#Luxury Directory

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[jagannayak]

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[khushwedding]

Luxury Wedding Cars and Transport Service Providers in UK

Discover luxury wedding transportation options from vintage cars to modern fleet vehicles from the UK's top-rated transport vendors on KhushWedding.

[fluentmoviequoter]

Only Choice

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!cop!reader

Summary: You and Tim go undercover to catch a serial killer because you're the only choice.

Warnings: angst?, fluff, r wears a two-piece bathing suit and like halfway wears Tim's shirt, Tim and r makeout on the job (again)

Word Count: 2.4k+ words

Inspired by T-Shirt by Thomas Rhett.

Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info

“Hey, gorgeous,” Angela greets as she enters the bullpen. “We need to talk.”

Tim sighs as he squeezes his eyes closed. “Lopez, I’m not in the mood today.”

“Who says I was talking to you?”

Tim looks up, his brows pinched. When he sees Angela smiling at something to his right, he turns his head to follow her eyeline.

“Me?” you ask, pointing to yourself as your eyes widen.

“Yep,” Angela answers. “Wade and I need to see you in his office. You, too, Tim.”

“You said you weren’t talking to me,” Tim argues as he stands.

“I wasn’t. Now I am. So, Tim…” She looks at you and enunciates, “Gorgeous, you’re both with me.”

“Okay,” you agree slowly. “But Lucy owes me $50. Don’t let me forget that.”

“For what?” Tim inquires.

“I bet her 50 that Lopez doesn’t know my name. The gorgeous thing feels like conformation.”

Tim grunts under his breath, but inside, he’s not entirely convinced that’s the reason. Angela is incredibly kind and funny, but she doesn’t usually say stuff like that just because she forgot someone’s name. Officer, sure, but gorgeous has to have more behind it.

“I thought you were friends,” Tim points out as he opens the door to Grey’s office for you.

You shake your head and murmur, “Not yet.”

“What do you know?” Wade asks as the door closes behind Tim.

“Mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell,” you joke.

Tim sighs, lays his hands on his belt, and counters, “Know about what?”

“The serial killer,” Angela answers. “Targeting attractive couples in LA county.”

Tim shakes his head, so Angela turns toward you.

“Uh, just that he’s killing couples who are supposed to be traveling and then dumping them in Angeles Forest. Right?”

“Precisely. He’s nearly impossible to find, though.”

“Meaning we have no idea where to look,” Grey fills in. “Without knowing when or how he works, we’re steps behind him.”

“So, you want to set a trap,” Tim guesses. “Use UCs to lure him in for another kill.”

“You’re so smart, Timothy,” Angela applauds sarcastically.

“Lopez.”

“You in?” Wade interjects.

“Wait, what?” you reply. “You want to send us in as the UCs?”

Tim shakes his head as you point between the two of you. Angela nods, and you purse your lips to consider it.

“Why not?” you decide with a smile. “I’m in.”

“Does it have to be us?” Tim inquires.

“Uh…” Wade pauses to look out of his office and around the station before he says, “Yeah.”

“Only choice,” Angela agrees.

“Gorgeous,” you whisper.

“And smart,” Angela applauds. “He’s got a type. Pretty couples. And… you fit.”

“Tim, she called you pretty, say thank you,” Grey teases.

“I didn’t say yes,” Tim argues.

“Is Aaron still here?” you ask.

“I didn’t say no either,” Tim interrupts, raising a hand to stop you.

You press your lips together and lift your hands in apology. Angela is trying to contain a laugh at Tim’s offended reaction to you asking about another man who could pretend to be your significant other. You’re not a couple, but Angela was right when she said you’re the only choice. If the killer is planning to kill again, he won’t be able to resist you and Tim together.

“Where are we going?” Tim asks with a dramatic sigh.

“Santa Monica,” Angela answers with a smile. “Pack your swimsuit.”

“Is it going to be this awkward the whole time?” you ask as Tim drives to the luxury hotel.

“No,” he answers shortly. “Just…”

“You’d rather be anywhere else?”

“Tell me your cover story,” Tim instructs, changing the subject. “Stop talking like a cop.”

You sit back in your seat and look out the window, catching glimpses of the ocean between the beachfront buildings as you recite the information Angela created for you.

“And we’ve been together for just over a year,” you continue. “I even got my nails done because I think you’re proposing this weekend, but I’m not supposed to tell you that.”

“Good,” Tim murmurs.

“Tim,” you begin again, your tone more serious as you look at his profile. “I’m sorry for pushing. I know this is weird.”

Tim shrugs. “Anticipated my next proposal would look a little different.”

“Ow,” you hiss, playfully rubbing your chest over your heart. “Oh well, at least Angela thinks I’m gorgeous.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, but I like messing with you.”

Tim rolls his eyes, but you see the tiny smile he tries to hide. You’re here for work, but at least the view is nice. Oh, yeah, the ocean’s pretty too.

After adjusting the straps over your shoulders, you step out of the bathroom and back into your oversized luxury suite (courtesy of the LAPD and a need to get a serial killer behind bars).

“You’re in a bathing suit,” Tim says as he enters the bedroom, slowing as he looks at you.

“Great observation, Bradford,” you reply. “Did you forget why we’re here?”

Tim shakes his head and turns away from you. “I’m just saying… you could’ve worn a one piece,” he murmurs.

“Spoken like a man,” you tease as you pull a coverup over your head. “Try using the bathroom in one of those and then tell me that again, Tim.”

“Guy at the bar has been staring at us since we walked in,” you inform Tim over the rim of your glass.

“Us or you?” he asks, discreetly glancing over your shoulder.

“What’s the difference?”

“It’s a simple question. Men stare at beautiful women, especially at the beach. If he’s interested in you, just because, he’s not our guy.”

You try to ignore how your heart rate speeds when Tim calls you beautiful, but it affects you.

By the end of the day, you’ve noticed two men who checked in after you seem to be hanging around wherever you and Tim are. It could be a lead, or it could be a coincidence. You can only hope you learn which before it’s too late.

“I’m surprised you’re making progress so quickly,” Angela says over the phone the following morning.

“I told you,” Wade says in the background.

“Anyway,” Angela begins again. “How’s Tim? Tolerable?”

Tim is looking directly at you, and though he can’t hear Angela, you still feel like he’s caught you talking about him.

“The usual,” you answer.

“Remember why you’re there, okay? Keep us updated. We’ve got officers everywhere.”

“Thanks, Angela.”

You end the call and sit down on the couch beside Tim. It’s more exhausting than you thought, the hustle and bustle of pretending to be an in-love couple that does everything together. You’ve already been to the pool, the beach, three restaurants, and the hotel lounge and cruised down the PCH.

Leaning your head against Tim’s shoulder, you look over the balcony railing and to the water, reflecting the first rays of sunlight peeking over the beachfront high-rises.

“Are they running the men from yesterday?” Tim inquires, making no move to create space between you.

“One of them checked out this morning. The other came back clean and his reservation was booked weeks ago,” you respond. “Back to square one.”

“You sound surprised that catching a serial killer in a place this big didn’t happen overnight.”

“Because it’s us!” you point out. “I thought we’d break some sort of record and have the cuffs on him, be back in our own beds already.”

Tim smiles and stretches his arm out behind your head. Another full day awaits you, but you’d be content to spend it here.

“Don’t turn around,” Tim instructs as you prepare to leave the upscale diner he found for breakfast.

You nod, complying as he leans forward to wave for the check. He looks across the restaurant as he sits back in the booth.

“I saw a guy by the pool last night. He looked over a few times, but that didn’t stand out then. He was still at the pool when we left the lounge,” Tim explains.

“And now he’s here?”

Tim nods. “He fits the profile. White, mid-30s, completely unimposing.”

“What do you want to do?”

Tim smiles and takes your hand as he answers, “I want to catch him.”

You both know that two sightings aren’t enough to arrest him, so take a good look at him as you walk to the bathroom and then leave to continue your plans for the day. Everywhere you go, you and Tim are on high alert, noting where he is or isn’t, what he’s doing, what he’s wearing, and anything else you may need to know if this is the killer you’re searching for.

“Wait, Tim,” you call, pulling him to a stop in the hotel lobby. “He’s never been in the hotel. He wasn’t inside last night, and we’ve been back three times. I don’t think he’s staying here.”

“Or he just thinks we’re coming right back out. He can’t lose us if he doesn’t leave the door,” Tim points out.

“Maybe,” you murmur.

“We should test it, though. He watched us from the pool last night. If he was staying here, why didn’t he just come in where he could see better, hear us?”

“How do you want to do this?”

“We could try to lure him in.”

You smile as another idea strikes. “Or we ask Angela to get us a room at a crappy motel.”

“Why?”

“Because no one thinks twice about who’s walking around. The rooms are practically public, he could follow us straight to the door.”

Tim smiles as he pulls you closer, playing the part of the perfect boyfriend. He makes it seem effortless.

“Let’s get out of here, baby,” he murmurs against your ear.

“He’s following us,” you whisper as you walk down the beach, nearing your new, faded-aqua motel.

“Metro’s waiting in the employee parking lot. Your call,” Tim replies, pulling you closer.

You stop, keeping Tim close before you loop your arms over his shoulders. Leaning up, you brush your lips over Tim’s jawline.

“We’re gonna have to put on a show,” you murmur against his skin.

Tim drops his head toward your shoulder and whispers, “Then let’s make it memorable.”

“Keep it down!” someone calls from a doorway.

You laugh against Tim’s mouth as he lifts you onto the next step. He holds you against his chest while he steers you backward toward the door. When you reach your room, you lean against the door, and Tim drops his head to kiss you.

“We really need to stop doing this,” you whisper.

“Absolutely,” Tim agrees, leaning in for another kiss.

He scrapes the key across the door, trying to unlock it while keeping his attention on you. You reach down, steadying his wrist as you kiss down to his jaw. The lock clicks and Tim bends to hook his arm under your hips before he pushes the door open. Kicking it closed behind him, Tim takes you inside and leaves the door unlocked.

“Take your shirt off,” you instruct as you pull your coverup over your head.

“Why?” Tim asks, already unbuttoning the linen button-down as you wait in your bathing suit.

You shake your head and turn on the outdated TV set before you walk to Tim’s side. Once his shirt is off, you slide it onto your shoulders and haphazardly button it.

“Lopez, get ready,” you say into your wire, still attached to the inside seam of your coverup.

Flipping your hair, you mess it up before raking your fingers through Tim’s. He watches you, unable to decide what he wants to see more: your hair messed up, how you move in front of the TV light, or how you look in his shirt. Before he can decide, someone knocks on the door.

You pull your gun from under the bed and ready it on the door as Tim stands against the wall, prepared to cut the shooter off before he gets all the way into the room.

“LAPD!” the Metro team outside yells. “Put your hands up!”

Three minutes and one gunshot later, the motel is quiet. The door opens, and Wade follows Angela inside, their eyes drifting between you, Tim and the suspicious outfit changes that have occurred.

“Ready to go?” Angela asks.

Tim looks at you, hesitating, before you answer, “Yeah.”

Standing behind a police car, still clad in your bathing suit and Tim’s shirt, you wait for Angela to join you.

“Anything you want to tell me?” she asks. “Friend to friend?”

“Do you even know my name?” you argue.

She says your name in answer, then leans against the back of the shop.

You exhale as you prepare to ask, “Why me and Tim? You could’ve picked anyone.”

“The truth? You were the obvious choice. We needed an attractive couple. But… you were also making the rest of us tired.”

“Tired?”

“The constant pining. The longing looks. It got kind of sickening. So, when the case popped up, I thought maybe it would give you a reason to deal with those feelings, however you wanted to do that.”

“It was a good plan,” you admit softly. “Except now I’m even more confused than before.”

“You want a ride?” Tim asks you, approaching the side of the shop you’re behind.

You look at Angela, and she nods enthusiastically. After you agree, you follow Tim to a car and wonder if this is the best or worst night of your life.

“I thought you said we needed to stop doing this,” you say against Tim’s lips.

He chuckles as he pulls back. “Then why are you leaning in for one more?”

You roll your eyes and hit the light switch beside you. At least he waited until we got inside this time.

“It really was the only choice, you know.”

“I do,” Tim agrees. “But I will make Lopez pay for meddling.”

“Sure. I for one am just glad we’re finally acknowledging that we have feelings for each other.”

Tim smiles as he takes your hand. “Maybe I can forgive her for tonight.”

“Maybe you can also cook dinner tonight.” You lead Tim to your kitchen, release his hand, and walk down your hall to change.

Not that an outfit change will erase the vision of you wearing Tim’s shirt from his head anytime soon. No matter what, you’re both thankful for Angela’s meddling, because it took you exactly where you wanted to be.

[whetstonefires]

I am a bit surprised at your tags saying you like jar jar, I don't really know anybody who's a fan in 2023. What's the appeal there, would you say?

Did people like JarJar more in the past? I remember when the prequels were new, his poor actor almost died from the harassment. Surely the venom against JarJar has only weakened.

But mmmmm...I guess what I enjoy about JarJar is he just. He sucks so bad. Nobody has any use for him. He's not just bad at emergencies and space and knowing you have to pay for food, he's not even good at Gungan-ing.

But he's just kinda allowed to be like that. He's there. The other protagonists are varying levels of Ugh Why but they don't try to solve him. He gets Recognition From His People at the end of TPM and fails his way upward in galactic politics and has good intentions and tries sincerely and fucks up so so bad, and is dumb as hell.

He doesn't get punished by the story for being a loser. He's allowed.

That's what made so many people so mad at him back when, and I do get it because any scene he's in is hard to take seriously, he's walking bathos, he's like Original Swamp Yoda without the redeeming kung fu drama. But also wow yikes no.

Let me sit with this a bit and let me see if I can turn this vibe into words better.

Like @husborth was totally correct in saying the whole Gungan plotline was a waste of screentime, a fun little excuse plot allowed to run riot due to unchecked directorial hubris, and contributed to the prequel films being atrociously paced pieces of cinema. But (somewhat consequently) there's something luxurious about JarJar Binks being allowed to go around existing so much, something I think is prototypical of the whole prequel tone and its contrast to the snappy war-film energy of the original trilogy in a way that...really works to create the atmospheric contrast between life in the Republic and life under the Empire.

The Republic was a bloated ancient mess of a government riddled with corruptions, and badly out-of-whack power balances and decayed support nets that weren't technically corruption but weren't working well either, and inefficiency.

And also what the fascists like to call decadence. You know?

Like one of the consequences of having a tolerant diverse society is that even when poorly run and afflicted with capitalism it is going to be full of fantastically annoying weirdos who don't have anything better to do than embarrass people by talking, and there's nothing to be done about that that morally can be. You can't Force Choke people for annoying and have a free society. We all gotta make our peace with the fact that JarJar Binks has every right to exist.

Not that JarJar Binks is necessary to any specific piece of media. I am not advocating for annoying gag sidekicks in general. But I am saying that JarJar Binks is metaphorically inevitable, whenever people are allowed to just kinda be.

So his presence on some level feels political to me, inasmuch as Star Wars are actually political films at all, which isn't very much. But definitely not none either!

Also I am old enough to have grown less susceptible to secondhand embarrassment so I am able to forgive JarJar his cringe. He can still be a little painful to watch! But I do like that he's there.

[weskie]

A Moment of Peace (Albert Wesker x gn!Reader)

this man needs a nap soooo bad, fluff | Fic Directory

You find him so very beautiful like this.

Wesker does not indulge in rest nearly as much as he should.  He takes only what he needs to function, and he does it quite well for the most part.  To the untrained eye, exhaustion never touches him.  He is a force to be reckoned with in every aspect of life, but even the man made god has moments where fatigue settles in despite his best efforts.  There was a world to perfect, a dream to make reality, and such goals would not come to fruition with his head buried in a pillow.

But right now, he needs this.  

You thread your fingers through locks of his hair, nails scratching softly against his scalp in long strokes.  You’re not sure exactly how you managed to convince him, but he’s been asleep on your lap for nearly an hour now.

Initially, he’d joined you on the couch in your shared abode.  You with your book, and him with his mountain of folders.  Incident and laboratory reports, he’d explained.  Trial and error with various strains, incident follow ups after staff exposure, costs, damages… more thorns in his side delaying his dream with every fool's mistake.  You could tell from the moment he sat down that he was running on empty, and no amount of coffee you’d brought him seemed to rouse him from his drowsy state.  The intermittent act of pushing up his glasses to rub at his eyes only grew in frequency as time ticked on, and you pretty much left him with no choice.

All it took was your fingers curling at the nape of his neck to soothe him.  Just a gentle touch, an invitation– wordless, but no less sincere– to shoulder the weight of his burdens and give him relief.

To your surprise, he didn’t even fight you on it the way he usually would. He wasn’t too busy, nor was there a thumb and forefinger placed at your chin while he gives you the same old excuse of another time.  He merely tossed the packet of paper onto the arm of the couch and shifted to lay on his side, cushioning his head against your lap.

He looked so strange like that too.  Like there was an air of repression to the act, like it was forbidden to him in some way or another to have the comfortable luxury of a lover who cared to hold him.

“I’ll make sure the world doesn’t burn without you,”  you’d told him, having just slipped the sunglasses off of his face.  “Just relax.”

It took a while, but eventually you felt the decompression– the way his body slackened and he became comfortable enough to rest on his back.  Not long after that, he was out.

And here you are.  

You take the chance to observe every feature, committing each detail to memory so that you could perhaps paint him picture-perfect with your eyes closed.   You’d like to run your fingertip over the curve of his cheekbones, or perhaps even the slope of his nose, but you fear waking and depriving him of something he needs so dearly.  He’s a light sleeper, and you’re amazed you haven’t roused him with your own yawns by now.  

Your left hand lays on his chest, just over his heart.  Each rise and fall has become its own rhythmic comfort, lulling you closer and closer to dozing off along with him.

You’d love to, but later… 

You wouldn’t miss the beauty of his serenity for the world.

[grandline-fics]

Immune To Your Charms

DESCRIPTION: Soulmates are incapable of harming the other in any way. Normally that would be a good thing but not when you're meant to be enemies.

WARNINGS: It's Doflamingo so it features mentions of killing/ injury/ general violence. Soulmate! AU, Enemies to Lovers

CHARACTERS: Doflamingo

WORDS: 2,543

A/N: Part of the Good For Your Soul Series. I had such a burst of energy last night and today I'm worried I'm starting to get sick which made getting this finished a bit of a struggle. Hopefully you all still like how this is going

*REQUESTS ARE OPEN*

DIRECTORY | PROMPT LIST

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four (here) | Chapter Five | Chapter Six(coming soon)

——————

Your mind was a mess and you had expected to find no rest at all but the second you’d sank into the mattress and head hit the pillow you were instantly asleep, your body unable to resist the luxury and comfort that had enveloped you. Yes you were a prisoner here in every sense of the word without it being spoken but in a bed like this, things could be worse and you knew that. If anything you had accepted the prospect of some dark, dingy cell barely big enough for you to fit in and a few thin, dirty pieces of fabric for a sorry excuse of a bed and blanket. This enormous living quarters had not been expected and even as you slowly woke from the deepest and best sleep of your life it still took you a few moments to adjust to the sight of it all and remind yourself that you hadn’t been dreaming. 

Rubbing the sleep from your eyes you let out a sigh, contemplating just staying in bed. You knew Doflamingo had said you could go and do as you pleased but did you really want to? You knew Doflamingo was a pirate, up to unknown evil of a wide range of criminality. Could you really witness it without being able to stop it? You were brought out of your thoughts when a knock sounded at your door. Slowly you looked over, expecting it to open but there was only tense silence. Whoever it was they were waiting for you to answer. “Come in.”

Timidly the door opened and a young maid entered. She was nervous, keeping her head down and hands clasped in front of her. Lowly she bowed to you and even when she rose, she kept her gaze away from your face. Not because of an order, it just seemed she was genuinely intimidated. Worried. “Sorry for disturbing your rest. Would you care for breakfast here or will you be joining the family this morning?”

You pulled a face at the prospect of dining with Doflamingo and his ‘family’ which you assumed meant the higher ranked members of his crew. Absently you recalled the woman Violet who revealed the truth of your and Doflamingo’s situation but honestly you hadn’t really paid much attention to anyone else that had been in the drawing room. The only others  you had a strange recollection about were the two figures that had been at the warehouse along with Doflamingo but it was too dark and you were in too much pain to really get a proper look at them before you’d fallen unconscious. Quickly you snapped yourself out of your thoughts and offered the maid an apologetic look. “Sorry. No I won’t be joining them.” You told her. 

It made you uncomfortable when she bowed again but she was gone from the room before you could tell her to stop that. You doubted she would listen anyway, if she didn’t act as she normally did she could be punished by someone. You didn’t put it passed any of the pirates in the building to lash out at the staff over the smallest of reasons. With a heavy sigh you dragged yourself out of the bed and made your way to the small table by one of the tall windows and settled down into the chair. Finally you allowed yourself to pull back the curtain and take in the view outside, breath catching at the expansive beauty of the city and spanning island beyond it. Dressrosa was indeed a stunning place, from up here in the Palace you couldn’t see much activity from the city but just like the upkeep of the castle you now found yourself in, it seemed orderly and clean. You couldn’t hear any violence or seen signs of unrest of some countries you’d seen over the years. It made your stomach twist to feel a sense of peace and calm. Could the people truly be happy with a pirate ruling over them? You supposed if the people knew it was a Warlord, protected and feared then there would never be a risk of an outside attack. You just wondered what it was Doflamingo demanded of the people to keep them safe from him and those in his command.

At the sound of the door opening you glanced in the reflection of the window to see the servant return, pushing a small trolley inside. Following behind was Doflamingo. Eyes narrowing you turned your head to scowl at him. You’d thought your decision to eat in your room also meant you wouldn’t have to see him either until you wanted to. Realistically you should have known better. Of course he’d appear when he wished and of course he’d choose first thing to start your day off on a sour note. Coldly you followed his movements as he tugged out the chair opposite you and relaxed into it, making a note to let your Marine file fall onto the polished table surface. Your eyebrows rose minutely. You weren’t surprised to see it, more that Doflamingo seemed to want you to know he had it. You offered a polite smile to the servant as she shakily offered you your cup of tea. 

“So how did my dear soulmate sleep?” Doflamingo chuckled when your smile dropped and you turned a glare his way. His laughter continued when you grabbed the morning paper from the trolley and opened it with a snap, refusing to even entertain the notion of small talk with him. With a flick of his finger, your file opened and he reclined in his seat, one arm lazily hanging over the back of seat while he sipped at his coffee. “Well you look refreshed, still you’d look better if you didn’t have those drab clothes you still have on.”

“Fashion advice from you? That’s rich.” you muttered under your breath. It was more to yourself and a reflex but the smug chuckle made you roll your eyes. In the odd sense of wins and loses you had with this man, it was a point to Doflamingo. “Your doctor informed me that my Marine uniform was destroyed after they tended to my injuries and this is what I was given when I woke up.”

“Well what are you waiting for?” You frowned at Doflamingo’s words and used your finger to lower one corner of the newspaper to see the servant bow lower than she had with just you and flee the room.

“What was that about?”

“They’re getting you new clothes. Obviously.” You opened your mouth to argue then rolled your eyes, knowing it was pointless. You couldn’t live in one outfit for your time here and you had no money to buy new clothes yourself. Sitting back in your seat, you lifted the paper again to continue reading. News of the warehouse explosion was there, tucked into the corner of a page and summarised in a small handful of paragraphs. Loss of life of Marines and some pirates had been revealed but no names. Slowly you turned the page. You stilled when Doflamingo spoke up.“Your file is interesting…” 

“You must be reading someone else’s.” You noted dryly, remaining casual. “Nothing spectacular in those pages.”

“And that’s exactly how you planned it to be.” You could hear the grin in Doflamingo’s voice. Yet again you lowered the paper to stare at him. You offered no verbal response to his accusation but your expression was trained into one of patient, confusion; waiting for him to elaborate in his theory. “No one rises in the ranks as smoothly and fast as your timeline just to taper off in the middle like this and remain there. Very sneaky, lying to your superiors. Did it annoy you to serve someone who by all rights should have been your subordinate?”

“Only in the cases were they were incompetent but I knew that would be a possibility. As long as the missions were successful I didn’t care.”

“Yet they took the glory. Must have stung.”

“If my vanity needed fed for something as trivial as glory or praise I would have continued to rise the ranks in the Marines, or become a pirate.” You explained with a smirk, seeing his momentarily glower at you. “Any other questions?”

———

“The weapons and ammunition are being unloaded at the docks and all the materials were delivered to Punk Hazard without issue, Doffy.” You heard a new voice coming from one of the rooms up ahead. After you’d showered and changed into one of the many outfits brought to your your on Doflamingo’s order you'd decided to explore more of the castle. If not to have something to do but to also get a better lay of the land. You stepped closer, making no effort to silence your steps. As Doflamingo had said, you weren’t deemed a threat to anything he was doing and the mention of Punk Hazard had caught your attention. You stepped up to the doorway and leant against the doorframe, eyeing the two men standing in front of Doflamingo. 

Doflamingo grinned at your appearance, finding your choice in clothing so much more flattering to your figure instead of your ugly Marine uniform or the rags you’d been wearing that morning. Diamante and Señor Pink had promptly shut their mouths when you arrived. They had been brought up to speed about who you were and why you were still alive. You looked at the two innocently even giving them a taunting little wave. Diamante glanced at Doflamingo questioning silently if he should continue even with the interruption. When his young master nodded, he spoke. “The latest batch of SAD is at the factory now to continue production smoothly.”

You pushed away from the doorframe as they continued talking and ventured further into the room, making note of the large bookcases lining the wall and all of them filled with old and expensive texts in a whole range of subjects. Finally your eyes roamed appreciatively over the stocked drinks cabinet and you pulled open the door to lift out one of the bottles of whiskey. You moved out of the way when one of the glasses flew out from the shelf and you followed its movement until it landed in Doflamingo’s waiting hand. His free hand gestured silently for you to bring the bottle over. Humming to yourself you poured plentiful glass of your own and walked over to Doflamingo’s desk. 

Your lips twitched in amusement to see Doflamingo still lazily hold his glass, waiting for you to pour the drink for him. You sipped your own drink, relishing the taste that only got better when you set the bottle down beside his arm. He could pour it himself, you weren’t his servant. As you glanced at a map set to the side of the desk you heard Diamante’s annoyance drip through his words. “The sooner you work out a way to undo this the sooner you can repay them for their disrespect towards you Doffy.”

“Such a fragile pride your Doffy has if not pouring a drink for him is too much to handle.” You noted sarcastically, pulling the map fully out from underneath the sheets of paper holding it down.“But I hope he finds a way to fix it soon too. Maybe your crazed scientist will work a way.”

“Who says there's a crazed scientist?” Doflamingo asked, grinning as he poured himself a drink for himself. He watched as you looked up from studying the map that had caught your attention to throw him an incredulous look. 

“A guy like you definitely has a mad scientist employed somewhere.” You smirked, looking back to the map. “If you didn’t I think I’d actually respect you less if that were even possible.”

“Doffy you don't need to let them speak to you this way.” Diamante insisted, looking to his leader. He’d literally burned a town to the ground for Doflamingo because he tripped on the street in his youth. He’d killed countless people for looking at the Warlord in a way he wasn't satisfied with. To witness you be so blatantly contemptuous without punishment felt so wrong to him. “I won’t kill them but please let me teach them to hold their tongue.”

“No one harms them, Diamante.” Doflamingo stated firmly and it was enough for Diamante to shut his mouth and nod. “No-one is taking the privilege from me. No matter how much goading they do, don’t hurt them. Make sure everyone knows. You two can go now.”

“Spoilsport.” You grumbled watching the men leave without protest. Here you thought you’d be able to get to the inner circle to be killed but Doflamingo seemed to know your game already. Clicking your tongue in annoyance you swirled your drink before a thought came to you. “What about poison?”

“What about it?”

“If I poured poison into a bottle and you served it between two glasses and we both drank, who would die?” You asked curiously, trying to wrap your head around the logistics of this whole soulmate nonsense. “If we both had a hand in it would we both be spared or both killed?” 

Doflamingo stared at you with a broadening smile, deep laughter building in his chest. He’d really underestimated your mind it seemed. So far you’d seemed so calm and collected, accepting your place here until he found a way to kill you. Apart from the disrespect you threw his way and constant defiance to recognise his authority and superiority, he’d yet to see you snap. To see you break in true anger, fear, or sadness was something he wanted to witness and at this point he didn’t care which of the emotions it was. 

“Sadly I think it would cancel out. I had a similar thought and poisoned your tea this morning and you didn’t react even though the maid poured it.” He explained and as disappointed as he felt that it didn’t work, seeing your own grumpy disappointment shape your face brought him some enjoyment. As he took another slow sip of his drink he spotted how your attention was taken once again by the map in your hand. “What’s got you so invested in that island?”

“I was stationed there for a couple months on a mission at the beginning of the year.” You explained with a shrug setting it aside. Even thinking about your missions felt like a different life. It hurt to know you’d never be a Marine again and help people. “You eyeing it up for an expansion of your mighty empire?”

“Not exactly.” He chuckled. There wasn’t anything you could say or do to stop him or his work so he could say what he liked. “I’m supplying weapons and foot soldiers to a local pirate group for them to take over. In return I get a profit of their enterprise and a share of the island’s natural resources.” At his explanation Doflamingo watched you process his words as you continued to drink, he noted something indecipherable briefly flicker in your eyes but beyond that you kept perfect control of your expression. Now he was even more determined to see what made you tick.

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[baesimss]

lido marina village, brindleton bay, simmisota ✨

welcome to lido! brindleton bay's premiere shopping outlets. filled with stylish boutiques, fine eateries and even a gym. locals and tourists love coming here for the chic and relaxed ambience.

guys, this is my most ambitious build project thus far. i've never referred to myself as a builder, but i am proud of the work i've put into this! it's, of course, based on the very real lido marina village in newport beach, california. definitely one of my favorite places in cali so it was a joy to bring it to life in my game!

more pictures + directory under the cut.

shops, eateries & more:

nobu | michelin star rated japanese restaurant. inspired by the real nobu at lido marina village.

curl fitness | a private members-only gym. inspired by the real curl fitness at lido marina village.

loveshackfancy | a women's clothing boutique that specializes in romantic and floral designs. inspired by the real loveshackfancy at lido marina village.

therealreal | a luxury consignment boutique. inspired by the real therealreal at lido marina village.

floral selfie wall | a place for sims to pose for pics! inspired by the real floral wall at lido marina village.

skating rink | a fun activity for kids (or any age sims) to partake in while their parents shop. there is no skating rink at the real lido marina village.

public restrooms with vending machines & water fountains.

kimber | luxury furniture store. inspired by serena + lily at lido marina village.

roller rabbit | a whimsical children's boutique. inspired by the real roller rabbit at lido marina village, except the real store doesn't cater specifically to children.

tress salon | a hair & nail salon for the bougie sims. inspired by the real tress salon at lido marina village.

lido bookstore & coffee shop | coffee shop with a bookstore upstairs and outdoor areas to eat and read. there is a real bookstore at lido marina village, but mine isn't really based on that one.

twitter | tiktok | instagram| patreon

[opendirectories]

[kkanabel]

caffeine addiction - chapter 7 Bakugou Katsuki x Reader / Coffee Shop! AU

directory/m.list

⇦ previous chapter - next chapter ⇨

The photo you took with Bakugou was admired, to say the least. 

After going home from the show and taking a long bath to wash the day off, you noticed that your aunt invited you to a group chat containing the two of you and the Bakugou family. 

You were in your bedroom, sitting in a fetal position on your bed with your hair wet. You were in your twelve-year-old t-shirt that was four sizes too big for you. It had so many holes in it that if you wore it outside, people would believe you were a rat that was scurrying about on the streets. But you loved it. And you were damn adamant about never getting rid of it.

Taking a piece of your hair, you brought it to your nose and breathed in the scent of your shampoo and conditioner before sighing in delight. This was the best part about washing your hair. Even though you may look like some version of a wet mop, you smelled so good. This is great. You loved the time after a show. Your entire body would be tired and aching afterward (especially your feet after wearing heels), but the afterglow of going to one was always the best. 

The slight soreness was somewhat satisfying, and you’d be able to go back through your photos and relive the entire show again through your photos as you listened to the barely-there noises of cars driving past your window and the occasional hoot of an owl.

The group chat was then flooded with the photos of you two. There was a particular photo they focused most on, though– the one with Bakugou glancing down at your lips as you beamed up at him. You couldn’t lie. It was a beautiful photo. The outfits you two wore were well-coordinated, but it was overshadowed by the sheer chemistry emanating from the two of you. 

Your hands were placed delicately on his chest whilst his hands rested on your lower back and underneath your chin, angling your face up to his. There was a ghost of a smile left on Bakugou’s face while he was glancing at your smile. 

You let out an audible “woah” and left a heart message next to that particular photo. You were proud! It truly looked like the two of you were a couple, and the clothes were definitely a highlight of the photo altogether. The photographer did a great job! You didn’t know how the photographer/editor was able to make it look so much like Katsuki was going to kiss you, but you weren’t complaining! It looked great!

The actual moment you were taking that photo didn’t feel anything like what the mood from the photo emanates. That amazed you. The photographer was truly talented.

And then the bribery started.

Before the afterparty ended, Mistuki and Masaru were holding a conversation with you and your aunt about the clothing. You mentioned how you really wanted some of the pieces from the runway, and you were probably going to desperately search the web for anything similar.

Usually, pieces straight from the runway aren’t the same ones sold at stores. When looking at luxury brands’ stores, they normally have a refined version of the things they sell at stores. The point of fashion shows are to market the brand and to make a statement (whether it be about society, politics, or whatever else). Of course, it depends on the brand, but Masaki is a brand that uses its fashion shows as more of an art exhibition than anything. You, however, have a tendency to actually want the pieces directly from the runway. 

After you wore them for the photos, you just wanted them more. So, this was a way for you to ask the original designers if you could purchase their pieces in a… sly way.

You didn’t expect it, but Masaru offered to give an outfit to you for free. You were especially surprised since you were willing to pay thousands for it! They said it was a gift for their old friend’s niece. You were ecstatic!

Mitsuki, however, being the opportunist she is, decided that they’d give an outfit to you for a favor or two. And you, being the clothing addict, agreed to “anything!” 

This is how she was able to coax you into getting your permission for posting this photo to their official Instagram. 

It’s unknown how she was able to convince her son for his permission, but it was likely something ten times more sneaky. To you, it was a small price to pay for these clothes you likely would have sold a kidney for. After all, it was Masaki! Straight from the runway! Masaru even personally tailored it to exactly your size! This was a chance that only a couple people in the world could receive. You were fine with it.

In fact, you were glad that you had to just show your face to a small fraction of the public. It’s fine! It’s a great deal, in fact! What you didn’t expect was for this photo to turn the viewing for a small fraction of the public into one of a big fraction.

Either way, this didn’t become an issue until a bit later.

Bakugou Katsuki was back to his daily routine. His attention was a little more split, however. The joint group chat between the owners of Masaki and Kindeki was blowing up at almost all times of the day. The designers of the brands had jumped straight into drafting up ideas as soon as possible, and it was headache-inducing. 

Bakugou was tired of his phone stuttering out notifications as if it were a bumbling high schooler trying to do a presentation. Thus, during his time at the café, his eyebrows were constantly furrowed into an expression of sheer irritation as he felt his phone vibrate against him in his pocket every couple of seconds. “Why can’t those damn geezers just talk about this in real life!?” he thought, opening his phone for the nth time to check up on what they’d been talking about.

His mom and your aunt were talking about the Ham and Swiss Croissants from Starbucks. This was the last straw. He turned off the notifications for the group chat altogether, finally getting a break from the incessant vibrating of his phone. From across the counter, Ashido looked at him with concern.

“Hey, you good? You’ve been staring at your phone all day like you did in high school whenever Midoriya got a better grade than you on a test.” 

Bakugou gritted his teeth and bared them at the girl for her remark, but answered nonetheless. “My mom and her friend from college keep bitching about croissants in a group chat we’re using to discuss details for a brand collaboration.” He rolled his eyes at the thought of it. He was going crazy. Why couldn’t they just use their own chat? Why the hell are they talking about croissants!?

He was leaning his hands against the back counter that held his expensive espresso machine. His “baby”, as his employees would call it. He leaned a little too far back and burned the back of his arm on one of the metal attachments to the machine which was still dripping with boiled water. As he hissed from the pain, he started whispering a scary amount of curses under his breath.

Then, the door rang. 

Instead of you coming back into the café, this one little dipshit is starting to come in instead. Some people were moving into the empty space next door to his café. They were setting up a boutique or some stupid shit, and this guy was one of their people. He kept ordering the same shit you’d always order. A peach lemonade and some version of an extremely caffeinated drink, and some other shit. This time, the guy came in with a Starbucks bag with something in there that smelled suspiciously like those stupid fucking croissant sandwiches. 

Bakugou forced a smile on his face as he was handing the man his order. He could feel his face twitching with poorly concealed anger, so it just made the man squeak and rush out of the place as soon as he could. Ashido chuckled at him from the cashier, watching as Bakugou quickly reverted his face back into one with a deep grimace. Yeah, he wasn’t going to be working as the cashier at all today. He’d scare them all off, and he’s already intimidating enough as he is.

As of this point, Ashido was getting concerned. She could see a vein popping up on his neck from clenching his teeth and fist so hard. He looked a little constipated, to be honest, but she kept these words to herself for fear that she may end up causing that vein on his neck to pop in sheer rage. 

She genuinely hadn’t seen him this angry in years, and she was wondering how high his blood pressure must have been. After knowing him for so many years, she was sure that the croissant conversation wasn’t the only thing that was getting on his nerves so much. It couldn’t have been. Normally, when the part-time workers at his café would start having personal conversations in the employee group chat, he’d just calmly ask them to bring the conversation to another place.

That was a similar scenario to what he described. Two people he knew quite well using a professional group chat for personal discussions– it was basically the same situation.

There had to be a certain trigger that was making him more irritated than usual. She saw how Bakugou reacted to the man that just left the café, and she couldn’t help but think that he was connected to all of this. Hmm, he was carrying a Starbucks bag, though. Maybe that’s why he was angry? Because he brought a bag with the logo of a massive coffee corporation into his café? But no, the man was clearly buying the drinks from his café, which basically cemented the fact that his drinks were better. Bakugou would normally be proud of that. 

Ashido kept thinking to deduce the reason behind his actions. Playing detective for the source of Bakugou’s emotions is one of her favorite hobbies. Especially when the café isn’t busy.

Maybe it’s because the bag smelled a little bit like croissant sandwiches? There has to be another reason other than the croissants. There’s no way he’d get that angry just because of a reminder of some pastries.

Ashido was hyper aware of his actions during her exchange with the customer, however. Partially because she was worried and mostly because she was curious. 

Before Bakugou could even take a glance at the bag in his hands, she noticed him clench up when he asked for “an americano and a peach lemonade– both large.” She could have sworn that Bakugou also let in a sharp breath when the customer said that.

What’s wrong with buying an americano and a peach lemonade? Tons of people ordered those. Maybe it’s the combination of the two? She thought. “But (Y/N)-san orders these and he’s never angry at-” her jaw dropped and she immediately clasped a hand over her mouth.

She had reached an epiphany. "It’s definitely because she hasn’t been visiting the café as often!"

Is that why he was so pissy?

Was it because he wanted to see you?

Ashido told Bakugou he should go on a break so that she could process this information while he went to calm down. She’ll tease him about it after his blood pressure goes down. He’s also been clenching his teeth so hard that his teeth will start falling out if he doesn't cool off somehow. 

As she washed her hands (because she touched her mouth earlier), she had a terrifying cheshire cat smile on her expression. From afar, a customer saw her and squeaked a little. 

It was his break, but he couldn’t fucking relax. Maybe he should just leave the café to Ashido for the rest of the day to cool off at the gym. But no, he couldn’t. He had to finish the day, or else it would damage his gold, coffee mug-shaped pride.

He has to, even if he’s starting to sweat from how much sheer anger he feels. His head and jaw ache from being clenched for so long, and he thinks his palms might bleed if he digs his fingernails into them any longer. He desperately needed this break. 

He was very a little irked at the fact that he hadn’t seen you stop by his café ever since the show. You were a regular at his café, so why hadn’t he seen you since?

Was it because he scared you off because of the way he looked at you in the photo?

It sent his mind spiraling. "Of course she wouldn’t show up again. It’d be fucking awkward. She probably thinks you’re a disgusting pervert because of the way you looked at her. Fuck, you barely know her. She definitely thinks you’re disgusting because of that.”

As of this point, he was standing in the employee bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror again. He looked at the wall desperately, wanting to punch it with all his might. But if he did that, he’d probably break his wrist again. Not a good idea to punch a concrete wall like that one time. “Calm down,”he thought, using breathing techniques that his old therapist taught him. 

He hasn’t felt this angry in years– ever since Midoriya got a higher grade than him on that government test in his senior year of high school.

So, he went back to the counter of his café, making himself one of those hot chocolates that you helped him develop a little while back.

Before he got back to work, he went to the back and did some push-ups in the pantry while thinking of you. He’s going insane. Again.

directory/m.list

⇦ previous chapter - next chapter ⇨

[unseededtoast]

Turtle Doves | Joel Miller

Part Twenty Five

Chapter Directory

Series Summary: In which two broken souls connect so deeply, that if one should perish, the other would surely die of a broken heart. (slow burn, timeline changes. After TLOU1, before TLOU2, assumed knowledge of infected, uses elements from both show and game)

Series Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, death, and sexual content.

Also cross posted on my Wattpad and AO3, if you prefer those formats. Here is a link to my masterlist for everything else I’ve posted.

I look down at my shaking hands and wonder if he thinks I'm just as much of a monster as the men I've just killed. 

It could've been two days or two weeks that I've been kept here but I would have no way to tell. The Tribunals have kept me locked in a dark room the entire time, effectively disorienting me. My limbs still strapped down to the table, my body aches and my mind has become fuzzy. While the room is dark, I am not afforded the luxury of sleep. 

A glimpse of sunlight enters the room as a man steps through. His footsteps echo in the quiet room and I hear him stop walking as he reaches the table end by my feet. His fingers trail up the front of my leg and I hear him take in a sharp breath. 

"I'm here to bring you to trial." His voice is gruff. I am unable to answer due to being dehydrated, and make no move to acknowledge the man's words. 

I don't know what this trial will entail, but I've seen what these people do. I'm already guilty in their eyes. This much has been proven by the way they've treated me while being tied down to the table. 

Countless men have entered and ran their hands over my body, some have gone as far as to hit me. They've all told me that I'll swing for killing their men. And I believe them. 

"Come on." The man speaks as he cuts my restraints. Even though I'm now free of being tied down, I don't make any move. I know I'm far too weak to take on even one of these men by myself, and if I attempt to escape that I'll just be re-captured and tortured even further. 

I've run through every scenario I could think of, and all ended up with me being dead. There simply isn't a way out of this one. The man yanks me from the table and forces me on my feet. He grabs the back of my shirt and leads me out of the dark room. 

The sunlight is blinding as soon as he opens the door. My eyes squint and I stumble over my own feet as he continues to push me forward. I hear men yelling at me and I smell smoke in the air. 

"Let that bitch swing!" One man calls out enthusiastically. As my eyes adjust to the light, I begin seeing where I'm going. 

I'm being paraded down a street that's lined with men on each side. My gaze falls across several men and see the 'T' branding on every single one. This group was much larger than I ever could have conceived.  

I trip over my feet again and lift my head to see a large brick building in front of me. It has a grand staircase with torches lining the sides. There are men guarding the door with several guns in hand. 

"Let's see her head roll!" Another man calls out. While their words are frightening, my mind doesn't fully register that they're talking about me. It's almost as if I'm viewing the whole situation in third person, like an out of body experience. 

We reach the staircase and I'm forced up them. As I ascend the stairs I hear the crowd behind cheer in unison. The doors slam loudly behind us once inside, leaving us in silence. Two additional men escort me down a hallway where there's one room at the very end. 

The room at the end of the hall is a courtroom. A dusty, downtrodden courtroom that smells faintly of blood and gunpowder. I'm forced to stand in front of the wooden pedestal at the front of the room, in which one man sits behind the desk. He stares down at me with disdain in his eyes and looks me over before he speaks, as if he's trying to come up with just the right insult. 

"Today you will face trial for the murders of our men with the maximum penalty of death. Do you understand?" His voice is loud and commandeering. The word death seems to reignite my mind and the full gravity of the situation begins to sink in. 

My eyes dart all around the room and I see a jury of men to my left. They're all staring me down like they would take great joy in killing me themselves. And they probably would. I look back to the man in front of me and nod my head, hoping that my death may be swift.

"Yes." I answer and he nods, satisfied with my answer. With that, I'm tugged over to a table on the right side of the room and forced into a chair. Another man who sits at a table to the left stands from his spot and approaches the man that I just spoke with. 

I realize quickly that this is being conducted like an actual pre-outbreak court. I'm the defendant, and the man I just spoke to is the judge. The men to the left is the jury that will decide my fate. Though it's hardly fair, it makes sense, considering they've named themselves Tribunals. It seems this entire group has taken it upon themselves to become the world's judges. 

While tribunals are supposed to act to keep peace, order, and justice, these people have corrupted the role to conform to their own twisted will. There is no justice in slaughtering innocent people. The judge at the front of the room slams an old gavel to begin the trial. 

The man who sits at the table to my left stands and turns to the jury. This man is dressed nicer than the others and looks to be a little more well-nourished, he must have found favor with his position. Either that, or he's being paid off by those who can afford his price. 

"Today you will receive the facts about this woman who sits across from you. She is responsible for several of our men's deaths. But you don't have to take my word for it, no we have solid physical evidence that she has been tracking us and hunting our members." The man points an accusatory finger at me, and all I can do is stare back at him. This entire situation feels utterly dystopian and foreign to the world in which we now live. 

"The court will now hear from the prosecutor." The judge states and allows the man to continue talking. I glance over and see that my bag has been sat on the prosecutor's table. My heart slams in my chest when I realize all that's been kept in there. 

"My fellow Tribunals. Let me show you exactly who she is. She has written correspondence from our men." He holds up several notes that I've held onto from Boston. I swallow harshly, wishing for a cup of water. 

"She has a detailed map." He displays my map to the jury, who all look at it with squinted eyes. 

"And she even has our pictures." He shows the jury the polaroid pictures I took of other victims. I see some people on the jury look from the pictures to me, a deep seeded hatred in their eyes. 

"Now, I'm not going to waste your time here today. It is glaringly obvious that this woman was operating solely to kill as many of us as she could. In fact, she travelled all the way from Boston." He waves papers in the air that I assume are the notes I found in the QZ warehouse. 

The evidence gets passed around the jury members, who take their time examining every single paper and photo that gets passed to them. It's obvious that nobody is going to find me innocent. After all, they weren't wrong, I was operating solely to exterminate them. They may judge me for the acts I've committed against them, but I've judged them on their acts they've committed against innocent people. It seems we find each other guilty of the most heinous. 

After what feels like an hour, the jury has passed back the evidence and the prosecutor clears his throat and looks me dead in the eye as he says his next words. 

"I do trust that the jury will reach a reasonable conclusion." His words are an obvious threat. My eyes track him as he takes his seat at the table once more. I know I am destined to die soon, but I would like very much to kill that man before I do. 

"And now the defendant. Please state your name for the record and recount your version of events." The judge orders and it takes me a moment to understand what he's asking of me. Knowing I have no choice but to comply, I stand from my seat with wobbly balance. They definitely must have kept me here for a few days at least.

"My name is Noelle Allen and I am from the Boston QZ. There's no denying the evidence you saw, but let me tell you what the prosecutor won't. Members of this group made a deal with the Fireflies to find and kill a teenage girl for a deal gone bad. But they weren't just looking for this one girl. No, I found three murdered teenagers in the QZ, all tortured and killed brutally." I take a breath and try to swallow, but my throat is entirely too dry. My eyes sweep across the jury and I can tell that whatever I say won't sway them, but I know what I must say for me to die at peace.

"All across the country members of this group have left people mutilated. And not only that, but they took joy in it. It's killing for sport, not justice. How can it be just if photos are taken of the victims and displayed like trophies? Tell me, where is the justice in sexually assaulting children and leaving their bodies in alleys?" My voice raises and cracks with my words, and I force myself to keep going before they tell me that my time is up. 

"This here is not justice, this is a corrupted system. You can tell yourselves that this is fair and just, and that you're enforcing some kind of moral code. But all you're doing is using this as an excuse to kill whoever you want for whatever reason. And I know that my body will swing from the gallows after this, but at least I know I died by trying to avenge the innocent." My words may not have been the most eloquent, but it's everything I needed to say. I sit back down at the table and wait for someone to say something. But the room remains silent. 

Jury members begin conversing amongst themselves but I don't waste the energy in trying to listen. I already know my sentence. Instead, I focus on the wood grain of the table and find myself once again thinking of Joel. 

I never intended to develop the feelings I did. No, I was just grateful I had someone willing to travel with me across the country. Never did I think that Joel Miller would end up with my heart. His rough exterior hides a man who loves deeply and passionately for those he cares about, a man who has endured too much pain and suffering in this life. I knew that our time together was limited, but I never thought it was going to end like this. 

No, I had always imagined that we would be able to exterminate this group and then we would part ways. He would go to Wyoming to be with his family, and I would decide what I wanted to do. And while I hope he's on his way to Wyoming right now, I realize that I don't have to burden myself with making that choice anymore. There are no more future days for me. 

But, I hope that all future days for Joel are as peaceful as they can be. I hope he's able to spend time with his newfound daughter, and that she is kept from harm's way. I hope these people never find them and I hope nobody else ever finds out that she is immune. There's no doubt in my mind that Joel would allow anything happen to her, she's in good hands. I only wish I could've met her. Maybe in a different life things ended differently. 

"A decision has been reached, all rise." The judge says as a jury member hands him a piece of paper. My heartbeat thumps in my ears as I watch the judge licks his lips and clear his throat. 

"By decree of the Tribunals, defendant Noelle Allen has been found guilty of all charges and the jury recommends the maximum sentence for her crimes." His words are no surprise to me. Immediately, my arms are tugged behind my back and I'm forced to begin taking my final walk. 

I know that I will be hanged outside this very courthouse. 

Life seems to move in slow motion as I'm forced out of the courtroom. My chest feels like it's tight, like I can't get enough air and the people around me blur into shapeless figures. It's as if concrete has been poured around my feet, weighing me down with every step forward. The front doors of the courthouse open and I can hear the roar of cheers from the people outside, but they sound muffled. My ears are ringing, my heartbeat feels like it's going to jump from my chest. 

Before we make it to the front doors, my vision goes gray. The hands that were holding me tightly disappear and I hear gunshots in front of me, where the crowd is. Still operating in a fog of confusion, my feet take steps backwards automatically, and suddenly I find myself running back through the courthouse. Men with guns rush past me, paying me no mind as I look for a way out. 

I'm not even sure what's happening, but it feels like some sort of divine intervention. 

I look into each room I pass until I find one with a window. Without giving it any thought, I pick up a chair to break the glass out and then jump out of it. My feet hit the ground with a hard thud, the jump had been higher than anticipated, but I made it out. Near the front of the courthouse I hear gunfire and screams, so I turn and run in the other direction. 

My palms burn from being cut by the broken glass but I just hope that nobody thinks to follow the blood trail. With each gasp for air my lungs burn more and more and I start to trip over my own feet. Finding a secluded corner, I collapse against the wall and try to catch my breath. 

The smell of smoke lingers heavily in the air and burns my throat, but I pay no mind to it. All I need to focus on is getting out of here alive. I know if they catch me, I'll suffer a fate far worse than death. 

Once I feel like I can get my body to operate properly, I stand and look around the corner to make sure nobody is coming after me. Unfortunately for me, there is a lone man running my way as I peek around and his gaze locks onto me instantly. 

Knowing if he alerts the others that my fate is sealed, I force myself forward and meet him in the middle. The man is carrying a large machete and he swings it towards me, and I am just barely able to dodge it. While he follows through with his swing, I land a kick to his ribs and knock him off balance, but not for long. 

The man swings again with a grunt and the blade grazes my arm, adding to the blood spilling from my body. I yell out in pain and back up before he can swing the blade again. 

"I'll get a reward for you dead or alive, it's all up to you. But I'm gonna have fun either way." The man exclaims as he lunges forward with the machete in front of him. It narrowly misses my stomach by inches. 

His words ignite a fire within myself, something deep-seeded and hot burns in my chest. While he gains his balance to swing at me again, I duck my head and tackle him, taking us both to the ground. 

The man struggles to grab hold of the machete's handle and I land my knee on top of his wrist, pinning it to the ground. He yells out in pain and his other hand moves to pull me off of him, so I grind my knee into his wrist even harder. His eyes shut in pain and he tries one last time to get me off of him. His free hand grabs my hair and he pulls, hard. My weight is shifted off of his wrist and he flips us over so that my back is pinned against the asphalt road. 

I move too quickly for him to hold my hands down and as he struggles to keep me pinned, my thumbs find their way to his eyes. With determination to live, I dig my thumbs into the man's eye sockets and listen as he screams. He jolts away from my hands and I waste no time in grabbing his machete. As he covers his eyes I raise the machete over my head before I bring it down and bury it in his throat. The man gurgles and chokes on his own blood as I stand.

But it seems like a clean getaway is not in my future, as the man's screams seems to have attracted more men. I yank the machete out of the man's throat and readjust my grip on it, my mind going blank to everything except fulfilling my bloodlust. 

One man raises his gun at me, but he's run out of bullets, probably spent dealing with the situation at the courthouse. He throws his empty gun at me and I dodge the metal, running towards him. I see his eyes grow wide as his gaze lands on the blade in my hand and then I feel him take his last breath as I pull the blade from his abdomen. 

A bullet whizzes by my head and I'm quick to spot the man shooting at me from behind a building. While he's ducked away for cover, I run between two buildings, hoping to disappear and get the jump on him. Thankfully city streets are organized as a grid, so it's not hard for me to locate where the shooter is. 

With controlled breaths, I peek around the corner and see the man who was shooting at me. His head is turned around the corner as he tries to see where I've gone. My footsteps are quiet and he doesn't hear me behind him until it's too late. The blade cuts clean across his jugular and he crumples to the ground gagging on blood. I grab his gun and check how many bullets are left. There are just three, so I have to make them count. 

I turn and start heading away from the center of the city, where the majority of the group is. If I can get far enough away before they realize I'm gone, I'll have a pretty good chance at disappearing from them forever. My head is on a swivel as I move away from the city, constantly checking for any lone wolf members or infected that may have been drawn to the commotion. 

I'm almost out of the main city area when a door opens to my right. The man behind the door moves too fast for me to be able to do anything, and he forces me inside the building. There are two other men inside, sitting by a fire. Of course I would run right past one of their outposts.

"I reckon we can fetch a fair price for this one, what do you think boys?" The man has a death grip on my wrists and I feel him lean down and sniff my hair. 

Where fear once would have set in, all I feel now is anger. My vision seems to go red and while the man satisfies himself by smelling me, I bring my heel up quickly and land a solid hit. His hands are off of me in an instant, grabbing at himself. 

I hear the others behind me scramble to grab their weapons while I lock my arms around the man's throat. I squeeze tightly and fend him off as he reaches behind himself in an attempt to grab me. 

"Drop your guns or I'll make you all suffer." My voice does not sound like my own as the words leave my mouth. However, the men don't take my threat seriously, and one of them laughs. 

The blood in my veins feels like it has turned into burning hot lava and I squeeze the man's airway so tightly that I feel his knees about to give out. He's choking for air, struggling to get even the smallest breath. His body is growing heavier and heavier and just before he hits the ground, I grab the gun off of his thigh and aim it at the two others.

I don't give the others a chance to speak as I fire rounds into their kneecaps; my finger pulls the trigger so quickly it almost sounds like I'm firing an automatic weapon. Both men collapse to the ground, writhing in pain as blood drains out of their knees. 

"You fucking bitch." One of them spits at my feet as I saunter over to them. I kick their own guns away from them and then assess how I want to handle the situation. My eyes linger on the fire burning in front of me and an idea blossoms in my mind. 

Perhaps this is the precise moment that I become just as bad as them. 

I grab the fire poker leaning against one of the chairs and hold the end of it in the fire until it becomes red-hot. Once I'm satisfied with how hot the iron is, I walk over the man closest to me and lean down so that I can see his face clearly. Tears stream out of his eyes and he whines about his knees. 

"I wish I could do this to every single member of this group. But since I can't, you're going to be the ones to send my message to them all." My words are laced with venom as I stand to my full height. 

The man in front of me pleads and begs for his life. And once upon a time I might have had pity on him and not have followed through. But after everything I've seen these men do to others and what they've done to me, I have no problem following through with my actions. 

I plunge the hot metal through the man's mouth until I feel the end of the iron hit the floor beneath him. The man screams out in pain and grabs the iron. He ends up melting the skin off the palms of his hands as he tries to save himself. While he dies a slow, agonizing death, I turn my attention to the other man. 

"Please don't, please." The man sobs when he sees me walk towards him. Instead of answering him, I look around for my next weapon. 

However, there seems to be little to nothing here, except sleeping bags and old wrappers. My eyes turn down to my trembling hands that are covered in blood. The man's cries fade into the background as my ears begin ringing.

Behind my eyelids with every blink I see images of dead people. The children in the QZ, the people in the polaroids, every single one of them. My knees hit the ground with a hard thud and my hands reach out and wrap around the man's throat. 

He scratches and claws at my hands and manages to knock me off balance. With my ears still ringing and my vision becoming veiled in red, I watch as my fingers lace themselves in the man's hair. I bring his head up off the ground before slamming it back to the floor, where I hear his skull crack. 

But that's not enough to keep him from fighting back, so I raise his head off the floor once more and repeat the action. As his head hits the ground for the second time, blood begins spilling out onto the floor. The man stops fighting back as hard, his arms and legs twitch next to his body. I stand to my full height and use the back of my hand to wipe the sweat from my face as I see blood begin spilling out of the man's eyes. 

Stumbling backwards, I find my way out of the building as it suddenly feels like the walls are caving in on me. And as I open the door the light blinds me, and from the light emerges a figure that I can only describe as being angelic. 

My shoulders slump as I see Joel standing right in front of me, his eyes trained on the carnage behind me. 

"Noelle." He says breathlessly. His wide eyes scan over my face and it's only then that I realize what I've just done. 

I look down at my shaking hands and wonder if he thinks I'm just as much of a monster as the men I've just killed. 

Part Twenty Six

[malevolent-eunuch]

His wedding gift, clasped round my throat. A choker of rubies, two inches wide, like an extraordinarily precious slit throat. After the Terror, in the early days of the Directory, the aristos who'd escaped the guillotine had an ironic fad of tying a red ribbon round their necks at just the point where the blade would have sliced it through, a red ribbon like the memory of a wound. And his grandmother, taken with the notion, had her ribbon made up in rubies; such a gesture of luxurious defiance!

He made me put on my choker, the family heirloom of one woman who had escaped the blade. With trembling fingers, I fastened the thing about my neck. It was cold as ice and chilled me.

[khushwedding]

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[fluentmoviequoter]

Rich for a Night

Requested Here!

Pairing: David 'Deacon' Kay x fem!detective!reader

Summary: To catch a thief targeting wealthy couples, you go undercover with your husband Deacon.

Warnings: fluff, Deacon & r are held at gunpoint, a Bugatti gets wrecked :(

Word Count: 2.5k+ words

Picture from Pinterest (1x19 "Source")

Masterlist Directory | Deacon Kay Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

“It doesn’t make any sense,” you lament. “The robberies always occur after big events, dinners, charity galas, but there’s no other connection.”

“Catering company?” your desk neighbor suggests.

“Different for every event. No one worker has been at every event. Planners have alibis, there’s no similarity in looks or where victims live, even banks. The only lead we have is wealthy couples getting robbed, sometimes at gunpoint, after an event.”

You drop your head into your hands as you reconsider the entire case. You’ve looked through every guest list, and everyone has alibied out, even though only a few couples overlapped and attended every event. They got robbed, too, as it turns out. The first two robberies had a connection: they both banked at the same place, but after that, the connection disappeared.

“It has to be someone near the events,” you murmur. “Maybe it’s someone who has access to Los Angeles socialite calendars and is just hanging around the events and picking people at random.”

Your phone rings, and you sigh before you answer, “Detective Kay.”

“Detective, there’s been a murder,” the caller says.

“Let me get you someone in homicide.”

“No, this is related to your burglary case. Or at least that’s what the homicide detective thinks. It looks like a robbery gone wrong.”

“What’s the address?” you ask as you pick up your cell phone and keys. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

On the drive into the hills, you add this new twist to your thoughts on the case. You agree that this location, the schedule, and everything about the setting of the crime match your investigation. The murder is either a progression or a mistake. Maybe the burglar was interrupted, or the victim tried to stop him. Before you can create too many theories, you arrive at the scene and flash your badge to enter the house.

“What have we got?” you ask the homicide detective surveying the scene.

“Forensics is going over everything now, but it doesn’t look like anything was taken. Single gunshot to the chest was our cause of death.”

“Nothing was taken?” you repeat. “Then why do you think this is related to the thefts?”

“Because of that,” he answers, squatting as he points under the makeup vanity. “A bag filled with jewelry pushed just out of reach. Almost like a dying woman was trying to protect herself and her home.”

“What else did you find?”

“Not much. Seems like this happened pretty quickly. Alarm was disabled at eleven-oh-five p.m.”

“After the murder mystery theater on the yacht,” you add. “Date night gold for the rich.”

“Hence, why we think this is your case, not ours. They’ll try to recover the bullet during the autopsy and run ballistics.”

“Until then, it’s mine to decipher. Thanks, detective.”

“Could I make one suggestion?” he inquires as he removes his gloves. You nod, and he says, “This seems like the perfect opportunity for a UC. Even if you don’t come face-to-face with the burglar, you get to know a bit more about the victims.”

“Even more if you go undercover yourself,” your partner adds as she walks into the house. “Progression or accident?” she asks, pointing to the victim.

“I can’t go undercover,” you argue.

“Why not? You get to play dress up. Plus, you’ve got a tactically trained and incredibly attractive husband you could take with you. No one would question your right to be there with Deac’s old money vibe and your, well, everything.”

You look around the scene, a luxury environment as an outward acknowledgement of all the victim worked for, or as it may be, didn’t work for, and decide it truly is your best option.

“I need a Rolex.”

Browsing the rows of the evidence locker with a small box in your hand, you wonder why so many rich people get arrested. So far, you’ve gathered a Rolex Daytona worth at least $100,000 and three pairs of sunglasses from Cartier, Ray Ban, and Dolce and Gabbana.

“Perfect,” you whisper as you find an envelope with a Tiffany ring and a pure obsidian band.

With these accessories and the dresses your contact who works with the UC division is procuring for you, you do not doubt that you will fit in. You still need a car, but you know just the people to ask about that.

“I need to check these out, Ally,” you request as you slide the evidence onto a desk. “For case 9212024.”

“No problem,” she answers as she begins logging case numbers and photos into her computer. “Who’s the ring for?”

“My husband.”

“I pity the criminals you’re after.”

“At least they’ll get a nice view while we put the cuffs on.”

“What are you doing here?” Rocker asks as you enter SWAT HQ.

“Lovely to see you too, Donovan,” you reply with a smile. “Do you greet your wife like that?”

Rocker shrugs and hugs you quickly before he directs you to where 20 Squad is reviewing warrants.

“Sergeant Kay,” you call as you enter.

“Oh, hi!” Street greets.

“This is a surprise,” Deacon says as he moves around Street to hug you.

“I have something for you,” you begin. You pull the obsidian ring from your pocket and lift the Cartier aviators from your side. “A proposal.”

“Is this a married couple thing or am I just confused?” Street whispers.

“You don’t want me to answer that, playboy,” Luca replies, slapping his back.

“Why?” Deacon questions, smiling even as he narrows his eyes at you.

“It’s just a date,” you promise.

“To do what?”

“I’m still working the string of burglaries targeting rich couples. We’ve got tiny leads that add to enough of a clue that I want to go undercover at the next big event to try to find something. I have to work faster because a woman was killed during a robbery last night.”

“Why not take someone more familiar with the case?”

“Do it, Deac,” Street whispers. “Just for the watch.”

“What watch?” Deacon asks.

You lift your hand to show the Rolex Daytona hanging loosely around your wrist. “There’s a look to people like this. I’ve got everything except a date right now, and you’re the best option for more reasons than I can list, Deac. If you can’t, I get it.”

“No, I want to,” he states, taking the sunglasses from your hand and sliding them onto his face. “Let’s catch a burglar.”

“Oh, that’s just not fair,” Street complains.

“Street,” you call. “I need something from you and Luca too.”

“Alright,” you announce after you secure your earrings. “We just moved here from New York, have our accounts set up, moved into a newly renovated house in the hills and are scoping out the local charities because we’re budding philanthropists.”

“And luring a thief,” Deacon adds as he gently tugs the strap of your dress to straighten your neckline.

“Mostly that.”

“I’m following your lead tonight, detective.”

“I like the sound of that.”

“Your ride is here,” Street says on the other side of your door. “And you’re welcome, but don’t get used to it. Luca and I may be brilliant, but we’re not get a free Bugatti loaner every week brilliant.”

“I never said it had to be a Bugatti,” you whisper to Deacon.

“I can hear you, ya know,” Street calls. “You are wearing a wire. So, keep it PG, Deac.”

Deacon smiles as he leans toward the tiny microphone hidden in the seam of your dress strap and answers, “10-4, good buddy.”

Street groans, and you gently push Deacon’s shoulders to straighten his tie. He looks good, though you expected no less.

“Let’s be rich for a night.”

“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Napier,” the chauffeur greets as he opens your door. “Beautiful car. It's number 17,” he adds as he hands Deacon the card to pick up the car after the event. “Enjoy your evening.”

“Thank you,” Deacon answers, nodding as he shakes the man’s hand and passes a $50.

You wait on the curb as Deacon rounds the back of the Bugatti and wraps his arm around your waist.

“If he scratches that car, Street will kill me,” you say through your smile.

“Good thing it’s not Street’s car,” Deacon replies. “Let’s go, Mrs. Napier.”

You smile while you loop your arm around Deacon’s bicep and follow him into the concert hall. Innumerable couples are finding their seats and milling around the open area of the hall as they discuss charities, recent events, and bank account balances. With Deacon, you have no concern about looking out of place, and your confidence is assured when three different women look over at him. One of which looks away from her husband to do so.

“Good evening,” a woman greets, smiling as she approaches you. “My name is Andrea Campbell and I’m hosting this evening’s event. Forgive me if I’m mistaken, but I don’t recall meeting you.”

“No, ma’am, you haven’t,” Deacon says, carefully extracting his arm from your hold as he offers to shake her hand. “I’m Dan Napier and this is my wife. We just moved here from upstate New York and wanted to see the charities of Los Angeles.”

“Oh, how wonderful! Mrs. Napier, I am an advocate for women in philanthropy, so if you have any questions please do not hesitate to contact me. I truly hope you enjoy this evening’s show and the presentation.”

“Thank you,” you offer before Andrea is called away. Once she’s out of earshot, you stifle a laugh and whisper, “I’m surprised she even saw me.”

“Mrs. Napier, is it?” a man asks, allowing as he pauses directly at your side, out of Deacon’s reach. “My associate Andrea mentioned that you were here. I believe you recently opened an account at my branch of United Banks. Hopefully you can spare some time soon so I can show you around LA.”

He walks away before you or Deacon can speak, and you’re left to watch him and wonder why he chose to acknowledge you.

“Think he’s a suspect?” Deacon murmurs into your ear as you turn toward him.

“No,” you answer, moving your professionally styled hair as you shake your head. “Just a man with a roving eye. We have no evidence that our guy goes after women any more than men.”

“But he killed the woman last night.”

“The husband called it in, though. He was in the house when it happened. Said they were both tied up and she managed to get free and went into the bedroom to confront the thief. He’s scared, he doesn’t like being watched. Nothing like that guy.”

Deacon nods and pulls you close, smiling before he kisses you quickly. You slide your hand into his and follow him to your seat.

During the concert, nothing of note occurs. Even after it ends, you’re welcomed to Los Angeles by several couples, but no one sticks out as a possible suspect. So, disappointed and back at square one, you exit the concert hall and stand at Deacon’s side as he asks the chauffeur to fetch the car.

Just as the Bugatti pulls up, the man who parked your loaner car moves behind Deacon and presses a gun against the small of his back.

“Get in the car, Mr. Napier. I’d hate to shoot through your wife’s pretty dress,” he demands quietly. “Now.”

Deacon moves his hands slightly to show the man that he’s unarmed and mumbles, “Okay, okay.”

“In the car, Mrs. Napier,” he demands, jerking his head toward the passenger door.

You nod quickly, wearing faux fear on your face as you get in the front seat. Deacon sits in the driver’s seat beside you as the armed man slides in behind him.

“Nice car,” he applauds. “Now drive to your house. Either one of you moves for a phone… if you even adjust the air vent, I will shoot you both.”

You don’t think he will, not somewhere as noticeable and closed-in as the car, but you nod and pretend to swallow a sob as Deacon pulls the Bugatti out of the short driveway.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” the man begins as Hondo speaks into your earpiece to alert you that he’s behind you in an unmarked car. “We’re going to go into your house, you’re going to turn off the alarm and get out of my way, and I’m going to take whatever I want. Understood?”

“You don’t have to do this,” Deacon replies.

The man presses the gun against your temple and yells, “Understood?!”

“Yes,” Deacon answers quickly, tightening his grip on the steering wheel, his knuckles white as his hands remain firmly at 10 and 2. “Understood.”

“I trust you, Dan,” you whisper as his left hand shifts slightly. “And everything you’d want people to do.”

“Shut up!” the man demands, lowering his gun slightly as he looks between you and Deacon.

“I trust you, Daniel,” you repeat softly, hoping your wire picks it up.

“I hope you don’t regret that,” Hondo answers in your ear. “Turn one light too early if you mean it, Deac.”

Deacon’s jaw clenches as he approaches the last light before your turn.

“This way is faster,” he tells the thief as he hits the blinker but doesn’t move.

Hondo’s engine revs as he increases his speed, steering his car to the right to perform a PIT manoeuvre.  When his front bumper collides with the side of the Bugatti, Deacon releases the wheel and turns toward you. He grabs the man’s forearm and hits it against the passenger seat as you retrieve your service weapon from your ankle holster. The car slides to a stop against the curb, and the man drops his gun, then begins crying as you level your aim at him.

“You’re under arrest,” you tell him, panting as you try to catch your breath and lower your heart rate.

“Who are you?” the man whimpers as Deacon holds his arm between the front seats.

“Detective Kay, LAPD,” you answer. “This is Sergeant Kay. And the man about to pull you out onto the pavement is Sergeant Hondo. LAPD SWAT.”

“Wait,” he interrupts, sniffling. “You’re actually married?”

Hondo rips the door open before you can answer and grabs the back of the man’s shirt collar to haul him out of the car. He looks through the open back door to check on you and Deacon, then clicks his tongue.

“Luca and Street are not going to be happy.”

You tip your head back against the headrest and groan.

“Congratulations, Detective Kay,” Deacon says.

He smiles as you turn in the seat to face him.

“I love you,” you tell him softly. “Even more without the expensive jewelry.”

“But I look good in the sunglasses, right?”

You laugh and nod but point out, “We didn’t need them for a concert at night, though.”

Deacon laughs with you, and as the approaching police lights reflect around you, you know your life is richer with Deacon than with any material belongings you could ever borrow or earn.