to get closer to him and you needed to come up with a plan.

For the rest of the week, you haven't seen Nash anywhere nearby. You wanted to ask Kacey about his whereabouts, but decided against it. If he comes, he will. He is the director, he can do whatever he wants to do. But it made you anxious. Though his men walked into café every morning through the front entrance, they left at the back. For what reason? You didn't know. But you wondered why Nash told you that a car will wait for you until a week later.

It was still light, with evening turning into night, when you ended working. Locking the café, you put the key into your bag and turned around, ready to walk away. You frowned at the black Range Rover that was parked in front of you. Looking from one side to another, you startled when the doors opened. A young light skinned man with light brown hair stepped out. It was Nick, one of close people that hanged out with Nash and having his own fashion line for men and women.

He eyed you from head to toes, his left eyebrow raising. “You the new girl?” he asked and looked straight into your eyes. “Amelia?” he called your name, making sure.

“That’s...me.” You answered carefully and slowly. You wanted to scowl at the way he stared at you, but held back.

“Get in. We’re gonna need some clothes before you go to the club.” He motioned towards Range Rover and opened the backseat doors.

Without saying a word, you did as you were told so despite every nerve in your body yelling to run away. You couldn’t run away now, not when you were already this close. Backing out now could either make you suspicious or an easy woman. But even if you didn’t, it could end in any different way imaginable.

Reaching a tall building, you realized it was Nick’s own company. You followed him, with two men behind and couldn’t help but feel frightened. Despite going through a lot of missions, you still didn’t get the chance to update your superior on the case. You had to do it soon, knowing how impatient they could be.

“Change into this and leave those clothes here. You’ll get them tomorrow.” Nick handed you a black sleeveless dress, black high heels and small handbag. You wondered if the dress would even reach your knees as you nodded and walked towards one of the stalls to change. “Get me Liz here. She has five minutes.”

You didn’t know to whom he said that, but you decided against asking. The last thing you wanted was to piss him off as he already seemed in foul mood. Unzipping your jeans and taking them off, you put them on the chair beside. You unbuttoned your blouse next. The moment you discarded it on the same place, your eyes stared at the scar on your right hip. With the tips of your fingers you touched it.

“There were kids inside! You blew up the whole building with kids inside!”

“It was your call!”

“I didn’t give those coordinates!”

“These were the coordinates!” A paper with numbers was slammed on table. “This is the building on these coordinates and you’re telling me you-God damn it! Get an ambulance here!”

“You done yet?”

You jumped at Nick’s voice and looked into mirror. The curtains were still in place. “J-just a moment.” You stuttered and grabbed the dress, quickly dressing up. You slipped into high heels and looked at yourself in the mirror. As much as you liked the outfit it made you self-conscious more than confident. Taking a deep breath you turned around and pulled the curtain to the side.

Nick’s back was against you as he talked to a woman with long blonde hair. Your eyes met hers and her lips turned up in a smile, Nick turning around. You could see the way his eyes widened, but quickly regained his composure, stepping closer to you.

“What can you do, Liz?” he asked, his eyes fixed on you.

Liz hummed as she held your face, looking over your features. “Ten minutes and she’ll be ready.” She looked at Nick, who looked back at her, saying: “Make it five.”

“The lady of hour always needs to look good when going to war.” Liz smiled, but completely ignored the look Nick was giving her. She took your hand and dragged you to a chair in front of mirror. Make-up accessories were displayed on table in front of you and you wondered why she was doing this.

“Nash asked me to help you out.” Liz spoke.

“Eh?” You murmured confused.

“Your whole face was saying ‘why am I here in this mess when I could be home in bed instead’.” She laughed and shook with head, taking a dark shade of red lipstick. “You look cute, but with make-up and being dressed in clothes best for the occasion, you’ll be stunning.”

“Where am I going and why?” You couldn’t help but ask. “Though I've been working for a week, I'm still...surprised.”

“First week?” Her eyes widened. Once you nodded, she hummed in amusement. “That’s surprising.” she continued. “Not to mention, you’re the first one on this seat. And if you’re wondering why, the answer is simple.” she looked straight into your eyes. “You made Nash curious. For what? You know that answer yourself.” Her lips turned in a smile and before you could ask for more, she turned to Nick, whose phone rang.

Nick looked at his phone and picked it up with no hesitation. “We’re on the way. Ten minutes.” He said and there was silence for a moment, Liz continuing to apply makeup on your face. “Okay, got it.” he hanged up and looked at you just in time Liz stepped aside. “Done?”

“Done,” Liz nodded and helped you stand on your feet when you stumbled.

You raised your head and looked straight at yourself in the mirror. There was no much difference except the dark red lipstick, black winged eyeliner and small layer of powder. Your hair was a bit messier, but still stylish. When she had the chance to do your hair as well, you weren’t sure. Looking at Liz, she smiled widely. “I-it’s amazing…” You stuttered and looked at the mirror once again.

“Thank you,” Liz said and gently pushed you towards Nick. “Now go. Nash is waiting for you.”

In slight confusion, you followed Nick back outside and to his Range Rover. He drove quickly. The man by your side was looking through the window into evening that turned into night. You looked through the window on your side and at people you were passing. The ride was quiet, but you knew Nick looked at you in the rear-view mirror once in awhile. Your senses were good, but you played ignorant.

“We’re here.” Nick spoke when he stopped in front of building.

One of bodyguards opened the door on your side and you carefully stepped out. Looking around, you spotted people waiting in the line. Some of them stared at you, some scowled, some argued with the security while some stared at their phones. They were nervous and excited, but you felt terrified. This whole scenario was unfamiliar to you. You never went to clubs before, but preferred to stay inside and work on your cases.

Nick was walking in front of you into the bar, no one checking your ID. The two men walked behind, keeping an eye out as you walked in-between. You kept your head lowered to watch your step, but when you heard the music and noise, you raised your head. You walked down the stairs and into open space, floor below full of people dancing. There was a corridor on the left side, DJ playing the song and hostess’ dancing. Waiters were walking around, bartenders making drinks. It was full to the last corner.

“Up there,” Nick pointed towards room, into which you could easily look into.

You followed his gaze and looked one floor higher at the person you last saw one week ago. Your heart skipped a beat when you saw his lips in a smile, aching to hear how his laughter sounds. His eyes looked your way and in a second everything fell silent. You didn’t hear anything, see anyone other than him. The lights were dim, but you could still see the way his eyes followed you move between the crowd.

“I was wondering if you got lost.” Nash spoke the moment Nick opened the doors. You were hiding behind his back and felt your cheeks growing dark when you spotted women gawking at you. You weren’t used to the attention you were getting at the moment.

“Any problems?” Nash asked and tilted head to the side. He caught your gaze for a second before you looked to the side, refusing to meet his gaze. His lips turned up in a wicked smile. If you wanted to play a game, so could he.

“None,” Nick answered and stepped aside. “I got her here.”

You cursed under your breath and you immediately held for your arm. You bit on your lower lip between your teeth, going on defensive in a second. With the corner of your eyes, you looked at Nash and you wished you hadn’t. His shirt was half open, his chest visible to anyone in the room. His golden hair were a bit messy, but the way his lips turned up in a smirk sent shivers down your spine. You wanted to leave. You didn’t want to spend any second more in this room. It made you sick.

“Sit down,” Nash called.

Fighting with every nerve and muscle in your body, you followed his voice. You felt captured the moment you sat on the couch. His blue eyes stared at you, eyeing you from head to toes and he licked his upper lip like a hunter just caught his prey.

“So, who’s the new girl?” A woman on Nash’s right asked and put her hand on his chest, trying to catch his attention back on her.

“New worker at café.” Nash answered, but his eyes were still fixed on you. You didn’t know what was so interesting on you, but each minute that you spent longer with him, you grew weaker. “Whoa there,” He chuckled almost unnoticeable, but you heard it clearly. His arms were around your shoulders, your head leaning on his chest.

Your eyes widened and you gently pushed away from him. “I-I’m sorry…” You stuttered with dark cheeks.

“Never been at club before for a drink or two?” He asked, holding a tug of your hair between his fingers and held it closer to his lips.

You followed his hand, your eyes soon falling on his lips. “I-it’s my first time as a customer.” You answered and looked at the woman, who was sending daggers at you. You knew she will be onto you the moment she sees the chance. If only she knew you know how to defend yourself from people like her.

“You almost owned a club, yet you never drank?” He raised an eyebrow in amusement.

“I’m not an alcoholic and I’ve never drank before. Wine’s the only exception, but that was only on birthday parties or special occasions.” you said and looked back at Nash, who widened his eyes. Thinking you said something wrong, you wanted to speak and say it was a lie, but Nash began laughing.

You held your breath, your stomach knitting together and heart beating faster. His laughter was first silent before it grew louder, delighted and genuine. The corners of your lips unconsciously turned up in a small smile.

“I’ve never seen a person to answer so honestly.” he said and held your chin between his thumb and forefinger. Your eyes met his and you almost melted at how close he was. He leaned closer to you, his breath hot on your skin, his lips millimeters from yours. You wondered how his lips would feel on yours.

“Nash,” The doors opened, revealing a dark-skinned man with silver hair.

“Silver,” Nash called with harsh tone, pulling you out of trance. You pulled away and looked away, your hand reaching for your lips, biting your finger. “What do you want?” he asked. Anyone could tell he hated being disturbed.

“Perron’s here.” Silver answered.

The warm and happy atmosphere turned into coldness. Nash’s expression darkened as he stood up. He left without a word, Nick leaving behind. You looked around the room, before woman’s voice made you turn to the one that was closest to Nash. The one that was trying to get his attention the moment you walked in.

“So, how much do you get per night?” She asked smirking, women beside snorting.

You raised an eyebrow, not amused by the whole set-up. “Definitely more than you in whole month.” You shrugged and leaned back before pulling one leg over the other. You didn’t need to guess you were pissing her off, which wasn’t exactly what you wanted. But she also annoyed you with her attitude. Without missing the silent laugh from the two girls beside, you smirked at the woman, whose face was red. “What? Are you jealous you’ll be replaced by me?” Tilting head to the side, you continued. “Look, I’m not here to screw around, less alone for money. He’s my boss and I’m working at his café. I don’t care what you have with him as long as it doesn’t affect my job.”

“So you think you’ve already won him over?” She stood up and walked over to you. You wondered if you should go for martial arts or for her hair that seemed so annoying. “I was with him longer than you or any of the woman in this room. You’re nothing to him.”

“If I’m nothing why am I here?” You decided to push the buttons. “I heard he never brought any of his workers into the club before. Why me?”

“Oh, she’s getting really annoyed.” She huffed and went with hand through her hair.

“Just telling the truth.” you shrugged.

“That’s it,” she scowled and grabbed you for hair, making you wince. “You’re pissing me off with your whole existence.” she dragged you off the couch, but you swiped your leg, making her fall on the floor and instantly sat on her legs. Grabbing her arms, you put them on each side of her head, her eyes wide.

“That wasn’t nice.” You started and shook with head. “I was being nice, I still am, so I’m going to slowly release you and you’ll sit back on your place on the couch. Got it?”

“Hell no.” She spat. Before you could say a word, you felt pain in the back of your head before everything turned dark.

When you came to, your head felt like bursting. A groan, mixed with whine, escaped your lips as you slowly opened your eyes, but closed them quickly. Hearing shuffling from the side and someone moving, your hand was taken from your head.

“Take it easy…” His deep voice made your eyes wide as you sprung from wherever you were lying on. “Hey, hey,” he murmured and tried to push you back down on the couch, which he succeeded.

You looked around, realizing you were still at the club, but in another room. The music was still loud, but further away. “W-what happened?” you asked dazed.

“I should be the one asking you.” He pulled away and looked at you. “When one of the guys walked back in, he found you lying on the ground.”

You frowned before woman’s voice played in your head. “That...woman…” You held for your head. “I don’t know which one hit me with a bottle, but that hurts as fuck.”

Nash laughed. “You can curse too?” He asked in amusement. “Should I know anything else about my employees?”

Your cheeks heated up. “It’s normal once I wake up and realize what happened.” You shortly explained and looked at him. “Am I fired already?” your voice was rather quiet.

His blue eyes widened in surprise. “Where did that come from?” he asked, visibly confused as one of his eyebrows rose.

“I already caused problems on first week.” You looked at him like he just fell from sky. You frowned when he began laughing. “I’m sorry…”

“What for?” His laughter subsided into chuckle. “You’re not the first one getting knocked out on your first week or ended up in trouble. Not to mention you lasted longer than any worker before.” he said and looked at doors when a man walked in with a glass and pitcher on a tray. “Oh, good timing.” He smiled and stood up.

“We apologize for the inconvenience, Mr Gold.” The man apologized before he looked at you. “The women were dealt with accordingly for what they’ve done. They refused to admit their wrong, but it's done.”

“It’s...alright…” You murmured and carefully sat up, Nash helping you with holding you by arm. “Thank you,” you said and reached out for glass that the man filled with water.

“I apologize again.” The man lowered his head before he excused himself and left the room.

Nash quietly stared after him before he turned to you. Your eyes met his, but quickly looked away. This wasn’t supposed to happen. There was silence between the two of you. The only sound was music that played in the background.

“Why did you ask me to come here?” You asked, feeling confused at whole situation.

He didn’t seem taken aback by your question. “Why did you really change the place of your job?” he asked. “It couldn’t be because you almost got the club. There was more, wasn’t it?” He stood in front of you, watching the way you held glass in your hands, drawing small circles on it.

Biting on your lower lip, you hesitated. “There was more, but it’s in the past now.” You cracked a smile and drank the rest of water. “I think it would be best if I go home now.” Slowly standing up, you frowned at the growing headache, but Nash gently held you for arm.

“Nick will give you the ride home.” he said.

“It’s okay,” You shook with head, smiling. “I don’t live too far away, so I’ll take a cab.” You took the handbag. “I’ll return the clothes tomorrow.”

“You can keep them.” Nash shook with head. “They look much better on you either way.” he laughed, but your cheeks turned dark red at his words. It was weird with your heart beating like there was no tomorrow and your skin aching for his touch.

“I-I can’t just take these clothes without paying…” With a stutter you looked at him, hoping he would change his mind.

He smiled. “I’m more than sure Nick won’t mind. Take it as an apology.” he said and gestured towards doors. “Shall we?”

“You’re much nicer than I thought you’d be.” You blurted out. With eyes wide, you covered your mouth as Nash burst out laughing. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I heard many rumours in the city…”

“Well don’t believe everything you hear, cupcake.” He said and began walking towards doors, completely unaware of the way your face heated up. “You can come to work tomorrow an hour, two most, later. I talked with Kacey about what happened, so take it easy.” he looked back at you.

“O-okay…” You stuttered and followed him.

You walked not too far behind him down the dark hallway. Music was growing louder, but so was your headache. Holding for your head, you stopped just before doors into club and shut your eyes. Hearing Nash’s concerned voice made you want to laugh and cry at the same time. You weren’t ready for this. You didn’t want to do this anymore.

“You promised to save us.”

“Traitor”

“Killer”

“Murderer”

Gasping, you opened your eyes and leaned on the wall beside. Not now...please not now. You pleaded quietly as Nash approached you with few quick strides. “I’m okay…” Your voice was barely heard and he didn’t believe you one second. Forcing a smile, you looked at him. “I am, really.”

Saying nothing, he looked down the hallway. “Let’s get you home.” He said and held you by shoulders. His warmth and perfume filled your nose and it instantly calmed you down. Your guard should have been up, but it made you feel most secure you have ever been. It wasn’t fair.

Once outside, you took a deep breath. The smell of rain, made you look around, realizing the streets were wet. It was still drizzling, but not enough to make you wet to the bone. Looking at Nash, you saw him talking with Silver and another dark-skinned man. It was Allen and you wondered where Zack and Nick were. Letting out a sigh, you turned your focus on the road and raised a hand when you spotted a cab driving down.

“Amelia,” The way he called your name made you feel fuzzy. He rushed to you and handed you a small card with his name on it. “It’s my personal card. Call me if you end up in any kind of trouble.”

You took the card, looking at it. “I…” You began, but you didn’t know what to say. Your head was empty of any words to speak, less alone to make conversation. “T-thank you…” you managed to say.

“No need,” he smiled and opened the door of the cab.

You sat in and watched him through the window as he closed the doors and walked to the driver’s side. The driver rolled down the window and they exchanged few words, before he handed him money. Nash smiled and patted his arm. He looked at you one last time and nodded in bidding goodbye.

“Where to, Miss?” The driver asked.

“S-Santa Monica, 7th...Street…” You answered and followed Nash’s back as he walked back to his friends.

“Mr Gold’s a nice man, isn’t he?” The driver asked, forcing your attention on him. “You must be special to him.”

“W-what makes you think that way?” You asked in curiosity. All those rumours you heard of him, repeated in your head, but his smile, laugh and eyes didn’t leave you alone either.

“Y’know Miss,” The driver looked at you in the rearview mirror. “Mr Gold may appear arrogant and cold on the outside, but he’s nicer and much generous to his people. Sure he’s seen as a criminal and cold mafia boss, but he has to have an appearance for enemies, don’t you think?” he asked.

With a frown you nodded. “Of course…” You murmured. “But… I only work at his café for one week. I can’t be someone special to him so quickly.” you laughed.

“Then there’s something on you that he was drawn to.” He answered. “We’ll be in 7th Street in a minute. Which number do you live in?”

“It’s-uh...844.” You answered. The driver nodded and drove into the street.

Once you arrived in front of the flat, you took out your wallet, but the driver beat you to it. “It’s alright, Miss.” he smiled at you.

“But,” You wanted to argue.

“If you really want to pay me, you can call me next time you need a ride.” He said and handed you his taxi card with his phone number on.

“Thank you,” You smiled and stepped out of the car.

The moment the cab was out of your line, your phone rang. With narrowed eyebrows, you looked at the unknown number, but decided to answer it. “Hello?”

“I believe you arrived safely.”

There was music in the background, but his voice was heard clearly. You frowned, your eyebrows knitting together and lips turning into straight line. How he got your number, you weren’t sure, but the fact that he called you just to make sure you were safe made you happy. You knew you shouldn’t feel this way, but you couldn’t help it. His voice was tempting, alluring you and you already missed his touch.

“I did.” You replied and walked towards the small building, your flat. “How did you know? Should I be worried?” You teased.

His laughter filled your ears and you unconsciously smiled. “Don’t worry, cupcake.” Your stomach knotted itself when you heard his nickname for you. “I’m only making sure my employees and people are safe wherever they go.”

“I’m flattered.” You responded and unlocked the doors, walking into your apartment. “How can I repay you back for this dress and the drive? I don’t like being in debt.” Putting the handbag on a small closet on your hallway, you took off your heels and walked into living room. You sat down on the couch before turning the light beside on.

“We will find a way, don’t worry.” He replied.

You hummed, but didn’t say anything. Still hearing the music in the background, you didn’t want to hang up now. You wanted to talk with him longer, but you knew it was hard and you didn’t want to give yourself out either.

“Say,” he began after a moment. “Do you have time this week?” he asked.

“I work only in the morning, so in afternoon. Why?” You pulled your legs on the couch and leaned chin on top.

“That’s a secret.” he said in playful tone. Biting your lower lip you refused to whine. Not yet, it was still too soon. “I don’t want to disturb you longer than needed. Get some rest, Amelia.”

Your heart ached when you heard your alias name. You wanted him to call you by your real name, but you knew it was impossible. After all, the moment he hears you are undercover, you could either end up a hostage or worse. Dead.

A quiet sigh escaped your lips and you hoped he didn’t hear it. “Thank you again, boss.” You spoke in quieter voice.

“Nash,” he said. “Call me Nash.”

“N...Nash…” It was quiet, but you knew if he stood in front of you, your cheeks would be dark like cherries. He would tease you about it, there was no doubt about it.

He chuckled; “See you tomorrow, Amelia.” and hanged up.

You pulled your phone away from ear and stared at the number in silence. The call only lasted few minutes, but it felt longer. Leaning forehead on your knees, you closed your eyes. Only one week and you were already deep in. You didn’t like where this was going, but it had to be done. You needed to find his weakness and use it against him. Or catch him in the act and handcuff him. You wanted to end this as soon as possible.

#Nash Gold Jr.#Kuroko no Basket #Nash x reader #multi chapter #safrinawrites #Mafia AU #AU

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