#the roll top desk and the wall of clocks and the worn leather chair and the fireplace pokers and my grandmother’s grandfather clock and the

[buck-yyyy]

sorry for telling you all about my personal philosophies on life and how that ties into the art form that is the apartment i built in my head, do you still think i’m hot

#currently running my hands across the green velvet couch and leaning my head against the pillows to look up at the small vintage chandelier #above me. btw #not like. in real life. in my head yk? this place is not real but it is so real to me and i can tell you about each and every corner of it #the roll top desk and the wall of clocks and the worn leather chair and the fireplace pokers and my grandmother’s grandfather clock and the #copper hammered pots and the paintings framed on the walls and the butcher block counter tops and the rose sheets and the black china #cabinet and the colonial styled chairs and the farm painting above the dining table and the vanity table and the tile and the kitchen #curtains and the bay window and the stained glass and the deep wood floors and—

[things-we-used-tc-share]

The Town That Never Was

[Image Description: a long road with decaying plants on either side, with text overlayed that reads ‘the town that never was’ in white. A white icon of a clock is placed underneath the text /end ID]

I’m re-releasing the first four chapters as I’ve edited them! 

Ships: DLAMP/CALMD, Remile. 

Warnings: Cheating is mentioned at some point during this fic in the past, some slight horror themes but in a comedic sort of way, kidnapping is mentioned but again this is like a comedy-horror so there’s not a lot of suspense. 

Plot: In Hell, a town of roughly 1,000 people, nothing that is supposed to happen ever happens and everything that physically should happen, does. Logan, a scientist, goes there in hopes of studying the world’s most unfortunate, and miraculous, town. But no one who ever enters ever finds the will to leave again.

--

Chapter One: The man who can see everything, and the scientist from normality. 

Logan has a habit that mostly includes acting first and thinking about his safety a few hours later, usually when he has a burned hand or a broken bone, and then it’s followed by a “worth it!” as he accepts his own recklessness in favour of science. Today is one of those reckless days. Well, so far it’s been a reckless week (and a reckless life), as he’s been driving for about four days now.

He sees the “Welcome to Hell,” sign that has been overgrown by an abundance of tree roots despite the fact there are no trees for miles. The blue-eyed scientist sighs to himself absently as he gets the foreboding feeling that the next week of his life, should things go the way he planned, is going to be a series of these events and as it stands he has been driving far too long to hop out of his car near sunset to run tests on tree roots that should not exist.

The sun is, by the way, setting far too early for this time of year.

As he gets within the town’s boundaries, his car radio fizzles and automatically tunes into the suddenly only available radio station; Logan assumes this is harmless and simply listens to the soft indie beats that are now playing with no issue. The sky; where the sun is setting, is painted in a brilliant red, whilst the sun itself looks to be a somewhat magnificent ball of fire (which, of course, it is, but it doesn’t usually look literally as a ball of fire, you know, the kind when some idiot in class decides to bring a lighter to school and sets the waste paper bin on fire? yeah, that sort of fire). There are tall, black pylons everywhere, and the buildings seem old and are either wooden or Greek, which is interesting because as far as Logan knows, the ancient Greeks never quite got to America, yet these buildings certainly seem very old. Impossibly old.

He already has an infinitesimal amount of questions, and he’s aware that (as warned) that small pile is going to grow over the course of his stay here.

The music stops playing and a voice tunes in over the static waves of the radio “Welcome back listeners,” The dulcet, deep tones rumble against Logan’s ears and if voices could be a point of attraction then Logan would say this is an attractive voice. “A special welcome to the mildly ominous white economical car that just rolled into town full of what appears to be an impressive amount of science equipment, I don’t know who you are but you are apparently quite handsome, so I’m certainly hoping I’ll know you at some point,” Logan flushes a little and as if the radio presenter could see him, he chuckles. “We’ll run into each other, anyway, to the regular listeners this is your usual news on the town,”

Logan pulls up outside the place he had booked to stay but as he turns off the car he can’t help but lean back to listen to the radio presenter some more. “The sun is on fire, but more so than usual, the police advise you don’t look directly into it, or do, I’m not the boss of you and you can make your own decisions for yourself,” Logan snorts a little, shaking his head full of dark curls “Three strange cult-like figures have appeared in the outskirts of the town, on the west side entrance, they don’t appear to be doing anything but simply standing there, if someone has recently attempted to summon a demon or any otherwise ominous presence, please report it to Roman, our town’s exorcist who will help you deal with this problem, unfortunately until he knows exactly what they are, there is nothing he can do to help, thank you Roman, for being as useless as ever,”

The scientist laughs then and finally turns off the radio, grabbing his bag out of the back amongst a whole load of gadgets as he walks up to the front door. He can hear voices on the other side before the front door is thrown open extravagantly to reveal a young man with unruly dirty blonde curls. Logan, who hadn’t even knocked yet, blinks with a perturbed expression “Hello?”

“Hello!” The stranger replies with a smile a little too wide and hazel eyes a little too bright. “Don’t mind Remy, he turns into a cat when he’s anxious, but come on in!” Logan exhales deeply, cheeks puffing out as he shakes his head. “Oh yes, you’re an outsider, you’re probably not used to Hell standards of weird, sorry,” The man picks up the cat and places him on top of the counter before he moves around the other side “You’re staying for a week, yes?”

“That’s the plan,” Logan chuckles “...but I’m told plans don’t tend to work out here.”

“Oh no, they never do, all rooms are booked for at least a month just in case, I’ve added a few extra days on free of charge, we don’t tend to get many visitors so I doubt they’ll go amiss,” The man scans a keycard through the computer system, it fizzes slightly and he hits the side of it before trying again. “There you go, you’re in room 13,” He hands the keycard over “...and if you need me just ring,” he taps the phone “Phone number is on the bedside table.”

“Thank you....?”

“Oh! Emile, I’m Emile, that’s Remy, he’s not a cat, he just looks like one right now,” Remy blinks two wide golden eyes at Logan, he does certainly look like a cat. “He should be back to normal when he’s finished having a tantrum.” Remy hisses in response. “Have a nice night!”

Logan decides that he’s already reaching his limit with weird and he’s only been here maybe half an hour, although his watch has also mysteriously stopped working so there’s no real way to tell. He puts on his pyjamas, climbs into bed and tries to fall asleep.

It takes him an hour and a half to do so. Roughly.

--

When he wakes up the next morning, and finishes going through the usual human morning routine, he wanders downstairs to find a man who isn’t Emile sat on the chair behind the desk with headphones on. His name tag read “Remy,” and he’s wearing sunglasses inside. Otherwise he’s completely normal; a worn down leather jacket accompanying a black shirt and ripped jeans, hanging off a man who is of normal height and stature for someone in his early 20′s.

“Sorry about being a cat when you got here,” Remy pulls an earphone out to speak, chewing on bubblegum as he does “...me and Emile were having a domestic, how is your room?”

“Adequate,” Logan replies, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “So the turning into a cat thing is that...genetic?” Remy laughs a little and shakes his head.

“In what world would that be genetic?” He kicks his feet off of the table and sits up a little straighter “No, it was a curse.” Logan nods slowly, wondering why one is less likely than the other, and then thinking that he doesn’t want to know why because then he would start thinking like a resident here, and that sounds like a nightmare. “We do have an exorcist, and he’s supposed to really be able to dabble in lots of different type of magic, but so far he’s been unsuccessful.”

The dark-haired scientist recalls the radio presenter from last night “Roman, right?” Remy nods in response.

The door opens then to let in a bright array of sunshine, and Remy scrunches his nose up in distaste, pushing his sunglasses even further up his nose as if that might have been possible. The man that is silhouetted against the door frame looks too bright, but as he speaks, Logan recognises the deep and soothing tone “Good morning, stranger.”

The door closes behind him and the man leans against the wall with a wide grin. His skin is tan, a caramel colour with light blonde hair that has been pushed to the side and back, exposing two-toned golden snake eyes. Logan is starting to regret his journey and coming here at all, and he is certainly not enjoying the way his own heart thunders in his chest, or the slight warmth to his cheeks. Perhaps it’s the sharp angles of the man’s jaw, the snakeskin that covers half of his face, or the gentle radiant glow this man has, but he is...astoundingly beautiful.

Weird shit, Logan can deal with, feelings? Not at all.

“Welcome to Hell, literally, that’s the name of this place. America’s most singularly, scientifically fucked town, where everything that shouldn’t happen, definitely does happen,” The man grins, dark eyes blinking. Logan blinks back, opens his mouth, and then decides he doesn’t have any words in his extensive vocabulary to explain this. “What brings such a handsome young man to the town?”

“Science,” Logan mutters. “I came to investigate the town, scientifically this place is fascinating, a hive of energy that exists nowhere else.” He straightens his lab coat and holds up a device that had been in his hand. “So far I’ve discovered extremely unusual readings, and...” Logan talks, he explains, and the stranger looks at him with an incredibly dopey look.

“Uh-huh,” he mutters as the scientist talks extremely enigmatically, all strangeness and shyness are forgotten as he loses himself in his interest.

“Sorry, I didn’t ask what your name was, I don’t think I caught it last night.” The tan-skinned man smiles softly before shaking his head.

“You didn’t,” Logan doesn’t know how he knows this. “My name is Deceit, but most people call me Dee, I run the radio show,” The scientist smiles and nods, offering a hand for him to shake. Deceit practically purred at the contact to his gloved hand; he can’t help it when someone so pretty comes wandering in, all fair skin and dark hair with such...enticing cobalt eyes, he has to blush a little.

But the moment of bliss is interrupted as the door opens again, slamming behind the second newcomer of the morning. Remy, who clearly does not like having visitors, sighs in annoyance and looks up to a dark-skinned man with long hair and is..dripping in jewellery. The man is holding a book in his hand and he goes to speak before he looks up, only to see Deceit (in which his gaze turns sour) and then Logan (in which his eyebrow quirks, a slow smirk crosses his face and the book snaps shut in his hand). “Remy,” The stranger has an accent that sounded to be somewhat partially American. “You have a visitor?”

The cat-like man sighs. “It would appear I have quite a few,” he unplugs the other earphone and tosses them on the table “What do you want, Roman? I told you at this point this curse isn’t that bad, plus Emile finds it harder to shout at me when I’m knee-high to a grasshopper and fluffy,”

That would be some sound logic, Logan thinks to himself, ...if he were not talking about turning into a cat. “That’s fine, there is clearly someone much more interesting to talk to,” The elegant man holds out a hand and wears a grin that is almost a little too revealing. 29 years of not being flirted with and today it happens twice one straight after another.

“As if your two boyfriends weren’t enough Roman, you hop on the poor fresh meat like he’s dessert,” Deceit cuts in, a displeased look on his face as he folds his arms across his chest.

“He certainly looks like dessert,” Roman retorts. Logan thinks blushing is going to become a hobby whilst he’s here and looks over at Remy for help.

“Dee, don’t you have a radio show to host? Roman, don’t you have a demon to maintain? Logan I have no idea what you’re here to do but I’m sure it’s more than being the ruler in a dick-measuring contest between two insufferable assholes.” There’s a beat. Roman has the audacity to blush as if he hadn’t been saying some fairly explicit things by Logan’s standards, but a moment ago.

“Oh well, I’m here too...”

“Logan, dear, you’re cute, but I spent an entire night as a cat, and my better half, who is, by the way, all of my patience and will to listen to other people, is at work, right now I’m as bitchy as I can get, please don’t try and explain to me science unless it’s the science of how to make a coffee so strong my heart will stop...” Remy’s glasses slide down his nose, revealing two bright gold cats eyes, and they narrow as they stare at Logan. “All of you, out.”

“I’ll bring you a coffee, Rem,” Roman mutters as he starts towards the door.

“Thanks, Roman.” He doesn’t sound very thankful at all.

--

Roman offers to show Logan around town, he asks about the device in the scientist’s hand but anything he says is completely lost on the bejewelled man. Who is, by the way, wearing a lot of jewellery. His hands are covered in rings that have thin chains hanging from them, connecting to bracelets or each other. His nose, lip and eyebrows are pierced twice and the entire left side of his ear has small chains hanging off of them.

He looks like a prince.

“This is the coffee shop, my boyfriends both work here, and they live upstairs too, fair warning, one of them is a demon,” Logan nods a little numbly, unsure what else he was expecting really. Does anything normal happen in this town at all?

They walk in to see a scrawny and sickly pale man behind the counter, to the point where Logan would worry about anaemia until he saw the veins that were completely onyx running underneath the skin. The demon, then. “Welcome to Hell’s Pat-isserie, what may I get you?” His voice sounds bored, but then he looks up and sees Roman and his face lights up.

“Just a latte please,” Logan smiles nervously.

“That will be the cost of your soul please,” The demon’s voice darkens and shakes like lightning, Logan has to admit he felt a slight spike of fear before both the pale man and Roman start laughing.

“Virgil I keep telling you to stop doing that!” Logan looks up at the sound of a new voice, only to inhale sharply by what he’s greeted with. A man, with soft, freckled cheeks and a round face that has so clearly smiled so much, bounces up with stray blonde curls falling around his face. He bats a tea towel at the demon (Virgil, Logan assumes), before fixing Logan with a wide and blinding smile.

Blushing is indeed becoming a hobby.

“Roman, you’re late, help me with the coffee machine won’t you love? It’s jammed again the stupid bloody thing.” The man’s voice is as soft as his appearance dictates, and he hands the tea towel to Roman, who vaults over the counter to help. Then his attention focuses on Logan and he’s not entirely sure his heart can handle those pale blue eyes. “Sorry about these two, they’re a handful, just a latte was it? That’ll be $3.50,” Logan hands over the money with a dazed expression. As he’s handed his change, he can’t resist asking.

“What’s your name?”

“Patton, you?”

“Logan.” Patton smiles again, and Logan can’t help but liken it to the first flowers blooming in spring, and other cheesy metaphors that people come up with when they think about love at first sight.

“Well, Logan, take a seat, and we’ll bring your coffee over shortly,” A pause “...and thanks for keeping Roman out of trouble, it’s practically his day job,”

The scientist can’t help but absently think he’d hold back an inconclusive amount of danger to see Patton smile again. Then he reminds himself that he has a job to do; even if the rate of his own heart around these men is the strangest thing that has happened to him since he arrived in Hell. He can't afford diversions.

#ts sides #ts sides fic #CALMD #dlamp #CALMD/DLAMP

[neroesecuzioni]

watching your devil side

two.

The conference room in the Passione headquarters was barren with small windows and harsh white lights. You lounged in the leather office chair at the table, already regretting making a deal with Giorno. The convincing little shit.

You crossed your legs and waited.

La Squadra di Esecuzioni had said they’d meet you at headquarters if only to assess the proposal you sent to Giorno. The deal you’d cut them was nearly too perfect for people in their field. A steady flow of money wasn’t always guaranteed for the mafia, especially assassins. It was nearly perfect, if their client wasn’t you.

The conference room doors opened and you blinked when three men walked through.

Three extremely attractive men walked in.

No one warned you about that.

Two were giants in their own right and would tower over you even in heels while the other was tall but dwarfed by the others in comparison. They were all built like Grecian statues and wore outfits on par with Buccellati’s gang’s penchant for flashiness.

In the center was a man with tanned skin, deep rep eyes, and silver hair hidden beneath a hat with bells. His serious but serene expression rested on you with a weight you were used to. To his left was a taller man with a much deeper tan and deep brown locks tied into several pigtails but his plum purple eyes sparked with a mischief. His outfit looked...a little strange but you forgave it considering it clung to every inch of him. The man to the right was the shortest with bright blond hair tied back into several little buns and he wore a fashionable suit complimenting his blue eyes. Despite being the shortest of the three of them, he looked the sternest.

Armani, you surmised.

“Hello.” You stood up to greet them. “La Squadra di Esecuzioni. I’m your client... people in the business know me as Devil Yin but you can just call me Yin.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” the man at the centre said, eyes surveying you. “My name is Risotto Nero. The Capo of La Squadra di Esecuzioni. This is Prosciutto and Illuso.”

Prosciutto? Risotto?

Well, Bruno had Pannacotta and you couldn’t exactly rag on anyone when people still referred to you as Devil Yin.

“It’s a pleasure. Take a seat. I trust you have some questions considering my proposal isn’t....one of your typical assignments.”

They all sat on the opposite end of the conference table and settled in, all of them guarded and packed. They all carried some type of weapon on them along with their stands.

“You’ve requested us as your bodyguards,” Risotto said, eyes intent, “are you aware of our position in the Passione?”

“You’re assassins,” you acknowledged, “and stand users. I’m well acquainted with the inner workings of the Passione.”

“There are squads dedicated to protection and guarding. Why did you ask for us?” Prosciutto asked, his shoulders tensed beneath the sleek indigo suit

“The squad is ran by Bruno Buccellati, I’m well aware,” you said and decided to drop the bomb. “I’m friends with Giorno.”

The three of them exchanged glances.

“Friends with Don Giorno?” Illuso asked flatly.

“Long before he came into contact with the Passione,” you said, “I also know Buccellati.”

“You would not prefer Buccellati’s squad as your protection detail?” Risotto rested his arms on the table.

You tried not to run your eyes along the defined muscles on his arm. It was a terribly difficult thing to do.

“I’ve had Buccellati as a bodyguard before and while we are...friends, it is not an arrangement I’d prefer. I’d be scolded the entire time for my lifestyle,” you said breezily. “I hope some of you don’t sleep early. I typically don’t get home until four in the morning but I have rooms in my villa for you to stay in when you’re guarding me overnight.”

“What do you need guarding from?” Prosciutto’s eyes narrowed.

“Kidnapping, being held hostage, someone trying to steal my art from the studio, those kinds of things. It’s pretty mundane.” You shrugged. “Giorno didn’t appreciate the fact I was held hostage a few months ago and insisted I take on some bodyguards. I offered a payment plan for the whole group since I know your specialties might be needed for different hits outside of my schedule. As long as there’s two of you for most of the time, I don’t mind whatever you do outside of guarding me.”

“And the pay?” Risotto’s deep voice filled the quiet room.

You didn’t know what you regretted more; stepping foot into Italy, contacting Giorno, or thinking of this idea.

“As outlined in the contract. Two hundred dollars per hour per guard on a twenty-four hour detail. I’ll even pay overtime if someone clocks in more hours than they’re supposed to and you’ve seen the clause about vacation pay? I’d also prefer if you’re able to allow two members travel around Europe or to the Americas on short notice when needed.”

Anything to get Giorno off your back about becoming an assassin again when you finally got out of the business.

"And you can afford us?" Risotto asked.

"I thought you'd ask that." You stood up and reached under the table. The men tensed but you brought out a few briefcases and set them down on the table. You slid them over. "Here's two-hundred sixty-nine thousand dollars in payment for the first month to split between your seven members."

The three of them flipped open the briefcases and scanned through the euros.

"So, do we have a deal?"

Risotto glanced at his companions before he gave an imperceptible nod.

“Fantastic, here’s my schedule on a daily basis and the addresses of the places I’ll be frequenting. The safest trade-off times would be nine in the morning, five in the evening, and one in the morning and you can start tomorrow if your team is ready." You slid over a folder towards them.

“It would be best if you met the team beforehand,” Risotto said after he finished flipping through the papers.

///

La Squadra di Esecuzioni’s headquarters was a discreet series of townhouses connected together, hidden behind walls, gates, and bushes. The pale stone exteriors were a little worn by time but the iron gates were polished despite age dulling the metal slightly.

You walked along the paved path towards the front door obscured by foliage, behind Risotto, Illuso, and Prosciutto. They opened double-layered iron-wrought doors to a barren entryway.

You frowned as you looked around. This place had so much untouched potential with the stone floors and walls; a house like this would cost a fortune to make today but there were few decorations and even fewer signs of life. It was as if no one had inhabited this place in years and from what you knew, La Squadra lived here.

Risotto lead you to a larger room with threadbare couches where four other men lounged. 

“This is our long-term client,” Risotto said, tone brooking for no arguments. “Become familiar with her. Formaggio, Melone, you begin with her tomorrow at nine in the morning. I’ll give everyone their schedules tonight.”

“You can call me Yin,” you said and stepped up. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The man with a buzzed grey-blue hair and a playful smirk leaned deep into the couch. His studded jacket clung to his lean muscles as he flexed subtly and winked at you. “Well, if you had said we’d be guarding such a cute girl, I wouldn’t have argued at all. I’m Formaggio, babe. You’ll be spending the day with me tomorrow.”

“...hello?” you said.

“Don’t mind him.” A man with pale lilac hair and bright blue eyes framed by thick lashes smiled at you and took your hand into his, placing a kiss onto your knuckles. “I’m Melone. It’s rare we have such a beautiful woman for a client. I’ll also be guarding you tomorrow.”

“Thank you?” You pulled your hand out of his. How were you supposed to introduce yourself to fellow assassins outside of the job and not across rooftops or while on the run? “I hope we’ll get along.”

Prosciutto clicked his tongue. “Pesci, Ghiaccio, introduce yourself.”

A man with neon green hair styled upwards and black eyes shining with hesitance stepped up. “H-hello, I’m Pesci! It’s nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you too,” you said, sending him a gentle smile.

The last man on the end of the couch scowled harshly, the red glasses perched on his nose contrasted against his bright blue hair and barely obscured his black eyes.

“I’m Ghiaccio,” he mumbled reluctantly.

“And now you’ve met all of us,” Illuso said, smirking as he looked down at you. “Regretting your decision yet?”

“Better than being kidnapped,” you said and turned to Melone and Formaggio, handing them a sheet of paper. “Well, here’s the address to meet me at tomorrow. I hope you bring yourself something to prevent boredom...I’m not really doing anything interesting as of yet.”

///

Prosciutto rested in the chair across from Risotto in his office, long legs crossed as he leaned in the chair.

He rolled a cigarette between his two fingers.

“Do you think Giovanna is planning something?” he asked lowly, meeting Risotto's black and red gaze.

His Capo folded his hands on his desk bare of anything besides pens, paperwork, and a laptop. “Be prepared for anything. We’ll warn the others tonight.”

He ran his tongue along his overbite.

///

The sun gleamed through the front door of your villa.

You waited in your entryway for your newly hired bodyguards, already dressed for the day in sleek black leggings beneath a loose, blue one-shoulder sweater and a black lace tank top.

A knock sounded at the door five minutes before nine.

You opened the door to Formaggio and Melone. The former was dressed similarly to yesterday in studded clothes, leather pants, and a half-open top from the bottom. The latter, however, was dressed in a skin tight purple outfit revealing a lot of skin unlike the long-sleeved shirt and sweatpants from yesterday. Somehow, you were the only normal looking one in this trio.

Formaggio whistled as he looked into your home and ran his eyes over you. "Hello, hello."

“Uh, hello, welcome to my home? Sorry, I’d offer refreshments but the driver is arriving in five minutes.”

“It’s not a problem, babe.” Formaggio grinned. “We’re all ready to go.”

“We always come prepared, bella.” Melone rested his hip against the door, lips curled almost like a cat. “We’ll be given a tour of your home another time, yes?”

"If you'd like?" you said. "Oh, there's the driver. We better go."

///

The driver parked outside of a large apartment building near an old library close to the heart of Naples.

Your bodyguards followed you out and into the building, past the security already patrolling, and you took the elevator to your new studio.

It was a second-floor, concrete loft you bought to convert into a studio and there were already boxes of furniture, unfinished seating, and decorations sitting on palettes inside. The small kitchen was tucked beneath the stairs leading to the second floor. A drink fridge with a clear door was the most prominent feature besides the bar counter on the opposite side.

"This will be the most boring job you've ever had I hope you know,” you said idly as you dragged a sofa off the palette. "At least until my brand of luck turns up. Hold on, please take a seat on the bar stools. I'll have the sitting area built soon."

"Your brand of luck?" Formaggio grinned. "Want a hand, babe?"

You sent him a dry look. "Have you ever had to learn archery to prevent a Prince of Brunei from marrying your friend while being held hostage in his palace?"

"And he didn't want to marry you, cara?" Melone leaned over your shoulder, voice barely a murmur.

"Not at all," you said idly as you set down the couch on it's back and flounced back to the kitchen. "Hold on, do you have a drink preference? I don't think there's much besides iced coffee and flavoured sparkling water."

"Aren't we your bodyguards?" Melone asked, lips tugging into a smile.

You blinked. "I guess Risotto didn't explain everything? Your team is just a precautionary measure but really, this is a way you're making quick money unless another Prince decides I'm a good morsel to kidnap. Oh, we have fruit juices as well."

"We'll get our own drinks, babe." Formaggio leaned against the bar counter. "You didn't answer my question though, need any help? Looks like a lot of work for someone like you."

You hummed and went back to the sofa to start attached the legs from the box it came with. "Not right now."

You glanced at the two men's heavy gazes following you and went back to building the sitting area. You weren't sure what to make of them but they definitely were better than becoming an assassin again when you could be an artist.

///

(ao3 link)

Author Notes: I normally write fiction that’s more literary but this is purely here for self indulgence so if you see something that you squint your eyes at....skim over it. We’re in horny hours.

#watching your devil side #la squadra esecuzioni #la squadra esecuzioni x reader #risotto nero x reader #prosciutto x reader #melone x reader #formaggio x reader #pesci x reader #ghiaccio x reader #illuso x reader #jojo's bizarre adventures #jjba

[myrrheart]

House of the Rising Sun (Julian x Apprentice!MC 🖤💉)

Summary: Just as you're getting ready to hop off your perch atop the makeshift clinic cot, the telltale rustling of paperwork carries through the room from the top floor, where you know a Certain Someone's office resides. A certain someone who likes to sleep in their aforementioned office. 

A certain someone who thinks 'sleeping' is synonymous with 'staying up until dawn whilst poring over treatises weighing twice as much as he does soaking wet.’

Some nights, you've come to accept, your caretaking duties do not end with the last patient out the door.

CW: Mild spice, light Dom/sub, power play, workplace romance.

Word count: 2.1k

Cross-posted to AO3!

The last patient of the workday has just finished hobbling out of the clinic when you peel off your gloves with a flourish, the weariness in your joints making itself known with each flex and stretch. 

Nothing a good herbal bath can't fix, but you'll first have to check if you've left yourself any lavender after the last...six consecutive soaks you've taken this week.

Curing the plague is no menial task, after all.

How odd it is, to be unable to use your magic to aid you in an endeavor. In fact, every time you do attempt to heal a patient with your abilities, it's almost as if the disease itself absorbs your energy like- like a sponge, or a black hole, or something equally as endless in its capacity to take and take and take and take. Nothing you've ever encountered before has left your reservoir so drained after each day's work; especially with so little to show for it.

In the back of your worn, haggard mind, a thought creeps in. A familiar one.

Was Asra right? Should I have left with him?

You let your gaze slip over to the puddle of blood on the floor, adjacent to your right boot. A patient had coughed it up in the midst of a fit -- an elderly woman who called you 'dear' as she clung onto your gloved fingers for dear life.

No. No. You're right where you need to be. Right here, in Vesuvia, helping the city that had taken you -- a lonesome outsider -- under its wing. 

Fool above. It truly must have been a long day for you to be dwelling on musings as existential as these. 

Just as you're getting ready to hop off your perch atop the makeshift clinic cot, the telltale rustle of paperwork carries through the room from the top floor, where you know a Certain Someone's office resides. A certain someone who likes to sleep in their aforementioned office. 

A certain someone who thinks 'sleeping' is synonymous with 'staying up until dawn whilst poring over treatises weighing twice as much as he does soaking wet.'

Some nights, you've come to accept, your caretaking duties do not end with the last patient out the door.

With as much time you've spent working in the clinic, you've committed every hall, every doorway, every staircase to heart. It works best, you've found, to take the back way to the main office -- he won't hear you coming, which gives him less time to pretend that he'd actually been resting. 

The supple leather of your boots makes not a sound against the dark wood paneling of the floors as you breathe a temporary hear-me-not spell underneath the gentle crest of your breath; just until I make it to his door, you reason with yourself. 

As you draw nearer, you can parse out how the flipping of heavy pages turn more frantic, the scribble of his fountain pen on worn parchment more harried. It's the time of night where nothing more gets done besides maybe a downward spiral.

Thankfully, you're here to curb that.

…

Well. You're going to try, at least.

You almost rap your knuckles against the ajar door before you remember that the sudden noise would startle him, after hearing not a peep from you prior. He's always been skittish like that, as though lying in perpetual wait to jump out from underneath his skin. What things he must have seen, you wonder, to never not have one of his feet poised to sprint.

"Doctor Devorak," you call once you've passed the threshold of the doorway. "It's getting late."

Despite your best efforts, he still jolts. Rather harshly, at that, and a pot of ink is upturned in the commotion and splays out across the parchment he'd been scribbling (what looks to be) fruitlessly at.

"Son of a-- my word. Warn a man! I swear it, you're like an apparition. One moment there, one moment not, leaving the rest of us to wonder when next you'll make another grand entrance."

You smile wryly. "You're too kind to me, Doctor." 

He runs his hands from his brow to his chin before looping back up to tangle the thicket of auburn atop his head even further than it already is. "I'm nothing of the sort,” he sighs, caustically. “The midnight hour has come and gone and you're still here. Go home, apprentice. It's not like we don't already start early enough in the morning.”

In front of you, the doctor looks so ragged it's a miracle he isn't fraying at the threads of his melodramatic cape. 

The valley of his hooded eyes is deeper in slope than usual, stained an alarming shade of violet by lack of sleep; he's even sporting the beginnings of stubble, a marked shift in presentation. Have you ever seen him without anything but a clean-shaven face? 

Have you ever seen him with his coat lain askew on the floor? With his jacket discarded in much the same manner, the only thing clinging desperately to his thin frame being a sea ruffian's blouse? With his boots drawn down halfway past his calves? With his lips bitten a plump, ripe red from overthought? 

"I will if you do," you answer, the words barely managing to crawl out of your suddenly- dry throat. "Go home, that is."

The doctor barks a short laugh. "This is my home: amidst the squalor of the sick and dying, in the thick of my shortcomings, sat right in front of answers just a pace or two away." The look on his face is dark, made even darker by the rapidly dimming candle on the desk before him.

He reclines back in the wooden chair he has (no doubt) been hunched in for hours, arms folded sternly across the bare expanse of his chest, mouth a firm, unmoving line.

"Leave. This isn't your place. You don't deserve this."

A long time ago, someone else had told you the same thing. And yet, you stayed. Regardless of the risk. Regardless of the cost. Even if you knew you'd pay for it later.

Right now, you make the same decision you had then.

You draw closer to the chair the doctor practically spills out of, his lanky limbs barely managing to fit within its confines. You stop just between his spread legs. His ankles kiss your own.

"Past the midnight hour, you say?"

One fiery eyebrow arches. "Yes."

"I'm off the clock, then."

His gaze narrows. "Yes. Which is precisely why I am telling you to go ho-"

"So, I don't take orders from you."

It's almost comical, the speed with which his mouth snaps shut. 

"I. What? I beg your pardon?"

"I said," you whisper lowly, the heat of the candle warming you from the inside out as you take one step further between the doctor's legs. You watch him fight not to instinctively close them. "I don't take orders from you. Not right now."

Devil strike you down, there is no way you're reading this wrong. The swelling of his pupils is damn near instantaneous -- an already stormy grey grows downright thunderous at how quickly the clouds roll in, how fast the sky darkens, how ominous the sudden absence of light leaves the heavens. 

The shift in dynamic is so quick, so damn-near instantaneous, it's almost as though he's been lying in wait for someone to take the reigns away from him. "Oh, erm. That's- well. I suppose that's, huh, true, technically." 

"It is," you affirm. Another step. Another twitch of his legs. So long, so clumsy. They may as well be tied up if only to get them out of the way.

"S-so it may be." He scoots the chair backward with scrabbling boots against the floorboards, hooded eyes begging you to give chase.

You do. Two steps to match his retreat. "Is that a problem, Doctor? Me not following orders?"

A bigger gap is put between the two of you this time. So big in fact that he almost tips himself over in the chair in his haste to get you to come after him. The ruckus jostles every piece of furniture in the room, candlelight waning dangerously in all the commotion. 

"Ah-hem, well, er- I wou-wouldn't call it a. Um. A 'problem,' per se-"

You're outright striding towards him at this point, uncaring of whether or not he's able to keep up with the rhythm of your pursuit. "What would you call it then, Doctor?"

He drags himself one, two, three more paces away before the back of his chair connects solidly with the wall. He's met with no more room to run, nowhere to hide; met with nothing except the immovable expanse of brick, mortar, and your own hungering.

Wickedly, you advance in slow motion, watching in amusement as his gaze flickers around for another route, a different retreat tactic. Horror dawns on his face as he realizes there is nowhere else to go, or even to turn -- except towards you.

You've literally backed him into a corner.

"Tell me to go home," you whisper, seriously, once you've come close enough to count the faint freckles littered across the hook of his nose. "Tell me to stop, to leave, and I will. We won't speak of this again."

"Please don't go," is his immediate reply- so immediate, in fact, that you aren't even finished speaking before he cuts you off with his begging. 

It is then that you notice the forceful grip of his fingers against the seat of his chair is not in apprehensiveness, but in restraint. The entirety of his body seems to teeter on the precipice of rising up and into your own, bound back only by… by what? What is it that he's waiting for? 

"Please," he repeats again, fainter, breathier, tearier. The word draws a sheen to his eyes, a tremor to his bottom lip.

Ah.

He's waiting for permission.

"On the topic of orders, Doctor," you drawl, chancing a single finger at the center of his chest and biting back a wanton groan of your own when you feel it spasm beneath your touch. "We've already established that I am not to take any. Not tonight, for that matter." 

Eagerly, he nods, arching his back so that more of his skin is exposed to your teasing touch. His head connects sharply with the wall behind him and he must visibly swallow a noise of some sort. Interesting.

"So then,"

His eyes slip tightly shut. That won't do. 

Quickly, swiftly, you capture his chin between your pointer and thumb and bring him back down to center: head faced squarely off with your own, eyes open and wide and inviting.

"Whose orders are you taking tonight?"

He bites into his lower lip so harshly the skin threatens to break, and then actually does when you repeat the question a second time around, nails digging cruelly into the supple flesh of his cheeks. 

"Yours." And then he whispers your name so reverently, so intimately, that you're nearly thrown out of the heat of the moment. The way he’s looking at you...is probably very inappropriate for a boss to look at his subordinate. 

Then again, you’ve pretty much obliterated the construct of work propriety when you’d decided to finally come onto him, after what’s been months of pining; teasing quips; lingering touches; charged eye contact; aborted nights such as these, which ended in words and touches left unsung and unfelt, as opposed to...

"I follow your orders, tonight."

As opposed to this -- whatever it may be.

"Mm. Smart boy.”

You can practically see his tail wag and thump against his side as his eyes slide back up into his skull. He's melting out of that poor chair, held in some semblance of uprightness only by the grip of your fingers along his jaw. 

When you tell him to sit still, he stills.

When you tell him to bare his neck, he bares his neck.

When you tell him to get on the bed, he scrambles in his haste to spread himself enticingly atop the cot, brow arched in a salacious invitation as he looks back at you with what can only be described as a ‘come-hither’ expression. Daring you to take the plunge. Begging you to, even.

If you look closely enough (which, at him, you always are) his thighs quiver in anticipation. 

Worries of propriety are a concern for another day. One where you don’t have the doctor at your mercy. One where you aren’t itching to take your tongue and lathe it all over him, until he can’t remember what any other touch has ever felt like. One where he doesn’t beg for you to take him. One where you have the resolve to refuse him.

But right now? In this moment?

The only coherent thought that manages to distinguish itself from the lust that clouds your judgment is one of wholehearted, anticipatory excitement:

Oh, this is going to be fun.

#The Arcana Game #the arcana visual novel #the arcana lemon #the arcana fic #julian devorak #julian the arcana #julian x mc #julian x apprentice #julian x reader #julian x you #julian devorak x mc #julian devorak x apprentice #julian devorak lemon #julian devorak fic #my writing #mine

[fightevilandthengetblownup]

OT3FIC: Lithuanian Hound

13 -  "I want that woman out of my house!"

Her eyes were focused upon the little hand, spinning and ticking away the seconds with a dull sound that reverberated through the waiting room with each shift of the cogs. The endless cogs turning and turning, counting down the movement of the world outside of this little bubble. Jo felt herself shifting uncomfortably on the leather couch - something she should have felt comfortable with with the worn and supple leather, marks of age and it's history visible to all that looked, but the intricate design felt sharp and uninviting compared to the materials themselves.

She had half expected the walls to be that same sickly yellow - pale and faded to represent sunshine and exude peacefulness that every hospital wall across the country was painted, but instead made the rooms claustrophobic and the walls sinking into a putrid sense of foreboding - but had been surprised on entering to see the pale greenish-blue to the walls not unlike a color she was so very intimately familiar with. The blonde almost considered which came first, the chicken or the egg, as she shifted once again in her seat as the clock ticked ever on towards the time of her scheduled appointment.

As the minute hand struck the hour, she forced herself not to react as the door pushed open between here and there, and the doctor stepped through speaking calmly and with a hand to the back of his previous patient. The squirrelly looking man bobbed his head a few times before proceeding straight out the front door without even a glance towards the couch, and Jo had to force her lips not to twitch as she felt the doctor's eyes find her waiting.

"Ms ..Miles?" "Yes." "Come right in."

She uncrossed her legs and rose with a smoothness honed from her years of practice and poise as a child that she rarely ever utilized in her daily life now - a fluid shift to her feet and the click of her heels across the wooden floorboards and she moved straight past the doctor with barely an acknowledgement towards him into the bowels of the beast. Jo moved swiftly, tugging gently at the back of her sweater to resettle it and smooth the bunched fabric from her time seated, as she crossed the floor towards the center of the room.

Her eyes danced around the space as she heard the door shut with a sharp snap of the latch into place and the soft pad of the man's feet across the floor behind her. Jo made no shift as she looked about the room, and moved slowly and without concern towards the opposite wall - red like dried blood and the color she knew that haunted the doctor's favorite patient - and the dark wooden desk that was covered in sheafs of paper, dark charcoal and pencil sketches atop each other, that she shifted through unthinkingly. They were so well conceived and thought out, elegantly made and designed, but lacking the softness and organic movement of those she was so familiar with at home. Turning back around as she heard the doctor's footsteps and pause, Jo schooled her face into a blank look as she saw him paused beside the armchair - the one Will described in detail and she knew was always the doctors.

"Would you like to sit, Ms Miles?" Hannibal's voice was soft but the acoustics of the space made his words crystal clear no matter how far she was from him. It allowed him to speak as precisely as he wanted, yet not once raise his tone unless he wanted to. An element of control in the space that Jo found so very amusing to see in such a fixed and permanent display.

Jo shifted for a moment before moving swiftly towards the other armchair, sinking into it with the same fluidity as before, and tugged at the stiff fabric of her pencil skirt as she crossed her knees and stared back at the other as he moved to do the same. "Do you always dictate like this, doctor?"

"I find that I can help my patients the most on a one on one basis if I am facing them, Ms Miles. Or would you prefer Beth?" "Beth is fine if you'd like, doctor." "Or perhaps it would be best if I used your real name, Joanna. Which would you prefer?"

"Whatever makes you most comfortable. But here I thought you might enjoy bein' able to pretend you wouldn't know who I might be talkin' 'bout. Plausible deniability for your.. sensibilities." Jo replied in return, uncrossing and recrossing her legs as she shifted to turn the other way as she watched the doctor grow more comfortable now he was reclined in his own chair. His hands were clasped atop his own bended knee, and the blonde was amused to see the way he seemed to stare straight at her yet take in each of her movements and changes without dropping her gaze for a moment. She knew that she was projecting differently to the rough clothing they last met in, with her hair a mess and her cheek still dirty with grave dirt, compared to the form fitted pencil skirt and knitted sweater she wore now, her hair in a slick bun and the thick rimmed glasses she used exclusively for hunts across the bridge of her nose clean and shining rather than the dirty figure she'd shown before.  "But if you'd prefer, Joanna or Jo works for me, doc."

"Well then, Joanna, what can I assist you with in this session? What has brought on this desire to enter therapy at this moment?" "Oh you know, this and that. I have always been told I should stop self medicatin' and see a professional by some of my ex's." "And you have finally chosen to follow their suggestions, why?" "This and that. I've heard interesting things of your methods, thought I should see what the... appeal of you was, you know."

"Is that all you are hoping to get out of this session, Joanna?" Hannibal returned, the volley sent back with a hint of sharpness under the tone as he stared straight back at her. His hands shifted to steeple under his chin as he moved forward to lean inwards, as if assessing her all over again. Jo in return found herself moving to her feet, eyes drifting away from his gaze towards the statue behind him with a swift move "Do you believe in therapy, Joanna, or is this simply a curiosity of yours?"

"Therapy never seems to have been a good fit for me." "Many people believe that, until they find themselves partaking in the activity." "Or forced to through the systems designed to require it." "Is that your take on the practice then?" "It's a means for the rich and the jaded to be self indulgent and congratulatory, or a means to control and manipulate the masses. It's utter bullshit dreamt up to draw blood and funds out of the overall system."

"That is a harsh interpretation of the practice." Hannibal's tone grew harder the more Jo returned as she stood to move past his chair. Jo had even indulged herself to patting the back of the man's chair right beside his shoulder as she passed towards the statuette of a rearing stag - an image she turned to look back towards the patient's chair with a thought that it was no wonder Will's dreams were haunted by the same figure - and ran a hand over the smoothed wood with a sigh. The doctor for his part appeared to turn minutely, eyes following her sharply as Jo stroked the wooden figure for a long, quiet moment. "And yet you are here-"

"I've always thought I should give things the ol' college try. Though in my case that is a lot shorter than finishing properly, so maybe I just want to see how you do what you do so well, Mr Lecter, instead." Jo replied softly, and moved further around the room at a slow pace - a hand out stroking over each area as she passed, running a finger across the spines of the books that lined one wall, before she ran a hand over the thick drapes that covered the windows and let the slatted thin jagged lines of light into the room from the dying sun. Her eyes moved around the space, alighting on various items here and there that she felt the walls crushing in from the growing darkness as the minutes ticked on and outside this space the sun would be sinking below the horizon. She continued to prowl about the space further, side stepping the bonsai tree between the windows with deference to the plant, but an eye roll as she turned her head to catch the scathing look on the man's face at her response. "I mean, if I were goin' to see a therapist, why not one that might not call me crazy for the things I've done."

"A therapist should believe their patient-" "Ah, but how many therapists know that if someone such as your bloodline eats human meat they go all scaley and fucked?"

Jo had made her way across the dark red wall again towards the drinks cabinet seated in the corner with a smile, and let out a laugh into the space at both her comment and the way that as she looked at the intricate carving of the globe that she could see the room suiting another asshole with a strange accent and a penchant for manipulation and suits. The sound seemed to die in the space though, in a way that Hannibal's voice and her own quiet responses didn't. As if the room was so structured and designed to suck and destroy any signs of happiness or mirth from it's very space. Deadening and crushing the sounds down in on itself until it disappeared.

"What do you mean by that, Joanna?" "Were you not aware of it? Or did you think I hadn't worked out what your uncle and family were?" "I am intrigued as to what you mean by your statement."

Jo shrugged a shoulder in response as she continued to pad her way around the room, stopping at the side of the doctor's desk and flicked a hand out to spin the brass compass atop it. Her eyes focused on the spinning top while she kept her back straight and ready to react at the sound of the other man shifting in his seat. "What I meant was, why would I talk to a doctor that didn't already know 'bout the things that go bump in the night. Why would I talk to those that'd institutionalize me like the rest of the world that gets fucked over by your profession and the system as a whole. I don't see the point to talkin' in circles or riddles with those that don't understand until too late."

"Is that why you did not finish your schooling? A fear of institutionalization?" "More dissatisfaction and disenfranchisement in the system as a whole. When you know what's out there - like you - then why bother learnin' from those who will just end up drained of their blood, or torn apart, or perhaps on a dinner plate."

"I am most certain you would be the third category, Joanna." The voice was far closer than the chair, though it did not take her by surprise at all when the other's large hand landed over and clasped her hand down tightly around the sharp brass edges of the compass, crushing the meat of her hand down against the cool metal. "You've certainly spoken enough to prove your dangerous to my lifestyle if left unchecked."

"Your lifestyle indeed." Jo snapped in return, flexing her fingers under his grip but making no move to tug from under the harsh hold that she was in. The point of the arrow dug into her palm harshly as she turned her head slightly to stare straight back into the cold look of the doctor's eyes as if unaffected or unfazed by his grasp. "Are you aware that as poetic as your bein' Hannibal the Cannibal might be, that that's a lie in and of itself? Are you even aware of what you are, Mr Lecter?"

"Would you care to enlighten me as to your suspicions then, Joanna?" Hannibal's voice was harsher now, as he shifted slightly closer and stared down at her with a fierceness that Jo was familiar with in the eyes of her prey. It might frighten or intimidate someone else - it might make Will's back shudder under the look, or that asshole Jack's teeth set on edge - but as she stared back unblinkingly, the blonde could tell this was the first and only time someone had looked into the eye of the beast and not flinched at the darkness looking back. "Just what exactly is it you believe I am."

"You're a rugaru, doc, and if you don't know what that word is, then your uncle and aunt denied you some important knowledge." "You believe me a monster?" "I don't believe, Mr Lecter, I know." "What makes you believe I am such a thing? What convinces you of this?"

"A journal from the early 1800's from a hunter - you do know what a hunter is, right? - in the Baltic area listed the name Lecter as part of a strain of rugaru's. You're from there, aren't you? That's where your family is from and where your sister died." Jo spoke softly, shifting in her heels with the slightest squeak of the floorboard under her at the weight redistributing, and clenched her hand tighter around the brass instrument with a sneer back at him. Hannibal's face twitched as if in surprise, the smallest shift in expression that Jo was unable to place, before she quirked an eyebrow up at him. "And as to why you don't look like every other one of your ancestors, like you remember your uncle lookin', was all to do with that sister of yours from what I've heard of your kind."

"Oh?" "If a rugaru eats one of their own, before ever tastin' human flesh, the physical transformation is stopped. I guess none of your family ever knew 'bout that little quirk." "My sister was never what I am-" "She was never old enough to become what you are. She was never allowed to."

There was a long pause as they stared sharply at one another, the steel in her eyes matched in part with the coldness of his own stare, before there was a hiss of breath and the tug of a hand upwards. Jo could feel the barbed edge of the arrow jerk back out of her palm as it was pulled away, and sneered at the way the doctor twisted her hand over, probing at the sluggishly bleeding wound with a thumb, pressure adding to the pain of it as she looked up at him without fear. Fear was what he craved, and she would not show any such weakness when facing him down over this.

"What is the point of sharing this information with me, Joanna?" The taller man hissed the words out, digging his thumb in sharper for a moment before withdrawing it, eyes fixed upon her own as she let out a hiss followed by her nose wrinkling as he lifted the thumb to his lips. Jo barely controlled herself from snapping a hand out at him as he licked the blood from his finger with a small frown all his own. "What is the point of you - when you are nothing but an insolent child; when your only worth is as sour as your blood is?"

"To make a point, that was the point. Cause I know what you are, and possibly more than you do, doc." Jo snapped back, tugging to pull her hand back towards herself but unable to pull further than an inch back before the grip around her wrist and hand tightened like a vice and pulled it up towards his lips. She didn't manage to stop the snarl as the monster lifted her hand right to her lips and fought to hold back a shudder of disgust that rolled up her spine as she watched his tongue cross the meat of her thumb with a hiss. "The point's that I wanted to get a measure on you, before I decided if I'd do my job."

"You think you can best me?" "I know I can-"

"Are you sure you are not here about that God complex of yours, Joanna?" The doctor's words were hissed out between his teeth, and as he pulled back, Jo jerked her hand from his sharply as his lips blossomed into a twisted smile. His teeth were white and sharp, and she could already picture exactly what he'd want to serve her up as at the dinner table - dark cherries and a bed of celeriac puree - as he glared down at her. "That little voice in your mind that claims you are invincible and that you can take on everything. The lack of fear that rolls down that back of yours, and the way you delude yourself into believing you can do so."

As the doctor leaned towards her, a shift in his stance to attempt to coral her back towards the desk, to trap and guide his prey into a corner from what she could tell of his thoughts, there was a knock at the door and a quiet call of a voice they both knew so well. "Hannibal? May I come in?"

"Yes Will-" His response was cut short, calling back to the other who was seemingly on time for his appointment that evening, by the thunk of brass against the side of his head. Jo dropped the heavy weight from her uninjured hand as she took a step back, avoiding the trap that the man had been trying to push her into, with the clack of her heels alongside the thud of the metal ornament as the man gave an unexpected grunt of surprise and rage. There was a hiss as he turned towards her, eyes wide and face twisted in a burning fire that did not surprise her one bit to see, before he shouted as the door opened with an inelegant jerk, "How dare you? What an audacious-"

"Hannibal, what happen- Jo! What are you doing here?" The appearance of the other and Jo sidled her way away from the desk, clutching her hand against the white knit of her sweater uncaring of the pink and red that was slowly soaking in and staining the wool with a sneer towards the doctor. "What are-"

"I want that woman out of my house!" Hannibal snarled the words out, harsh and gruff as he jerked his hand away from the back of his head, the hiss that came out at the small flecks of blood making Jo laugh to see the distaste across his face. "She is a-"

"Insolent child, I know, I heard you the first time, doc." Jo replied, biting down on the laughter that she felt bubbling up as she moved further away from the other in his slowly disheveling persona as his hands messed up his hair stroking through it trying to place pressure upon the barely existent wound. As if a thump to the head from her was enough to truly harm him. "Perhaps my next session we can cover that God complex you were talkin' 'bout-"

"Out! Out of my office, out of my house, right now." The man hissed, drawing his hand away finally and plucking the handkerchief from his pocket with a flourish as he bundled it and pressed to the back of his head as Jo noticed his eyes catching the incredulous look from the other man in the room, staring at him in shock. "William, take your woman away immediately, as we will need to reschedule our appointment. I am suddenly unwell."

Jo barely contained the smile noticing the way that Will's eyes darted between the two of them before the empath moved immediately towards her, an arm going around her waist and the look of surprise turning into one of shock and anger as he notice the red stain growing on her shirt. There was a moment when she could see the desire to turn and shake and rage an answer for it out of either the doctor or herself, but the moment was gone shortly after and then there was a sharp nod of the curly haired head and a hand on her waist, guiding her towards the door with the click of heels and the soft thuds of his boots.

As they reached the door to that blue-green waiting room that was the chicken to his egg, Jo twisted her head back to see the ferocious calmness cross the other's face for a moment, before she chirped loudly and with a calm look all her own in response. "Better luck next time, Mr Lecter."

#ot3 grey/jo/will fic #jopov

[virmillion]

Ibytm - T minus 45 seconds

Masterpost - Previous Chapter - Next Chapter - ao3

Words: 3,576

On a normal day, Logan will rise long before the sun, smiling at the sound of his pinging alarm clock and taking a luxurious moment to stretch his rested limbs before greeting the world with open arms.

Today is not a normal day.

His eyes stay stubbornly shut as his tingling hand fumbles around in the mess of blankets for his blaring phone. Virgil grunts softly from somewhere under the mound, and in the weak pre-dawn light, Logan can only just make out the ball curled up under the sheets.

When his fingers finally brush over his phone, sending shivers down his spine with the vibrations, he does his best impression of scrambling to turn it off. His sleep-addled body translates this command as wobbly sliding around for the snooze button, stubbornly ignoring the requirement to finish a set of math problems before the noise will stop.

“Should’ve never installed that fancy alarmy app,” Virgil grumbles as the ball shrinks in on itself. Logan squints at the full-brightness screen and scowls, mumbling the two digit multiplication problems to himself. Finally he succeeds, dropping the bedroom back into silence. An arm snakes out from the blankets and pats along Logan’s leg. “Good job, so smart. Go crush that meeting.”

Logan lifts Virgil’s jand and presses a kiss to his fingers, lingering in the moment for just a few more seconds. His own hand feels impossibly cold and empty as he changes and strides out of the room.

The kitchen—more of a kitchenette, really, but who’s keeping track?—is surprisingly high quality, given the deal Virgil managed to land on this place. Granted, it’s all a little cramped and bland, but Logan likes to think of it as ‘begging for an impromptu remodel.’ Which he manages to pull off, all in one go, as the broken keurig sputters to life, shooting wads of coffee grounds along the underside of the microwave.

Logan does not have the energy for it this morning.

He sets on a pot of real coffee to brew in time for Virgil to wake up and transfers the keurig disaster to his own travel mug, slipping in more sugar than it probably needs. He’s in for a long day.

Even the neighborhood is pretty nice, which was Virgil’s main concern when they were scoping out options. Compared to the people on those over-the-top reality shows, Logan thinks their requests were pretty darn reasonable. Close enough to the office to walk, in a nice part of town, and close enough to uber to the museum without completely punching a hole through their wallets. One downside to being so near to the office, though, is that Logan can never be that far from work. Not that this is a bad thing, per se—it’s just that, on the two days a year where he actually wants a break, he has to try that much harder to actually achieve it.

There are worse problems in the world to have, he supposes.

His work building looms tall and grey against the cold morning skyline, and the mere sight of it is enough to make him draw his shoulders to his ears. While he’s dressed nice enough for the meeting that could make or break his future, Virgil convinced him to wear the leather jacket over it.

“It’ll make you feel tough,” Virgil insisted, shoving the bundle of well-worn material into Logan’s arms the previous night. “Just enough of a confidence boost for you to nail the crap out of that meeting.”

Virgil wasn’t wrong, of course. Logan finds a certain bounce in his step as he bursts into the stale air conditioning and starts up the stairs. More of a placebo effect than anything else, but he’ll take what he can get. Especially today.

“Hey, Lo!” Micah exclaims, stumbling over his own feet as he bounds down the stairs.

“Gan. Logan,” Logan supplies, reaching out a hand to steady the overstuffed cardboard box in Micah’s arms. “Last trip?”

“Yeah, Alex is gonna bring home stuff I forgot as they find it. Half their desk is mine, basically.” Micah shoulders the drawstring bag around his back to the side, squeezing past Logan to get to the first floor landing. “It’s been a pretty solid run, though. Almost four years? That’s a good record for our floor managing to not kill each other.”

“That it is,” Logan agrees, almost to the next landing by now. It's a shame to see a good guy like Micah go, but internships aren’t permanent, and promotions aren’t guaranteed.

“Hey, wait!” Micah calls. Logan peeks over the spiral railing, now well on his way to the third floor. “Isn’t your big hunga chunga interview today?”

“Yeah, it is, actually. I don’t know when, though.”

“Well, whatever time they come for ya, best of luck. You deserve it.” Micah grins at Logan before scooting out of the stairwell, staggering under his box. Logan smiles to himself, forgetting to remove the expression before he exits onto the fifth floor. The first step in what could very well be a long line of mistakes.

“What’re you so happy about, specs?” Roman asks, appearing at Logan’s side and following him to his desk. “The only times I’ve seen you smile are when you’re with that museum guy.”

Logan takes a moment to breathe, reminding himself that it’s typically frowned upon to sock your coworkers in the jaw. “As I’ve told you several times now, his name is Virgil, and he’s not just some guy, he’s my boyfriend. There years not long enough for you to process that?”

“In my defense, we don’t hang out enough to be familiar.”

“We had lunch with you and Patton last week!”

“Yeah, yeah, bad short term memory.”

“Long term memory.” Logan slides open the third drawer on the right of his desk and pulls out a thick binder, filled to the brim and then some with papers and folders and cascading tab dividers. “Do you want to go to your own desk now?”

“Not really.” Regardless, Roman swings around to the desk that used to be Micah’s—with the intern moving on after more than four years of work, his prime spot desk was highly coveted real estate. The only reason Logan didn’t get it—by seniority, he had first dibs—was because he was used to his current desk. Not to mention the meeting coming up, of course. Ideally, he won’t even need his current desk after today.

Roman pops his head over the partition between Micah’s old desk and Logan’s, undoubtedly standing on the swivel chair for a better vantage point. “So, whatcha doin’?”

“Get off that chair before you hurt yourself. I’m going over major old assignments.” Logan regrets being honest the moment he says it. Now it’s a near guarantee that Roman will try to distract him. He was undoubtedly going to already, but still.

“Oh, right, you’ve got that huge meeting today! I completely forgot.” Roman folds his arms up over his chin, staying shockingly quiet as Logan riffles through the binder. “Hey, wait, that’s that dumb Neptune Theseus riddle!”

“Never did figure that one out,” Logan agrees absently. His eyes linger on the answer circled at the bottom, but he still isn’t convinced he had it right. He pulls the paper out farther.

“We’re seriously gonna get stuck on the Neptune thing again? Are we really digging up that horse to beat it some more? Hasn’t it suffered enough?” Alex groans, rolling over on their squeaky desk chair. While the office sprang for new furniture last year, they didn’t spring very far, since ‘gently used furniture from someone else is still new to you.’ This was met with no small amount of grumbles and dissent, all of which fell on deaf ears.

“No rehashing old riddles!” Cassidy chimes in. As her desk is now right beside Logan’s—replacing Joy’s old spot—she doesn’t have to move far to notice his overfilled binder. “Last minute studying?”

“Lil’ Lolo has his big ol’ test today,” Alex singsongs. “Watch him get higher than Mx. Oatmeal.”

“As if,” Logan scoffs, flipping to a different assignment. Calculating the landing point of a rocket being pulled down from orbit at a given time, assuming this malfunction and that overcorrection. He still isn’t completely convinced they didn’t just rip the problem wholesale from Hidden Figures. “And it’s not a test, it’s just a meeting to discuss my upward prospects. Don’t oversell it.”

“I promise nothing of the sort,” Cassidy says. “How much you wanna bet the promotion hinges on that Neptune riddle?”

“Gambling, I like it.” Roman reaches down the partition to snatch up the binder, ignoring Logan’s protests. “Woah, you’ve got things in here from your first week? You know that was all busy work, right? To scare off newbies who wouldn’t put in the work when it counted?”

“Give that back,” Logan demands, reaching toward Roman’s face. He easily holds the binder out of reach, still snooping through its contents.

“Wow, your handwriting really sucks, you know that?”

“Shut up, my mind moves too fast to bother with legibility.” It’s all Logan can do not to stand on his chair and grab back the binder. He’s smart, of course—there’s nothing incriminating on those pages—but he still doesn’t appreciate Roman invading his space like this.

“Illegible handwriting?” Alex repeats. “Sounds like you’re already one of them. Bet you’ll even surpass Joy.” The mention of her name draws the attention of some of the newer interns, whose names Logan hasn’t yet managed (or bothered) to learn. It wasn’t too long ago that Joy got promoted—in the last few months, actually—but she was still on the floor long enough to gain a reputation among the newbies. Her sudden promotion, completely unprompted, elevated her to a godlike status in the eyes of the new kids, all fresh to the inner workings of the program. At least, that’s why Logan assumes they looked up at her name.

He isn’t sure whether he’d love it or hate it if all these little interns would worship him like that.

Before Roman can pitch in his own two cents about the first inexplicable promotion situation, the elevator doors ping open, revealing Joy leaning against the mirrored wall. Cassidy leaps to her feet and sprints across the floor, wrapping her friend in a tight hug.

“You need to come visit us more,” Cassidy says sternly, pushing Joy back by the shoulders to fix her with a pinched stare.

“Acknowledged,” Joy says, barely lifting her chin. The cold silence lasts only a few moments before her facade cracks, revealing a bright smile as she squeezes Cassidy in a close embrace. “Butterfingers around here?”

Logan scrambles to yank his binder back from Roman and hide it in its usual drawer before answering, “I’m over here.”

Joy nods brightly as Cassidy carefully extricates herself from the boa constrictor hug. “Well, better get going, if you’re ready. They bumped the meeting from seventh to ninth, by the way.” She waits patiently for Logan to join her in the elevator, seeming to not notice the awed stares from the newbies. Logan isn’t particularly fond of the sustained silences from his more seasoned coworkers, either.

“Actually, I’d rather take the stairs, if it’s all the same to you.” Though Logan has historically taken the stairs for the exercise, he has a running promise with Virgil to avoid the elevator whenever possible. Virgil refused to specify why, but even if he’d never find out, Logan has no intention to go breaking promises when people aren’t looking. “I’ll just meet you up there?”

Joy hesitates, and Logan wonders whether he just completely screwed himself over, but her expression finally dissolves back into a grin. “Works for me.”

Logan takes the stairs two at a time, chased by the encouragement of his floormates. With every step, he jumps from one irrational worry to another. What if Joy thinks he thinks she stinks? What if she thinks he’s being uncooperative? What if she thinks he’s claustrophobic, and won’t be able to handle something so confined as a rocket? What if this is all a test, and he already failed?

He almost misses the ninth landing as his thoughts swarm. All that piloting time, straight down the drain.

The door can’t open fast enough.

Logan has just barely managed to force his breathing down to a normal level when the elevator door slides open, revealing Joy and—oh, great.

“She said I should come along!” Roman exclaims, bursting out of the elevator and jumping to Logan’s side. “That they might like a second opinion during your meeting.”

“Oh, great.”

“Yes, well, best be going,” Joy says, leading the boys down the hall to a set of floor to ceiling glass windows. Just beyond the frames is a long oak desk, ringed with cushy black office chairs. Logan wonders how many years it'll be until those become hand-me-downs for the fifth floor.

“I’m so excited,” Roman whisper-shouts. “I’ve never been up here before, besides for coffee runs.”

“This is where I leave you,” Joy says. She holds open the door and waves the boys in, patting Logan on the shoulder as he passes. “Good luck. You’re gonna crush it.”

“Fingers crossed.”

“Butterfingers?”

“Almond Joy.” A small smile spreads across Logan’s face as the door softly clicks shut behind them. Across the room is Mx. Oatmeal’s boss’s boss’s boss, Miss Katie-Lee, who literally and figuratively holds Logan’s future in her hands.

That is to say, she’s holding a model rocketship.

“Logan, please, have a seat.” She gestures to one of the several chairs, inclining her head slightly as Logan shakes her hand before sitting. “Oh, good, Roman, are you the second opinion I asked Joy to bring?”

“I am indeed,” Roman confirms, shaking her hand as well before sitting on Logan’s right. “Happy to be here, happy to help.”

“Happy to hear it,” Miss Katie-Lee says, taking her own seat opposite the boys. She pulls a stack of papers and folders from a nearby stool and spreads them out over the table. “Well, well, well, Logan, you sure have been busy these last few years, haven’t you? And I see here you have a change of mailing address, as well as the supplementary switch forms, very good, that’s what we like to see.” Miss Katie-Lee traces her finger down a bulleted list, mumbling to herself as she does. “Tuh tuh tuh, already a good amount of calculations under your belt, mostly correct, that’s always nice. Well on your way to completing the piloting hours, good to know you’re keeping that up. Recent physical on file, yes, sure deal, that makes this several worlds easier.”

She continues talking to herself, flipping between pages and glancing at Logan every so often for a nod of confirmation. “And Roman, you’ve worked closely with Logan, yes? Do you have any pertinent information to share regarding his performance?” She taps a little plastic cube set to the side meaningfully. “This is all being recorded, by the way. My apologies for not saying so sooner.”

Roman sits up straighter in his chair, and Logan immediately wishes he were a popsicle under the California sun. Oh, to be a puddle on the floor, free of the trials and tribulations involved in adult life.

“All on the record?”

“All on the record.”

Roman gives Logan a long look before opening his mouth again. Puddles would be a blessing at this point, Logan thinks. Logan would be wrong. “Logan is the single best intern I have ever seen working on the fifth floor. He easily works twice as hard as anyone on a higher floor—no offense—and I never see him without ink staining his fingers. He’s organized down to having a color coding system with his pens based on the difficulty and priority of his work. He’s the first one into the office and the last one out, and all the time in between is time he spends doing the best he possibly can.”

Roman laughs a little, and Logan finally feels his muscles relax, just the slightest bit. “I literally had to personally convince everyone to show up half an hour early today so we could beat him to being early. Basically, Logan is just a guy who really, really cares about what he does. There’s no one else I’d rather see at the top of this field.” Roman hesitates, glancing at Miss Katie-Lee. “Oh, um, not that you aren’t already doing a great—”

Miss Katie-Lee waves it off with a smile. “Thank you, Roman, that was more than sufficient. You can head back down to the fifth floor now.” Logan is still somewhere between numb and frozen as he watches Roman excuse himself, still processing the parade of compliments. He’d always assumed Roman merely tolerated his presence, since it would make being floormates easier than if they hated each other. Huh.

Shuffling the papers back into a neat pile, Miss Katie-Lee switches her gaze from the closing door to Logan. “Can I tell you a secret?” Logan nods, dumbfounded. “I already knew all that.” Logan blinks. “I’ve heard your praises sung by everyone in this building, from Mx. Oatmeal to Joy, to Micah at his resignation, all the way to the janitorial staff. They go out of their way to compliment how much easier you make their jobs, sticking around late to clean up after your floormates. To tell the truth, we’ve wanted to get you up here for a long while, but we just haven’t had an opening. A few transfers, a few drops, and now we find ourselves here.” Miss Katie-Lee folds her hands on the table, leaning in closer. “We want to start training you on level with Mr. Jolenta’s work.” Mr. Jolenta. Mx. Oatmeal’s boss. Logan feels more than a little light headed. “You would see an increase in pay, to be determined at a later date, as well as an increase in workload and hours. On the right path and at the right pace, I think we can get you where you want to go.” Logan nods dumbly, not completely processing her words. “So, what do you say?”

A million things race through Logan’s mind, each slipping out of his hands like an ice cube into boiling water when he tries to grab it. More pay. More hours. Less time with Virgil. A chance at the stars. A chance to move up. Time away from Virgil. Time away from home. Time, time, time. Never enough to give, never enough to take.

“I’d be happy to give you some time to consider—”

“I’m in,” Logan interrupts. His mouth didn’t even wait for his mind to decide, much less his heart. He’ll have to learn to get that under control.

“Well, we’re happy to have you on board,” Miss Katie-Lee says, standing and brushing off the front of her shirt. Logan shakes her hand firmly, thanking her for the opportunity and accepting a spotless new folder from her. He pulls the door shut as he leaves, determined to wait until he reaches his desk before looking at the papers.

The determination does not last longer than two minutes.

New benefits, new hours, new responsibilities, new calculation basics, new new new. The words and numbers and symbols flit around Logan’s mind, a deafening roar that blocks out the curiosity of his fellow fifth floor interns.

Can he call them his fellow interns anymore? He’ll have to ask Roman about that.

“So how’d it go?” Cassidy demands, slamming her hands on his desk and getting uncomfortably close to his face. Logan glances at Roman, whose face flushes pink when they make eye contact. He drops behind the partition.

“Spill it,” Alex adds, leaning on Logan’s chair. “It’s not like we didn’t notice that fancy new folder, or that almost smile on your face.”

Cassidy somehow manages to get even closer, and it’s a wonder Logan doesn’t flinch. “Stop the presses, Alex, I think that might be a genuine smile there.”

“Great Scott, she’s right! It’s a real smile! This is one for the papers, folks!”

Logan rolls his eyes and shakes his head good-naturedly, careful to keep the folder pinched shut. “Miss Katie-Lee just offered me a promotion, and Roman helped back up my credibility a little bit. It’s nothing major, really.”

“How high’s the promotion?” Roman’s voice asks. He’s still hiding behind the partition.

Logan glances around, well aware of the newer interns listening closely while doing a terrible job of pretending not to. “It, um, it’s on par with Mr. Jolenta?” It’s not a question, but he manages to make it one, anyway.

The floor is silent for a moment, two, as his words sink in. Alex breaks the silence first.

“Dude, nice!” This call is echoed across the floor, several voices tripping over each other to congratulate Logan. He nods, wearing a small smile and picturing how Virgil’s face will look when he shares the news. Or, wait, no, he’s supposed to be teaching Virgil how to make fettuccine alfredo tonight. That should obviously take precedence.

Then again, a promotion is pretty big. So is getting to cook with his boyfriend. Maybe he’ll tell him over dinner. Just imagining the look on Virgil’s face when he tells him is more than enough to double the size of Logan’s smile.

#labhwrites #mine #i'll bring you the moon #ibytm

[mrs-hollandstan]

Undercover {2} || Undercover Cop!Reader x Mobster!Bucky

Warnings: more alcohol consumption, language, talk of past domestic abuse, talk of religion, lil bit of violence, kidnapping?? (already in the last chapter), verbal fighting

Word Count: 3,745

Author’s Note: Here’s part two loves. I also left this part open for a next and I might have smut in the next one or the one after?? Idk, I’ll see where it takes me. Leave me feedback!

⟵Previous || Series Masterlist || Next⟶

Bucky was very familiar with the story of Adam and Eve. Despite being violent by nature, he still referred back to his Catholic upbringing brought upon him by his mother after his father left the family. He and his sisters dressed in worn clothes that were handed down, and some of the people of upper Brooklyn crinkled their noses at, attended church every Sunday with their God fearing mother who prayed every Sunday morning that her son wouldn't end up like his father. She prayed every day and every night that her son would be nothing like his abusive, alcoholic father and if he ever were a father he'd the complete opposite. And he proved her wrong. She didn't see the business he was starting. She was gone long before he began the criminal career of head mobster of New York. He wasn't an alcoholic and he killed men that hit their women or kids. He kept a Bible in his office but it hadn't been opened in years. The small black Bible with crumpled, yellowing pages had belonged to his mother. He'd been thunked upside the head with it a few times when he'd said something stupid, but it brought memories back that often reminded him to go to a confessional every once in a while. And the father at the local church was always waiting patiently, every other Sunday or so for Bucky to come in and confess to all the crime he committed. The story of Adam and Eve was one of the stories Bucky was most familiar with. He saw himself as Eve in the situation of you and him. He knew what he wanted with you was forbidden but he was tempted and if he could, he would eat the forbidden fruit. Hell, he was even willing to face the consequences. The way he saw it, half of your precinct was crooked anyways. It's not like he'd get arrested waltzing in to see his girl. Half of the men would even welcome him like a long lost relative showing back up at Christmas. But he wouldn't show you that. Even if you already knew.

He sat fuming in his corner of the bar the night after you'd shared a cold shower, awaiting your arrival expectantly. But you didn't show. Instead you ordered takeout, watching the clock tick by and wondering if he'd show his face in your building again. Your heart skipped excitedly when the delivery man knocked, leaving you wondering if it was Bucky. But much to your dismay it was a tall blonde with similar blue eyes that you wished were someone else's. Bucky questioned going out to find you. Force you back to the bar and take the snake off his hands. But you never arrived and he was a little saddened. And you, the same when you rolled into bed that night with no butterflies fluttering in your belly from the mobster kissing you or growling in your ear, showing how pissed off he was at your actions.

The following day and evening was slow, your feet kicked up on your desk waiting for more phone calls staring at the same dingy wall and twiddling a pen between your fingers. Each time you sighed, your so-called partner, Agent Davis, smiled to himself, flipping through old unsolved cases and doing paperwork,

"You should go out. Just patrol. See if ya catch any robbery suspects or a hopeless dame wrestling her purse from some criminal. Ya got too much time on your hands." Twirling the pen, you shook your head and reached across the joined desks to snag a dusty manila folder from the thick stack,

"Nah... I'm goin out later. I'm gonna bring someone in tonight." Cocking his head, red hair fell in Davis's curious eyes,

"Is this still about Barnes? You better watch yourself. He shows up here and you could end up dead. Half these fuckin cops got a thing with him and if you deliver him in cuffs you better draw a line for them to cut across your neck."

"You think I don't know that? I'm not stupid. And no, it's not Barnes. He's actually... helping me... unfortunately." Dropping his own pen against the desk as if he'd been shocked, Davis leaned in, the crisp, light blue button up he had on stretching tightly around his biceps,

"Seriously? What happened to you staying neutral Y/L/N? You told me you wouldn't get involved and now here you are shacking up with the head kingpin of New York." Tsking, you shook your head,

"Not that it's any of your business Davis, but I told you that to shut you up. It seems like every word that comes out of your mouth is you spouting some bullshit about what's in my best interest. News flash, I'm a big girl, I can handle myself. Being a cop isn't a cake walk, I earned my way in and I sure as hell can handle the responsibility that comes with it without you breathing down my neck every five minutes." He frowned disapprovingly, leaning back in his chair, the creak of it ricocheting off the walls. He studied you through narrow eyes, watching the tendrils of hair not tucked in the braid resting neatly at your back bob as you looked through the suspects in an old, tattered manila folder that had seen many a fugitives in its day,

"What did you do?" Your eyes found his again, quickly looking back down at the date of birth of one Adrian Gonzales, a convicted armed robbery suspect put behind bars for six months until a more cement sentencing was drawn out in the few short months arriving. The year 1988 flashed in your brain as you collected words for Davis in the forefront of your mind. And then it spilled,

"I let him kiss me."

"You what?" He whisper yelled like an excited schoolgirl who just found out who her best friend's crush is at a sleepover. You looked up again, his eyes sparkling in wonder, now resembling that same schoolgirl but older, wondering when her best friend became such a badass. His general reaction had you cracking a smile through the stoic façade. You nodded, biting your lip,

"He brought Stark to my apartment. He was just sitting in the dark and scared the piss out of me. But he uhh... he's handsome and he just... without words asked to kiss me and I let him." You reply quickly with a shrug, your finger tracing over the red stamp in Gonzales's file that in the moment you couldn't read. Your brain was fogged with how bad of an idea the situation of Barnes was. Davis was growing excited at not only the opportunity for you to finally get some, but at the sheer audacity of you to want to take on such a wide load with a convicted felon in your bed if it ended well.

"What. A. Rebel." He speaks slowly and when you look up again, his eyes are trained on the wall behind you, his eyes flashing, deep in thought,

"So what flowers do you want in your bouquet?" You giggled together, Davis shielding himself when you chucked a paperclip his way,

"Shut up. Don't assume it's going that far. It was just a kiss."

"Yeah but you read him. He didn't even have to ASK to kiss you and you gave him permission. That's soulmate material. I expect it to at least get to third base." With a sarcastic roll of his eyes, he smiles, resting his chin on his hand,

"Its not that serious. It was one kiss, a spur of the moment thing. No more." He clicked his tongue,

"Right, just make sure that you name one of your boys after me when you get one."

"Shut up!" He chuckled, leaning back in his chair,

"Y/N Barnes. Got a nice ring to it darlin. I like you two together. I feel like he's like the devil and you're an angel and he's gonna corrupt you. It's kinda hot... like... write a book after you guys get together." Rolling your eyes,

"Anyways... moving on swiftly, I want you to help me pick out my outfit. Red dress?" You turn your phone, showing him the mirror selfie of yourself in a short, low cut red dress that dared to impress, "or leather pants and a tank?" You swiped to the next photo, similar in taste but black leather jeans and a fitted black tank top, both of which clung to your curves. Davis's eyebrows raised,

"Uhh... I-I don't know. They're both daring and bold and will definitely capture attention but are you trying to scream sexy or business?" Thinking on your answer, you shrugged,

"I'm not really sure." You muttered. He sighed,

"I'd say red dress. You look good." You nod, looking yourself over in your awkward selfies. At ten in the morning, just before your shift you were trying on outfits for him. He'd never know that but you felt ashamed. You pulled out every piece of clothing you think he'd like and by the looks of it, you'd fit right in to the Barnes Mob family. Sitting in his lap just like he imagined playing with his hair and kissing his neck while he negotiated an arms deal. Despite the hard shell, Bucky was desperate for every grain of your attention. He wasn't used to not getting what he wanted and now here you are telling him no. Watching you daydream, Davis smiles,

"My God you're in love."

"I am not and don't you repeat that. It's a job and I intend to get it done. Even if I have to seduce him a little bit."

"You know he'd be impressed by you in fucking sweats but here you are going all out with a fucking red dress and some high heels. There's no need for seduction, you're a stunner babe." Rolling your eyes, you lean back in your chair again, wondering how Bucky would take to you skipping into his club after telling him you'd be in the night before. No doubt about it, he'd be pissed seeing you strut in like nothing happened. But what you'd done was over, you'd have to face the consequences with a high head and pray it didn't bite you.

Around nine that same night you dressed in the little red dress, sliding a pair of black pumps on to go with it. The bright lights outside Bucky's club made you realize how deep in you were. The bouncer knew your name instantly, your nerves skyrocketing, a hand on your lower back from the tall blonde as you entered the already crowded club privately as if you were a queen. The smell of sweat and alcohol was strong and through the crowd, you could see Bucky, his eyes wandering the misty, dark club. When his scanning eyes rested on your figure stood in the doorway, you swore he clenched his jaw in anger, his grip tightening on his typical tumbler. Downing the rest of the alcohol in it without looking away, he stood, brushing his suit jacket off and storming up the stairs to his office. Pushing through the crowd, you paused at the base of the steep steps, composing yourself before heading up. The clack of your heels on the wood announced your presence, Bucky's fists tensing in his pockets, his jaw clenching as his anger boiled over on the stove of his belly. Trudging up to the open velvet door, the stale cigar smell hit you in the face like it did the night before last, somewhat comforting you in the heated moment. Enveloped in the scent and the new warmth his office brought, you sucked in a deep breath through your nose, exhaling slowly and looking him over. Hues of red and blue danced across his pale face, shadowed as he clenched his jaw again and again, his hands tucked in his pockets and his jacket discarded across the back of the desk's single chair. He stared down at the bar-goes through the single octagonal window,

"Close the door." He spoke lowly, not flinching as you complied, closing the creaky door tight behind you. Standing frozen to your place in the doorway, the air between the two of you was suffocatingly thick. He cleared his throat, his eyes traveling up to the ceiling,

"This is a fucking game to you isn't it?" When you didn't respond, his eyes found yours, his anger strengthening at the shy look in your own,

"Don't go shy on me now baby. You're the one that played me remember." He spat through gritted teeth.

"I didn't play you. I was acting the same as you did. You kick me outta here and tell me that we'll be in touch and you expect me to just sit here and play your little bitch. Expect me to come running every time you call?"  

"So where were you last night then huh? I had my arch fucking nemesis sitting in my office all fucking night, waiting for your ass to make an appearance, and I could've turned him loose but no, I held him waiting for you to show and you didn't." Crossing his arms and turning his body towards you, he cocks his head like a child waiting for his question to be answered by a parent, his feet set at a wide, domineering stance that you wanted to laugh at if you were completely honest. Looking down at the dress clinging to your every curve, your lips twitch up,

"I was at home... what are you gonna do Mr. Barnes... punish me?" The shock written across his face is a mixture of comical and terrifying. Either way you've just crossed a line and there's no coming back. He growls before he storms forward, bracing you against the door behind you, his body pressed against yours. With his arms above your head, he growls again, shaking the door,

"Is this a fucking game to you sweetheart? You think you're special or somethin?" Staring up into his stormy blue eyes you can see the battle he's in with himself. He wants you. He wants you just as much as you want him. But his business and your job both stand in the way. Diving in for it, your lips meet his rather harshly. He stumbles back holding your body to his as you thread your fingers through his hair. Turning you both, he slams you into one of the dark walls, holding your wrists in his hands again, jamming a knee between your thighs, his face darker than before,

"You don't get what you want. You don't get to fucking stand me up and waltz in here and say you're not my bitch and then act like you're gonna get somethin outta me." His jaw clenches yet again and you can't help but feel a little overpowered,

"What do you want from me Barnes? You want me to drop to my knees and beg you to forgive me? You want me to come in here every night and make you happy?"

"I WANT YOU TO STOP ACTING LIKE A CHILD!" He snarls in your face pulling you back only to slam you against the wall like he did that first night. You squeak involuntarily, your wrists pressed so hard into the wall that now you're convinced they'll break. You whine in pain, twisting them in an attempt to get them free, your eyes still locked in his,

"Bucky you're hurting me." The pain in your voice has him pressing harder, a cry falling from your lips. With hair covering your face as you bow your head, another cry leaves you and you raise your head, tears already streaming down your cheeks,

"Bucky please you're gonna break my arms." The quiet voice breaks through his rage, the sight before him something he saw far too often during his childhood. The tear tracks down your cheeks has him reeling back, your body slumping against the wall as he stares down at you. Memories of his terrified and maltreated mother finding her children cowering in a dark corner together flash in the forefront of his mind and he realizes then that he's made a mistake. He swore to not only his mother but his sisters, himself even that he'd never be that man. He swore he'd never hurt a woman but here you are rubbing your wrists. And it's not like the other night when he had your arms braced behind you. You weren't in pain then, just petrified of being manhandled. Reaching up, Bucky watched you wipe tears away, collecting yourself just enough and looking up at him,

"Where's Stark?" His tongue was caught in his throat,

"Doll I-"

"No! Where is Stark Mr. Barnes? I have other places to be." He didn't think his heart could break at the sound of your voice cracking and your eyes now cold and slowly drawing the shield he'd had knocked down back up. He swallowed, jutting his thumb over his shoulder,

"Basement. I'll show ya." Sadly leading you down the stairs and into the back room, down into the basement, he rounded a corner, gesturing to a passed out Stark tied to a chair. Keeping the zipties around his wrist, Bucky hoisted him up, staring down at your face as you looked him over. You avoided Bucky's eyes, holding your hand up when he opened his mouth,

"Don't. Just... go back to doing what you were doing. I'll leave you alone and you can just go about your side of the deal. No more death, no more bodies. Stark is behind bars and that's what we had an agreement on, nothing more." Taking Stark's arm in your hand, Bucky jumps in front of you as you start towards the door,

"Doll don't do this."

"I'm not your girlfriend! You don't own me and I'm a cop. This isn't going to work in any way and now that you've hurt me I can't." His heart breaks as you avoid his eyes still, tears filling them. He remembers in that moment what his mother looked like. He remembered how tired she looked. He remembered how exhausted and hurt she looked. He remembered the bruises and the busted lips that he always thought was her trying to make a stand but it was just when her overall appearance annoyed him. And now you're reflecting that same thing. And Bucky is the reason. His heart pounds when you look up at him,

"I'm... I'm sorry darlin." He speaks so low you almost don't hear him over the music upstairs. For once you can see the tough exterior he's built, crumbling. You can see the pain in his features and you know its personal but you refuse to touch on it. He steps forward, his shoes clacking along the thick cement, his hand coming up to rest at the back of your neck. Holding you in place, he leans in slowly, kissing your forehead, his lips lingering against your skin longer than they should. Stepping back he waves you up the stairs, following you, the mood between the two of you having gone from angry to sad. You could feel how much passion the both of you had put into such a brief relationship. You knew you were wrong walking into Bucky's bar. He knew he was wrong expecting the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen to lay her life down, kick her career aside and be his so easily. You both knew what you were getting into and you avoided the red flags. And now here you were, walking out of Bucky's bar and he wasn't sure he'd ever see you again. He followed you out into the cool night, watching you shove Stark into the back of your car, his arms still bound behind him. Bucky stood straight, staring up at the bright lights outside his club wondering if the life of scars, the life of crime and deceit was worth losing something so valuable like a life with you,

"Do you uhh... do you want me to come down to the station with you? Make sure he doesn't try an pull a fast one on ya?" You shake your head, looking him over from his feet to the top of his head. He was sharp. Suit and tie, polished shoes, soft, long hair cascading down his shoulders. When they say eyes are the windows to the soul, they really mean it, and Bucky's were scarred with the years of pain, but staring up into them, you could see the turmoil he was putting himself through over his actions within the past ten minutes. He'd hurt you and if he could go back he'd have done so many things different. He would have never laid a finger on you. He would've never gotten so angry. He would've never done any of it. He nodded, tucking his hands in his pockets again and looking at his feet, trying to hide all his raw emotion from you,

"Guess I'll uhh... I'll see ya around then." You nod, looking down at his shoes, your heart pounding as you realize that this is it.

"Yeah, I'll see ya. Don't make me come down here again." You don't see it, but he smiles in the dark. When you look up, he finds your eyes hauntingly cold. The you he fell in love with is gone. Her shell stands before him. The vessel of the warm soul is standing before him, closing him off and for once he fears it. He wants to grab you and hold your body to his, make that soul come back. He wants the spunk and the attitude, he wants you to do your worse. But instead he watches you walk away. He watches you climb in your car and start it, the emission from your tailpipe billowing up into the air. He watches you drive away from him, leaving him standing on the curb, hating himself. He promised his family he wouldn't become his father and now he was standing in overcast Brooklyn, watching you drive away after he hurt you. He deserved it. Bucky was familiar with the story of Adam and Eve and his consequence for eating the forbidden fruit was losing you.

Permanent Taglist: @embrace-themagic @mmeeggaannn @spiderman-n @winters-beauty @smexylemony 

Series Taglist: @ddaengboi @avengersassemblee @vogueworthy-barnes @teawithbucky @imnotcoolmasterrr @whaddaputa @akamaiden

#bucky barnes #steve x bucky #bucky x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes oneshot #mobster!bucky #mobster!au #mobster!steve #mobster!bucky fic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x ofc #bucky barnes x plus size reader #sebastian stan #sebastian stan smut #sebastian stan imagine #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan x y/n #sebastian stan x poc reader #my writing

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @alicat54c!

Merry Christmas, alicat54c! <3 I hope you enjoy this little fic. I tried to hit as many of your requests as possible. Hopefully it meets your expectations!

Read on AO3

*****

After Night School Special

The Sheriff turns the cruiser up on the driveway and switches off the engine. Stiles remains in the passenger street, leaned back against the seat and resolutely staring out the window.

“Are you okay, kid?” the Sheriff asks with concern lacing his voice and Stiles thinks that he’s not, he’s really not.

“Sure. Just tired,” he replies and gives his dad a feeble smile which he hopes is convincing enough.

He just wants to go to bed, the gravity of the night’s event having truly hit him on the drive home from school.

“I have to get back there, is that alright?” the Sheriff enquiries, but they both know that there’s no real choice in the matter. He needs to get back to work, needs to keep searching for the body of the janitor.

“Yeah, I’ll just go to bed,” Stiles says and the sheriff’s hand clasps down on his shoulder in reassurance.

“I’m sure we’ll find him. And Derek Hale can’t have gotten far.”

Well, Stiles thinks, you’re right about that, pops. Because Derek Hale is dead. There’s no way, no way in hell that he could’ve survived being speared onto the Alpha’s claws like that. Fuck, there had been so much blood, spurting out of Derek’s mouth and down his shirt. Stiles knows that Scott still has hope, but Stiles doesn’t. Derek is dead. How they’ll ever defeat the Alpha after this is beyond him.

Stiles watches his dad reverse out of the driveway and lingers outside until the taillights are no longer visible. He makes his way inside and locks the door behind him, knowing that it won’t do him much good if the Alpha decides to come for him. Or if the Alpha demands Scott to come for him. That’s a whole other can of worms Stiles would rather not open up tonight.

He doesn’t turn any lights on until he steps into his own room, foregoing brushing his teeth for the immediate comfort of his bed. Only, there’s already someone in his bed.

“Jesus Christ!” Stiles throws himself back against his bedroom door, heart jackrabbiting in his chest.

Derek Hale’s corpse, pale and bloody, lies face down on top of the covers. The back of his leather jacket is torn to shreds from where the Alpha had put his claws through it, through him. Stiles is already fumbling for his phone, to call his dad home right away when the corpse groans. Stiles drops the phone to the floor and stares.

“Derek?” he hazards hoarsely.

There’s no reply. Could he have imagined it? He thought he heard it so vividly. Stiles tiptoes carefully across the room to his bed, where Derek is looking extremely dead.

“Please don’t be a zombie, please don’t be a zombie,” he murmurs repeatedly as he reaches out a hand to touch Derek’s exposed neck. There’s no reaction, but somewhere beneath the skin he can feel the weakest hint of a heartbeat.

Definitely not a zombie, at least.

Stiles sinks to his knees next to the bed. He likes to think that it was a conscious decision, but his legs just gave out. In relief? In shock? He’s not sure, but it has him trembling. Derek isn’t dead. Derek is alive and in his bed and judging by the amount of blood seeping into Stiles’ mattress, not healing.

Stiles is off the floor in seconds, stumbling across the hall to the bathroom to grab the first aid kit from beneath the sink. He tells himself that he’s an idiot, that Derek needs the hospital and not whatever Stiles can dig out from the first aid kit which barely has been touched since his mom died. But Derek didn’t drag himself to the hospital, the fucking idiot, which is arguably closer to the school than Stiles’ house. He must have a reason. Did he hear how Scott blamed the death of the janitor on him?

“I really hate you,” Stiles mutters when he’s back at Derek’s side and, after a moment’s hesitation, tries to pull the tattered leather jacket off of Derek. Still, zero reaction from Derek. “All the times I’ve imagined you in my bed did not play out like this at all. Also, I really hope you’re not listening right now. If you are, forget what I just said.”

It takes some serious manhandling to wrangle off the jacket and Stiles is sweating by the end of it. Derek’s light grey t-shirt is soaked in blood. For a second Stiles has to fight back his gag reflex, knowing that whatever is underneath will be a hundred times worse. He fixes his gaze somewhere up on the wall while rolling up the fabric. Just the feel of the wet blood against his fingertips makes his hairs stand on end.

By the time the t-shirt is bunched up by Derek’s armpit, Stiles knows that he has to look down. One glance, and he feels faint. There are five distinct claw marks down Derek’s back, all of them still oozing blood. They look way too deep for Derek to even be alive right now and this is all way over Stiles’ non-existent paygrade, but here he is and he’s just going to have to deal with it.

“Okay, Stiles, get it the fuck together,” he tells himself, taking a couple of deep breaths before he’s up on his feet again to fetch water and towels, anything to soak up the blood.

He does his best. It’s admittedly not a lot, but he’s a 16 year old kid and not a doctor. He washes the blood from Derek’s back. Pours disinfectant onto the wounds - even that doesn’t even warrant a hiss from Derek. He covers Derek’s back with layer upon layer of compress until he runs out of them.

It takes approximately thirty seconds before red stripes of blood soak through the compresses. The hopelessness of the situation washes over Stiles with a wave of frustration. Derek might not have died at Beacon Hills High, but it looks like he’s slowly going to bleed out in Stiles’ bed. Stiles makes an incredulous noise, places his hands on Derek’s back and just shouts.

“Why won’t you heal , you idiot ?!”

A lot of things happen in a really short span of time. Stiles’ hands burn, wherever they’re in contact with Derek’s skin and before he has a chance to pull them back, sparks fly. Literally. It’s like electricity, like getting shocked, and it’s powerful enough for Stiles to fly back against the wall. Derek’s eyes fly open, wide and intensely blue and he roars so loud that the window panes tremble.

“What did you do?” Derek hisses through his fangs, his face distorted with his shift.

“I didn’t do anything, you zapped me!” Stiles exclaims in his own defense, crowded up against the wall.

“Werewolves don’t ‘zap’, idiot,” Derek says, his features slowly shifting back to human as he sits up on the bed. He grimaces slightly.

“Well, humans don’t either, jerk. Don’t move, you’re bleeding.”

Stiles makes an attempt to get up on his feet, but his vision swims and if it wasn’t for Derek catching him, he would’ve dropped straight back down on his ass. A protest is halfway out between Stiles’ lips, attempting to tell Derek to sit still, but Derek is already in his space and Stiles reaches for him for stability. His hand lands on Derek’s back, which only a minute ago was torn to shreds. All he can feel now is smooth, warm skin, without as much as a scar.

“... how?” he asks, his tired mind working a mile a minute but it keeps stumbling over itself, as are his legs.

“The healing magic must have worn you out,” Derek says, or at least he thinks that’s what he says, but that doesn’t make any sense at all. What magic? He tries to object, but he slurs his words and Derek pays him no attention while he manhandles him back to the bed.

Stiles has half a mind to complain about the bloody sheets, but he doesn’t feel the blood when he’s unceremoniously dropped upon the mattress.

“Go to sleep, Stiles,” Derek commands and Stiles has run out of objections.

---

Stiles wakes with a jolt. His room is empty, the sun bathing it in light. A glance at his clock tells him that he’s been asleep for over ten hours. There’s no sign of Derek, of the blood or anything that happened last night. Was it a dream? Surely not. No, definitely not.

A sweep across the room concludes that his phone has been plugged into the charger on top of his desk. He makes his way over on still shaky legs and sits down in his desk chair before grabbing the phone. There’s a text from an unknown number flashing on the screen and Stiles opens it without trepidation.

Thanks for the help. Text me when you wake up.

Derek

Stiles can’t press the reply button fast enough.

#alicat54c #stereksanta18 #*fic18 #*gifts18

[consulalexander]

Vicious Velvet (Shadowhunters/Sweetbitter AU) 1/?

I know we’re feeling a lot of feels tonight, fandom, so hopefully this serves as a good distraction. This is my attempt at a TMI/Shadowhunters restaurant AU. Inspired by Sweetbitter by Stephanie Danler— if you haven’t read it, especially if you’ve worked in the restaurant industry, GO READ IT.

Title from the song “High Hopes in Velvet” by The Cab.

Meshing inspirations from both the books and TV show into one because it’s fic and I can and because Alec will always be my precious BLUE EYED son. Malec, Clace, Sizzy and more feels galore.

I don’t own these characters. Try not to hate me after this.

  Part One

“For a moment, or a second, the pinched expressions of the cynical, world-weary, throat-cutting, miserable bastards we’ve all had to become disappears, when we’re confronted with something as simple as a plate of food.” — Anthony Bourdain

The Institute. The sign reads like a death sentence, like it’s judging her, creeping under her hot, flushed skin. It’s where many have gone to die, to be lost in the sea of scallops and truffles and demi-glacé, of boredeaux and top shelf whiskey and dim, flickering candles on heavy, expensive table clothes.

It’s her first day, and Clary Fray is positively terrified.

“Relax, you look like you’re constipated,” Simon Lewis, her best friend since the days of diapers and coloring on walls, says from behind her.

“Have you seen where you work?” Clary asks, still unmoving. “It makes Mordor look appealing.”

“Nah, that’s only Maryse, our resident Sauron. She’s always in her office, anyway, you’ll never see her.”

Clary doesn’t quite believe him. Simon’s only been working there for six months, but he seems to have forgotten the traumatic hour he spent, just like her, alone in a room with Maryse Lightwood, owner and manager of The Institute Bistro.

She’s still not sure how she landed this job, Simon’s good word be damned.

Simon pushes her forward toward the dark double doors.

“C’mon, we’re gonna be late,” he says.

It’s just another job, Clary. Woman the hell up.

Simon opens the front doors, ushering her inside. The restaurant is dimly lit; she can barely see her hand out in front of her as her eyes adjust from the bright sunlight outside. It’s empty save for the employees walking around in their perfectly pressed black clothes, getting everything ready to open.

A woman with a long, intricate blonde braid stands next to one of the closest tables to the door, filling a line of crystal salt and pepper shakers, expertly sweeping any spills off the immaculate red tablecloth and into her palm with a silver crumber.

“Hey, Lydia,” Simon calls to her. “Is Maryse in?”

The aforementioned Lydia looks up, eyeing Clary with interest. Clary squirms a little under her gaze; it’s hard, intrigued at her squeaky clean newness but laced with potential judgment.

She’s bordering on panic now. 

“No, not today, she had a meeting with the lawyers,” Lydia says, wiping her hands on the crisp black apron tied around her waist.

Simon steps back so he’s a hair behind Clary, nudging her forward gently.

“This is Clary, she’s the new host,” Simon says. “Clary, this is Lydia, one of the servers.”

Lydia sticks out her hand; her shake is firm, an iron vice around Clary’s hand.

“Nice to meet you,” she says officially. “Welcome to The Institute.”

Clary smiles, albeit a little wary. “Good to be here.”

Lydia leans forward, still gripping her hand, like she’s about to tell Clary a secret. 

“Pro tip,” she says, “get better shoes.”

Clary looks down at her worn black Converse and flushes to match her fiery hair.

“Tried to tell her but Fray’s a Converse addict,” Simon laughs, side-eyeing Clary. “She needs to go to shoe rehab. Can’t pry them from her cold dead hands.”

“They’re comfortable!” Clary retorts.

Normally, she’d laugh right along with him, but she’s no longer Simon’s confident best friend. She’s a vibrating bundle of nerves, her thoughts screaming fuck I knew I should’ve splurged on some stupid server shoes, of course it’s the first thing she notices, god I’m not going to fit here.

Simon gives Clary a look like she’s having a stroke, and clears his throat.

“Um, where’s Alec then?” he asks.

Lydia waves her hand vaguely, already back to the shakers.

“Somewhere in the wine cellar I think,” she says. “I heard yelling down there earlier.”

Simon grabs Clary’s arm and drags her toward the pristine bar, ducking behind the glossy mahogany counter and descending down a darkened stairwell in the back hallway. The door at the bottom screeches open, deafening, and then they’re in a modest cement-walled cellar, the musty air curling around them. Rows of wooden shelves line the walls and stand from floor to ceiling, bottles of varying sizes and dust accumulation stuffed in every crevice. Two large, industrial refrigerators dominate the back wall, displaying columns of white wine.

A man stands there with his back turned, writing in a small notebook.

“Hey, Alec,” Simon shouts, leading Clary over to him.

Alec turns, stowing the notebook in his back pocket. He’s incredibly tall, which only exacerbates Clary’s five feet two inches. His eyes are piercingly blue, making Clary somewhat uncomfortable in their fierceness, and the sleeves of his black dress shirt are pushed up to reveal black, swirling tattoos. A small, dangling silver earring in his left ear catches the dim light and sparkles, odd and delicate on his large frame.

He’d be handsome if he wasn’t scowling.

“Sorry to bug you,” Simon says hurriedly, “but Maryse isn’t here and Clary starts hosting today.”

Alec’s eyes flick over to Clary, narrowing at her in distrust. 

“I know, Mom told me she was starting today,” Alec says gruffly.

Mom?  

Suddenly, Clary realizes who this is. Alexander Lightwood, eldest son of Maryse and Robert Lightwood, assistant manager and bartender at The Institute and a general pain in Simon’s ass. Clary recalls countless agitated phone calls and emergency coffee runs these past six months, Simon consistently bitching about some entitled asshole named Alec who hated Simon for no real reason.

This asshole, apparently.

Alec grabs a bottle off the nearby shelf and points it at her.

“Should be a pretty typical Wednesday night,” he snaps. “Nothing too crazy. You’ll be shadowing Simon. Your job is to answer phones, take people to their seats, taking and calling reservations, and maintaining the flow of the restaurant. A monkey could do it. I’m bartending. Lydia, Maia, Jace and Helen are serving, try not the get in the way.”

He pulls the bottle away and gives her an obvious, stern once over, lips curling into a grimace when he spots her shoes.

“Uniform is all black, no jeans, no t-shirts, and lose the Converse next time.”

Alec walks up the stairs, the floorboards creaking under his feet. Clary stares after him, mouth ajar, before turning to Simon incredulously.

“Does he ever smile?” she asks.

Simon shrugs. “I’ve never seen it. He might not even know how.”

Clary sticks her tongue out at the direction Alec just went and follows Simon back up the stairs into the heart of the restaurant.

“You clock on in the kitchen,” Simon says.

She tails him down the steps (the and host station are on a platform, while the rest of the restaurant stretches out down a small flight of stairs) and through the vast main room, her feet springing on the plush blood  red carpeting.

Simon pushes past two massive steel doors in the back, gleaming like a looking glass. Suddenly, Clary’s immersed in the chaos of the kitchen as they prepare for the day.

Two men on the line, dressed in crisp black chef coats with blood red detailing on the cuffs and collar, are shouting at each other in Spanish. Hypnotic Latin bass thumps in the background from speakers mounted on the wall. A man with his hair tied back in a braid is swaying his hips to the beat, mixing something white in a large steel bowl.

People push past the doors at regular intervals, barely giving Simon and Clary a glance. They’re carrying buckets or trays or come in to shout something at one of the men before ducking back into the ether. It’s a controlled disaster; Clary doesn’t know where to look first.

“Into the fray, Fray,” Simon teases, leading her down the aisle between the doors and the first set of stainless steel counter tops. Clary rolls her eyes.

They head to the far back of the kitchen, toward a small door labeled “office”. The glass panes on the door are ancient with dust, the glass crawling toward the bottom of the window in ripples.

Simon turns the knob, and they step inside the office, illuminated by low desk lights. The space is lined with three different desks shoved against the walls. A large leather office chair takes the space in the middle of the desks, for easy access to each one. The amount of clutter overtaking the desks astounds Clary, who’s rather neat by nature: mountains of documents and files, recipe notes written in scrawling calligraphy, jars of unopened spices, boxes exploding with bubble wrap, scattered pens and various mugs. A laptop, sleek and shiny, is propped on a stack of cookbooks, opposite a large boxy computer that could’ve walked out of Clary’s childhood.

Simon leans over the mess, sweeping a multicolored silken scarf off the old keyboard and clocking himself in, before doing the same for Clary.

“Super easy to clock in,” he says, turning back to face her, “just find your name and type in your birthday.”

The office door bangs open dramatically, making Clary jump out of her skin. A man walks in, tall and lithe, jet black hair spiked high on his head and rings glittering on his fingers. A gentle smirk dances on his face, and he’s dressed in the same chef’s coat as the rest of the kitchen staff, with the added exception of shimmering thread woven throughout the coat.

“Hey, Magnus,” Simon says, awkwardly gesturing to Clary behind him. “This is my best friend Clary, our new host. Clary, this is our head chef Magnus.”

Magnus holds out his hand; the bracelets stacked on his wrist clang together as he moves. Clary’s mildly impressed with how perfectly accessorized he is.

“Pleasure,” he says, a vague, lilting accent dressing up his words. “Welcome aboard, biscuit.”

She shakes his hand, stunned into silence. Magnus doesn’t seem to mind-- if anything, he seems used to that reaction-- and grabs the scarf from the desk, tying it around his head to keep his hair back.

“Sherman,” he says, adjusting the knot of the head scarf. “Tell Jace if he sends back one more wagyu burger today because he forgot to put in the temp, I’ll wagyu him.”

It takes Clary a moment to realize he’s talking to Simon.

“Still not speaking?” Simon asks.

“Nope,” Magnus says, enunciating the ‘p’ with a loud pop. “Yesterday was unforgivable. Five burger. FIVE. Raphael almost threw a plate at him.”

“I wish he had,” Simon mutters to himself.

Clary raises her eyebrows at him. Magnus grabs a black, sparkling notebook from behind the laptop and pats Clary’s head as he breezes by.

“Good luck, gingersnap,” he says out the door. “Don’t forget, Simone!”

“Well, that was almost right,” Simon says with a good-natured smirk. 

That’s the thing about Simon. Nothing seems to faze him, like water off a duck’s back.

“Alright, Fray,” Simon says. “Let’s put you to work.”

**

Most people would say that irritation is Alexander Lightwood’s default setting. Those who truly know him, however, know the difference between normal, surly Alec and irate, pissed off Alec.

Today, he’s the latter.

He tries not the let work take over his life-- he really does. To be fair, he doesn’t have much of a life to speak of beyond work, but the point still stands. 

Unfortunately, when your parents/bosses are going through a nasty divorce, which takes over every single aspect of you and your siblings’ lives because nothing about your damn family is quiet or discreet, suddenly your attention is inundated with wine orders and staffing and reps and catering... all while steadfastly trying to avoid the splintering marriage infecting everything you do.

Alec pauses in stocking the bar and grimaces down at his phone, seeing the flood of passive aggressive texts from his mother. He slams the phone down on the bar top and puts his head in his hands, massaging his weary temples.

“Jace!” he calls.

He peeks through his fingers to see his best friend and adoptive brother bound toward him, sliding behind the bar with grace and sidling up to Alec. He leans against the counter, a picture of ease, his golden hair curling over his forehead in that just-rolled-out-of-bed surfer boy way, eyes shining.

His cheer only irritates Alec more.

He passes his phone over wordlessly, watching Jace’s expression morph into disdain as he reads. He wrinkles his nose.

“So, I take it the meeting didn’t go very well,” Jace says with a snort, handing Alec his phone back.

“That’s an understatement.”

Alec sighs, leaning his hips flush against the counter. He reaches up subconsciously toward his ear, fiddling with the small silver arrow charm dangling from the lobe.

“At this point, it’s just constant fighting over Max and the restaurant,” Alec says, frowning, eyeing Simon carrying the host sign to the door, the little redhead girl following at his heels. Jace watches the pair curiously, eyes trained on the redhead-- Clara? Cora? Alec can’t remember for the life of him-- with interest.

“Poor kid,” Jace says of their baby brother, still watching her and Simon set up the host station. “This can’t be good for him, witnessing all this fighting. We should just adopt him.”

Alec raises an eyebrow. “He’s already our brother.”

“Yeah, but if we adopt him then he won’t have to boomerang between Maryse and Robert, which I think everyone can agree is not good for his health and development. Besides, you know we’d be kickass parents.”

“I’m not going to be Max’s new dad, parenting you is enough work.”

Jace gasps dramatically. “You impugn my honor, sir. I’m wounded. Wounded!”

Alec rolls his eyes.

“Go impugn yourself,” he says, tugging on his earring again as he looks out over the hustle of the restaurant opening.

Jace turns away from the host station, looking at Alec. His eyes track Alec’s fingers, toying with the charm, and when Alec glances back at Jace, he’s met with a knowing grin that Alec is tempted to slap off his face.

“What?” Alec asks, annoyed.

“Nothing,” Jace says, still grinning. “I like the jewelry. Where’d you get it?”

Alec’s hand jerks away from the earring like its burned him, and glares venomously at Jace.

“Shut up,” he snarls.

Jace holds his hands up in surrender.

“What? I’m just admiring,” he says, all innocence. “It’s a good look for you. You should wear it more often-- oh wait, that’s right, you’ve been wearing it every day since your birthday.”

Alec rolls his eyes so hard he’s somewhat concerned they might fall out of his head.

“It’s easier to just leave it in,” he says, refusing to meet Jace’s eyes.

Jace’s grin turns lecherous.

“Sure that’s all you wanna leave in?” Jace says.

Alec hits him with a check presenter.

“Can you shut up?” he hisses, eyes darting around. “We’re at work!”

Jace snorts. “Yeah because no one knows about the raging hard on Magnus has for you. I just gotta ask-- why didn’t he get me a birthday present? Maybe I want some jewelry too.”

Alec hits him again, this time over his head, the leather of the check presenter making a violent smacking sound.

“Can you ask him where he got it at least? I wanna match,” Jace laughs, dancing away when Alec lunges at him.

Jace is saved from strangulation by a melodic voice ringing out from the kitchen doors.

“Alexander!”

Magnus.

Jace waggles his eyebrows at Alec, swinging around the bar and striding over to the host station before Alec can figure out what to throw at him. He heaves a long suffering sigh and turns around to see Magnus striding toward the bar. His usual head scarf, today a deep maroon with multicolored designs, is tied around his head and small gold hoops glint in his ears. Gold eyeliner flicks out in a sharp wing around his eyes, making them appear cat-like and complimenting his warm brown skin.

He’s stunning, as usual, and Alec has to fight to not seem noticeably affected by him.

“Yeah?” Alec says as Magnus approaches, eyes on his forehead because it’s the safest place for him to look.

“I’m short a box of sherry,” Magnus says, leaning against the bar and folding his arms on top of it. “Have you done the liquor order yet?”

Work. He wants to talk work. This, Alec can do. He meets Magnus’ eyes-- they’re glittering, a kaleidoscope of green and yellow that sucks him in a little too deep.

“Uh, no,” Alec says, trying to focus. “I mean, I’m doing it now.”

He holds up the notebook next to him as proof, littered with his illegible scrawl.

“I’ll put on another box and get them to credit it,” Alec says, all business.

Magnus cocks his head to the side, eyes fixated on the tattoo on Alec’s neck, peeking out from the stiff collar of his black button down. Alec had never thought much about tattoos until Jace came home on his eighteenth birthday with his first one, an elegant falcon stretching across his shoulder. Maryse and Robert had both freaked, screaming at Jace for how he would be presenting himself at the restaurant. Alec and Isabelle, Alec and Jace’s sister, had loved it. Alec remembers tracing it every chance he could with his eyes, back when he was still closeted and hating himself, when Jace stirred up someting more than just brotherly affection. He’d been fascinated by the dark lines racing through Jace’s golden skin, running his fingers over his own pale forearms at night and wondering what it would look like on him. 

He came out to his parents soon after that, followed by his first tattoo to erase the pain of his parents’ rejection. His tattoos are his response to pain, and he’s been getting at least one a year, if not more, ever since.

Magnus is still staring at his neck and Alec’s face heats up like a stove top.

“I bet Sebastian stole it,” Magnus jokes-- sort of. Sebastian, their closing prep cook/dishwasher, isn’t the most trustworthy person. Alec has it on good authority that he’s pilfering spices; the only reason Magnus hasn’t fire him is because he’s their fastest dishwasher.

Alec can’t stand the guy, and almost hopes Sebastian actually did steal the sherry so Magnus stops dancing around letting him go.

“Wouldn’t shock me,” Alec says, glancing down at the notebook and scribbling a case of sherry on the ordering chart.

Magnus watches him; Alec fidgets under his gaze and looks back up.

“Anything else?” he asks, desperate for Magnus to go back into the kitchen so he can breathe normally again.

Magnus shakes his head.

“Nope,” he says with a coy grin. “Just looking.”

Alec’s cheeks grow so hot eggs could fry on them. He sputters, feeling clumsy, clearing his throat and shuffling his feet.

Magnus laughs, like the tinkling of chimes, pushing himself up from his lazy slouch over the bar. He winks at Alec.

“Thanks, darling. Back to the dungeon I go,” he sings, spinning on his heels and sashaying back toward the kitchen’s double doors.

Alec watches him go, frozen, eyes hypnotized by Magnus’ hips swinging back and forth.

Goddamnit.

His phone buzzes, snapping Alec out of his stupor shamefacedly. He shakes his head like he’s getting rid of a fly and glances down at the screen.

MOM: I’m getting Max and coming in for dinner. I cannot be around your father. Reserve me a table and get out the merlot I like. Tell Magnus I’m not doing carbs, I want the spaghetti squash in place of the pasta in the bolognese. Did the Sonoma rep call yet? I need you to do payroll I won’t be able to this week with all these damn meetings, your father is impossible.

Alec’s head falls on the bar in despair. 

How he’s going to get through tonight, he has no idea. 

He lifts his head up like it’s an anvil and sighs, rolling his neck and relishing in the crack of his joints.

“Alright, it’s showtime,” he calls, looking toward Simon and nodding at him to flip the sign. “Let’s open.”

#i'll probably post this on ao3 at some point #be gentle #but also gimme feedback i need it #my fic #shadowhunters #malec #sizzy #clace #tmi #tsc #shadowhunters au #tmi au #track vicious velvet i guess #or track my fic #vicious velvet #restaurant au #don't kill me im only playing

[prodchoi]

Delirium [part three]

Part one

Part two

[1,650+ words, blood mention, horror]

~

“Please.. please stop”

The shrieks and groaning from the.. entity. In front of him drowns his thoughts. His mind running in a million different directions Please. This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real. Wake up I thought this was over. “YOU CAN'T LEAVE US AGAIN CHRISTOPHER” He flinches at the booming voice, falling backwards onto the steps, covering his ears.

///

[4:12pm] October 8th 2013, Sydney, Australia

A 16 year old boy sitting in the waiting room of a therapist office, his earphones playing some form of rap music. His mother shuffling the new patient forms beside him. Dark curls covering his head, a distant look in his golden brown eyes. A short blonde lady behind the reception counter pokes her head out the door, “Christopher Bang? You’re ready to come back” Chan gets up from the hard leather chair, straightening his shirt as he walks to the door, The nurses smiles at the him and he returns a small polite one. “It’s the door at the end of the hallway”. He advances towards the wooden door, nerves on end. Dr Patricia Lang ‘I’ve always hated doctors.’ He knocks twice, not sure whether to just enter or not, a quiet “come in” from the other side of the door.

//

“When did this start Christopher? The dreams I mean.” He stared at the clock on the desk, face blank in reply “About four months ago”. The older woman across from him nodded “Can you tell me what happens?” He gave a dry look “No”. She smiles, eyes crinkling at the rebellious boy. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me” The annoyed look on his face softens a bit, he opens his mouth as if he’s going to speak, conflict flashing in his eyes as he closes it straight back. “We don’t have to talk about it today, if you aren’t comfortable. Tell me a little about your life. What do you do Day-to-day? What are your interests?” He frowns a little, he wants to tell someone. Anyone. But he can’t form the words. “I.. I like music. Producing.” The blonde but greying woman nods, happy with anything he gives her. “My husband loved playing the guitar”. He looks at her finally, his emotions unreadable “My dad does too”. She wrote down the things he mentioned, black ink scribbled onto the yellow pages of her legal pad

Presumed schizophrenia. Depressive. Insomnia Sleep paralysis. Anger issues (?). Takes no form of antidepressant. Very active in sports and school activities until recently.

The hour had passed for his session, Chan felt more relief to leave than he did to be there. Feeling cornered, but he knew he needed this.

//

September 14th 2016

[4:26am]

Chan sits at a small corner desk, littered with crumpled notebook paper and different anime figures, a rather large goku figure stands on top of one of two large speakers. His features are lit by the blue hue from his laptop, Placebosample.mp3 sits in the open tab. A worn notebook wide open as his hand rests on its open page, pen loosely standing between his index and thumb, words stopping mid sentence. he fell asleep two hours ago, eyelashes resting on his cheeks and his lips in a natural pout.

Things are better. One visit left with Dr Lang before I leave for korea. Mom is less worried. The night terrors are rare. The last one I had was a 8 months ag—

The words stop there, nothing but a scribbled line to continue where his flowing thoughts halted. He stirred in his sleep, the ache in his back from the old desk chair waking him. “Agh fuck” he groaned as he stood, back making less than healthy popping noises as he leaned side to side. He shuffled just far enough across his room to face plant the bed, scooting up the rest of the way to the pillows in a caterpillar-like motion. ‘I’ll finish it this weekend’

//

[7:30am]

Morning comes sooner than he’d like, rays of golden sunlight streaming through the window beside his bed. One eye open, his face in a sleepy grimace, he rolls out of bed to do his morning routine that consisted of

1.Showering

2.Brushing his teeth

And 3. munching on something that probably isn’t meant to be a breakfast food

Surprisingly, he hops through the living room on one foot, attempting to shove a vans sneaker on his other with a pop tart hanging from his lips, as he realized when he zoned out in front of the fridge for 15 minutes he was late for his therapy appointment. The words ‘fuck fuck fuck fuck’ is all that ran through his mind at this very moment. A less than brief wait at the public transportation station has him on edge, already annoyed at the seemingly backed up traffic.

//

Dr Lang gave him a warm smile, Chan returning the favour at the familiar woman. He takes notice of how much she’s changed since their first session. Her hair is shorter, a salt and pepper grey filters her used to be blonde pin straight hair. More lines set in her face than there used to be.

“A little late today, aren’t we?”

He huffs a little, rubbing his palms on his jeans, “I overslept a bit” a sheepish look on his face. Dr Lang nodded, amused by the young man. “As this is our last session together before you leave.. I’d like to ask you a few things, Christopher”. He cocked his head a bit at her sudden change of feeling, but he knew exactly what she was going to bring up. “It’s been over seven months, Dr Lang. I don’t think I have to worry about it anymore” She shifted slightly, crossing her legs. “Christopher as much progression as you’ve made, I’m just afraid they might come back once you stop coming here” Her eyes look genuine, eyebrows furrowed. Chan looks at the floor, the carpet less guilt inducing than the woman across from him. “I’ve thought the same thing.. but I have to do this. I don’t need the medication anymore regardless, and I’ll be seeing a therapist there as soon as I’m able.” The older woman sighed, his stubbornness never fading over the years. “If they do come back you’ll be the first person I call” he gives her a soft smile, dimples poking at his cheeks. Opting to change the subject briefly, she takes her leather bound notebook and flips to one of their earlier sessions from that year, “Can you retell me the dream you had about 8 months ago?” Chans eyes whip up at the mention of the date, surprised she would bring it up out of nowhere. He nods, sighing a deep breath, readying himself. “Okay”

//

January 7th

2016

[11:26pm]

Chan is sprinting, barefooted on wet grass, trees passing by in blurs.

Go go go go go

Dogs barking a snarling behind him, closer and closer it seems. Snapping at his clothes and skin. He falls and is suddenly in his childhood homes living room. Blood coats the walls.

WELCOME HOME, CHRISTOPHER.

He scrambles from the floor, charging to exit the door and escape.

I’ve done this too many times to be afraid. He breaks through the thin wood door with his shoulder, already knowing the door knob wouldn’t open it. He rolls as he hits the ground, getting back to his feet in seconds and running again.

DON'T RUN FROM US.

DON’T LEAVE US.

Distorted screaming wails from every direction he covers his ears as he runs, knowing it’s tricks all too well now.

DON’T LEAVE US.

The red-orange hue in clouds giving everything in the copy of his neighborhood a sick, cheesy horror image. That’s what all of this felt like now.

A sick joke.

He halts suddenly, turning back to face what he’s feared for years now.

“ENOUGH!”

His chest heaves as his blood pressure rises

“I SAID ENOUGH, GODDAMNIT!”

He was shaking with confusion and rage at the thing in front of him. His breath leveling as he stared at it approaching him, slower than the hurdling motion it was following his running form with.

“Stop..please for the love god.. stop”

The…creature. Or how ever you can explain it morphed into a human shaped figure. It mirrored him. The skin turned a sick pale white, his hair stringier on the creature, everything was him. Just drained. Everything but the eyes. A milky white. Like pools of fog sitting where the eyes should be.

He raised his arm to wipe his face, body exasperated. It copied his movements.

“What are you? Why won’t you leave me?”

He isn’t scared at this point, just in awe that all the times he’s ran from it, it hasn’t hurt him yet.

The creatures breathing fluctuates as heavy chokes of air and the sound of fluid filled lungs depressing.

We go by many names

Its voice disembodied as it speaks, as if it speaks into his head rather from its form.

“Why me?” Chan stares at it, in what presumes is it’s eyes, the hair on the back of his neck standing when he makes ‘eye contact’

You are not weak, Christopher.

We need you.

We feed from you.

It draws in a snarling breath.

Your people call us, Incubus. Chan recognizes the word, “Aren’t you a.. sex demon, or something?” It chortles at his question. We do many, many things depending on the host. We feed on your fears rather your desire, dear boy. We thrive off of it. We thrive off ofYou.

Chan attempts to understand its words, though his anger only bubbles under his skin. “I don’t want you”. He seethes through clenched teeth. “I don’t want any of this”. The creature sways in place, its form twisting into something different, yet familiar. Dr Lang.

Let’s make a deal, Christopher.

#delirium #stray kids #bang chan #stray kids chan #stray kids bang chan #stray kids fic #stray kids fan fic #stray kids fanfic #kpop fanfic #kpop fan fic #my writing #oOoOoOooOf whyd this take so long #let me know ur thoughts per usual!!!

[madelainesvixens]

CALL IT WHAT YOU WANT: CHAPTER THREE | FORSYTHE

Tuesday, September 29th

8:58

After an all nighter with Alice Smith, FP had trouble waking up for school on Tuesday morning. His dad had banged on his door, yelling at his son to wake up and FP almost didn't hear him. He was that tired. Not because Alice had worn him off in bed - he had an excellent stamina. It's just that with school, football practice/games and working a Pop's, keeping a regular sleeping schedule wasn't easy. Now that he had to up his grades, it was going to get tougher.

FP sat down behind his Math class's desk, rubbing his face with his hands in hope to wash his fatigue away. The bags under his eyes were darker than yesterday but they've seen worse.

''You look like hell, man. Did you have any sleep last night?'' Fred said, taking a seat next to him.

''Thanks, Andrews. You look good too.''

Fred glanced at his best friend again and pulled his eyebrows. It was hard to believe FP Jones was a ladies man with this appearance. His hair were unruly and although his white tee shirt was covered by his heavy, yellow and blue varsity jacket, Fred knew it came from FP's bedroom floor and not his dresser. Oh FP...

''Are you in tonight?''

''Yeah. Five to closure.''

Fred raised an eyebrow. ''You think you're gonna hold up?''

With a snort and an eye roll from FP as response, Fred dropped the subject.

.

12:21

FP walked down the aisles of the library, checking the numbers until he found the aisle 224. He had been drinking water from the fountain when a hand hovered the back of his jeans, squeezing once through the fabric, when an invitation to aisle 224 in ten minutes was purred into his ear. FP's lips had turned into a smirk, recognizing Alice's perfume and soft voice.

To the teenager's surprise, the library wasn't vacant during lunch hour. Students occupied the seats, books set on the tables right next to their lunch. The librarian had smiled at FP as he had walked through the doors and he politely returned it.

221.

222.

223.

224.

A smug smirk curled on FP's lips when he saw the biker blonde waiting for him at the end of the historical aisle, red and black mesh shirt giving him a good view of her bra. Her leather jacket was on the floor right next to her bag, a pack of smokes threatening to spill from the pocket. Alice made eye contact with the Bulldog and bit down her bottom lip seductively. ''Took you long enough,'' she pointed.

''I've never been here before.''

''I don't come here often either. It's not really my scene.'' FP crossed the distance between them, joining Alice at the end of the aisle. ''But, I'll let you on a little secret: 224 is my favorite.''

FP plucked a book from the shelves, reading the cover and huffed amusedly. ''Historical politics?'' he asked with an arched eyebrow.

Instead of replying, Alice grabbed him by the collar of his tee shirt and pulled him closer, crashing their lips together. FP kissed back, one of his hands coming on her lower back, pressing her against him while his other snaked up on Alice's side, feeling her skin under the thin top. Her dark painted nails curled into his tee shirt, grazing at his chest before let go of it.

FP moved his lips lower and grabbed her leather clad thigh as he kissed her neck, a soft moan leaving her lips, right before capturing them in a kiss.

No wonder aisle 224 was Alice's favorite. No one ever needed books from the historical politics aisle and it was in the far back of the library. Perfect for secret make out sessions.

FP's jacket joined Alice's on the floor before he hoisted the blonde up, her skirt ridding up, and backed her against the shelf, praying to god it was sturdy enough and wouldn't betray them. Alice smiled through the kiss, very on board with their new position.

While it was exciting to make out in the library, it was very restrictive. They had little space and couldn't make any sounds...or else they'd risk getting caught.  

The teenagers pulled away, both panting and stared into each other's eyes with lust. ''Are we going to have sex here? With all those nerdy virgin ears around us?'' FP questioned, a thrill of excitement running through his head at the thought of fucking between two shelves. Alice stole a kiss from him. ''Do you think you'll be able to keep quiet?''

Although no one ever talked about it, there was indeed a written rule saying having any type of sexual activities on school grounds was prohibited. It was common sense. And, if it came to Mr. Featherhead's ears that two of his students had sex in his library, they would both get expelled. With their current financial situation, FP wasn't sure his dad would appreciate that. It wouldn't look great on his college application for sure.

Alice chuckled. ''You'd be surprised of all the things I excel at, Jones.''

At that, FP felt his pants tightening, creating ideas in his head. What 'things' was she talking about? Was it her blowjob skills because he'd love to experience more of that. FP thought that Vixen sucked him good two weeks ago but, now that Alice Smith's lips had been on him, he's not sure anyone could beat that.

''But, no. We're not going to.'' She freed herself from FP's grip, booties touching the tiled floor. ''You'll have to wait until tonight...you know, for our Science assignment.''

Knowing his dad would be having another night shift tonight, the coast was clear to invite Alice over but, FP had other obligations he couldn't cancel. Not even for a good fuck. ''I'm working until closure tonight.''

''That's too bad, uh?'' Alice bent down to grab her bag and jacket, giving FP a perfect glance at her ass. He chewed down his bottom lip at the sight. Fuck, he wanted to tap that. Her leather mini outranked the cheerleaders's uniform without hesitation. Icing on the cake: he bet that Alice was wearing some skimpy underwear and not obligatory biker shorts. ''I guess I'll see you in class then.''

.

Friday, October 2nd

21:52

FP didn't hear of Alice until Friday. Friday was also a game night...and, be default the night his old man chose to invite his buddies at home for a drink.

It was almost ten when FP came home from the game. He was supposed to drop his bag, change and go to Mantle's for an after-game party but his plans were cancelled as soon as he stepped inside, the strong smell of whiskey filling his nostrils.

''Dad?''

No response. His truck was outside, he was home.

''Dad?'' he tried again but still nothing. FP toed off his shoes and walked down the hall, following the alcohol odor. ''I'm home. We won against Greendale, I-'' FP stopped himself mid sentence as he stepped into the living room. ''Shit.''

Forsythe was passed out on their couch, a bottle of whiskey smashed on the floor, the brown liquid spilled around it. He must've passed out holding it.

Dropping his bag on the floor, FP sighed and went to the kitchen to grab a cloth and the trash to clean up the mess on the floor before his dad would wake up and step on the pieces of glass. Last thing they needed was for Forsythe to get injured because of his drinking habits. How would they pay the bills? Certainly not with FP's part-time job a Pop's.

Having to clean up behind his dad became part of FP's routine. Every Friday nights he'd come home to empty beer bottles scattered around and a drunk father - sometimes passed out, sometimes not. On night he was still awake, Forsythe didn't have a clear mind. He'd pick up fights over silly things and once even hit his son. Sometimes, some of his dad's buddies were still there when FP came home and FP was quick to understand how pigs they were. Swearing left and right, talking shit about their wives and even puking on the floor. Honestly, it was nothing to be proud of.

FP was in the middle of cleaning up the sticky top of the table when the doorbell went off.

The teenager stiffened and stopped his cleaning. Who was that?

He checked the clock on the wall, realizing it was ten-thirty. Fuck. That must be Fred. FP had told him he'd meet him at his place in fifteen minutes. Fred must've been sick of waiting and decided to come and see what's taking so long.

The doorbell went off again, and again, and again. FP furrowed his eyebrows. Fred never pressed the doorbell repeatedly.

The raven haired boy set the cloth on the table and answered the door. Instead his fellow Bulldog and best friend, a beautiful blonde stood on his doorstep.

''Alice?''

In any other situation, FP would've been happy to see her but his father was passed out on their couch and his house reeked of alcohol.

''Are you going to let me in, or?'' Alice asked, arching an eyebrow. ''If I stay outside any longer, my left boob is going to freeze off.''

FP hesitated for a few second and reluctantly let her in, opening the door to his darkest secret, the one tried to cover it all up for years.

To his surprise, she didn't make any comments about the strong smell of whiskey nor his father's passed out figure of the couch. She knew better than to stick her nose in the Jones's businesses.

Alice took off her jacket, setting it on the arm of the lazy-boy chair. It was no surprise she was cold, she only wore a bustier and an open wave knit sweater under her jacket. Not a very smart choice for an October night. ''I thought you'd be at Mantle's party. I took a chance by coming here.''

''I intended to go but...yeah.'' FP nodded at his dad.  

He returned to the table he wasn't finished cleaning. While it was rude to clean while having guests over, he didn't really have a choice. He knew very well his dad won't clean up when he'll wake up from his deep sleep.

''You don't have to be embarrassed. I'm not gonna judge you over your dad's alcohol problems, FP,'' she said, picking up two empty bottles from the floor and carried them to the kitchen.

FP heard the clinking of the glass bottles and whirled his head around, seeing the blonde carrying bottles. ''What are you doing? You don't have to clean up after my dad.''

''Neither do you. You're not his damn servant,'' Alice pointed. ''He's an adult and should be looking out for you, not the other way around.''

Ever since his dad started drinking on the daily, a lot of his responsibilities had fallen on FP's shoulders because all his old man cared about was his six pack of beer he'd be downing the second he gets home from work. Most of the time, their fridge was empty bare from a carton of milk. Home cooked meals had been replaced by take out boxes and their weekly father-son dinner at Pop's had been replaced by FP getting a job at the infamous diner.

What would Forsythe do without FP? He could barely take care of himself, let alone do the laundry or cook.

''If I don't, who will?'' FP snapped.

He sighed, regretting it immediately. Alice was trying to help and he yelled at her. Wow, he's acting like his father when he's had too many beers... Guess the apple didn't fall far from the tree, uh? That thought made the teenager froze. No. No, no. FP had sworn himself he would never become him.

Alice narrowed her blue eyes at him. ''Hey! Do not talk to me on that tone,'' she warned. ''If I wanted to get yelled at, I would've stayed at home.''

''Sorry,'' he apologized. ''It's just-'' FP pinched the bridge of his nose and, recognizing the gesture as a sign of stress, Alice joined him on the floor. He sensed the proximity of her body and looked up. ''If I don't clean up and cover his track, our nosey neighbor will call the child protective services again and I might get taken away this time. They've had an eye on my dad for a couple months and if I get taken away, he will have no one. I'm all he has, Alice, I can't leave him. What will he do without me?''

If the situation was in reverse, FP could easily go to Fred's. They've been best friends for a long time and his dad loved him. When they were kids, they used to have sleepovers every weekends and would spend the whole summer together. Still today, the Andrews invited FP for dinner at least once a week and FP couldn't be more happy to skip a take out meal. Mr. Andrews was more of a father figure to him than his biological father was.

''No one knows. Beside you.''

Alice offered him a soft smile and put her hand over FP's in support. ''Consider your secret safe with me.''  

NEXT CHAPTER (X)

#falice #call it what you want #call it what you want chapter 3 #fp jones #fic #riverdale fic #falice fic #Alice Cooper

[monotonemanday]

Star Crossed Entertainers - Part 7

They’re back! 2 parts will be out tonight and they will both be shorter than the others! Simply because I need to take a break in between since it’s hard on my legs to type without my desk while I’m living in a closet lol. Hopefully parts will be coming out more consistently again! We’ve got more secrets revealed and obviously more angst! 

Samantha opened the door swift enough for her hair to be blown back.

“Stop banging on the door! Yeesh! Get in here.”

“Oh did I...wake you?” Kaeli was smirking. She was definitely not convinced Sam was asleep.

“I was just out on the balcony is all.”

“Hmmm. Yeah.” A silence fell between the two as Kaeli began to change into a pair of shorts and Sam crawled into the left side of the queen bed in the guest room of Jumin’s penthouse.

“.......Jumin’s kind of loud huh?”

Samantha shot up at a 90 degree angle sitting up and gaping at the small blonde. “What? What do you mean?!”

“I mean, he’s not loud per say he just has a deep voice so it’s easier to hear when-”

“WHHOOOAAAKKAAYYY! We’re done. Not talking about this. Stop.”

Sam was blushing and Kaeli couldn’t help but smile like she was deranged.

“SAMMY!!! YOU LIKE HIM. YOU LIKE A BOY. YOU WERE IN BED WITH JUMIN HAN WEREN’T YOU?! OH MY GOOOSSSSHHH! I AM SO EXCITED! WHAT IF YOU GET TOGETHER? WHAT IF WE GO ON DOUBLE DATES. GASP!!!! DOUBLE WEDDING!!!!”

“Kaeli, stop. Keep your voice down. It’s not like that. I wasn’t in bed with him. (I mean, they weren’t banging quite yet.) Nothing is going to come of this.”

Samantha’s voice was cold and distant. Kaeli’s excitement dwindled in an instant.

“Why Sam? Because you’re scary? Because you were ‘meant to be a lonely person’? Because you can’t let people get close to you? Because of your past? God I am so sick of this! I am so sick of you treating me like a kid and trying so hard to let me live a normal life, despite our situation but not doing anything for yourself!”

Kaeli was climbing into the opposite side of the bed, her voice was sharp and her mood was uneasy but her actions didn’t mirror the fact that she was incredibly chuffed at her best friend.

“I don’t know how many times I've had to say it in these past couple of days but stop talking to me like that, Kay. A lot is happening. A lot is going to continue happening. Big things. I know you’re not a child. I just...”

“I know Sammy. I’m sorry. It’s just that I hate this. We’re in such a weird spot in life. We could either have anything and everything we want, or we could live normal average lives.” 

The pair laid on their backs staring at the ceiling, listening to nothing but the curtains from the balcony doorway flapping in the breeze.

“Tomorrow I have to go to headquarters. I’ve always been reckless but this time I may have gone too far. Reagan is going to be at the meeting too. Are you coming?”

“I am. Baba is probably pretty mad I haven’t been around in awhile. So what are we saying about your hand?”

“As far as everyone else is concerned...Reagan did it.”

Kaeli wasn’t dumb, she knew there was no way Sam would get injured like that by the hands of Reagan. “And as far as the truth?”

Sam took a pause and let out a heavy sigh. “I did it to myself.”

No more words needed to be exchanged. The girls were exhausted. They each rolled on their sides with their backs to each other and fell asleep almost immediately.

Stepping out of the shower he wrapped one towel around his waist and used a smaller one to towel off his deep raven hair. Once it was dried enough he laid the towel across his shoulders and rested his hands on the counter. Looking in the mirror he noticed large bags under his eyes. Jumin didn’t get much sleep. His mind was racked and far away all night. After Samantha left his room he did nothing but sit up and think about what had just happened. What was this? Did he have feelings for this woman? Was he not feeling well? Acting on impulse? Was he acting like his father? 

No. He didn’t know what this was or what he felt exactly. One thing he did understand was that he enjoyed her company. The night of the party, when they talked in the VIP booth he felt comfortable, calm and warm. He hadn’t stopped thinking about finding her. Then when he did she was cold and distant but he waited. He waited and she eventually came. And he was excited. This woman. Samantha. She sparked his interest and Jumin loved curbing his appetite for curiosity. He wanted to know more about her. He had learned about her past, and her questionable employment. It hadn’t bothered him and he knew that there was more he was missing.

Jumin gently slapped his cheeks to snap himself out of his thought. Right, these bags under his eyes. “Where was that cream that Ms. Kang suggested for these dark circles under eyes?”

After about 20 minutes Jumin was dressed and ready for the day. All that remained was picking out a tie. As Jumin sorted through his tie rack his cell phone rang. It was his father.

“Father, Hello. I’m just about to head to work. To what do I owe the pleasure? Oh? Is that so? ...I see. Father I think that’s rather unreasonable if you would just- ...No, of course. I understand. Yes Father. Thank you.”

Jumin hung up his cell phone, shoved his phone in his pocket and began to tie the silk black tie he picked out.

Once Jumin entered the living area in the penthouse he noticed it was irritably quiet. He backtracked and peaked into the guest room. The bed was made and there was no trace of anyone having spent time in the room at all. Noise was coming from the kitchen.

“Ah, good morning Mr. Han. Sorry to disappoint you but it’s just me.” Vanderwood was making himself a cup of coffee.

“Sam and Kaeli left early this morning. Kaeli told me to thank you so much for letting them stay here, that your home is very beautiful, that she loves your cat and uhm let’s see there was one more thing...”

“And Samantha?” Jumin raised an eyebrow at the long haired brunette man.

“Oh she said thank you as well, just in a lot less words.”

“I see.” Making his away to the coffee machine Jumin decided he would try to get as much as he could from Vanderwood. He knew he wouldn’t get far. He was some sort of super agent and he practically raised Samantha. He already got a gist of how closed off and secretive Samantha was so Vanderwood wouldn’t be a tough egg to crack. He decided he’d start off with something to peak his interest.

“Mr. Vanderwood,”

“Ah, you can just call me Vanderwood. No Mr.”

“Very well, Vanderwood. I received a phone call from my father this morning regarding a pretty illustrious event. His old friend Kang-Dae is throwing an annual party. My father always attends but he told me that Kang-Dae invited me to join as well. Apparently there is someone he would like me to meet.”

Vanderwood had his coffee cup to his lips and he paused. Kang-Dae. A name he was never happy hearing.

“Know any reason why he would be inviting me, Vanderwood?”

“Look. I’m not really on the up and up with you corporate cats. And dealing with Kang-Dae...well, that’s more of a Samantha and Kaeli thing. There’s still a lot that you don’t know. You’re a smart man so I don’t feel like there is any advice that I could give you to be helpful.” Vanderwood stood up, grabbed his jacket off of the back of the couch and made his way to the door. “I’ll leave you with this, you seem like a very calm, rational man who lives a very ordinary, rich business man type of life. If you’re willing to have that taken away, or shaken up, by all means keep pursuing all of this. If not, I’d forget all of us who aren’t members of the RFA and get back to that money grind, corporate prince.’

Jumin silently sipped his coffee and Vanderwood looked over his shoulder before making his final exit.

“Oh right, I remembered the last thing that Kaeli wanted me to tell you.”

“And that was?”

“Well I don’t agree with it but...she said, don’t give up on Samantha.”

The car pulled up to the towering building. The driver opened the back door and the doorman had approached the car, Offering his hand to usher them out. As the two ladies walked through the halls, and took escalator and elevator one after the other, doors were held, people greeted them with smiles, bowed out of respect and didn’t over step any boundaries. 

Kaeli was wearing a yellow sundress. The straps were wide and the neckline went straight across. The dress hugged her hips and sat far above the knee. She had white wedge heeled sandals that tied at the ankle. Her hair was worn down and on top of her head was an oversized sunhat that matched the color of her dress. Samantha was wearing a high waist pencil skirt, black, a silk burgundy camisole tucked into the skirt underneath a long sleeved grey cardigan. She was wearing stiletto heels and walked in them with flawless dignity and grace. Her hair was softly curled and pushed to one side.

They reached the top floor and two body guards opened the large cherry wood double doors. Ushered inside the girls stood in the center of the entrance while the doors were closed behind them. Samantha cleared her throat to make their presence known.

Steps led down to a large leather sofa and matching square leather chairs. Across the seating area, stairs led to a large marble desk. The entire back wall was made of ceiling to floor windows. A view over the whole city. Reagan stood to the left of the marble desk. He was wearing a 3 piece suit. He cleaned up nice but he certainly didn’t look as good as Jumin or Zen. Reagan was by no means bad looking, he was actually quite handsome but he was a monster and a snake. To the right of the desk stood the madam, dressed in her normal gaudy robes and too much make up. She should have been at the Night Club working either the regular floor or the VIP areas. The fact she was here instead of on the clock said something.

Sitting at the desk was an incredibly built man. His chest was very defined, his shoulders incredibly broad and his biceps were like mountains. This man looked like he lifted trucks for a living. Seriously, how did this guy fit in a suit? His hair was slicked to the left. Kang-Dae. Respected business man, property owner, donator to politicians and charitable causes, father, crime syndicate leader, mafia don and the biggest king pin in the area. He was going over documents. The sound of Samantha clearing her throat broke him from his work. He stripped off his reading glasses, stood up and outstretched his arms.

“My girls!” He smiled widely and Kaeli ran to the man to be picked up in a spinning hug.

“Baba!!”

“My little princess, it’s been awhile! Is Samantha keeping you caged up again?”

“No Baba! I’ve just been so busy with the new musical I am in! Sammy isn’t keeping me locked up. In fact she’s always busy! I never see her. You work her too hard.” Kaeli pretended to pout.

The large man set her down and looked toward the door where Samantha was still standing. Her arms were crossed and he immediately noticed the bandage on her arm and hand.

“Samantha...come here.”

Sam walked around the outside of the lounge area and passed directly by Reagan. He was sweating and his eyes were darting around nervously. She smirked at him.

“Sam...what happened? Were you being reckless? Was this your temper? Did a client get handsy? You tell me. This instant.” The man grabbed her face roughly in his hand.

Time to act. Samantha jerked her head to the side, pretending like she didn’t want to look him in the eyes. He let her face go and changed his approach.

“Samantha, if someone hurt you then it means things got out of hand. You’ve always been able to defend yourself. I need to know who did this so they can be punished.”

“It’s nothing. It’s fine. It just happened because, well, I didn’t want to cause you anymore trouble.”

“That’s a first.” The madam scoffed and rolled her eyes.

“Silence.” The man didn’t have to raise his voice to make an impact. “Samantha...tell me.”

Enter Kaeli. The two were a team after all. “It was Reagan! He came to the apartment again. Demanding Sammy accept a marriage proposal! It’s becoming every other night now! She tried to get him to leave but he just wouldn’t.” She sounded distraught, traumatized even.

“She’s lying! I never went over there! Sam came to me and-”

It sounded like a battering ram breaking through a door. Kang-Dae had made his way to his son and cracked the back of his hand across his face. Cuts and the imprints of large rings broke his skin underneath large amounts of blood. The madam rushed over and tried to offer Reagan a handkerchief but was stopped by the brute mans deep voice. 

“Leave it.”

“Kang you can’t do this! Those girls may be the Princesses of The Spark Blood Syndicate but this is your son! Your own flesh and blood! My son! Our Son! Whether you acknowledge us or not you can’t just-”

Another smacking sound. This one not as hard or as loud. Just enough.

“I’ve spoken my piece with both of you. Out of my sight.”

Reagan wrapped his arm around the madam’s shoulder, and holding his face, escorted her, his mother, out.

#jumin han #mysticmessenger #Mystic Messenger #mysme #fanfic #fan fiction #star crossed entertainers #samantha #kaeli #ocs #writing #tags #yadda yadda yadda #Spark Blood Syndicate #they have a name now #Kang Dae #we finally know who this big bad employer is #part 7 #part 8 out later tonight #cliff hanger #sort of

[awriterstransition]

Phobias (Major Fetish Diapers/Slight Watersports)

        If you find any of the sections of stories I write interesting, I’ve tagged every story with “Isen” so if you search for Isen’s name you get every part I wrote.  If you have any questions about my stories, or want to tell me anything, go ahead and send me a message.

 Phobias       

         When I woke up in my room everything felt different, the entire room was modern and very human like, with painted sky blue walls, white moldings, even the very bed I was sleeping on was soft and comfortable. Previously the bed used to be stiff and uneven. The room smelled fresh and clean, and I looked to the bedside table and saw a small electrical clock and a crystal lamp. I shifted to look around because I knew this was my room, it smelled like it, and it felt like it, even with the carpeted floor underneath my feet. I walked to my closet and opened it to reveal my clothing, though looking at them closely I could see the stitching was much tighter, and smoother.

         Then I looked down between my legs, and found a small cloth diaper between them, it was held in place with simple buttons, and I could tell it was wet since my crotch felt wet, but then I felt my neck because when I looked down I could feel a bit of resistance. Thankfully my room now had a mirror, and I could see one of Master Raven’s slave collars around my neck. The black choker, rimmed with silver and bearing his royal mark, in the center of gray glowing crystal. The royal Raven mark looked like it was branded on the crystal due to the thick and firm black lines, and the indentations on the surface. Though my mind shifted back down to my crotch where I felt the thick cloth padding between my legs. The front was a thick dark blue plastic coating, but the inside was soft, and of course it was damp because of my own mess. It had been years since I had worn cloth diapers, and it felt amazing. I just couldn’t help but rub the damp padding into my sheath. But in the corner of the mirror, reflected in the room behind me, I saw a folded stiff piece of paper over my lap top on the desk. Marked with Lynn’s name. Wondering what it was, I came to the letter and sat down in the firmly padded black rolling chair, god’s it felt nice. I had been sitting on wood and firm metal, the padding was wonderful. Even the padding in Matra wasn’t as good as the padding on the chair. I shifted towards the familiar wooden desk, and leaned on the surface as I picked up the letter and revealed what was inside.         -To my amazing friend          I couldn’t stay in Matra. I’m sorry I know you hate it when you get gifts like this and have to accept them, but when I saw you living in this place, I knew you needed some kind of escape. I know you’re supposed to live among the people of Matra, but you’re not a Mincridarn. You’re a cute sheep in wolf’s fur just trying to blend in. I know it’s so much compared to the wood walled prison you used to have, but please don’t be mad at me, it was fun recreating our room. The textures and colors; they were all hard to fabricate, but by the gods I’m amazing if I don’t say so myself. I haven’t used so much rune magic in years. I know you have questions so I thought up the questions you might ask.          One          Where did I go?          Well when the Mages Council found out I was Master Gageth’s replacement, so they called me forward to review my role as a member of the council. So I don’t know how long I’ll be gone… Sorry Isen.          Two          Why am I wearing a diaper?          Well that easy Isen, I’m glad you asked. Well I know how much you like wearing them so I made about twenty four, two of every basic color. I know that doesn’t make much sense by I threw in my personal favorite colors as well. I thought you might like feeling wet when you woke up, so I kind of made you pee yourself. I hope you don’t mind it’s nothing permanent I promise. I know you’d hunt my ass down if I did something like that.          Three          Why didn’t I wake up while you were doing all of this?          Isen, I’m a rune mage I could easily put you into a coma and make you sleep for twenty years. Trust me I was going to make this a surprise, so I wasn’t going to let you wake up before it was done.          Four          Why am I wearing this collar?          Isen the collar is specially made to filter out your gift from your magic, so when you express your magic in front of anyone they’ll never react in some kind of sexual or loving manner. I made the collar bearing Master Raven’s mark because, you are his slave in a manner of speaking. You will do as he says Isen, he’s not as bad as he seems, I’ve learned that myself. So the one thing about slave collars Isen, they are never made to come off until the contract is over, of course I didn’t make it time locked you can remove your collar at any time. But the point is, it’s illegal for anyone to touch a slave collar, no one will steal it and or try to take it off of you. OF course I made it so no one could do that anyways, but not the point. The collar will however make it harder to go out in public, but that’s why I made it silver. Silver represents a slave with more freedom then most, so it’s a way of saying your Master has given you permission to wander outside his estate, and do as you please. So you have all of the same freedoms as you once had but the collar just proves that Master Raven is your true master, and that he owns you and therefore it’s his duty to protect and train you.          Five          How long have I been asleep?          You’ve been asleep for a good half a day, by the time you wake up I’ll probably have been gone for a few hours.          Isen I know you don’t love me, but I’ll always love you, and I hope you still will let me be by your side until the end. But what hurts the most is that you never told me what happened to you, I would have stopped blackmailing you in a heartbeat if I had known. What I did was cruel and unforgivable, now that I know what happened to you. Next time when we meet can you promise never to hide anything from me again?          Regardless I hope we can see each other again soon, but that might not happen.          Forever loving you eternally          -Lynn Daren-

         I smiled when I finished the letter, Lynn was the romantic dork, and he loved being the chivalrous knight protecting the fair maiden from evil. So he loved leaving these small notes and letters whenever he could. Sometimes he’d leave small letters on the fridge back on earth when he saw that I was upset, or he was just trying to be romantic. It was one of the reasons I just thought Lynn was just an asshole in the end, not one of those rapists’ and murders; because he actually seemed to respect me as a person. I wasn’t an item to him.          I felt the necklace around the neck stroking the polished gray crystal around my neck, because I knew it was almost an extension of Lynn. I might wear the clothing he made and live in the room he furnished, but the collar was personal, it was his way of showing that he was respecting my wishes. Showing me that he was willing to help me never use my gift.          I soon heard a soft bell echo in my room and I looked towards the door, where bound to the handle was a brass bell tied to a string just a couple inches below the handle. Master Raven entered the room carrying a tray of food in his hand, wearing nothing but simple cotton underwear. When he entered he looked around the room rather amazed by the details, though he saw me standing up and his look of surprise vanished and his firm stern look retuned.           “What are you doing out of bed Kitten? You’re supposed to be resting.”           “Sorry Sir.” I admitted putting the letter in the top drawer of the desk.          He stood in front of me and put two fingers down the front of my diaper. “You really are a kitten aren’t you? Had to wet your diaper like a cub.” Master Raven simply protested as I grew warm at the parental gesture, and I watched as Master raven pulled his fingers out of my diaper and shoved the leather digits in my muzzle.           “Clean my fingers kitten.” I did as asked, and after a moment of simple sucking, he pulled his fingers out my muzzle and wiped the residue on my chest. Though I looked at his leather hands and wondered how he knew the difference in by padding.           “Sir how could you tell I was wet?”           “Special gloves from my father, they are family heirloom, their enchanted to be almost like a second skin. I can feel everything as if I was touching it normally, it’s a little muffled but I can feel when things are wet like blood and sharp like swords. Now Kitten let’s get one thing straight, you can wear your diapers all you want, but I will never once change them, do you understand me?” Master Raven asked firmly.           “Yes Master Raven.” With that confirmation the Cheetah sighed and put the tray in my hands.           “If you’re well enough to stand I guess you should get ready for work, you’re running behind but you should be fine. Eat, then clean your dishes, also take a bath unless you want to let people smell your piss stained fur. When you get back from work, we need to talk about what happened yesterday morning.”           “I’m guessing you don’t approve of what Lynn did?”           “Yes and No. My duty is to train you so you don’t rely on such strange things. Though these things do look interesting. He however forced my hand, I agreed to let him do this as long as he changed and modernized some aspects of my Brothel, and home as well. But that cub spent far too much time in here trying to impress you.”           “That’s Lynn alright, whenever he can use his magic to craft, he always tends to go overboard. Did you know in Ende when he was young he created a small city underneath his house with his shadow magic? He made statues and homes, even people. I’d love to see it, but he said he had to seal it away because confused spirits kept on getting lost down there. Regardless Master Raven, thank you sir for the food.” I said and lifted the tray of food slightly before setting it down on my desk.           “Just eat you meal Isen, you have plenty to do.” Master Raven commanded softly before tapping the collar I wore.           “You do look good in that.” I rolled my eyes, of course Master Raven said that, and I nodded with a small smile. Though the cheetah came closer, with how close he was I had to look up at him and he looked down at me with heavy handed glare, I quickly be scared that rolling my eyes had upset him and I was about to protest but his gaze kept me silent. I always had a hard time talking to people when they stared at me sternly.  Master Raven grabbed my arm, and then before I knew it he brought his hand down and smacked my ass, even with the padding I still felt it all.           “You were slouching again.” Master Raven explained and with that he let me go, and walked out of the door closing it behind him without another word. My heart was beating firmly because Master Raven may be a hard ass and abusive, but fuck he was hot.          I finished my meal, and washed the dishes but when I came to the kitchen I quickly took notice of the new fridge and oven plus cook top. Seeing these I quickly got happy and hugged them. “Stove cooking I’ve missed you so much.” I said happily thinking of human meals I could cook. I’d have to cook something when I got back for sure, something easy to test the heat and cooking times. Though thinking about the recipes in the bath, I quickly realized I knew nothing about how to cook Mincridarn meals, of course I had seen their ingredients before, but I had never used them.          I cleaned myself off, and used a small bit of soap to clean my fur and my scent before dressing up in a simple green silk sleeveless coat, with a tail that was split to make tail movements easier. I simply buttoned this in place with wooden pegs, and put on some brown pants. I left my feet bare just so I didn’t have to deal with the garter belt. I eventually left Master Raven’s home with laptop bag in hand. I met a single guard in front of the Spotted King’s Brothel and she took me to the embassy.          Class was amusing as I thought it was going to be, talking to the students about the movies, the action, the locations, and the items and weapons, weapons most of all. Mincridarins had a general fondness for weaponry, so they had plenty of questions. As homework I assigned them elementary school level worksheets, they were provided to me by the Ambassador. Apparently the Embassy had a copier, so I could select homework assignments from a work books and print them out. Though once I had given them the homework, I had to explain why the paper looked so clean and white.          Though when everyone had left, I had started working on a class room attendance spread sheet on excel as well as an assignment grading scale. I had never taught anyone, and I’m sure if I ever was supervised by a proper teacher they’d chew out every flaw I was making. But Matra had no choice, I was their only option, and they’d rather have me then no one at all. Thankfully the lectures weren’t so super intense, it was mainly responding to questions, but I knew that was going to have to change eventually. So I had to come up with some kind of plan to teach them properly. These first few classes would probably just be testing classes, just to get the students on board before I actually started to teach them.          Though when I was all done preparing for the next day, the guards took me back home and bid me a good night, mainly because it was already late in the afternoon, well after lunch. I was about to go upstairs and relax, by diapering up and getting on my computer to write, but that fantasy was halted by one of the bucks guarding the door. He came over to me and grabbed my shoulder, and spun me around so I had to look at him. It wasn’t Belvin, the scent was different.           “Master Raven wishes to speak with you, come with me.” The buck informed and I nodded in understanding, following the guard into the brothel, and around the main level to one of the tables in the back. I quickly took notice of Lynn’s added detail, because the walls were detailed with vines and pictures of landscapes, but not overdone just something have in the background. The furniture had a simplicity in their details, it was subtle difference, more depth to details and smoother curves. It was like shifting between qualities of videos on the computer, the room used to be on a 360p quality, but now it was more like it was 1080p quality.          Master Raven was sitting in a booth in the VIP area, and the guard stopped at the steps but I continued up and looked at Master Raven, he was wearing no clothes and smell of fresh sex, both male and female musk. Though when I came close enough he looked up at me with the cold stare on his muzzle. “Sit down.” The words were simple and firm, a command meant to be listened to but soft enough to be disregarded, but I sat down regardless.           “Isen I want to help you get over your fear of spiders.” Master Raven said and he lifted his hand when I tried to speak, he simply looked at me and warned me with a simple gesture with his finger. The simple gesture and his own silence left me quiet, and I listened afraid of what he was going to say.          “Isen, I can tell you’re scared, but it’s my duty as your master to train you, and so I will do everything I can to train you out of your fear. I’m asking for your permission, that is all, I promised to never abuse you so I won’t, and I won’t do anything unless agree. Plus there is no point in training someone who isn’t willing to be trained.” Master Raven said leaning back on the bench with his right arm hanging on the back of the bench, while his left rested on the table holding the whip in his hand.          His words left me dazed in deep thought, but when my silence seemed to be too long, Master Raven’s gaze bored into my head and his question back to my mind, and I fell silent truly nervous by what agreeing meant. My hands were lightly shaking at the idea, or maybe I was just shaking in general. “Do you have an answer?”          I looked up at Master Raven, expecting a bit more time to think about this, but the sudden need for an answer left me speechless my mind cut down the middle. I wanted to say No, but Master Raven was willing to help me overcome my fear of spiders. I hated it but I knew it was something I needed to do as well.           “You really are a kitten, just go. If you don’t want to do it, don’t waste my time.” Master Raven said after a moment waving me off with his left hand looking away from me.           “It’s not that Master Raven, I’m just scared.” My words brought up his gaze back to me again, the cold commanding gaze looking down at me. “I want to say yes but I’m scared about it being too much.”           “Kitten, this is a simple question do you want to get over your fears or do you want to let them control your life; Yes or No?” His simple words left me uneasy, but also hard to refuse.           “Yes Master Raven I don’t want to be afraid.” With that agreement he got up from his seat, and he came closer to me and took hold of my upper arm and lifted me off my seat, and close to his chest. It was almost like one of those scenes from an anime, most likely manga since very few animes seemed to be have a proper gay romance.           “You agree to do as I say when I say it?” My hands were tense and grasped at air and soon cleched in uneasiness, but I nodded in agreement.          “Yes sir.” I felt like I was signing my life away again.           “Come with me.” Master Raven commanded, and he let go of my hand and walked away with his whip in hand, but he soon let it fly striking the side of one of his slaves. A female who cried out in pain dropping the broom in her hands. “Do your job, next time I see you watching me instead of working I’ll see you before bed, do I make myself clear?!” He called out firmly, and the female quickly grabbed her broom of the ground and nodded.           “Yes sir.” She whimpered softly as she continued to work. Though with the abuse done Master Raven took me back upstairs but not into his personal home, but the VIP meeting area upstairs and into a room marked with a one. The room was clean except for a single chair and a large fruit spider locked in a cage. Seeing the spider I quickly started to try and pull away, and tried to break free of Master Raven’s hold. I cried softly I didn’t want to be near the spider, this was too much, but he lead me into the room and forced me into the chair in front of the spider, which the hissed at me and lunged at me as if trying to attack. Master Raven grabbed my arms and held me down.           “It’s locked up Isen it won’t hurt you, just breath. I’m right here, I won’t let it hurt you.” Master Raven said speaking directly in my ears, I heard his words but I just saw the spider in front of me, nearly three-fourths my own size, glaring at me and hissing , trying to crawl out of its cage. Its long legs restrained by cuffs, so they didn’t travel far beyond the bars of the cage. The cage rocked about but it was bolted to the floor.          I curled up into a ball in the chair my arms still behind my back, I couldn’t even use magic, so the room must have been warded. “Let me go… Stop!” I cried out in fear and Master Raven let me go, and I just curled up in a ball in the chair unable to move…. I think I had pissed myself because my pants felt wet. My entire body felt like it was covered in tiny spiders, shifting around underneath my fur.           “I then felt Master Raven pick me up, and carry me out of the room and sit me down on my bed, I was still crying and I was shaking. All my mind could think about was that large spider crawling over my body. I could feel its body on my back and its legs stabbing into my skin.           “Isen! Enough look at me!” Master Raven yelled in anger, and I looked up at him, Master’s aggressive voice snapping me into reality, and the spider shifted to the back of my mind. His features softened and he felt my face. “I’m sorry, I should have known that was too much. Just relax and breathe. I nodded and I did as he asked me to do, but my chest could only make shaky breaths.           “Isen just come with me and I want you to watch it from the door way.”           “No Master Please, not again.”           “Isen I promise you that spider will never get out of its cage, it’ll never hurt you.” Master Raven comforted lightly petting my head. “Isen I would never do anything that would put you in danger, Lynn would skin me alive.”          Master Raven’s comment made me smile, because that sounded like Lynn, ruthless in his protective nature. The simple joke had calmed me down slightly, and Master Raven stood me up from my bed, but my legs barely could support my weight, I had to lean into Master Raven’s warm chest just too barely stand.           “Do you want to try again? We can do it tomorrow morning before you go to work. I just want you to feel safe around the spider, it’ll never hurt you. I promise.” Master Raven assured rubbing my upper back.           “Can I hold you like this?”           “Sure kitten.” Master Raven agreed and with that agreement, he lead me back to the spider, and opened the door way but he didn’t step inside. The sight of the large spider struggling brought images of it breaking out, but then I felt Master Raven’s arm come around me. “How was your day work Isen?”          My fingers dug into Master Raven’s back and he shifted in pain, but I didn’t notice much. I was only staring at the spider, but master Raven pulled my muzzle up to face his. “Look up at me not the spider, just talk to me, I’m right here, it will never hurt you, I promise.”          My eyes couldn’t keep a steady gaze on Master’s muzzle, but eventually he blocked my sight, and then only feelings of the spider coming up behind me shifted my focus. But I looked up at Master... “I… Was…. It was… Fun.” I answered between shaky breaths, having a hard time concentrating on my words because the sounds of the spider, and the feelings of spiders coming around me distracted me from saying anything properly.           “You know Lynn showed me your story before he left.”           “That bitch did what!” I cried out in anger, my magic spiking alongside my anger, I glared at the Cheetah and he only smiled and flicked my nose.           “Do you want to break the crystal lights again?” Master Raven asked and I looked at him my magic quickly falling away, I just glared at the Master utterly unamused with what he said.           “That isn’t funny. That story is private, if I wanted people to read it I would have posted it on the internet.”           “Tell me about your book.” I just simply glared at Master Raven but he kept a steady gaze on me.        “Think about your book when you’re scared.” Master Raven continued before gesturing to the spider as he let his leather hand fall down from my vision, revealing the spider falling still and curled up against the edge of the cage terrified, silent.          I looked at the spider, and got a shiver up my spine, even if it was scared of me it was still hard to look at it, and watching it felt like something was crawling up my back. “I think were done for the day, but remember Isen the easiest way for you to relax is to think of something that occupies your thoughts. Think about your book, I’m sure when your not thinking of anything else your thinking about your book. So think about what you’re going to do when Abagail leaves snow peak.”          “How do you know those names?” I asked looking up at Master Raven, glaring down at him but he simply closed the door, and walked away from me saying nothing.           “You read my book?!” I protested chasing after the male but he continued to walk away in silence.           “You know it’s not that bad of a read. Pretty interesting.” Master Raven said and I looked at him bitterly, and he stopped at the door to his house he muzzle was emotionless and my glare did nothing to him.           “Isen you really should let people read it, do you know how many Mincridarins would love to read a book like that?”           “How did you get into my computer?” I demanded, though it was hard to get mad because I was mildly embarrassed about it, no one was supposed to read it.           “Didn’t Lynn enchant it? Do you really think he didn’t do things for his own benefit?”           “How much have you read?”          “Out of the three thousand pages? I’ve read about the first chapter. It’s good Isen.”           “It gets worse… I’m a terrible writer.” I admitted and Master Raven raised an eyebrow, but opened the door for his home.           “So you don’t mind if I read it?”           “It’s not like I can stop you.” I simply protested bitterly, mostly embarrassed as I walked away from Master Raven just wanting to get out of his line of sight. I never wanted anyone to read my book because it was so pathetic. It was supposed to be for my eyes only, it was supposed to something I did just for fun.           “Isen take a bath you smell like piss, and you’re dripping everywhere!” Master Raven called out before I went into my room, and looking down at my pants and then the floor, everything he said was true and I was leaving a small trail of piss on the floor where ever I walked. I looked back at Master Raven who had his simple firm look on his face, and his dominating stance, he didn’t need to say anything. I knew just by how he looked at me he told me to clean it up.  So I did after I stripped and put my pants in the hamper along with my underwear. I cleaned the floor wearing nothing on my tail end.

#Master Raven/Isen #Part 45

[sebuckyverse]

All We Know (Chapter 1)

Summary: After a disastrous date, you hope to never see Bucky Barnes again. But after a horrible accident, you and Bucky are forced to team up to do the unthinkable – raise a child Warnings: none yet Word count: 583 A/N: I’M B A C K! Hi! This is a new (drabble) series inspired by the movie ‘Life As We Know It. (I love that movie) and also a similar dream I had. So I hope you enjoy and if you’d like to be tagged, let me know in my asks! :) Btw! If I haven’t answered your asks, it’s because I haven’t checked my inbox in like 66 years, I’ll catch up with that tomorrow!

Masterlist

The small, tasteless room of the local attorney’s office seemed to close in on you by the second. The only sounds in the room were the ticking clock on the wall and the clicking of your freshly painted nails drumming on the mahogany desk. You took a deep breath of chemical air, the cleaning lady had been a bit heavy handed with the air freshner this morning. The big batch of oxygen did nothing to calm your racing heart.

Just a week ago, you lost two of your closest friends, Nat and Clint to a car accident. Nobody saw it coming, nobody to blame, except the weather maybe. Suffering through the funeral, you got a call from an unknown number. It belonged to Nat and Clint’s lawyer, Tony Stark. He asked to meet as soon as possible and now here you were, sitting in front of his desk, waiting for someone you least expected – Bucky Barnes. The „you’re perfect for each other“ hot date Nat arranged for you, that turned out to be a damn catastrophe, starting with the guy being almost an hour late, ending up with him asking you to drop him off at a bootycall’s house.

After about twenty minutes of exchanging awkward, polite smiles with Tony Stark, you had grown restless. „Mr. Stark, I don’t think he’s coming. Surely we can start without him.“

As soon as the words left your mouth, the door behind you flew open. Bucky smoothed down his over grown chocolaty hair and when saw you sitting at the desk, gave you a puzzled look.

Tony Stark stood up from his worn out leather chair and stretched out his right hand. „Mr. Barnes, I’m glad you could make it. Please, have a seat.“

Bucky shook the man’s hand and plopped down to the chair next to you. You looked over to him and rolled your eyes at the sight of multiple hickeys on his neck and jawline, that he desperately tried to cover up with his jacket. „So why are we here?“

You turned your attention back to the lawyer in front of you, who gave a slight nod and pulled out a file from the top drawer on the left hand side. „As I mentioned on the phone yesterday, my name is Tony Stark and I’m Mr. and Mrs. Barton’s lawyer and first off, may I offer my sincerest condolences to the both of you.“ After you thanked him and Bucky gave a half smile, he continued. „I have asked you both here today on their behalf. Mr. and Mrs. Barton have a daughter, Emily, who is currently staying with her aunt. Are either of you aware of an agreement they signed as to who will be taking care of the child?“

„No.“ You said, feeling your stomach churn at the thought of Nat and Clint’s beautiful baby being an orphan. You also felt guilty that in the midst of this whole week, you hadn’t even remembered to think about little Emily.

„Not really. Is she gonna be okay? What’s going to happen to her?“ Bucky chimed in, clearly as confused as you were. Why was this being told to you?

„I guess they didn’t get the chance to tell you yet.“ Tony said, his voice lower than before, more unsure.

„Tell us what?“ You pushed, growing agitated with the stalling.

„You are now both the legal guardians of Emily Natalie Barton. The child will be handed to your custody as soon as possible.“

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#bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #all we know #series #sebuckyverse #sebastian stan imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine

[ssnakewhissperer]

~ Non omnis moriar ~

Tom Riddle had never been anything less than the model student. Having obtained the highest marks on record in his final year N.E.W.T.s, he was certainly not short on career options. Not since Albus Dumbledore had Hogwarts produced such an exemplary graduate. Posts at the Ministry were offered to the teenager before the end of the academic year. The International Confederation of Wizards sent a gold-edged letter by eagle owl, the day before his graduation ceremony, encouraging the young wizard to accept an internship at their headquarters in France. 

All such invitations were politely declined. Instead, the greatest academic genius for a generation simply... disappeared from public view, shortly after leaving Hogwarts in the late summer of 1945.

It was clear young Mr Riddle was destined for great things.  What those things might be, however, remained uncertain.

~ // ~

Glancing over at the wall, he observed the clock ticking down the interminable seconds. Less than 30 minutes to closing time. At such a late hour, it was highly unlikely that he would be entertaining any more customers for Mr Burke today. 

No, it wouldn’t hurt business to shut up shop early.

Looking over the antiques on display, the young sorcerer waved a hand, magically locking all the cabinets and cases containing their dark artifacts. As usual, a few of the shamanic masks groaned at their imprisonment, beads rattling against their shrunken leather skins. The enchanted dice rolled against the confines of their skeleton box, hurling their sides against bone in a frenzied cascade. Even the Hand of Glory tapped a gnarled finger against its transparent cage, as if questioning the actions of the shop assistant.

Checking the daily takings and closing the till, Tom paid them no mind. The glass eye on top of the counter spun accusingly, as he turned to pick up his coat hanging on a peg on the back wall. The young adult tutted.

“Who do you think you are, my overseer?”

As the magical eye turned bloodshot with rage, spinning once more angrily towards the clock, Riddle merely raised an eyebrow.

“Please. You’d do better lecturing me out of the skull of a one-eyed Auror.”

Smirking, he proceeded to wrap a scarf around his neck, before dimming the lights and heading out the back door into the streets.

It was raining, and it was cold. Raising his wand above his head, he fashioned an umbrella of silver, transparent magic, before stepping into a brisk walk up Knockturn Alley. Water from puddles splashed upon smart leather shoes. As expected, the streets were nearly empty. Many of the shops were shut up already. Only the Leaky Cauldron attracted any sort of custom at this hour.

The sound of customers was loud and raucous even before Riddle pushed opened the heavy door of the pub. It was a Friday night, and altogether to be expected. Glancing around, he kept an eye out for anyone familiar to him in the noisy, dimly-lit interior. 

Young witches in the arms of older wizards giggled in merriment as second rounds of firewhisky were ordered at the bar. Upon packed wooden tables, the locals banged their tankards of butterbeer while from a far corner, a small band of visiting musicians played on fiddles and accordions. Smoke from the pipes of a group of elderly wizards gathered near the fireplace wafted like a fog in the air, thick and dense. 

Satisfied that none of his followers (or otherwise) were present, Tom retreated into the shadows and took the creaking staircase, not stopping to speak with the landlord. Reaching his room, he opened and closed the door, setting his back against it with sigh.

It was a plain lodging. Not too dissimilar from what he had once known at Wool’s Orphanage. A single bed stood next to a wall with green, peeling wallpaper. Opposite this was a desk and chair, with a pot of ink and a selection of quills leaning out of an empty glass jar.

Upon the centre of the desk sat his old, worn diary.

He paid little attention to the book initially, busying himself firstly with making a pot of tea. Tapping the side of a kettle with his wand, the crockery filled with water that set to boil almost immediately. Herbs were cast into strainer, cuttings of valerian root and elderflower bought directly from the Apothecary. Tom found the mixture helped calm his mind, especially when the weight of ambition pulsed heavy against his skull. 

Not to mention, the banging and echoing laughter from downstairs could do with being drowned out.    

As the infusion finished preparing, he picked up a china cup and filled it, walking over to stand next to his desk. The tea was hot and sweet against his lips as he looked down at the little piece of his childhood resting innocently on the wooden surface. Sliding a hand over the black cover, Tom thumbed the worn edges of its leather binding, thoughtfully.

Since gifting the diary with a piece of his soul, the otherwise inanimate object had changed, becoming even more special to him. It was a sentient being now; a close and reliable source of comfort. It knew what its owner liked to hear; what his ego craved to receive in his rarer moments of self-doubt. It also delighted in offering a second opinion to whatever issues he chose to record in his hand-written entries. Sitting down in the chair, Tom contemplated his peculiar relationship with the book, taking another sip of his tea.

Funny, that in a job surrounded by dark magical objects, the most intriguing item of all continued to be the one created by his own hand. Perhaps this was why he continued to write in its pages, feeding the soul within with all his latest thoughts, frustrations, and desires.

In his current life, post-Hogwarts, the Slytherin graduate had become quite lonely.

Narrowing his eyes, he set the cup down, reaching over to draw a quill from its stand. Wetting the nib in the well, he opened the diary and found a blank page in which to write.

26th October, 1945

I am surrounded by mediocrity. The job at Borgin & Burkes is tolerable, at best. There are perhaps a handful of items truly worth my attention. The majority of the artifacts supposedly steeped in the Dark Arts are nothing more than fakes. Mere toys for children looking for the next grim party trick.

There is nothing there as splendid as you.

At times, I struggle to find the willpower to continue in the role of glorified shop assistant. I find I must daily remind myself the real reason why I am here.  

Almost two months since being hired, I am no closer to discovering the location of the Locket. It is curious, that Mr Burke has no recollection of the buyer. I have already scoured the lists of archived transactions in the back office, as well as the memories of the proprietor himself. Neither yielded so much as a name to me, to aid in my search.

It feels as though I’m missing something... something important.

As of today, I have begun to circulate among customers to the shop an interest in purchasing ancient jewelry of serpentine design. I am hopeful a lead or two will emerge over the coming weeks.

Sitting back in his chair, he watched as the lines of ink sunk into paper. The black liquid flowed like fresh blood straight into the veins of his 16 year old self.

Perhaps the youngest of the three of them would have some novel thoughts on the situation at hand.

#t0mriddle-jr #rp:omnis #~there we are~ #~went a bit overboard with setting the scene but anyway~ #~forgive me xD~

[stellarcollisionsfiction]

Keys to Tartaros, chapter 1

Max sat at the large desk late into the night. After completing the algorithm development by hand, he was now programming the computer to handle the necessary calculations.

Actuarial work in the 21st century was little different than the 19th century; just the tools were different. The math was still much the same.

Working late always appealed to him. The darkness outside and the quiet solitude were old friends. Without the distraction of everyone else around he could finally concentrate and get the last of this block of calculations complete. The project manager would be relieved.

With the last keystroke, Max sighed contently. The work was complete. He tilted his head back and forth to release the tension in his neck. The hours spent hunched over a computer were taking a toll at his age.

Max pushed the expensive oak office chair back from the large, mahogany desk and glanced once around the room. His compatriots often teased him about how spartan he kept the high prestige corner office.

Other executives in the company kept their offices much more luxurious. Max was content with the antique desk and chair. The older designs were more sturdy. Modern office furniture tended to break under his heavy frame.

A glance at the clock showed that it was well past the witching hour. Max stepped out from behind his desk and walked to his office door.

Sticking his head around the door he said, “Christopher, can you come here?”

“Sure, Mr. Paeter,” said Max’s young intern. Max stepped aside to allow his young intern to enter the office first.

“What did you need, sir?”

A look of contrition crossed the swarthy complexion of Max’s face. “My apologies for keeping you here so late. I’ll make sure to put you in for overtime with Accounting. They dislike paying interns more than the company has too, but you have earned it with all these late hours this week.”

“Wow, thank you, Mr. Paeter. I am just doing my job,” said Christopher. He stood awkwardly for a moment before asking, “Is that all for tonight, Mr. Paeter?”

Max frowned, “Not quite yet. I need you to send a copy of the file results to the back up servers while I get something to drink.” Knowing the helpful intern would handle the task without any further instruction, Max walked out of his office.

A quick glance around the outer office showed Christopher had been organizing the files, not just using the under supervised time to loaf and be indolent.

The break room was just down the hall from his office. Fatigue leadened Max’s steps. These long nights and weeks had worn him down. Yet, he had completed the new actuary tables the corporation needed for the new Asian markets.

Max entered the break room. It was obvious that the cleaning crew had already been through. There was usually some food left over on the table. It was a poor reflection on the executives that worked in the offices along these hallways left a mess for the cleaning crews to pick up. To Max, such little gestures of rank and privilege were annoying but all too human.

The coffee was, of course, old and cold. Max’s leather shoes squealed on the tile break room floor as he turned about, seeking all the necessary items in the cabinets to make coffee.

Cabinet doors banged with being opened and shut impatiently. Max was annoyed but unable to find the coffee filters.

Standing up, Max leaned against the counter and surveyed the break room. “Now where would Susan or Chang have put the filters?”

Max was still looking when he heard the door at the far end of the hall was shut quietly. There should be no one else hear at this time of night. He paused and listened. The office building was full of small noises, but all the things Max expected to hear from years of working in the building.

Cautiously he moved out of the break room, listening for anything out of the ordinary. Max glanced left down the hall, but saw nothing but the darkened hall and closed office doors. Back to the right was his own office. Down that way Max could hear Christopher typing away on the computer keyboard.

The cleaning crews had gone home hours ago, and security would not make a sweep for another hour. Max knew there was someone else here on the floor besides just his intern and him.

Almost ten minutes passed as Max stood in stillness, awaiting to see what would give away their late night visitor.

The whole early morning hour seemed to stretch the moments…

No sign gave away the stranger but Max’s apprehension grew. There was little he truly feared, but he hated uncertainties. It went against everything he preferred in his world.

After waiting for what seemed an inordinate amount of time, Max gave up on his wait and made his way back down the hall to his office. It was time to beat a cautious retreat, but Max did not want to give a sense of haste. His stalker would be watching. Now just when and where would this stalker strike? Once Max was back at his office, he made sure to close the outer door and lock it.

“Christopher, are you about done with exporting those results?” rumbled out of Max’s large chest.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Paeter. The export and backup are still running on the main servers,” responded Christopher.

“So we are done for the night,” stated Max. “Grab your things, and let us depart this place. We have been here for too many hours this week. You did a good job.”

“Thanks, Mr. Paeter.”

“Why don’t you take tomorrow off,” replied Max as he shrugged on his suit coat over the black silk dress shirt he was wearing.

Christopher was shutting down Max’s computer when max heard the door lock to the outer office break.

The young intern looked up with a puzzled expression. “What was that? It sounded like breaking metal.”

Max gestured for Christopher’s silence s he stepped in front of his desk. That put him between Christopher and whatever came through that outer office door.

Max watched the outer door of the office suite through the open inner office door.

That outer door was partly open. The handle was obviously broken by someone in the hall, but the outer door was still mostly closed, only slightly ajar.

Max watched patiently for whomever to reveal himself. Christopher was showing admirable restraint and remaining silent.

The damaged outer door swung slowly open. Filling the door was a huge, grotesque man in a trench coat that just hung off the huge shoulders of the man.

“Dark lord, my master wants something you have,” said the huge man in a voice that rumbled like sliding granite mountains grinding past each other.

Max remained nonchalant, even in the face of the potential menace of the hulking form. Max’s six foot five inch frame marked him as a big man, but this invader of his office was eight foot tall. The huge shoulders on the strange man marked him as very abnormal or not human. This fact was even more displayed when the intruder had to turn sideways to enter the inner office. He was not just too tall for the door, he was also too wide for the doorway.

The intruder wedged and worked his way into the inner office. Max stepped back to keep the range just a little open as he dropped into a self defense stance. Glancing back, Max saw that Christopher was still sitting in his office chair but had pushed it all the way back into the corner of the office, right up against the outer wall, not in front of the offices big picture window.

Max’s left foot slid back, giving him another half foot body width of space, while the large invader shambled forward. The form’s trench coat fell open showing an inhuman body beneath. The figure only wore the large trench coat and large hat. The invader wore no clothes, but the body underneath the coat was covered in a brown, pebbly skin and was only vaguely human.

Despite max’s preparation for self defense, he was not prepared for the speed of the invader. The invader’s left oversized hand reached out in a lunge to grab Max.

Max attempted to leap back as the invader’s left hand closed on the fabric of the front of his shirt. The silk shirt tore down the front, with buttons flying.

The tearing of his shirt kept Max out of the invader’s grasp momentarily, but it threw him off balance and he stumbled back into the front of his large, wooden desk.

Many years of wrestling and hand to hand fighting guided him to roll immediately over his desk in reflexive response to the threat.

Standing behind his desk, Max weighed his options. Christopher was over in the corner off to his left in Max’s high backed, old style wooden office chair.

In front of the desk, the invader had paused after his initial lunge had failed to bring Max into his grasp. He grunted and grumbled out, “You come with me Now!”

Max studied his assailant somberly. “I do not think so.”

The office invader roared in rage and surged forward. The attacker had descended into mindless rage. Max braced himself and shoved the eight hundred pound, antique desk forward. The desk slid forward with sudden force, driven by Max’s strength and body weight.

The forward sliding desk met the short charge of the behemouth and checked its forward momentum. The edge of the desk slammed into the invader’s thighs and slammed him off balance.

As the attacker tipped over the desk off balance, Max reached out with both hands and gripped the invader’s head.

Max slammed the head down as hard as he could into the desk top. The move stunned his foe. Then he shoved the creature’s head away. This motion plus the attacker off balance sent the foe crashing backward.

Vaulting over the desk, Max crashed down on his prostrated foe with both feet. He quickly slipped off the body of his attacker, but his landing had knocked the wind out of his opponent.

Max planted two quick kicks into this foe’s left side. The blows landed with power, but it felt to Max that he was kicking a solid block of concrete.

“Christopher, get out of here.” The boy did not hesitate. He launched to his feet and sprinted past Max and the thrashing creature. Within a moment, he was in the outer office.

Max turned to follow Christopher. He had taken three steps and had just reached the doorway between the offices when the creature surged to its feet.

The invader’s huge hand grabbed Max by the shoulder and pulled him back with an immensely strong pull. “You no go!” roared the beastly foe.

Max was thrown back and slammed into his own desk. The last remnant of his torn shirt was ripped off his shoulder with this latest attack.

The creature’s follow up lunch forced Max to repeat his earlier escape, and he rolled back over the desk. There were few options left to him. The six meters between the displaced desk and the picture window the picture window left little room to evade.

Yet the creature showed it did learn, if slowly. With one quick motion of its right hand, it gripped the side of the desk and threw it off to the side. The desk crashed into the corner where Christopher had been sitting.

Realizing there was no longer any chance of escape, Max surged into the creature, his closed fist slamming repeatedly into the creature’s midriff with precise boxing punches.

His foe grunted with the blows but seemed mostly unphased by Max’s hard strikes. With a wide swung back hand, the foe slapped Max onto his upheaved desek. He slammed into a tumble in the corner atop the upturned desk and the office chair. Max took a few deep breaths as he thought rapidly. The creature stood there with the oversize trench coat just hanging from its shoulders.

The trench coat had come open and any observer could easily tell the thing was not human. It had never been human. Its whole body was like a large shaped lump of hardened clay.

No human being would ever defeat this thing without heavy weapons of military grade. Max was going to have to go above and beyond to defeat this creature.

He took a deep breath and centered himself internally. Max staggered to his feet slowly, watching the creature guardedly. The creature seemed content to stand there for the moment, knowing it had him trapped in the corner.

Max thought for a moment, then with his left hand gripped one of the thick legs of the solid oak desk.

“I will not be going anywhere with you to visit your misbegotten master,” Max said.

The creature growled and took a step toward where Max was standing.

“It is time you left. I would suggest the door,” Max said, while reaching deep inside for a reserve of energy he had not touched in decades.

The creature took another step forward, raising a hand out to grab Max.

On the creature’s third step forward toward him, max acted. Pulling that deep, hidden energy up into his muscles, Max swing the eight hundred pound desk as hard as he could. The improvised weapon smashed into the creature’s side with overwhelming force.

Max carried through the swing. The blow lifted the creature off its feet and slammed it against, then through the picture window. The impact was sufficient to send broken structural safety glass fragments and the creature hurling out into empty space, then falling the thirty stories downward.

Max fell to his knees in exhaustion. He was barely able to keep from blacking out due to fatigue.

A sudden potion at the inner office door caught Max’s attention. Standing there was Christopher. He was unsure how much the intern had seen. “Christopher, I did tell you to run. I meant further than the hall,” stated a weary Max.

“You are not human are you?” asked a hesitant Christopher as he stood with one hand on the door sill of the office door.

Max chuckled as he sat back. “No, child. I am not.”

#fantasy #modern fantasy