#all landlords and cops explode right now

[kitteneyejo]

so mad at the way shit works in the world rn i think it should all change drastically immediately with no negative consequences or periods of upheaval

[seat-safety-switch]

Getting a good croissant in my town shouldn’t be as hard as it is. Now, I know what you’re saying: aren’t you the guy who drives rancid shitboxes and refuses to spend a buck on anything? Yes, but it’s just a little bit classist of you to assume that I won’t take one of those Plymouth Volares running an ex-Soviet diesel two-stroke engine to the local French café. While I’m there, I’d like to stuff my face with delightful baked goods while reading a book about sad children growing up without Twingos.

Problem is, there isn’t a local French café for me to go to. Some politician teamed up with the Channel 3 news and made up some bullshit about the French-speaking elites trying to force our children to play soccer in school. It got out of control on Facebook, and then here was a huge anti-Franco riot, which was opportunistically seized upon by the undercover cops planted into the riot, in order to burn down the buildings of people they didn’t personally like. Your normal long-weekend stuff around these parts.

I had two options, none of which I liked. One, I could learn to bake a croissant myself. That would involve a journey of self-discovery, as well as a commitment to clear my kitchen of all the motorcycle parts that I was currently soaking in the sink and drying out on the landlord’s cookie sheets. Two, I could attempt to drive to a place where French-speaking people are still allowed to own property. Driving to the next town over might seem simple to you, but for me, it’s a challenging road trip.

Despite the elevated wear it would cause to my transmission, I chose to lash a spare Volare to the back of my “travel” Volare as a backup. Not only did it contain spare parts and tools, but it also would serve as a cargo trailer for returning even more croissants safely home.

Things didn’t go well, and I had to abandon the trip halfway through the return leg. I got nervous when I got rumbled by the highway patrol, and figured they might have radioed me ahead as a traitor to the Anglospheric way of life. I had already been suspected by them previously, for having a French-sounding “Chevrolet” in my driveway.

All the stress of this official extrajudicial hasslin’ made my right foot jiggle a bit, which in turn adjusted the gas pedal slightly beyond the safe 1/16th load. This load limit was essential: it had been empirically determined through previous breakdowns that giving the car no more pedal than this would keep the precarious balance between the cooling system, fuel system, transmission, differential and ignition system from exploding into all-out civil war.

At least I had plenty to eat while I worked hard at turning the two Malaise-Era Mopars into one halfway functioning car. I made sure to make it look like a shitty job, too. What’s more American than that?

[chaoticpuff17]

A Dangerous Game

part 4

masterlist

Never in Y/N’s life had she run so far so fast. She almost thought her heart would explode but whether that was from the exertion or from the panic she didn’t know. The only thing she consciously knew was that she had to get away. She had to get away quickly.

She ducked into a coffee shop and ripped out her phone hurriedly searching for Eun-ho’s number. Each ring of the phone seemed like a knife to her heart, and she could only pray that Eun-ho would answer his phone while constantly peeking out of the window in hopes that neither RM or his men had followed her.

“Y/N?”

She nearly sagged to the floor in relief. “Oh thank God.” She sobbed.

“Y/N? Y/N, what’s wrong?” came the confused voice from the other end of the phone.

“He knows.” She spoke hurriedly panic coloring her tone and drawing the eyes of the patrons in the coffee shop. “I was in the market and he was there. He knows.”

“Who knows?” he asked and one could practically hear him scratching his head in confusion. “And what does he know?”

“He was in the market, and he knows I’m trying to go home. He has someone at the station. He knows everything.”

There was a pause that seemed to go one for ages before he spoke again hushed and suddenly just as worried as she was. “He has someone in the department? Our department?”

“Yes.” She hissed gazing out the window keeping a sharp eye out for RM, Jimin, or any of his lackeys that she might be able to identify, anyone even remotely suspicious really.

“Where are you?” he asked and she could hear movement on the other end of the phone. “I’ll come get you.”

“I’m at a coffee shop near the market. I… I don’t know what to do. I just ran out of there. He could still be in the market. He could be coming here. I don’t know I just… I panicked. I ran!”

“Stay where you are. I’m coming to get you.”

“Hurry.” She begged. “Eun-ho!” she suddenly yelped just before he could hang up.

“Y/N?”

“Don’t tell anyone. I don’t know who he has on the inside.”

“I promise. Just stay there, and I’ll be there soon.”

She didn’t know how long it took Eun-ho to get there but it felt like hours. Each moment moved by at a snail’s pace. She sat there staring out the window with her heartbeat pounding in her ears like a drum counting off the endless seconds. Each moment that Eun-ho wasn’t there was another moment were RM or his goons could find her and take her away to whatever fate RM had cooked up for her. He was a man with a plan and somehow over the course of a few weeks and two meetings, he had decided that she was a part of his plans.

What could he want with her though? She wasn’t of any use to him. She didn’t have connections or money. She had herself and a cat back home that looked more like a loaf than a cat, and she doubted RM’s interest was in her loaf of a cat. What was his interest?

Marcus was dead, and most of his associates were in prison or dead. And Marcus wouldn’t have had enough influence to even be noticeable to a man like RM so it couldn’t have been because of him or his former partners. Jackson. She needed to call Jackson.

She dialed the number with shaking fingers and waited for him to pick up. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. She was about to give up hope when the familiar voice echoed through the speakers. “Hello?”

“Jackson!” she cried out in relief thankful that the man had answered.

“Y/N? What are you doing calling here? Are the cops over there not taking good care of you? Need me to beat someone up?” the man joked not knowing the seriousness of the situation at hand.

“Papillon.” As soon as the word was spoken there was dead silence on the other side of the phone.

“Y/N.” his tone was solemn. He knew just as well as she did what that word represented. Of all the people from her life before, Jackson was the only one she still had contact with, the only one she trusted. “Y/N, what happened? Are you safe? Can you speak freely?” It had been years since either of them had had need of this system, and they had both hoped there would never be a need for it again.  

“I’ve run into a problem, and I’m coming home. If you haven’t heard from me within the next two days, something went wrong, really wrong.”

“Damn it.” He hissed. “I knew sending you over there was a bad idea. “I’m coming to get you.”

“Don’t be an idiot. It’ll take twice as long to get out of here if I wait for you to come.” She shook her head though he couldn’t see it. “I’ll be back as soon as I can get on a plane, but I needed to let you know what was going on.”

“Who is it, Y/N? Who did those bastards get you mixed up with?” he growled.

“I don’t know what his real name is, but they call him RM. And he’s…” she paused taking in a shuddering breath. “Jackson, he’s worse than Marcus ever was. The guy’s like a freaking James Bond villain.”

“Two days, Y/N. If you’re not home in two days, I’m coming to get you myself.”

“Okay.” She whispered relieved just to hear his voice, relieved that he knew.

“Two days, Y/N.” he sighed heavily, and she could practically hear the cogs turning in his head as he tried to work out a plan. “Be safe, Y/N.”

“I will.” She promised as the phone clicked signaling the end of the call.

She took another deep breath and peeking out the window again to see if Eun-ho was there yet. Having Jackson know the situation had settled her racing heart somewhat, but she wouldn’t be able to breathe gain until Eun-ho was here and she was safely on a flight out of Korea, far away from RM because whatever he wanted from her it couldn’t be good. God, how she wished she had never come here.

She could have been home. She could have flat out refused to come, and she should have. She never should have let them talk her into this. She knew it was idiotic, but then again maybe she was an idiot. She’d been an idiot all those years ago when she’d first become involved with Marcus and she was an idiot now.

“Y/N!” Eun-ho asked walking into the coffee shop looking every bit as frazzled as she felt. Granted she probably looked just as frazzled.

She rushed towards him and pulled him right back out the door. “We need to go.”

The rest of the day was a blur, a horrible blur. Every moment was spent glancing over her shoulder to ensure that she wasn’t being followed by a man she was coming to firmly believe was the devil. There were plane tickets to buy, suitcases to pack, a landlord to tell that the apartment would no longer be in use. And all of this had to be done with just the two of them because who else could they trust?

They knew that there was someone in the department who worked for RM, but was it only one? She wasn’t entirely sure that she could trust Eun-ho, but she didn’t exactly have another choice.

“Y/N? We need to go to the airport.”

They had been extremely lucky to get onto a flight out of Korea on the same day, and neither of them was willing to risk being late to the airport especially for an international flight especially when it was already so late at night.

“I know. I’m coming.” She called after him pulling her suitcase behind her as she went hurrying to the car.

Within the next few minutes they had packed up the car and were on their way to the airport.

“Deep breathes, Y/N ssi.” He smiled at her though neither of them found the gesture particularly comforting. “You’ll be on a plane and out of here in two hours.” He promised. Though she couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that had settled like a rock in her stomach.

There was a chance no matter how careful they had been that RM knew exactly where she was and what she was doing. There would always be a chance with that man. She might not have known the man well, but she knew that with such absolute certainty that it was ingrained on her soul. There would always be a part of her that even when she was safely home with her loaf of a cat and Jackson that was looking over her shoulder for RM just like she would always be looking over her shoulder for the remnants of Marcus’ old empire.

“You’ll go home, and he’ll lose interest.” That should have been reassuring. That fact should have been like a weight lifted from her shoulders, but it wasn’t all because of that dread that had made its home within her.

“What does it mean?” she suddenly asked looking over at him. “The word he called me before I ran. What does it mean?”

Even though it was dark she could still see the way he tensed his hands gripping the steering wheel like his life depended on it. “It doesn’t matter.”

Somehow she was unconvinced. “Eun-ho.”

“It doesn’t matter. Trust me.”

“You’re holding onto that steering wheel like it owes you money. I think it matters.” She glared at him though he couldn’t see it with the way his eyes were glued ahead of him in an attempt to avoid her gaze.

They sat there in a tense silence for a few minutes before he finally relented. “It like dear or sweat heart or honey. It’s a term of endearment.”

The silence returned only heavier this time. “Oh.” She murmured the word barely even a sound as it left her. He was right. She didn’t actually want to know that.

Jagiya. It was her new least favorite word. Knowing that he had called her that sent a shiver of disgust down her spine. Marcus had had pet names for her. Doll. Babe. Bitch. Slut. Marcus had called her a lot of things over their time together not all of them either good or endearing, but she had never hated a pet name more than she had hated jagiya. Or perhaps it was the fact that she hated the man who said it. As much as she had hated Marcus he had never frightened her as much RM did.

“Hey, Eun-ho. That car behind us is really close.” Her gaze was glued to the car riding their tail. “They’re getting closer.”

Everything in her was screaming that something was very very wrong. Eun-ho hummed his agreement and sped up hoping to put some space between them and the SUV behind them.

“Eun-ho.” Her voice warbled as the panic began to rise as the car sped up as well.

“I know. I see them.” He assured her while speeding up a little more.

“Eun-ho!” she shrieked as they collided with the car behind them.

The world was all spinning and screeching tires for a few horrifying seconds. There was screaming but whether it was her own or her companion’s she didn’t know. And then they were still again. She looked over at Eun-ho only to see him still bent over the steering wheel.  Blood was dripping from a cut on his forehead.

The next crash was just as unexpected as the first. It was as though a bull had ran head long into the driver’s side pushing them even further off the road with a sickening crunch a spray of glass. This time she knew the scream was hers before the world was black.

There was a buzzing in her ears, high pitched and annoying. Where was it coming from? Wherever and whatever it was did not make the pain in her head any better, it even seemed to make it worse. it was a harsh throbbing pain spreading out from the crown of her head and working its way back. But it was the buzzing that bothered her most.

She tried to move a hand to her forehead but found herself whimpering in pain instead. The movement had exacerbated both the buzzing and the pain causing instant regret.

“Don’t move, jagiya.” Cooed a voice to the side of her, or at least she thought it was coming from her side.

“Eun-ho.” She groaned out searching for the other passenger, wincing as the buzzing became worse.

“Everything will be alright, jagi.” The voice cooed as she was gently shifted out of the car though the movement still elicited a pained whimper from her. “I know.” He cooed. “Hush, jagi.”

“Eun-ho.” She whimpered again as she was settled into what she assumed was a pair of arms. It was either that or she was floating. The buzzing and the pain made it hard to tell.

“I know, jagi. Everything is going to be fine now. Just sleep.”

And she did.

part 5

[shadowwolfluna]

The firefighter and the cop

Chapter 2: Un secret

(This part will follow a bit on Chicago PD Season 1 Episode 10: At Least It’s Justice)

Chapter 1

It has been a few months that I slowly adapt to my new life in Chicago, and I kinda enjoy my life there. Everyone in firehouse 51 has called me -thanks to Hermann- Swiss, and again I like it. We were called as there was a car collision, the boys and I arrive at the scene and assess the situation. I see Atwater reassuring an elderly woman, I am next to Severide and we approach the vehicle where there was another driver in there.

“Old lady plows her boat through an intersection, and she’s the only one without a scratch.” My colleague commented, I shook my head and went into work mode. I look at the guy.

“Hey, sit tight we’re going to get you out of there.” Kelly explains, as I carefully observe the victim. I notice that he seemed a bit panic maybe, shaking my head I stood next to Kelly as he uses the spreader to open the door, one of the firefighters force open the door and I help to pull it out. I notice the guy moving out, and my colleague tries to tell him to sit down, but he punches him. I try to use my right leg to make him fall, but it fails and he ran away. Kelly called out to stop him, and I wanted to chase him but I know he’ll be too far away. I turn back around and I ask my coworker if he is okay, I soon hear Atwater and Burgess asking us to open the trunk, I grab a crowbar and use all my force to open it.

I gasp and took a step back. “What the…” I mumble in surprise, Burgess approach me and lead me away from whatever I saw. “You okay? I saw that you tried to stop him.” I nod my head at Kim, still wrapping my head about seeing a torso in the trunk of a car.

I only thought this could only happen in movies, Kim left as Kelly approach me and ask the same thing. “I’m fine, just had a feeling this guy might be up to something.” I reply not looking in front of Kelly, as he nods his head. “Don’t worry, Voight and his team will stop him.” I nod my head, staring at the car crash that now has a police sign and turns into a crime scene investigation.

We arrive back at Firehouse 51, Leslie and Gabby approach me. “Hey Swiss, you okay?” I slowly felt a bit frustrated, I can understand they worrying but I just want to forget it. “I’m fine, but please tell the guys not to ask me again if I am fine. I certainly do not want to remember it.”

Leslie nods her head and changes the subject quickly, normally I would explode in anger but I know they were worried and I prefer to stay calm and try to explain the situation. I hear someone calling out my name, turning around I see Kelly along with Erin and I see Voight there as well. “Swiss, they found someone, intelligence wants you and me to identify him.” I nod my head, before I can ask if I can come alone Voight speak up. “You can come with me, Erin will bring Kelly to PD.” I let out a small ‘okay’. I went to the lockers and get myself to change into my normal clothes, a black long-sleeve shirt with a red fake leather jacket and dark blue jeans. I wear a small pendant and left Firehouse 51.

“They told me about what happened, you okay?” I mentally rolled my eyes at Voight question, we were in the car going to the Police department. “For the love of, I am fine. Hank, it’s just...I don’t know...scary...I only thought that this could only happen in movies.” I glance out the window, feeling a bit awkward about my mini outburst. “Has this never happened in Geneva?” I let a small chuckle. “No, the only time I remember where. Police officers would arrest drunk drivers, I think murderers as well, but the swiss media has always covered it some. Except, I wasn’t technically there at the scene. So, I don’t know what to say.” I explain, and I kinda felt a bit frustrated not to know how I should felt, I felt a bit afraid but the feeling I feel the most is frustration. I feel it because I think it’s due I could have stop this guy, he murdered and chop off a person. Instead, I let him get away.

“Don’t worry, we’ll stop this guy. I understand you feel frustrated. But I ask you not to go on your own and be a cop, your a firefighter remember that I am glad that you are safe.” Hank said not even with anger but worry and I felt it kinda pull my heart, for the few months Hank and I met each other occasionally, but we haven’t officiated if we are dating or not. There were a few moments, I did ask myself if we are dating.

“I won’t, besides I don’t want to worry you, Hank.” He nods his head with a gentle smile and kept driving. “So, they kept calling you Swiss, why’s that?” I chuckle, as Hank is curious about the nickname. “Blame Hermann, he thought that since I am from Switzerland, it would be fun to nickname me Swiss. I like it.” I explain to Hank the story, with a small grin thankful that we change the subject.

“By the way, um Hank do you wish we see each other tonight or tomorrow evening? I don’t have a shift tomorrow.” I ask him curiously, while a bit nervous. Of course, we see each other a few times, but it would be with his teammates, and I kinda hope that he would notice that I wanted to say ‘date’.

I bit my lip nervously and look away, I didn’t notice Hank looking at me with a small smile. “Of course, I know a good place we can go to quietly.”

I exhale and made a wide grin, and without thinking, I said out loud. “Then it’s a date…”

I almost turn pale when I realize what I said, and before I can say anything Hank lets out a chuckle and smile at me. “Yeah, it’s a date.” I lost words, and I look out the window feeling myself blushing bright red.

We arrive at the Police Department, I walk side with Hank and I see a woman with grey hair talking on the phone. She nods at Hank and glances at me. I show her a small smile, she reminds me of a good friend of mine. She would not care what others think and would speak her mind, even some of my old firehouse in Geneva would like or hate her. I miss her though.

I follow Hank knowing he wants me and Kelly to identify the killer.

We were in the glass room, where Gabby’s brother Dawson I think is interrogating the ‘killer’. “It’s not him, the guy is more muscular and a bit taller.” Kelly nods his head, agreeing with me. Erin walks in and starts talking, about the guy who is not the killer, I notice Kelly checking out Erin. I sent him a smirk, where he hid his chuckles not wanting two police officers to know what is funny.

“Mind for you two to take a look at a couple of mugshots?” We both nod our heads, I then decide to ask Erin for the bathroom and mouth to Kelly ‘ask her’.

After being in the bathroom for ten minutes, I walk out and see both Kelly and Erin talking, when they notice me, Erin brings us to a room where they showed us pictures of prisoners.

I stop and recognize the suspected killer from one of the photographs. When Erin asks us, I point to the picture. “That guy.”

“That’s the guy we pulled out of the car.” Kelly added agreeing with me, a girl explains about the killer. Both Kelly and I slowly leave as the other officers are leaving to find him, but I noticed something in Kelly’s hand. I chuckle and shook my head. “What?” He notices my grin. “Your gonna try to ask Erin out are you?” Kelly lets out a small chuckle. “Nope, just going to try and bring back her stuff.” I smirk, as we walk down the stairs and see the woman talking with the other officers, not in the mood. “Who’s that?” Kelly looks at who I am referring to, and smile. “That’s Sergeant Trudy Platt, she’s...nice.”

“Then I should meet her another time, she reminds me of my friend.” We were both out of the district as Kelly looks at me as if I was crazy. “Woah, wait a sec, you have a friend in Switzerland that acts like THE Trudy Platt?” I let out a small laugh, while Kelly looks at me as if I grew two heads. “Yep, you know everyone in my old firehouse either tolerates or not liking her, but she considers me as a very close friend.” I explain, Kelly laugh. We both went our separate ways, I walk back to my apartment, which I thankfully found. It is not far from Firehouse 51, and I got a good price from the landlord.

The guys helped me with the move, and I manage to get my late brother’s car to come here a black 1969 Ford Mustang Fastback. My brother loves cars and motorcycles, he sadly passed away, and in his will, he gifts me his car. Even mentioning not to change anything in the car. The only thing he changed was the radio, as he comments about having music. I miss him.

My apartment has two bedrooms, a converge living/kitchen/dining area, along with a bathroom. I live on the fourth floor, I arrive there and set my jacket on the coat rack. Heaving out a small sight, and check the time.

I sent Hank an SMS informing the date and time.

To: Hank

From: (Y/N)

I’m back home safe and sound, I’ll see you tomorrow around eight. I hope everything is okay, catch that guy.

Can’t wait for our date.

😉

(Y/N)

I set the phone down, and I went to the bathroom wanting to leave out all of today’s stress.

(Timeskip to tomorrow)

I decide to wear a black dress that is up to my knees and let my hair down. I wear my pendant, which is the shape of a small teardrop decorated with blue and red small crystals. I put on my red lipstick, I told the others that tonight I won’t join them at Molly’s. I hear my phone vibrate, and check a new message from Hank.

To: (Y/N)

From: Hank

I’ll pick you up at your place, will be there in ten minutes.

Hank

I smile, and check myself out in the mirror, nodding my head, I grab my red fake leather jacket and my small purse. And wore small black heel shoes. I grab my phone and keys, locking my door.

When I got out of the door, I see Hank leaning in his SUV, and I almost caught my breath, he was wearing a white sleeve button-up shirt, with black pants with a black leather jacket. I walk towards Hank, as he seems frozen for a minute. “You look…” I smile and said confidently. “Sexy, shall we?” He nods his head, as he opens the passenger side, I slide in and thanking Hank.

We arrive on the other side of town, finding an interesting restaurant that looks a bit expensive. Feeling a bit self-conscious, I look at Hank. “Hank, how did you?” He smiles, and gets out of the car, and helps me out when he reaches the passenger side. “I know the owner, and he kinda owes me. Saved him and his family, and told me that I am welcome to come by.”

We approach the receptionist, she eyed me, and Hank and before she can comment I cut her off. “I’m sorry, but it’s not your place to say if I am too young to date someone like him.” Surprise, she then switches to a smile and apologizes. “I’m sorry, name?” She asks politely, Hank tells his name, and she brought us to a room that isn’t too crowded. “Enjoy your meal, and your date.” She said to us politely, I gave her a small smile, and she left. I glance at Hank, where he smiles at me. Looking into his eyes, it seems we were talking with each other.

“How do you like Chicago so far?” Hank asks, I smile at him. “I love it here, plus when I am off, I can drive off in my car and visit Papy and Mamie when I am off of shift.” I tell him, Hank chuckles. “Papy, Mamie, is it french or nicknames for your grandparents?” I nod my head.

“Yeah, while growing up, my mom’s family is partially swiss german, so my parents taught us that on my father’s side we say Papy and Mamie but for my mother’s side it would be Oma and Opa.”

A waiter came and smiles at Hank. “Evening Hank, I guess this is your date? It’s a pleasure to meet you, Hank here saved my family. Hank whatever you order, it’s on the house. No arguments, I wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for you.” I smile and find Hank attractive as he grins at the waiter/owner of the restaurant. Feeling my heart beat faster, he served us wine.

“Cheers, for our date...and hope we can continue more…” I said with a flirty smile, he smiles back. “Cheers. (Y/N), there is one thing you should promise.” I sip my wine and nod my head knowing where he is getting at.

“No one should know about this, Platt and Al have already figured it out. They won’t say anything, but I don’t want anyone to know we are dating. Do you promise?” I put my hand on top of his, and smile at him. “I promise Hank.” He smiles at me, and decide to give a small kiss on the back of my hand, sending me goosebumps and a shiver.

We start to order and enjoy our evening together, as I kept looking at Hank with a small smile…

(This isn’t the end of this chapter, I would continue, but like I mention this series would follow not all the episode, only a few. If you are interested in an episode I could write let me know.)

[btssmutficslovingfan01]

Friendly Encounters- Chapter Eight

𝒮𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎: A friend challenges you to go out of your comfort zone and talk to one of the cute boys at the café. However, after attempting to flirt with one of them, they reveal that they are in a relationship with each other. It’s fine, though, because you’re all friends now!

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒: Romance

𝑅𝒶𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔: Smut, Angst

𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈: Racism, Yoongi and Jimin are angels, Graphic depictions of sex, really angsty

𝒲𝑜𝓇𝒹𝓈: 4.9k

𝒫𝒶𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔: Jimin x Reader x Yoongi

Masterlist

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                         ______________________

“I’m gonna cum, I’m close!” Yoongi’s entire body shakes and shudders underneath you as you voraciously fuck him with all your strength. You aren’t going easy on him at all, using the lube and your hands to simultaneously jerk him off as well. The sounds he makes are delicious, absolutely delightful as your mouth waters at his small, high-pitched whines. Thank God you have pillows, but unfortunately you still had to keep the noise level to a minimum.

As Yoongi cries under you and shudders once more, you lower yourself slowly, spreading his cheeks with your hands. You both were sweaty, horny, and so very exhausted. Yet with the feeling of your strap applying pressure to Yoongi’s boy-pussy, he knows that he doesn’t want it to end so soon. Him and Jimin had spent hours together, playing in bed. Why couldn’t you have the same? Even if you had sex in the cabin and you spent a lot of time together anyways.

There was always something lacking, and that was the sexual intimacy between you and Yoongi. You knew it was a matter of time before you found a dynamic that worked for you.

“Go ahead, baby. Cum on my fingers, I want you to feel good too.” You start acting like you have a dick too, as Yoongi moans loudly into the pillow once more, his release building up as you shift again, your pussy drenched completely from seeing him all vulnerable like this.

“I want you to cum too,” He’s puddy in your hands, as you stroke his arms and press the softest kisses to his shoulders. “Cum with me kit-AH Y/N!” He’s writhing in pleasure as you pump his cock between your hands, and with him hunched over on the bed it makes it even easier for you to lean forward and brush your dildo across his throbbing hole. Despite removing it earlier, his puckered hole is still wide, and so ready for penetration.

You tested him first with a finger before taking your vibrator and bringing it down to the base of his cock.

“Damn, I think you’d cum right now if you saw your ass. So fucking perfect, round and squishy. No wonder Jimin moans so much with you.” You both groan as you decide to stop playing around and actually fuck him again, this time, tightening your belt before rolling your hips against his soft cheeks.

“You’re so sexy, and wonderful. I love you, Y/N.” You softly kiss his lips before pulling out and surrendering to sleep. You need a lot of rest, after that intense workout.

“Love you too, Yoongles. Also, Jimmy’s gonna kill us tomorrow but that’s fine because you looked so hot submissive like that and I had fun. I never thought a fake cock could make me feel so powerful.” His giggles are like music to your ears. You were starting to get used to the sound.

“Yeah, that’s exactly why I play dom most of the time. It’s a hell of a lot more fun when I get to play with you two and I get to use my cock as death.” It’s your turn to laugh, as he makes it sound like a weapon or power move of some sort.

“I hope you aren’t in too much pain, I got a little carried away.” You sigh, rubbing your thighs together anxiously.

“What? Nah, I’m fine. Maybe I’ll be a little sore tomorrow, but I think I’ll be able to sit. Let’s just say, if I can’t sit, it’ll be considered a win for you.” Your blond boyfriend gives you a wink as you reply with an, “Okay, I’ll take that. As long as we get to do this again, and maybe I can even fuck you in the tub!” Yoongi cringes at your words.

“Let’s not get too ambitious. On three let’s say it together, 1,2,3: Let’s not get too ambitious.” You both giggle the rest of the night away, concentrating more on each other than cleaning up your mess made of dildos, lube, and straps. You were too lazy to get out of bed, and Yoongi was keeping you busy, so you didn’t really have a reason to, other than cleaning up.

“Oh, aren’t you guys going back to work tomorrow?” You ask, as Yoongi pulls you in for a tight hug.

“Sweetie, we used up pretty much all of our vacation days with you. It doesn’t mean we won’t ever get time off from work again, but officially, we’re back on full-time duty.” You had forgotten how much older your boyfriends had been than you. You were so close with them that the age difference slipped your mind.

It wasn’t like they were in their mid-thirties, you could understand their problems, since they had no other way of making money. Plus, they were dating their landlord’s daughter, they didn’t want to feel indebted because of you.

As easy as they make the relationship seem, you still feel uncertain at times. Actions speak louder than words, you were thinking of doing a large gesture for them. Something to let your boyfriends know you appreciate them.

“I know you like working at the café, but wouldn’t you like to be a music producer, Yoongi?” Your boyfriend wraps a towel around you before throwing his boxers back on and checking if the hallway is clear first before pulling you towards the bathroom.

“I already sold one of my songs. It gave me quite a bit of money, so I think I’ll keep doing it.” Your heart fell at that statement. You were really hoping your boyfriend was making his own profits from releasing his own albums on spotify, but it seems that he did the opposite, not even getting credit for his own tracks.

“That’s not right. Those people won’t even credit you, now that you sold the rights of that song to some heavily produced company. It’s like some crappy teen drama, where everything is forced instead of being introduced and built on. You can’t just sell your music and expect it to resonate with them.”

“Slow down, I don’t recall telling you who I sold the music to. Don’t jump to conclusions without learning all the facts first.” Yoongi snaps at you before folding his arms together, as you check the water in the shower to make sure it’s warm enough for you to step in.

This wasn’t your first time showering together, you already had that experience back in the mountains, during your first and only romantic getaway with your boyfriends. You felt comfortable being naked in his presence now, enough to trust him to retain a little bit of self-control when he’s in the same position.

“Fine, I see your point. Who did you sell your music to?” You turn around, making sure your hair gets wet too. Yoongi had some shower gel in his hands so he was currently lathering your arms and shoulders. He was saving your more sensitive areas for last, since he saw your nipples harden when you stepped into the water.

“J-Hope. I actually made the beats for Outro: Ego.” Your eyes widened at this new bit of information. Yoongi never bragged about it, or bought it up. Even that time you were actually at that concert, listening to that same song. How did he fail to let you in on something so important? Did he think that telling you was a waste of time?

“Yoongi, that’s amazing. Why didn’t you tell me? I would have supported you regardless.” He sighs, looking elsewhere to take his mind off his thoughts of work. Music was a hobby of his, one that he was good at. He just wanted to make a profit without worrying you. 

He knew if he told you about the side projects he was working on, you would get very worried and then go way over your head before having the entire thing explode in your face. You weren’t the most graceful girl in the world, you were clumsy and that’s why Yoongi fell for you.

Your “I can do it,” attitude had its setbacks, as you often got too serious about simple things and overcomplicated in your head, he knew you were currently doing just that. Your perseverance was admirable, though.

“I’m gonna tell you this just once, kitten. You might have not noticed it but you have a bad habit of meddling, and when you do that, it makes trouble for others. Please understand that I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to stick your head in it. It’s my music, and I know what I want to do with it.”

You weren’t offended. Your first thoughts were, ‘Oh, he’s telling me to drop the subject. I can do that,’ but as time progressed, you found yourself growing anxious. You knew Yoongi deeply cared for his songs, and the little free time he spent with you was taking away from his hobby. You wanted him to focus on his career, and become a better artist.

So, you decided to get Yoongi a whole setup using your birthday money. You were saving up to buy something big, but it seems that Yoongi needs your help more than ever.

You go to amazon, adding foam panels and lots of tech equipment to your cart. You spent exactly $228 after everything and you still had about $300 remaining in your birthday cash. You got $500 from your Grandma.

You yawn before crawling into bed for some sleep. Since you spent your day focused on Yoongi, you failed to remember that you hadn’t seen one of your boyfriends the entire day.

                ༻• Thursday, At School •༺

School took a toll on your mental health. You needed a break, even though you just started. The public education system was seriously messed up, making you work double of what you had to do over break. The only thing that made it bearable was your group chat with your boyfriends.

You lock your phone, uneasiness washing over you like an ocean wave. You wish you could go to the beach. Spring seemed neverending and all you could think of was fucking your boyfriends like a bunny in heat.

School passes by slowly, and just as you’re on your way to the café, Jaehyun stops you.

“Jae, hey what’s up?” He looks bruised and battered. You can tell something is horribly wrong.

“The cops arrested my buddies, it was horrible. If you know me, you know I’m not a bad kid. Those guys weren’t either, they were just chilling in my living room, vaping, when a cop busted my door down and arrested like six of my friends. They were all 14, 15, and 16. Not even legal adults, what the fuck is wrong with the justice system?”

“Do you know where they are?” You don’t ask many questions, immediately getting your phone out to text your boyfriends and mom about the situation, since they all knew your daily schedule. Jaehyun was an old friend of yours, too, you couldn’t just leave him.

“They were taken down to the local police station on 95th street. Oh, it was terrible Y/N. They beat me up and I was actually just asking them what my friends did wrong. After that, my parents kicked me out for good. So now I’m homeless.”

“I thought you said you moved out a long time ago?” You help lower him to sit on a bench so he can calm down.

“I-I did, but then those guys were dealing drugs. I didn’t want to be friends with them anymore. So I moved back home.” He starts crying, tears flowing down his cheeks. You had never seen Jaehyun so sensitive in such a long time, that was probably because you made the wrong assumptions about him. 

“Alright, I’ve texted my mom and two other roommates of mine to let them know the situation. Yoongi and Jimin should be here any minute.” You continue comforting your crying friend as your boyfriends pull up to you and Jaehyun. You help him into the car as Jaehyun looks at Jimin with confusion written all over his face.

“Hey, aren’t you the pervert who tried coming onto my girlfriend?” Yoongi mistakes him for Jungkook, as he gets a bad view of him from the front seat.

“No...and what do you mean your girlfriend? You’re dating that guy, right?” He points at Jimin, confusion apparent on his face.

“We’ll explain later. For now, just tell them what you told me. Jimin, full speed ahead to the police station on 95th street.” 

You arrive at the local police station in ten minutes, despite the traffic being horrid. Jimin stepped on the pedal and managed to reach where you needed to go.

“Officer, where are the three young men you arrested from his house?” Yoongi asks, as soon as you reach the police station.

“Oh, those thugs? Yeah, they vandalized private property so we had to jail em. Bail is $200. You can go see ‘em over there.” Jaehyun runs ahead of you to the temporary holding cell in the back of the room.

“Oh my god, guys. Thank goodness you’re okay. I hope they didn’t beat you up too bad?” A tall dark male with some visible tattoos and jet black hair stands up, putting his hand through the cell to hold his friend’s fingers through the bars. You could tell from the grim expression in his eyes that he was used to this. The horrible treatment from the authorities because they assume they’re bad guys. It’s no coincidence that they’re targets because of their dark skin color. Fuck racists, these guys deserve better.

“Nah, we’re fine. We’ve been through worse, right boys?” 

“But still, this is wrong. It’s illegal! They can’t just-”

“Move aside. We’re setting you free, since your brother who’s a district attorney has connections. Just don’t repeat it, okay?” The boys don’t even make a sound as the police officer lets them out of their holding cell and they walk out with their hands behind their heads.

“Are you really used to it? Getting arrested just because some cop thinks you’re dealing drugs or something?” Yoongi’s curiosity gets the best of him, as he asks the boy who spoke to Jaehyun earlier.

“Yep. It happens all the time. Like Marc here was playing basketball out in the driveway once when he was 10 and before we knew it this cop had him pinned down on the ground with his hands over his head. He said the ball looked like a weapon and gave a half-assed apology to us after our neighbor who saw the commotion came outside and told the cop to let go of him. It was really awful, but he got tougher from the experience.” 

You couldn’t imagine a young boy at the age of ten going through something so dramatic and traumatizing in a quaint little town. Even now, the boy standing before you was just a teenager. He had torn jeans and a stylish leather jacket, but you could tell he was a little younger than the rest of the boys in the group.

“That shit ain’t right.” Jimin shakes his head as another boy smacks his arm in agreement.

“You can say that again. We’ve been through some things but it’s not mentally scarring or anything. You can’t beat those racists, huh?!” You bite your lip. You hated bringing up the topic of racism because it is the root of all evil. You hated how parents taught it to their children and it became engraved in humans. Skin color doesn’t determine a person’s worth.

“I guess you’re right. I was the only asian kid in my class in the fifth grade. No one else in that town had a fleck of gold on their skin, they were all pasty white kids. I didn’t know it at the time, but apparently their parents fed them lies and I was never invited to pool parties because they thought my skin was “dirty.” Racism starts at home, man. It doesn’t just appear out of thin air.”

That was the first time you’ve ever heard your boyfriend recite a story from his past so passionately. You had no idea Jimin experienced such shit, especially after going through everything with Jaehyun and his buddies. You’ve never seen high school students look so calm even in the presence of police officers. It’s obviously because they knew they were innocent from the get-go.

“Well, this is where we part ways. I gotta take this uber to my house, catch you later!” You wave as the guy named Marc hops into a taxi and disappears off into the freeway.

“What about you?” Jaehyun gives his friend a puppy-eyed stare as you can tell he wants him to go with him. 

“I’ve gotta go too, bud. It was nice seeing all of you, thanks again for driving down to the station even though we didn’t need your help.”

“Wait!” You stop him before he can get in the waiting taxi. “What’s your name? I’m Y/N, an old friend of Jaehyun’s.” He gives you a small smile before winking at you.

“I’m Duval. Nice to meet you.” 

                                   ༻• Thursday, At Home •༺

You were back to freaking about your graduation again. Your entire life in school was a waste since you were single, you never hung out with friends, and you spent all your free time doing homework. You wish you could go back and rewind time but you would gladly go through it all again if it means you could meet Jimin and Yoongi again.

You’re so in love with them that you might just marry them. You were at least hoping you could have a commitment ceremony so that you didn’t have to worry about being legally bound to one man when you could be equally committed to both. The problem is, your wallet is more empty than your belly when you aren’t shoving food down your throat.

You dedicated all your time to school that you forgot about the outside world. And now you want to spend it on your boyfriends. Ah, when will the pain end? You needed to start working fast before anything else. There was only two weeks left till your graduation, and your anniversary with the boys was coming up as well.

The very much less anticipated arrival of your father was approaching as well, and you were trying to figure out a way to tell him that you were in love with two boys who you also thought of so fondly that you were ready to give your life to them in exchange of a future of happiness and the fact that you weren’t keen on dating or marrying any of the men your father picked out with wealthy backgrounds.

“Babe, will you stop pacing? It’s making me dizzy.” Jimin sinks in your swivel chair as you walk back and forth in the little space between your bed and the table. Thanks to Jimin’s comment, you were even more antsy, biting your nails out of habit until Yoongi bursts into your room with good news.

“Hoseok said he had a singer friend who heard one of my songs and he loved it!”

“That’s great news, now why don’t you come sit and talk to us so we can get our kitten’s mind off school?” You grimace at Jimin’s attempt to switch topics so nonchalantly as Yoongi excitedly makes his way towards you, cornering you into your own bed as he informs you of his day’s events.

“He said he wants me to go over and play a demo for another song since he’s gonna be in town for a couple more days. Hobi said he got lucky because the guy happened to be in town for his own concert and he was on tour so he would only be here until Sunday evening. It’s a three-day concert.” 

This was great! All the pieces were in place and now all that was left to do was wait for Yoongi’s little surprise to arrive. You were keeping an eye on the online package, since you ordered quite a few items.

“Great, so I’m guessing you’re gonna head on over there after work tomorrow?” You ask, unaware of their current situation.

“Actually, since we took all our time off during your spring break, Jin decided to be extra mean and make us work a double shift on Friday. There’s no way I’d be able to leave in between, even if Jimin covers for me. That’s the only day we can meet, since he planned this on such short notice too.” You stand up, banging the palm of your hand flat against the soft cushion on the swivel chair, Jimin’s head just inches away from your arm.

“I’ll do it!” Your boyfriends stare at you as if you’ve grown a second head.

“No, are you crazy?”

“My grades are fine, plus this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for you. You should go, Yoongi. I’ll take your place in work. How long is a double shift anyways?” You want to so desperately express your love for your neglected boyfriend that you’re willing to go through such lengths. That, and you’d be killing two birds with one stone since you could also spend more time with Jimin. Work is work but mixing a little love won’t hurt anyone.

“If you’re sure. A double shift is 14 hours. You’d have to work 6 hours after school, you think you can handle that?” Right on cue, you get a text from your mom. She’s doing the night shift so she probably wouldn’t notice your absence. You’re a good daughter, though, so you text her to make sure she knows what your plan is. She knew about the little setup you were planning for Yoongi, and she supported you in virtually everything you did. Except for your sex life, she definitely had no clue that you had actually gone further than second base, that’s for sure.

“Yeah. I’ll be fine. Plus, I’ll have you too.” Jimin gives you an endearing smile before pulling you down to his lap. You snuggle into his warm chest, breathing in his sweet scent. You loved your boyfriend with all your heart. The mochi hits differently.

“I’m just gonna...go back to my room.” Yoongi awkwardly makes an exit as Jimin continues nuzzling your neck affectionately. You couldn’t help but feeling a bit guilty, since your other boyfriend seemed a bit troubled and you were sitting here, fooling around with Jimin like some teenage slut.

“He’s more awkward than usual today, you wanna go ask him what’s wrong?” He seems to already know what you’re thinking, as you shift around in his lap and you stay silent for an abnormally long time.

“Normally, I would just give him space but he seems to have a lot on his mind. I hope he isn’t too stressed. The opportunity presented itself and I feel like I forced him to do it.”

“No, baby, what are you saying? Yoongi never does something because someone told him to. He really wanted that deal, you know how long he’s been producing as a hobby? So many people have taken advantage of him in the past but this is the real deal.” You didn’t want to ask Jimin to elaborate, as he shifts in his seat and you feel his body heat rising. He’s sweating as well, so you decide to climb off his lap and onto the bed once again, sitting with your legs and arms crossed when you do.

“I know, that’s why I told him I’d work his shift. He can go visit this producer guy on Saturday and blow the hats off those guys while I flaunt my temporary barista skills.” 

“Honey, if you think I’m letting you anywhere near a coffee machine, you’re dead wrong.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Yours and Jimin’s playful banter carries throughout the walls and onto the next room, where Yoongi hears every little exchange between the two of you. To be honest, he’s never felt more insignificant in his life than he does now. With his partners laughing and having fun without him...he felt so self-conscious.

He loved you and Jimin dearly, but sometimes his self-doubts would get in the way of his love for you. He couldn’t trust you because he couldn't completely believe himself. He knew he was in love with Jimin fully, but was he really in love with you? He remembers that very first day when you walked into the coffee shop and openly flirted with his boyfriend. That “friendly” exchange led to something more, something unexpected. 

He never thought he would be the one to initiate the first sexual encounter, but it seemed his fingers had a mind of their own. He developed a little crush on you shortly after you became friends with Jimin, but then his body betrayed him once again when he found out you were living in the same house as him.

He jerked off to the thought of you every day after that, to be honest. He felt dirty, but it felt right. He started getting confused only after you all started dating. You and Jimin were closer than him and Jimin, and him and you. Out of all the combinations, yours was the weakest. 

Sure, you had music in common, but did that really mean anything? Physically, you were more compatible than a glove with a hand, but emotionally, you were distant. He wanted you to follow him out of the room and climb over his back, he truthfully wanted Jimin to kiss his worries away like he always does, and when you were finished, he wanted to be the one to wake you up in the morning just in time for school. He was bad at social interactions, so any dreams of affection were just imaginative unless you took the initiative, or if you were at the right place at the right time.

“Yoongz, I know you better than I know myself. What’s going on in that handsome brain of yours?” His boyfriend is always spot-on when it comes to his emotions. Unlike Yoongi, Jimin excelled at expressing himself and interacting with the world around him. He was like Yoongi’s mouth, at some point. Yoongi had gotten arguably better at expressing himself, though, after meeting you he always put himself out there, just talking to you about whatever was bothering him directly. Of course, Jimin knew this happened only 60% of the time. It’s still a huge improvement for him, Jimin was happy either way. He knows it’s only a matter of time before Yoongi opens up to you completely. A full 100%.

“What if my love for Y/N is just an illusion and my body is addicted to her but my mind is not attracted to her?”

What the fu-

“Think about what you just said. Think about it again, long and hard, imagine her body this time.” Yoongi does exactly as Jimin instructs, feeling his worry melt away instantaneously just by thinking of you. He feels more at ease and a little bit floaty as well.

When he opens his eyes, Jimin is staring at his crotch deep in thought, probably pondering what he just said. Yoongi honestly has no clue anymore. He’s gotta be in love with you, he just knows.

“Just as I thought. You’re craving her again. Go ahead and get her, you dog.” Jimin lets out a short howl before spanking his boyfriend’s ass. Yoongi tries to protest but Jimin simply shoves him towards the direction of your room.

“She’s not some food item, you know? You can’t just say I’m “craving” someone and just walk away.” Yoongi rolls his eyes before knocking on your door.

“Oh, hey Yoongi, you want me to suck you off?” Well, that was easy.

“Really?” You stare up at your boyfriend, looking up from your phone in a bored manner.

“I finished my homework early so I think I deserve a reward, plus I’ve been craving that dick ever since I fucked you. Oh gosh, did you even mention it to Jimin? I don’t think I told him yet.”

“Tell me what?” You and Yoongi both jump back in surprise. Your blue-haired boyfriend is directly behind Yoongi, smiling at you with those half-moon eyes. You love the way Jimin’s face looks when he smiles, it’s simply adorable.

“I threw on a strap and I fucked Yoongi. I’m not joking, I really did.” Jimin’s eyes darken with lust as he stares between the two of you.

“Can you do it again and let me watch this time?” 

[supremeuppityone]

Chapter 116: The Moral in the Mafia

Author’s note: This was written for Klaroline Bingo @klaroline-events. Prompt: Mafia AU. 

You can read the sequel here.

So what if she got mugged and her mother’s ring was stolen? Caroline’s never been one to back down, and she heard the local mob boss might be an honorable criminal...

Warning: Some violence.

“Judges, lawyers and politicians have a license to steal. We don’t need one.”

— Carlo Gambino

           There should be a special place in hell for morning people. Unfortunately, the best time to take advantage of the natural beauty found within the golden hour was the brief period immediately after sunrise. Caroline grumbled as she set up her phone camera, finding the perfect angle nestled in the elbow of the bronze statue. She was in Jackson Square to capture her new workout routine for Sassy Sunshine, her positivity blog, and as much as she disliked mornings, she knew her subscribers would appreciate seeing the beauty of New Orleans at first light.

           A noise startled her, but she only spared a casual glance around the empty park before resuming her warmup. Putting on a smile, she opened her mouth to begin her monologue with her signature phrase, ‘sunshine starts with you,’ when an arm unexpectedly shot out, choking her. Heart hammering in her chest, she gasped, trying to catch her breath. Blue eyes wide and fearful, she couldn’t help but notice the edge of a ferocious-looking wolf tattoo winding its way along the pale forearm that grabbed her.

           She stopped struggling as she realized it was the signature mark of the most notorious mafia in the south. “What do you want,” Caroline asked, hating how her voice wavered.

           “Your ring, to start,” he rasped, the cold, emotionless tone making her shiver.

           He roughly spun her around, and she quickly lashed out with her sneaker, catching him in the balls. “Bitch,” he grunted, doubling over briefly. Unfortunately, he still managed to catch her as she tried to run away, his fist glancing off of her cheek.

           Caroline cried out as fire exploded across her face, and she understood why after she spied the gaudy silver ring on his finger. He reached for her, brown eyes glittering with malice, and in an instant, she was frozen. The darkness she read in his gaze. His intentions.

           Fortunately, several joggers came into the park, and her assailant cursed as whatever terrible things he’d planned had been foiled. Lunging forward, he grabbed her hand, wrenching off her ring as painfully as possible. Her mother’s ring! “No, stop,” she screamed as he ran off, holding her hand to her chest as the knuckle throbbed and bled. The joggers uselessly stared, then resumed their morning workout as though nothing had happened.

           Seriously?! Caroline was furious and frightened and practically vibrating in her skin as she started throwing all of her gear back into her tote bag. It was when she grabbed her phone that she realized the video had been recording the entire attack. Got him. She briefly considered rushing it to the police and filing a report, but that idea lost its luster when she reminded herself of who she was dealing with. Klaus Mikaelson.

           As the formidable mob boss of the notorious Mikaelsons, he ran the south, and everyone knew that he’d made New Orleans his personal playground. He had the cops in his pocket, and all but the worst of criminals dared to cross him and his family. However, there were whispers that despite his fearsome reputation, at times he could be honorable. Attacking an unarmed woman didn’t seem like something Klaus would sanction. Normally, she’d never behave so recklessly, but she didn’t have a choice. She was getting back her mother’s ring.

           Despite the rumors she’d indulged in over the years, she had no idea what Klaus looked like, and only a vague idea of how to find him. Lightly touching her cheek, she winced, hoping the black eye that bastard probably gave her wouldn’t be more than her concealer could handle — the last thing she wanted to do was answer awkward questions from her blog followers. Although a run-in with the mafia might do wonders for her blog stats. She hopped on her bike, pleased that at this time of day, Decatur Street was nearly deserted and she could take it most of the way to the Port of New Orleans.

           Everyone knew that the Mikaelsons controlled the port — nothing got in or out of this city without their approval. Klaus’ people always could be found there in the heart of his territory. She smartly steered her bike past the shadowy stacks of enormous industrial containers, knowing better than to attract the attention of some sleazy wharf rat lurking in a dark corner. Once she arrived at the more populated (and slightly safer) cruise terminal, she chained her bike to a rack and casually glanced around.

           She noticed the dealer before he saw her, and she rolled her eyes at his incompetence. Isn’t that part of their job to be hyperaware of what’s going on around them? She wondered how the entire Mikaelson organization ran on such poor hiring practices. She kept her eye contact to a minimum, not wanting to draw too much attention in case she scared him off. She didn’t have time to chase down a dealer all morning. The kid couldn’t be more than 18 or 19, and he looked ready to bolt the second she got to him. She didn’t blame him — she was completely out of her element in this situation.

           “Um...” Caroline began uncertainly, “I need to see Klaus.”

           “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

           Nope. She did not ride her bike all the way down to the docks just to be stopped by some clueless middleman. “Seriously?! I’m betting underneath that dirty hoodie you’re wearing there’s a Mikaelson wolf tattoo on your forearm.” She snidely added, “And now for the bonus round — on the other arm, you’ve got some tacky barbed wire, right?”

           “Bitch,” he spat, fists curling at his sides.

           An accented voice interrupted them, a hint of reproach in his tone as he said, “Jeremy, that’s no way to talk to a lady.” He tilted his dark head as he studied her, mouth curving into a half-smile as he asked, “What can I do for you, gorgeous?”

           “You’re Klaus Mikaelson.” At his brief nod, she explained, “I have business to discuss.”

           He wordlessly led her to an office perched over the docks, overlooking the river. As he gestured for her to sit down, he asked in an amused voice, “Would you care for a cafe au lait or perhaps some beignets, Miss...?”  

           She observed him carefully, taking in his neatly tailored suit with the iridescent lapels and chunky gold cufflinks and his brash, almost charming demeanor. “I’m Caroline. But you aren’t Klaus Mikaelson. You’re too flashy and clearly overcompensating. A man like Klaus Mikaelson doesn’t need to show off. Now, tell me where I can find him.”

           “Right here, sweetheart.”

           Caroline turned, blue eyes widening as she took him in. The man before her was unexpectedly beautiful. Sculpted cheekbones, dirty blonde curls carelessly tousled, and a dimpled smirk that whispered lewd promises. “There you are. Finally,” she said irritably.

           Klaus’ gray eyes twinkled as he wryly observed, “Normally, Enzo performs quite admirably as a stand-in. Tell me, how did you see through him?”

           “Please. Real power radiates. Enzo barely sparks.”

           Klaus let out a delighted chuckle, waving a grumbling Enzo out of the office and took the black leather chair across from Caroline. “You don’t belong here. You must want to speak with me very badly, love,” he said shrewdly.

           She stiffened a bit at his words, trying to decide whether to be insulted. “I like to think I can fit in anywhere.” She glanced down, reddening a bit as she realized she was still wearing her lilac sports bra and cropped pants. One of her sponsorships was with a luxury brand boutique, so at least her outfit was attractive, but she felt distinctly underdressed while sitting across from an impossibly gorgeous man in a ten-thousand-dollar suit. A dangerous man, she sternly reminded herself as she fought back a flicker of interest. “I’m here because I was robbed in Jackson Square just now. By one of yours.”  

           He eyed her speculatively, but remained frustratingly silent. She had the distinct feeling she was watching a jungle cat patiently wait for its meal to make a foolish mistake. Her hand shook as she unlocked her phone, and she hurriedly explained, “He interrupted me while I was filming for my blog and I caught everything on video. Word is you’re an honorable man...sort of, and I don’t think you’d allow your men to just go around attacking unarmed women.”

           “I’m curious as to why you didn’t immediately turn this evidence over to the police. You seem the type to find great comfort in law enforcement.”

           “Seriously?! You are the police! And anyone who thinks differently is either a tourist or a clueless idiot,” Caroline retorted, mentally berating herself for losing her temper. You’re here to get help from this criminal. Stop yelling at the scary criminal, dumbass.

           His lips twitched as though he was fighting back a smile. “And how do you know I’m a ‘sort of honorable man’, as you so generously put it?”

           “You bought the building Sheila Bennett’s tea shop was in after her jackass landlord kept raising the rent and you reinstated her rental agreement from a decade ago,” she told him, secretly pleased that she seemed to have surprised him. “I grew up with her granddaughter.”

           “When you compare that simple act with my endless string of horrifying misdeeds, it hardly qualifies me as a saint, sweetheart. Perhaps I just enjoy tea.”

           With an annoyed huff, she realized Klaus was more than content to continue this weird flirtation, but she was on a mission and didn’t have time for dangerous criminal murder flirting. “Look, I’m here because your employee stole my mother’s ring. It’s all I have left from her and I need it back. Please.” She tacked on the please at the last minute, hating how just the thought of her mother still almost brought her to tears. “See for yourself.”

           Klaus noticed her wince as her knuckle grazed her phone case, and his voice became low and dangerous as he growled, “Did my employee injure your hand? What about that black eye?”

           “Yes.” Not bothering to elaborate, Caroline held up her phone and played the video. Together, they watched her attack, but she kept finding her gaze strayed to the enigmatic man before her, surprised to see anger flash across his face.

           There was a strained silence between them once the video stopped, and the room felt heavy with...something. “Right. It seems I know the lad responsible and will handle this personally. You have my word, love.”

           “Um...so should I meet you back here or...” she trailed off uncertainly, still shocked that her plan worked. She was getting back her mother’s ring. Because she trusted Klaus.

           Klaus favored her with an impish wink, telling her, “I’ll just follow the sunshine. After all, it starts with you.”

                                 _________________________________

           The package came by messenger later that evening. Caroline still was trying to wrap her head around the fact that notorious mob boss Klaus Mikaelson apparently subscribed to her positivity blog. She had so many questions. She eagerly tore into the first box, relieved to see that it contained her mother’s ring. It unexpectedly had been polished until the small sapphires swirling across the middle gleamed. Klaus had her ring cleaned.

           But what truly put a smile on her face was the second box that contained the gaudy silver ring that had belonged to her assailant, faint smears of blood along one edge.

           Along with a note in exquisite calligraphy that asked, “Dinner tomorrow?”

[holylulusworld]

Bad neighbors - Part 1

Summary: You move into the apartment next to Captain America. You should be happy having a hero living next to you - the only problem is – he’s an asshole.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader, Nick Fury, OMC Charles

Warnings: angst, language, noise complaints, arguments, love-hate relationship, tension, light smut, unprotected sex, nakedness, OOC Steve, Steve being a douche, mentions of stalking, slightly violence, implied smut

Bad neighbors - Masterlist

The first thing coming to your mind seeing Captain America is living right next to you was – fucking shit – jackpot, the golden boy in person is living next to you.

The next thing you thought – he’s a complete douche.

 A few weeks earlier…

Work was hell as always but today it was even more annoying being the new girl at the office. Your head is pounding, and your back is aching so you try to relax in your too hot apartment. A few moments after you came home you collapsed onto your coach wearing only a much too big shirt.

You are close to dozing off when it starts. It sounds like someone is smashing his whole apartment, so you listen carefully to realize someone is hitting a punching bag.

The vibrations let the picture frames on your walls fall to the ground and you can catch the picture of your mom just in time.

Captain America is training, and you don’t want to disturb him but your head is killing you right now so you grab your keys to walk toward his apartment.

Gently rapping your knuckles against his door, you wait for him to open it. Your lip trapped between your teeth you stare up at the tall man when he finally rips the door open.

“What can I do for you?” He grunts and you wonder. Is he always this unfriendly?

“Excuse me, Mr…I mean Captain Rogers. It’s just…you see. I don’t want to disturb your training and I understand you must train as a hero and all…but…could you just give me an hour or two of silence. Work was hell and my head is close to exploding…” His eyes narrow and his size is intimidating.

Shouldn’t Captain America make you feel safe?

“I need to train, and the landlord gave me his okay to do so. Any time of the day.” Steve mutters and you gulp at his harsh tone.

“I’m sorry but it’s just…maybe at least an hour?” You stammer but he shakes his head.

“I have a mission later. I need to train now…if you excuse me.”

“But other people live in this house too!”

“Listen, you are not silent either and I never said a word.”

“I’m loud? But I never listen to loud music or have a party. I keep my voice low when I’m on the phone and do not smash things around.” You say standing your ground against the tall man.

“Your heels…” He says motioning toward your bare feet.

“My heels? I don’t understand…”

“Every day you come home from work or a party and it goes…clack…clack…clack the whole time. Annoying.”

“I have to wear these shoes for work. I never realized they make such a noise.”

“See. You are loud – I’m loud. We are even.” Steve mutters slamming his door shut.

“Asshole…” You curse walking toward your apartment only to hear him slamming his fists even harder into the punching bag.

----

Days have passed and Steve didn’t stop being loud as fuck. To have a little revenge you are wearing your ‘loudest’ heels today to walk toward your apartment. Stomping your feet, you smile to yourself when his door flies open.

“Do you have to be that loud?” He barks and you turn around.

“I got no clue what you are talking about. I asked the landlord if it’s forbidden to wear certain shoes. He was laughing and said ‘no’. I would’ve been understanding, Mr. Rogers. I would’ve changed my shoes in my car to not disturb you. But you chose to treat me like a stupid child. I only asked you to give me an hour, so my head won’t kill me…you didn’t even listen.”

“Not my job…”

“Odd. Everyone tells me Captain America is always ready to help people. I didn’t want you to save me, I only ask for a moment of silence after a horrible day. Someone like you wouldn’t understand…forget it.” You whisper.

Before he can say anything you enter your apartment to slam the door shut. The next moment he starts slamming his fists into the bag and you roll your eyes. 

“Stupid child.”

----

Over the next weeks, it’s always the same. Steve is punching his bag and you make loud noises whenever he is silent.

It’s a war and you are going to win it.

Today you decided to wear some heavy boots to stomp him into the ground. Walking toward your apartment you can see Steve, or rather Captain loud as fuck waiting in front of your door.

“What do you want?” You mutter and he gives you a cocky grin. Handling you a piece of paper from your landlord he starts chuckling.

“It’s a warning.” Steve rasps and you glare up at the tall man. “Warning?” You ask looking at the piece of paper in his hands.

“I told the landlord you are disturbing me on purpose and this is a warning letter. Next time you will have to leave the apartment.” He says and you shake your head.

“You are one great hero. Threatening a woman trying to get her life back in line after…”

“After what?”

“I will not be loud again and bear your behavior until I can effort to move out. You win Captain America. I hope you have a party to celebrate you defeated someone already hitting the bottom.” You whisper opening your door to silently close it.

The tears start falling and you ignore his knocking – to hell with Captain America.

----

Weeks have passed and Steve started slamming his fists even louder into the punching bag to provoke you, but you never knocked at his door again.

You walk toward your apartment with bare feet to not make any noise. You can’t effort to move out again, so you try to not anger Captain America again.

You don’t know he’s watching you through his spyhole every time you pass his apartment.

He can see the fear all over your face and he feels like the worst person on earth.

----

Walking as fast as you can, always glancing over your shoulder you run toward your apartment. You completely forgot about your heels so you shriek when Steve rips his door open.

You are shaking, tears are running down your face. Fear. There is fear all over your face and you look over your shoulder once again.

“I’m sorry…I forgot to take them off…won’t happen again.” You sob but Steve shakes his head.

“What’s wrong? You are terrified.”

“Nothing…it’s nothing.” You whisper running toward your door to enter your apartment.

He found you once again…

----

You don’t leave your apartment or go to work without your gun in your purse. Today you had the feeling someone is following you again so you rush toward your apartment complex only to feel a hand grabbing your shoulder.

“I finally found you, Y/N.” Charles snickers but you can break free. Running into the building you sprint toward Steve’s apartment, knocking like insane you pray he’s home.

The door swings open and you start shaking even more. He’s angry but your only hope.

“Please, …he found me…I need help.” You sob and Steve shoves you into his apartment. The door closed he locks it to see you fall to the ground. The tears won’t stop falling as your whole body is trembling. “He found me…”

“Who found you?” Steve asks softly.

“My ex-boyfriend. Or rather my wannabe boyfriend. We had two dates and he scared me. He was creepy and I was afraid of him.”

“Come here,” Steve says carefully picking you up to place you onto his couch.

“I’m sorry for disturbing you, Captain. I didn’t know where else to go. I know you don’t like me…can you call the police for me?”

“Tell me everything about this guy.”

“I told him we can’t meet again. That we just don’t match. I was friendly, didn’t want to hurt his feeling by telling him I was terrified. I thought he got the message but then he started sending me flowers and stuff. First I thought – maybe he’s not a bad guy. Maybe I was wrong.”

“I guess you weren’t wrong,” Steve asks sitting down next to you. His hand gently strokes your back as you start talking again. “No, I wasn’t wrong…”

“What did he do?”

“He called me every day at least ten times. Came to my apartment, my parent's house, my working place. I was talking to a colleague, Matt. A few days later someone attacked Matt, broke his jaw. I knew it was him. I called the cops, telling them what happened…I tried everything to keep him away from me but one night he…broke into my apartment. Charles tried to…”

“I’m sorry.”

“I smashed a lamp into his face, and he ran away. I called the cops but surprise, his father was the commissioner, and nothing happened. The only thing I could do was quit the job I loved and leave my nice little apartment to start a new. I thought he would leave me alone, but he found me.”

“Is that the reason you were terrified last time?”

“I thought I saw him at my office.”

“And today?”

“He followed me to the front door, grabbed my jacket but I broke free and knocked at your door. I’m sorry for disturbing you…”

“Hey, just stay in my apartment and I’ll check if he’s still out there.”

“No, please. He will get mad.”

“I’m Captain America, doll. I don’t care if he gets mad.” Steve chuckles walking out of his apartment in his sweatpants and bare feet to look for your stalker.

----

“No one there and I’m sure he’s gone. How about I’ll accompany you to your apartment?”

“Okay. Thank you, Captain.” You whisper knowing he only wants to get rid of you. Charles is back…he won’t give up.

After you closed the door Steve sprints toward his apartment to call Tony. “I need you to get me all the information about Y/N Y/L/N. She had a stalker and I’m afraid he’s back. Can you send someone to have an eye on her while I’m on my mission?”

----

Another week has passed and as you feared someone started to send you flowers, cards…letters.

Steve is not around, he left a few days ago so you are on your own. The cops won’t help you so there’s no way out than staying in your apartment.

You called in sick and prefer to order food instead of leaving your home. He could be anywhere and strike anytime.

The fear is eating you alive.

The night came fast again and you lie in your bed when someone knocks at your door. After a few moments, he starts yelling and you know it’s Charles. Your phone in your hand you dial 911 but then you hear someone else yell. - Steve.

Looking through your spy hole you see Captain America moving one hand around Charles' throat. He’s dangerously glaring at the smaller man and his jaw is clenching.

With shaking hands, you open the door and Steve looks at you. “Go back into your apartment. I’ll handle this.” He says softly but you shake your head.

“I can call the cops.” You offer.

“Go back into your apartment. I already called someone. He will take care of this man.” Steve mutters.

“Okay.”

Your door closes behind you and Charles starts panicking. Steve didn’t call anyone.

“You lied.” Charles coughs.

“No. I called someone before you had the guts to come around. You see, this girl is mine. She doesn’t know it so far, but I care about her. Tonight, you will leave town and never come back or my friend will take care of you.” Steve chuckles.

“Friend?”

“This would be me.” Fury rumbles and Charles' eyes widen. Fury is known for letting people ‘disappear’.

“I’ll be good, I swear. She’s all yours, Captain.” Charles stammers.

“Good. Fury, make sure he leaves town.”

“I’m on it, Captain.”

----

After that night Charles never came around. You assume Steve took care of him by calling the cops or anything.

You wanted to thank him, but he was gone for a mission and after he came back he was cold like before. You forgot to take off your heels and he barked at you since then you avoid him like a plague.

Work was awful again and you have the urge to smash something. The way to your apartment seems to be much too long and you hate hearing Steve slamming his fists into the punching bag again.

You won’t find rest for a while, so you put your heels back on and stomp toward your apartment.

His door gets ripped open and you gulp at the sight. A half-naked Captain America shows you his chiseled torso. Sweat is running down his perfect body and you take a deep breath to not faint out. One hand brings his hair in order as he scans your appearance.

“You are someone who never learns. I guess I need to teach you a lesson.” Steve rasps and the next moment you find yourself pressed against the wall in his living room.

“Captain?” You ask.

“I think I need to show you how to behave.” He breathes his lips only inches from yours. Steve is careful, only brushing his soft pillows over yours. Your lips part and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss to a lip bruising, tongue snaking all-consuming kiss.

“Steve…” You whisper as he picks you up to carry you toward his bedroom.

----

Your hands claw to his back as he moves his hips at a maddening pace. It’s like you need to release all the tension of the last months. All the teasing and fighting was the foreplay for this moment.

The moment he pins you to his bed to have you in the way he wanted you from the moment he saw you for the first time. His cock thick and heavy, sliding into you fast and hard as you try to not drown into pleasure.

Rough, fast and needy your bodies melt into each other. There’s no tenderness but his lips claiming yours, almost too gentle.

Blue eyes watch you fall apart underneath him, sobbing, crying out in pleasure as the extasy hits your body like a freight train. Steve is not far behind to find his release. Your cries of his name push him off the cliff as he collapses on top of you.

“Steve… you’re freaking heavy.” You gasp and he chuckles against your skin. His head buried in your neck, lips nipping at the soft skin he ruts against you.

“I think you learned your lesson, but to be sure you should stay the night and maybe forever…” Steve whispers in your ear, still buried deep inside of you.

“Forever?”

“So, we can stop being bad neighbors and start being a couple.”

“I’m not a bad neighbor! It was you disturbing me, Captain Sexy.” You mutter and Steve starts grunting into your neck.

“Captain Sexy?”

“You know you are sexy and I was never a bad neighbor.”

“Baby, you are a bad neighbor! You were baking these delicious cupcakes for Mrs. Lang and never offered me one.”

“I was baking these cupcakes as she helped me, asshole.”

“Asshole…I think you need another lesson, doll.”

“I think you should learn to keep the noises low…”

“I will show you how I can keep the noise low,” Steve mutters and you feel him hardening again…

“Fuck!”

“No, swear words, young lady.”

-----

Half an hour and two orgasms later you lie onto Steve’s chest as someone aggressively knocks at his door. Wondering who might disturb your intimate moment he grabs his sweatpants to walk toward the door.

“What do you mean with loud?” Steve barks.

You can’t hear what the other person says but you see Steve flushing red for a moment but then he puffs his chest and a smirk appears on his face.

“I will be as loud as I want to with my girlfriend. She needed a good thoughtfully fuck. I’ve got no clue if you are bored or simply jealous but I’m going to give it to her good right now again. Be prepared for her lustful screams.” Steve barks slamming the door shut.

“Steve?” You gasp seeing the predatory look on his face.

“I guess we are going to be bad neighbors right now.” He chuckles and you let the blanket covering you fall to the ground.

“Count me in, bad neighbor…”

All works Tags

@yolobloggers, @meganywinchester​, @shikshinkwon​, @idioticsky, @miraclesoflove ​

Marvel Tags

@stuckys-whore​​, @notyourtypicalrose​​, @voltage-my2dlove​​, @thedoctorscamanion , @officialmarvelwhore​, @randomgirlkensy​, @juniorhuntersam

[justthehiddleswrites]

The Reluctants | Chapter 10 | The Reluctant Detective

Pairing: Adam (OLLA) x OFC (Charlie Bock)

Summary:  Charlie can’t believe her luck when she lands an apartment all to herself in Quincy, Massachusetts in a decaying triple decker. But life gets more complicated when someone moves into the basement. Specifically her landlord, Adam, who also happens to be a vampire. As life collapses around Charlie, these two forge an uneasy and unlikely relationship. But is their relationship as doomed as the building they live in?

Chapter:   Adam finds out the truth of Charlie’s whereabouts as well as Jason’s nature and is pissed.

Warnings: Violence, Smut, Frottage, Dry Humping, Teasing, Coming In Pants, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex. Couch Sex. Kidnapping. Stalking. Non-Graphic Violence, Character Death

-

Adam groaned and stretched in bed early that evening. Charlie’s side was cold, and the sheets tucked up. His brow furrowed until he spied the note on his nightstand.

“Ridiculous.” he clicked his tongue at Charlie, slipping out without waking him. He remained in bed, hoping she would soon return and slip under the sheets to curl next to him before heading to the living room.

But Charlie didn’t show when she usually did. Or two hours later. At first Adam figured she was caught up at the record store, but at three hours Adam worried enough to call Simmons’ personal cell phone. No easy feat as Adam needed to dig out his landline from under a table and crumpled pieces of paper and dust.

“Hello?” Simmons answered with his distinct, gravelly voice.

“It’s Mr. Streiff.”

“Oh, already calling with an offer to buy the Gibson? Charlie is a better salesperson than she lets on.”

Adam’s brows knitted. “What Gibson? I’m calling to check on Charlie, who is working late with you.” His tone firm, bordering on accusatory.

“She left hours ago. With a 1905 Gibson she insisted to take to show you.” Simmons responded worried, although Adam couldn’t tell if it was over the guitar or Charlie. His fist balled tightly at his side.

“What?! Where did she you go?” Adam paced the floor as silence hung in the air while Simmons contemplated his response.

“I didn’t see.” Simmons snapped his fingers. “Wait! I wondered if her cousin came and got her.”

“What cousin?”

Adam shoved on his boots while pulling on a shirt. Charlie said nothing about a cousin. And given what she said about her parents, he doubted the existence of any cousin.

“The one who came by the other day asking for her schedule.”

“And you gave it to him?!” Adam’s voice rising to a yell.

“He said the family came to surprise her. It sounded nice.”

Adam rolled his eyes and cursed. “Fuck! What did he say? Did he give a name?”

“He said his name was Jason. And—” Simmons’s next words met with a dial tone when Adam hung up.

He threw the phone against the wall, smashing it to bits.

“Fuck!” He kicked at the pieces of plastic on the floor before slumping onto the couch. He couldn’t decide whether to kill Simmons first or go out hunting for Charlie.

-

Charlie rolled her neck, popping the bones.

“Ah…” she sighed while taking a quick inventory of her body.

Her head still pounded and tender to the touch on the back, where she touched what seemed to be a goose egg. Her arms and hands were free, and she was wearing everything from when she left the record shop, save her overcoat. As Charlie sat up from the bed or couch or whatever she sat on, a chain clinked. Charlie glanced down to see her leg shackled to what Charlie now determined to be a couch. A shitty futon to exact.

Loud voices filtered from next door and Charlie moved to the edge of the couch, as far as the chain would let her.

“This was not part of the plan, Jason. Idiot!” A female yelled.

Something clattered to the floor on the other side of the door.

“Why are you the one calling the shots!?

Charlie recognized Jason’s sniveling tone.

“I’m the one taking all the risks! You wanted Adam, she will get us him!”

“That doesn’t mean kidnap her! Do you realize how pissed he will be?!”

“What do you suggest? Let her go? Absolutely not! She’s mine.”

“I don’t know what I wanted, but this is not it.” The floor shook as Ava stomped and pouted. “I’m hungry.”

“There’s some blood in the fridge.”

The door creaked open and Charlie scrambled away. Ava popped into the room.

“Oh, you.” her voice dripped with disdain. “You’re awake.”

“How in the hell did you and Jason…” Charlie’s voice wavered, still coming to grips with her situation.

Ava smiled, her fangs peeking out from behind her lips. “Your little stalker boyfriend?”

“Not my boyfriend.”

“No, but he is your stalker.” Ava smirked. “I met him outside when Adam threw me out. So rude.” Her bottom lip popped out into a pout.

“He will be so pissed when he gets here.”

“I realize that!” Ava stomped her foot and then stormed away as Jason came in.

He sat down right next to Charlie. His cast rough against her skin. Jason lifted his good hand to run the back of his finger along Charlie’s cheek. She jerked back at the intrusion.

“Get used to me, sweetheart.” Jason’s face twisted into a sick smile.

-

Adam spent the better part of an hour grilling Simmons on every nuance of his conversation with Jason and the events of that night. Frustrated and angry, he slammed his hand repeatedly against the steering wheel of his Jaguar. It hurt like hell.

As soon as he got back home, he went to Charlie’s apartment and ransacked her living room and bedroom. Clothes and paper flew in the air without regard until he located Charlie’s neglected planner. With a deft finger, he flipped the pages until he found what he wanted. He ripped the page out and then shoved clothes and debris from his fit to find the phone.

“Charlie?” Elise answered in a groggy voice.

“Who the fuck is Jason?”

“Who the hell is this?” Elise’s voice turned shrill.

“It’s Adam, I’m her…” He hesitated. How much did Charlie tell her friends? He quickly replaced the thought with panic and fear as to what may happen to Charlie. “… boyfriend.”

Elise sat up in bed. “Oh, pleasure. Did Jason show up? I told Charlie to be careful.”

Adam would have to wait until Charlie came home safe and sound to discuss hiding important information from each other.

“Tell me everything about him.”

-

Twenty minutes later, Adam hung with Elise with enough information about Jason to recognize breaking his arm last month was a gift. He should have broken his neck. Nothing that would pop up on a standard background check, but red flags nevertheless. He sounded like a serial killer in the making. Adam ripped the phone out of the wall and walked downstairs to fish out his own address book. He prayed the number still work as he punched in the number.

“Hello?” the male voice answered.

“Frank, I need a favor.”

“Adam. You know that’s not my name, right?”

“I’m not calling you Francois Eugène Vidocq.”

The man chuckled. “It is a mouthful. It’s been at half a century since we talked. How’s Eve?”

“Dead.” Adam winced.

“I’m sorr—”

Adam cut him off. “I don’t need your apologies. Do you still have access to the Registry of Motor Vehicles?”

“Massachusetts? Well, yeah, if you call hacking into their database access.”

“I need you to get my an address for a Jason Fuller and a Nicole McDonald?”

“Got anything else? Dates of birth?”

“No.”

Frank sighed on the other end of the line. “Give me a bit, I will call you back.” The line clicked dead.

Adam paced the floor. His hand ran through his wild hair. He hated this. He hated his mind racing to all the possibilities of the horrible things happening to Charlie. A thought entered his mind. He walked into the spare bedroom, digging through a box. And then another, and a third.

“She’s fucking right, Eve. I should let her clean and organize down here.” He rummaged through yet another box before pulling out a tattered shoebox. “Apologies, baby, for what I may have to do. But I love her.”

An hour later, the phone rang.

“Took you long enough.” Adam snapped back. He threw a black leather jacket on top of his usual rock n roll attire, combat boots and everything.

“You didn’t say anything about a rush.”

“The urgency was implied, Frank. Did you get the addresses or not?”

“I got what you want.” Frank rattled off two addresses, Jason’s in Cambridge and Nicole’s in Revere. “You never told me why you are looking for this guy.”

“He took something very dear to me.”

“A guitar?”

“A girl.”

-

Charlie soon discovered Jason and Ava didn’t have a fucking clue what they were doing. Two things became clear to Charlie: Jason wanted to keep Charlie for himself, and Ava was always hungry. She had no idea how long she had been here or if Adam realized she’d gone missing. If she wasn’t so terrified, Charlie would have been laughing at this Keystone Cops kidnapping of hers.

Ava and Jason bickered in the corner.

“Hmmm.” Charlie cleared her throat. Two heads snapped over to glare at her. “I’m wondering,” She crossed her legs at the ankles, chain clinking along the floor. “which of you is going to let Adam know you have me?”

Ava’s face pinched up. “I beg your pardon?”

Charlie’s lips twitched into a smile. “Well the whole point of this is to get Adam’s attention, am I correct? It’s hard to do that if he DOESN’T HAVE A FUCKING CLUE, I’M HERE!” she screamed.

Jason stomped over to Charlie and hit her with his open hand. The left side of her face exploded in pain.

“DON’T FUCKING TELL ME WHAT TO DO!” Jason screamed back. His nostrils flared and spittle flew out of his mouth. Charlie cried out of exhaustion and pain more than anything. Jason’s expression softened. He sat next to her.

“Sweetheart.” He cooed, reaching up to soothe the already bruising mark on Charlie’s cheek. “You know better than to get me upset. I lose control when I get upset. You might end up hurt.”

Charlie gulped. “Sorry.”

Jason stood up and kissed the top of her head. “Now let’s go get some ice from that bruise.” He walked off to the kitchen.

Ava’s gaze darted between the kitchen and Charlie. “Fine, I’ll make the phone call.”

Adam never got that message because he was long gone.

-

Jason’s Cambridge apartment was empty, but that didn’t stop Adam from ransacking the place. In particular, he shredded to bits a few photos of Charlie pinned onto a corkboard.

“Fuck!” he cursed as he caught the time after kicking in Jason’s TV. There wasn’t enough nighttime left to make it to Revere. “Hang on just one more day, my love.”

-

Charlie iced her cheek with the frozen bag of peas Jason tossed to her. Her stomach gurgled.

“Could I get something to eat?” Charlie’s voice soft and wavering.

“I’m hungry too.” Ava whined.

Jason rolled his eyes. “Women.” He grabbed his keys. “Feed on her if you’re hungry.”

“Do I look like I have a death wish? I want to talk to Adam, not be killed by him. Bring something to eat.”

“Fine!” Jason slammed the door.

He returned several hours later, a greasy bag of fast food tucked under his cast and a drunk girl holding his other hand.

Charlie’s nose scrunched at the aroma of burger and fries. Jason pushed the girl towards Ava.

“Eat up, both of you.” he sneered.

“I’m trying to watch my cholesterol.” Charlie piped up.

“Did you ask her if she is clean?” Ava complained.

“If you don’t like what I brought you, then you can STARVE!!” He slammed to the door to the other room.

Ava shrugged her shoulders and dragged the girl into the kitchen. Charlie snacked on the fries while ignoring the greasy cheeseburger. Tears rolled down her face.

“I miss you, Adam. Please find me.” she whispered as she pulled the thin afghan over her body and laid down on the sofa, which she just noticed smelled of beer.

[archiefm]

         ... claws my way up from hell once more and vomits onto the dash.... hello. its nora. i used to write rory bergstrom, but if u were here before that u might remember me as greta or alma putnam or..... som1 else.... an endless carousel of trash children..... this is finn, who i actually wrote for an early version of this rp abt 5yrs back now...... grits teeth..... so forgive me if im rusty i havent written him in a long time but seein honey boy gave me a lotta finn muse n im keen to get Back On The Horse yeehaww...

DYLAN O’BRIEN / CIS-MALE — don’t look now, but is that finn o’callaghan i see? the 25 year old criminology and forensic studies student is in their graduate year of study year and he is a rochester alum. i hear they can be judicious, adroit, morose and cynical, so maybe keep that in mind. i bet he will make a name for themselves living off-campus. ( nora. 24. gmt. she/her )

shakes my tin can a humble pinterest, ma’am....

finn has a bio pasted at the bottom (n written in like.... 2015.... gross) but it’s long  so if u don’t wanna read it here’s the sparknotes summary..... anyway this was written years ago n a lot of it seems really cliche and lame now but..... we accept the trash we think we deserve

grumpy, ugly sweater wearing, tech-savvy grandpa

very dry sense of humour and embraces nihilism. 

if ron swanson and april ludgate had a baby it would be finn

he was raised in derry, just south of dublin.

from a big family. elder sister called sinead. he also has a younger sister (aoife), a younger brother (colm), and a collie named lassie because his father lovs cliches (finn hates cliches but loves his dog). 

his father was a pub landlord and his mother worked at the market sellin fruit n veg when they met but got a job as a medical receptionist when she had kids cos it meant she cld be there with them in the day and work nights.

his parents met when they were p young and fiesty and rushed into marriage cos they were catholic n just wanted to have sex. his family were literally dirt-poor, but they had a lot of love i guess

hmmmmm his relationship w his father wasn’t the best cos i can’t write character who have healthy relationships w their parents throws up a peace sign. yh, had a pretty emotionally distant, alcoholic violent father n so gets a lot of his bad habits i.e. drinking as a coping mechanism and poor anger management from him BUT anyway

as a kid he was never very motivated in class, he always had a nervous itch to be off somewhere doing something else. struggled under government austerity bcso there just wasn’t the resources to support low income families where the kids had learning difficulties n needed support. fuck the tories am i right 

his mum suggested he try sports to help w his restless energy but he was never any good at football so he took up boxing and tap dance instead. he took to tap dancing like a fish to fuckin water. as adhd n found this as a really good way to use his excess energy in a creative way

had a few run ins with the police in his early teens for spray painting and graffiti, but he straightened himself out n now actually considering becoming a detective inspector??? cops are pigs.

he had a youtube channel where he posted videos of him tapdancing and breakdancing as a kid, basically would be a tiktok boy nowadays, n had like... a small fanbase in his early teens. attended several open auditions unsuccessfully, until he was finally cast in billy eliot when he was fifteen.

during billy eliot he began dating an italian dancer called nina. they became dance partners soon after and toured across the republic with various different shows (inc riverdance lol the classic irish stereotype). their relationship was p toxic tbh, they were both very hot tempered people and just used to argue and fight all the time.

he went semi-pro at tap dancing, and nina couldn’t stand being second best so she moved back to italy with her family. ignored his texts, phone calls, etc, eventually he was driven to the point where he used his savings to buy a plane ticket, showed up at her house and she was like wtf?? freaked out and filed a restraining order accusing him of stalking.

he was fined for harassment and then returned home to derry, but after the incident with nina he quit dancing for good and finished his leaving cert before heading to university in the US to get as far away from nina and his past life as poss. and basically since he quit dancing to study forensics (death kink. finn cant get enough of that morgue. just walks around sayin beat u) he’s become a massive grump and jsut doesn’t see the good in people any more.

u’ll find finn in an old man bar drinking whiskey bc he is in fact an old man at heart or sat on his roof smoking a joint, drawing wolves and lions and skeletons and shit, playing call of duty or getting blazed or at the corner of the room in a house party ignoring everyone and scrolling through twitter. is a massive e-boy. always up-to-date on memes and internet slang. has reddit as an app on his phone

not very good at communication. rather than solve his issues by talking, he’d prefer to just solve them through fighting or running away from his problems hence why he has come halfway across the world to get away from an issue which probs cld have been solved w a few apology emails.

takes a lot to phase him, but when his beserk button gets pressed he can become a bit pugnacious like an angry lil rottweiler. in his undergrad he was in a few fist fights but doesn’t really do tht any more as he doesn’t condone violence.

 in the previous version of this rp he was hospitalised like 5 times. pls, give my son a break. stop tryin to kill him. he literaly got a bottle smashed over his head and bled out all over his favourite angora rug that was the only light of his life

works at the campus coffee shop n always whines about how he’s a slave to capitalism. always smells of coffee

lives off campus with an elderly woman named Marianne, and basically gets reduced rent bcos he makes her dinner / keeps her company. they have a great bond

fan of karl marx. v big on socialism

insomniac with chronic nosebleeds

cynical about everything. too much of a fight club character 4 his own good n has his head up tyler durden’s sphincter

always confused or annoyed

statistics

basic information

full name: finnegan seamus o'callaghan nickname(s): finn age: 25 astrological sign: aries hometown: derry, ireland occupation: phd student / former street entertainer fatal flaw: cynicism positives: self-reliant, street smart, relaxed, intelligent, spontaneous, brave, independent, reliable, trustworthy, loyal. negatives: hostile, impulsive, stubborn, brooding, pugnacious, untrusting, cynical, enigmatic, reserved.

physical

colouring: medium hair colour: dark brown, almost black eye colour: brown height: 5’9” weight: 69kg build: tall, athletic voice: subtle irish accent, low, smooth. dominant hand: left scar(s): one on the left side of his ribs from a knife wound that he doesn’t remember getting cos he was drunk distinguishing marks: freckles, tattoo of a wolf howling at a moon allergies: pollen and the full spectrum of human emotion alcohol tolerance: high drunken behaviour: he becomes friendlier, far more conversational than when sober, flirtier, and generally more self-confident.

psychological

dreams/goals: self-fulfilment, travel the globe, experience life in its most alive and technicoloured version, make documentary films, help the vulnerable in society, grow as a human being.

skills: jack-of-all-trades, very fast runner, good at thieving things, talented tap dancer, good in crisis situations, dab-hand at mechanics, musically-intelligent, can throw a mean right hook and very capable of defending himself, can roll a cigarette, memorises quotes and passages of literature with ease, can light a match with his teeth.

likes: the smell of the earth after rain, poetry, cigarettes, shakespeare, whiskey, tattoos, travelling, ac/dc, deep conversations, leather jackets, open spaces, the smell of petrol, early noughties ‘emo phase’ anthems.

dislikes:  the government, parties, rules, donald trump, children, apple products, weddings, people in general, small talk, dependency, loneliness, pop music, public transport, justin timberlake, uncertainty.fears: fear itself, drowning alignment: true neutral mbti: istp – “while their mechanical tendencies can make them appear simple at a glance, istps are actually quite enigmatic. friendly but very private, calm but suddenly spontaneous, extremely curious but unable to stay focused on formal studies, istp personalities can be a challenge to predict, even by their friends and loved ones. istps can seem very loyal and steady for a while, but they tend to build up a store of impulsive energy that explodes without warning, taking their interests in bold new directions.” (via 16personalities.com)

full bio (lame as fuck written years ago..... pleathe...)

tw homophobia

born in quigley’s pub on the backstreets of sunny dublin, young finnegan o'callaghan was thrown kicking and screaming into the rowdy suburbs of irish drinking culture. the son of a landlord and a fishwife, he never had much in the way of earnings, but there was never a dull moment in his lively estate, where asbo’s thrived, but community spirit conquered. at school, finn was pegged as lazy and unmotivated, though truly his dyslexia made it hard for the boy to learn in the same environment of his peers and only made him more closed-off in class. struggling with anger management, finn moved from school to school, unable to fit the cookie-cutter mould that school enforced on him, though whilst academic studies were of little interest to the boy, he soon found his true passions lay in recreational activities. immersed into the joys of sport from as young as four, finn was an ardent munster fan and anticipated nothing more than the day he could finally fit into his brother’s old pair of rugby boots.

his calling finally came unexpectedly, not in the form of rugger, but through dance. to learn to express himself in a non-academic way, he began tap dancing, finding therapy in the beat of his soles against the cracked kitchen tiles (much to his mother’s disgrace). it wasn’t a conscious choice, finn just realised one day that dance was something that made him feel. a king of the streets, finn made his fortune on those cobbled pavements – dancing and drawing to earn his keep. by default, finn became a street artist, each penny he earned from his chalk drawings saved in a jam jar towards buying his first pair of tap shoes. though many of his less-than-amiable neighbours called him a nancy and a gaybo, finn refused to quit at his somewhat ‘unconventional’ hobby, for the young scrapper found energy, life, and released anger through the rhythm of tap. soon he branched out into street dance, hip hop, break dancing, lyrical, his days spent smacking his scuffed feet against the broken patio into the night.

when he was thirteen he took up boxing, and as expected, his newfound ‘macho’ pastime conflicted with his dancing. the boxers called him ‘soft’; the dancers called him ‘inelegant’. he felt like two different people; having to choose between interests was like being handed a knife and asked to which half of himself he wished to cut away. he couldn’t afford professional training in dance, with most schools based in england and limited scholarships available. instead, he made the street his studio, racking up a small fanbase on youtube. when he was fifteen he made his debut in billy eliot at the olympia theatre in dublin. enter nina de souza, talented, beautiful and italian; ballet dancer, operatic singer, genius whiz kid, and spoiled brat. she was selfish, conceited, hell bent on getting her own way, and every director’s nightmare. finn fell for her like a house of cards. he’d always had a soft spot for girls who meant trouble. and so their hellish courtship began.

by the time they were seventeen, the two young swans had danced in every playhouse across the republic. they were known in theatres across the country for their tempestuous personalities, their raging arguments with one another, their tendency to drop out of shows altogether without any notice, yet the money kept rolling in and the audiences continued to grow. for three years, their families continued to put up with their hysterical fights followed by passionate reconciliations. he was too possessive, and she was too wild. their carcrash of a relationship finally came to a catastrophic halt when nina broke off the whole affair and returned to italy with her family. for months finn tried to contact her, yet his phone calls, texts, facebook messages were always ignored, until finally he was driven to drastic measures and used his savings to get a plane to her home town. when finn turned up uninvited at nina’s house she freaked out – and rightly so – she contacted her agent, accused him of stalking her, and had a restraining order placed against him. finn was arrested, held in a station overnight, and charged with harassment before he was allowed to return to dublin.

after the incident with nina, finn lost the fight in his eyes. he became far more hostile, far less likely to retaliate with his own fists, and picked fights not for the thrill of feeling his own fists pummel another into a wall, but for the sensation of his own brittle bones cracking. he dropped his tap shoes in a dumpster, stopped talking to his friends, followed his father’s advice and went back to school to complete his leaving certificate. a few short months later, and finn was packing his bags, saying his bittersweet goodbyes, and travelling half-way across the globe to be as far away as possible from his past self, his mess of a life, and most of all nina. it seemed somehow ironic that the boy who had been cautioned by the garda so much during his youth for spray painting, busking without a liscence, and raucous parties would become the grumpy, aloof overseas student studying a degree in criminology; that his once reckless spirit could be crushed so easily. 

of all things that finn could be called, straightforward would never be one of them. ever since his first days in atticus, the boy was pegged as hostile, hot-headed, cynical, rude. he seemed to spend more time in his thoughts than engaging in conversation. like a ticking time-bomb, finn’s anger was of the calm kind, liable to explode without a moment’s noticed. his unpredictable personality make him something of an enigma to those who aren’t amiable with the lad, though hostile as he may appear, he harvests a good heart. loyalty lies at the centre of his affections, and whilst his friends are few in number, he makes a lifelong partner. somewhere within finn, there’s still some fight left, but mostly he has recognised that his hedonistic lifestyle did little to leave him fulfilled – mostly, it just emptied him out – and over his three years at university has resigned himself to a nihilistic predicament.

        if u wanna plot with me pls pls pls im me or like this post!! i am always game for plots i love em so excited to write with you all here r some ideas

study buddies. finn is now a phd student so has to start takin shit seriously. he gon be in the library every day doing that independent study. if he had ppl who were also regular library goers n they get each other coffees to save time.... tht wld be sweet

ppl who love techno dj sets and going super hard on the weekends!!! fuck yea

friends with benefits. exes on bad terms. ppl he tried to date but couldnt because he’s always emotionally hung up on someone else. spicy hook up plots

ppl he met touring?? maybe ppl who were also in the entertainment industry..... anyone got a character who is ex circus hit me up

does anyone else study criminology / forensics / criminal psych / law? phd students sometimes lecture so he cld be an assistant lecturer / tutor if ur character is in a younger year

gamers !!! social recluses !!! hermits !!

finn goes to the skatepark and all the young boys there think he’s a gradnpa which he is! 

[really-shitty-short-stories-blog]

bad takeout

I bit into the pita, tasting salty, greasy gyro meat. It had been weeks since I’d allowed myself to order from Petra’s. My doctor said I needed to cut back on my meat intake.

As soon as I heard that the city was going on lockdown tomorrow morning, it became clear. I had to get some of the wonderful gyro meat. Who knows when the next time I could get it would be?

I smeared my grease and tzatziki-sauce covered hands on a napkin, then grabbed the fork. I shoveled down some of the chow mein noodles. The noodles were cheap, thin, and dry, and they stayed in the same shape when I ate them, rather than flopping around like I imagined real noodles would. I stuffed my mouth, chewed halfway, then stuffed more in.

It was definitely an odd combination for one restaurant—Greek gyro pitas and Chinese chow mein noodles. Petra’s also served tacos on Tuesdays and Fridays, but I’ve stayed away from those. I spent an unfortunate weekend bent over a toilet bowl after the last and only time I ate those tacos.

On the TV, the anchorman was droning on about the city lockdown. Something about a flu outbreak, or maybe it was measles. I grabbed the plastic TV remote, the little rubber buttons becoming sticky under my gyros-stained fingers, and switched it to Netflix. I had a whole season of The Bachelorette to binge and this lockdown would be the perfect opportunity.

When the episode was about halfway through, and I was about halfway through the mountain of paper-like chow mein noodles, the TV froze. The cursed little spinner showed up and said “Buffering.” I cursed.

On reflex I reached across my dusty, murky-brown couch that I had found on the sidewalk just down the street from my apartment with a slat of cardboard saying “Free Couch!” Out of my purse I fished my phone and tapped open Instagram. It greeted me with a blank screen. “Couldn’t load,” it said. There was no internet. I cursed again.

Carefully I picked up the pita from its styrofoam box on the low table in front of me. Despite my best efforts, a dollop of tzatziki sauce fell out and landed on the couch next to me. I would have to clean that up later, but not now. I sank my teeth into the pita, now room-temperature, and barely tasted the meat. Something crunched under my tooth, like someone had hidden a particularly crispy Cheeto inside the meat, except it had the unsatisfying feeling of biting sand between your teeth. I spat the bite out into my hand and saw a dark black blotch in among the chewed-up pita and gyro meat. What was that?

With a groan I lifted myself off the couch and walked toward the light switch. Some of the chewed-up food in my hand fell onto the carpet floor, about the same color as the food. I would have to clean that up later, too.

I reached the wall and flicked the light switch to bring the room to full brightness. I could now see the food in my hand much more clearly: the tan-brown gyro meat, shiny with grease and fat; the moist bits of pita, no longer appetizing now that they had already been in my mouth once; and that strange black bit. I looked closely at it and saw that it was very shiny, but I still could not tell what it was. Maybe the shiny skin of a burnt pepper? I picked it out and threw it in the trash then popped the rest of the food back in my mouth and swallowed.

Why was the internet down? I paid probably a hundred dollars a month for internet, so why did it go down so often? Wasn’t that unconstitutional or something? Once I got back to the couch I grabbed my phone to Google whether I could sue for this, but of course Google didn’t work because the internet was down. Stupid.

Something tasted bitter in my mouth, so I grabbed the fork and ate more chow mein to cover the taste. Of course, they didn’t have much taste to offer, so it barely helped. I grabbed the pita, hoping it would work better.

Sticking out of the pita meat as if waving hello to me, despite having its head bitten off, was the crooked, petroleum-black leg of a cockroach. My stomach shook, like a bird flapping its wings just before taking off, and I felt an icy breeze over my skin. Then something punched me in the stomach, I felt my abs draw on in on their command, and I was running for the bathroom. The first half of my takeout meal was in the toilet within a few minutes.

Now I could definitely sue for this.

---

The hallway was lit in harsh blue fluorescent light that flickered and buzzed like something out of a horror movie. It used to scare me when I first moved into this place a few years back, but I stayed because you couldn’t beat how cheap the rent was. I could afford living alone in a dump like this, even if the lights were creepy and the landlord was too lazy to fix them.

The rough wooden floor creaked and groaned as I marched down the hallway. My breath still smelled like vomit, but I had wiped up and washed my face so I looked presentable enough. I had experienced an epiphany and so I was headed back to Petra’s: instead of suing, I could blackmail them into giving me a lifetime’s supply of free gyros.

Normally there were more people in the hallway and more voices through the thin walls of the apartment building. It was now a little past midnight, but I expected more activity than this on a weekend night. Maybe everyone had the flu, like that person was saying on TV? I wasn’t worried, I had gotten my flu shot. The doctor who gave them at the CVS down the street was pretty hot and I was pretty sure he was flirting with me, so I went multiple times a year to get shots. The needles didn’t bother me.

The elevator came to a stop at the ground floor, wheezing and shaking like an old person trying to get out of a deep chair. At least it made it to the ground floor—I was pretty certain that the elevator hadn’t been inspected in the past century. It was another thing that made rent in this building so deliciously affordable.

I could see my breath when I stepped out of the building and the cold stung my face. I had forgotten to grab my scarf and hat on my way out, so I had nothing to keep my head warm. I started walking faster.

There was a homeless man sitting against the side of the building, bundled up in warm clothes. He had a scarf and a beanie that said “Harvard” on it. At least someone is warm, I thought. I started walking past him, but something caught my eye about him. He was leaning forward as if to smoke, but there was no cigarette in his mouth. A quiet groan came out of his mouth, barely audible like someone mumbling in their sleep. Then he rocked forward on his feet and howled like a dog. Red-black blood exploded from his howling mouth as he projectile-vomited onto the sidewalk between us. Some of the vomit got on my boots.

“Watch it!” I shouted. I ran past him until I was about a hundred paces down the street. He should’ve gotten his flu shot, now he was vomiting all over people on the sidewalk. It was indecent.

Besides that man, the street was as mysteriously quiet as the apartment hallway. Crumpled up food wrappers and discarded cigarettes blew around the street, disturbed neither by cars nor pedestrians. I had lived in the city for six years now and had never seen it so eerily quiet.

As I rounded the last corner on my way to Petra’s, my face was flooded in red and white light.

“You, stop!” Someone shouted from behind the glare of spotlights.

I shielded my eyes from the glare and kept walking. Petra’s was just a block away now, and they were only open until 1 AM. If I didn’t hurry, I might miss my opportunity to secure free gyros for the rest of my life. I had the disgusting cockroach in a ziplock bag in my purse as proof.

“Stop or we’ll shoot!” They shouted again.

I obeyed. I could vaguely make out the silhouette of a bulky man behind the closest spotlight. He held a large gun pointed directly at me. It was too big to be a pistol. Perhaps it was an assault rifle? Weren’t those illegal?

“I’m in a hurry! What do you want?” I shouted back.

The man lowered the gun and beckoned me towards him. As I walked closer, I saw that there was a line of police SUVs blocking the road here. About a dozen cops stood around, all of them looking at me.

“Ma’am, the city is on lockdown due to the outbreaks,” the man said. He was a little shorter than me, had graying brown hair, and looked like he had eaten a few too many donuts. I wasn’t scared of him.

“No, I’m fine,” I said. “I got my flu shot. Now if you’re done wasting my time, I need to get somewhere before they close at one.”

“You got what shot?”

“My flu shot.”

The man looked confused and turned away. There was a woman there I hadn’t noticed before, not dressed like a cop but wearing a normal business outfit. She had just gotten off the phone and was walking towards us.

“We’re not dealing with influenza, miss,” the lady said. She had a deep southern accent, like someone you would expect to see working at a Denny’s, and her strawberry blonde hair was pulled back in a tight, tight ponytail. “It’s a little more—”

“Stop right there!” Another one of the cops shouted on the opposite side of the line of SUVs. His gun was pointed at something in the distance, but I couldn’t see behind the cars.

The cops and the businesswoman were all looking the other way, so I took my chance. My feet pounded against the pavement as I rounded the corner back the way I had come. My phone, still with no internet, read 12:55 AM. I didn’t have much time before Petra’s would close.

The sound of my feet filled the eerily silent night street. I saw another person walking up ahead, but they were directly in the middle of the road like an idiot. Or perhaps they were drunk? At least someone was doing something fun tonight, unlike all these stiffs trying to shut down the city.

As I ran past, I noticed the person in the street was coming toward me. I could see they were a woman, but their hair was down and covering most of their face. They didn’t seem to mind though, and began saying something to me but I couldn’t make it out. It sounded like the babbling that a baby makes before they learn to speak.

Then the woman howled like the man earlier, like she was a stupid kid pretending to be a dog or something. She fell to her knees and began vomiting. I didn’t stick around long enough to see what she did after that.

---

Panting, my chest burning from running and my face stinging from the cold, I pulled open the door to Petra’s. The smell of greasy gyro meat and day-old chow mein wafted over me like a warm, familiar blanket. The restaurant was empty but the lights were on and the open sign was still lit, so there was probably someone working in the back.

“Excuse me!” I shouted, walking toward the door to the kitchen. “I’d like to speak to the manager.”

As I pushed open the door, the cockroach bag in my hand, the small kitchen was filled with sound. That same howling, but this time the person making it was two feet in front of me. It was Lawrence, the young teenager who worked night shifts on the weekend a lot. His greasy black hair was matted, his face looked like he hadn’t slept or bathed in weeks, and his mouth was caked in dark, black blood.

As soon as he finished howling, he jumped on my like a frog and tackled me to the ground. The ziploc bag was knocked from my hand and the bitten-in-half cockroach tumbled across the dirty tile floor of the kitchen.

[stunudo]

Do Over

Featuring: JJ x Female Reader

Requested by: @marvelfanlife

Setting: AU Season 12

A/N: Thanks for requesting another piece! This is my second JJ fic (Sorry, I just assumed Will died, please don’t judge me). She is difficult for me to write because I find JJ too near to perfect. It is another long one; I hope I met your expectations! ***Connor @starbucksreid made a moodboard for the fic and I just had to add it! ***xoxo Stu

Warnings: Violence, high school (okay I’m listing this as kind of a joke, but you know it is a trigger for most of us) teacher, fluff and angst.

Your name: submit What is this?

Stepping into the bathroom, you recoil at the puddle of cold liquid encasing the bottom of your bare foot. You quickly grab a towel off the rod near the door, covering the bulk of the water.

“Henry? Buddy? What happened in the bathroom?” You called to your girlfriend’s oldest son. You were not a morning person. You had to keep your voice down because everyone else was still sleeping. Cleaning the bathroom floor was not how you wanted to start your day off. Henry did not respond. After finishing your business you headed downstairs to investigate the case of the flooded bathroom.

A trail of water led you down the stairs and into the kitchen. You found Henry diligently watering the plants with his favorite Star Trek cup. “Hey, Henry? You’re kind of making a mess, dude.”

“But if I get my chores done early then I get more,” Henry reached up to a high shelf, balancing on his tiptoes. You held your breath as he poured the last of the water into the aloe plant. “I get more time to play, Y/N, I’m just doing chores.” You nodded, knowing that his intentions were honest.

“Are you all done with that one?” You asked carefully. He nodded enthusiastically. “Great, now I have a new one.” After you and Henry cleaned up his trail with towels wrapped on your feet, you convinced him it was time for breakfast.

JJ came downstairs with Michael after you and Henry had started digging in. The toddler on her hip and the yoga pants on her muscular legs made you smile, she just made it all so easy. Your eyes met her knowing grin while catching you and Henry with both of your mouths overstuffed. “Good pancakes?” You nodded in unison.

JJ had found a great place to raise her boys, the neighborhood embraced you like one of their own. You hadn’t officially moved in yet, but you were there so often that you probably should talk to your landlord. Perhaps you should have that talk with JJ after the boys were in bed that night. The phone rang while you were all at the park at the far end of the subdivision. Scratch that, maybe next week.

JJ decided to drop the boys off with her mom as she headed in for the case. You didn’t have to work because it was the weekend, but you really wanted to get through the lab write ups your students turned in the day before. Mrs. Jareau was great with the boys and really made you feel like part of the family. You weren’t sure if it was because she missed having two daughters or if she really loved you as JJ’s partner.

Heading back to your loft, you checked the mailbox in the front entryway. You kept your head down, rummaging through the junk mail and few bills. The figure behind you didn’t catch your attention. But the heavy crash of metal on your skull did. Your head exploded in pain as you fell face first into the taupe paint.

Garcia’s concerned face welcomed the team into the conference room that Saturday afternoon. Her usual peppiness dampened by being the one taking her avenging angels away from their families and weekend frivolities. “Alright, my babies, all I can say is at least this one is local? So no wheels up talk, Emily, sorry you don’t get to say it today.”

Emily mimed a sly “Damn it!” before settling into her seat. Garcia brought up three pictures of missing high school teachers. “These women are all from the area, the first went missing a month a go. The next two weeks ago and the last just five days ago.” JJ scanned the photographs, each one had your hair color and soft cheeks. They all had some close variant on your hair style and eye color even. She hated when she felt similarities between her loved ones and victims from a case.

“All right, I want Reid and JJ to head to the location where the last body was found. Alvez and Rossi will head to question the latest victim’s family.” Prentiss started assigning tasks. “I am taking Walker with me to the precinct as Lewis is out of town on interviews. Touch base with us in two hours.”

“So what were you doing when you got the call?” JJ teased Spence from the driver seat of their SUV. He furrowed his brows in confusion at her question.

“You say that as if I were up to something scandalous, JJ.” Reid volleyed. “I have no idea what you think I was doing, but it wasn’t that.” He refocused onto the case files smugly.

JJ’s face slid in shock. “Spencer Reid, you do not start holding out on me now! I give you all my secrets and you just put on your poker face!”

“JJ, you and Y/N’s sex life is hardly secret, Garcia makes sure of that.” Spencer continued. “ Besides we should, uh, really get back to the case.” He gave the blonde a knowing look and held up the files in earnest.

“Alright, Dr. Profiler, who is abducting and killing high school teachers?” JJ tight lipped, trying to hide the embarrassment from her love life being common gossip.

“Easy answer: White Male, late teens to early twenties. He is holding a grudge, most likely a past student.”

“But they all taught at different schools and different subjects.” JJ pointed out.

“They appear to be surrogates, but we need to double check with the body to be sure. There were some signature pieces to the first two bodies that will let us see if the unsub is escalating.”

“Lucky us, body detail.” JJ muttered, turning the large vehicle off the freeway.

He drove away from your condo parking lot with you in the trunk of his ancient Oldsmobile. Consciousness was something that was not letting go of you. The duct tape on your face and wrists stung. The tape’s smell faded from your attention as your face rolled over old food wrappers and into an open bottle of windshield wiper fluid.  The space was large, but that meant you would slide back and forth, your body scraping and banging into the rough edges inside.

It felt like he was intentionally slamming on the breaks with each cruel intersection. Your mind told you to tell Howard Givens that he did a terrible job teaching Devon in Drivers’ Ed. Why the hell were you blaming your fellow teacher?! Of course it was Devon’s fault he drove like an asshole. He wasn’t just an asshole though, he was psychotic.

On the way to the dumpsite, JJ texted Y/N to let her know she was still in town, she hoped to be home each night as the case progressed. She kept her phone on silent while in the field, she would just check that Y/N got it later. Spencer waited for her to introduce them to the local cops securing the scene.

“Detective? I’m Agent Jareau, this is Dr. Reid, we’re from the BAU. Our Unit Chief sent us here to help in the analysis of the body and dumpsite.” After the pleasantries were exchanged, the older detective hobbled over to the location the body had been discovered. The techs cleared the area for Spencer to get to work. JJ continued to follow up with the Detective.

“How long are they saying she has been here?”

“Techs put exposure at around four hours, but Time of Death is closer to eight?” He read from his notebook.

“JJ?” Spencer called, “The unsub’s message changed. He’s moved on to the final target.”

“What does it say, Spence?”

“No More Do Overs?” Reid enunciated in a louder voice. “He carved it into her abdomen, post mortem.”

On the ride to the precinct, JJ let Reid drive so she could call her mom and Y/N to coordinate childcare and evening plans. Her mom was long winded, the boys were fine. But she gave JJ the idea that Y/N hadn’t been answering her phone. JJ quickly ended the call and tried her herself. The phone rang on until her calming voice announced her voicemail box. JJ’s large eyes locked on Spencer’s observing eyes, she shook her head in equal parts surprise and slight annoyance.

“What’s up?” He asked his friend.

“Y/N hasn’t texted me back, she hasn’t answered my mom’s calls AND her phone goes straight to voicemail.” JJ huffed.

“Call Garcia.” Spencer explained, parking the vehicle at the back of the lot.

“Pen?”JJ said back into her phone. “Can you ping Y/N’s phone for me? She isn’t answering and I am getting worried.”

Spencer picked up the files as he waited for Garcia to work her magic to calm their teammate’s nerves. His eyes flitted over the victim’s photographs, if he held them like a flip-book, their pictures almost merged. They almost perfectly merged in to a picture of Y/N. His hand started shaking, the victimology was clear now. Y/N was the final target.

But how was he going to tell JJ? He set the pictures back into the top folder, until Garcia ended the call.

“Her phone is off,” JJ said flatly. “But I just called it, so it must have been shut off recently. Garcia says she was just outside her school. Maybe she just needed to get some extra work done?”

Spencer’s brown eyes didn’t give away his revelation. “I think I found something for the case. Let’s get inside so I can go over it with the whole team?”

You were dragged out of the trunk and into a field of grass. The chalked lines had faded over time, it was months before football practices would resume. You jumped at the slamming of the trunk behind you. The small equipment shed loomed behind the car. Devon didn’t speak to you as he forced you into the barn-like doorway. Your mind raced over how you would get free from the young man’s strong grip. But all your struggling just made him pick you up.

Thrown over his shoulder like a roll of carpeting, your stomach puckered against his broad frame. Ugh, your labored breaths just added to the discomfort from the ride here. It wasn’t until you looked down at his shirt that you realized your were bleeding. He dropped you on your side landing abruptly on the cold cement floor. The door whined closed behind him, too heavy to stay open on its own.

“But what are you saying?!” JJ screamed, jamming her finger to her family’s picture on the evidence board. Emily’s eyebrows arched in concern for her friend, she crossed the office to pull JJ away from the picture.

“If Y/N is the unsub’s final target, we need to move, now.” Rossi barked.

Walker and Alvez were already strapping on their vests determinedly. Spencer had grown silent watching JJ dissolve in front of him. JJ paced, not letting Emily or Spencer near her. “How did I not see this?! I even thanked God she was safe once we got the case!”

“JJ,” Emily’s voice firm, “Can you think of any students that would be after Y/N? Has she had any violent altercations she had to report, any upset parents even?”

JJ rolled her eyes. “She’s a public school teacher in D.C., Emily. There are quite a lot of incidents that could have been the trigger.” Reid had his phone to his ear as he watched his close friends try to suss out the unsub.

“Garcia?” Reid began. “I need you to dig into school records, Y/N’s personnel file.”

“Reid?!” Garcia balked. “Why am I doing this now, don’t you have a case?”

“The unsub has Y/N.” Reid’s eyes locked on JJ’s tears. Her mouth quaked against her sob. She drew her hands to her eyes, clearing the water from her face. Now was not the time for tears, it was time to do her damned job.

“Emily, I am going with you.”

Emily’s head spun in a wave of ebony. Her eyes locked onto JJ’s stubborn stance beside the SWAT gear. “No, you’re not.”

Slowly you sat up, every part of you ached. The tape on your wrists was rolling at the edges, each movement ripped out more of your arm hair. Devon’s eyes were watching you, and yet he remained quiet. His calm demeanor unnerved you more than the fact that you were in an abandoned building, in an unused field, behind an empty high school. If you could scream, it wouldn’t help your chances of rescue.

You had to use what was around you, you had to think. What would JJ do? She would talk her way out, which was out of the options pool. She would also kick this punk kid’s ass, something you may be able to do if you weren’t restrained. God, JJ! What if you didn’t see her again? What if you became just another victim in the BAU’s tragic love story? Nope, you were not going there. You were going to get back to your family. Henry and Michael had already lost their daddy, you weren’t going anywhere.

You returned Devon’s steely gaze and awaited his revenge. After a three minute stand off, he shook his head. Then, amazingly, he left you alone in the shed. His footsteps fading against the gravel, you couldn’t hear him once he either got inside the car or made it to the grass. Now you just had to disappear before he returned.

Rossi was now talking JJ down. His voice louder than the newbies were used to hearing. “Jennifer! This is not the time to argue. We are going to get her back, but we can’t do that if your emotions are in the way.” His voice softened, as she inhaled against the returning tears. “Okay?”

“Okay,” JJ voice cracked.

“Rossi, will stay with you,” Emily explained. “Garcia is still digging. Reid, Walker, Alvez and I are heading out. Stay on the comms?” Her dark eyes waited for JJ’s acceptance of the order. The blonde nodded, leaning against the nearest desk.

“Spence?” JJ called to her closest friend. “Just be careful, okay?”

He nodded, his curls bobbed. Alvez watched the exchange closely, nodding without realizing. He was agreeing to keep the tall agent safe as well. Walker led the way out of the precinct into the waiting vehicles. The lead detective slid into one driver’s seat as Walker manned the other. SWAT drove the first truck in the caravan towards the empty high school campus. The BAU settled down for the twenty minute drive through weekend traffic.

You got to your feet just in time for Devon to return to the shed. In his hand was a baseball bat. He playfully spun it between his two palms, a hypnotic grotesque taunt. As you watched the would-be weapon, he started to laugh. Your eyes scrunched in disgust and fear. He started with your left knee, bowling you back to the ground.

Your scream pulled against your gag, your skin burned against the dense material. You knew he could do a lot more damage to you than a fractured knee cap. As he came at you for the second time, you tried to kick at him with your good leg. His eyes wild, jumping over your flailing limb like a Skip it! going in slow motion. This time the bat met your right foot, completely pinning you to the ground.

“Okay, Ms. Y/L/N, I seem to have gotten your attention. Now it is time for today’s lesson.” Devon barked, part animated comedian, part football coach.

The school was massive, the four members of the BAU, the two detectives and eight SWAT members circled the parking lot. There were no cars or people in sight. Alvez suddenly called out, causing Walker to slam on his breaks. He ran from the side door of the large vehicle, expertly checking for incoming attacks. He approached a small bundle against a back fence. The muscular man bent over, inspecting a handbag.

Luke held it up to Reid, the taller man had followed once his own vehicle had caught up. He nodded to the Hispanic man, not feeling any better about finding Y/N in the large abandoned buildings. “JJ? We found her purse, outside the school. It seems he just tossed it.”

“Alright, Alvez, keep moving.” Rossi answered over the communication units.

A honk from one of the idling SUVs caused the two men to look up. Walker was pointing out over the valley that held a football field and four tennis courts. There behind the goal post was a rusty car parked in front of a storage shed, which had been completely hidden from them on the road.

JJ was listening to the chatter from her teammates without really hearing it. She was frozen in place, the fear of losing you was too much. She wanted to punch something and to curl up on the floor. She had stopped crying, her face now a mask of exhausted indifference. Rossi knew what she was feeling without seeing it in her expression. He gave her the space she needed to process.

JJ remembered when you had first told her you loved her. It was quickly, over the phone as she was heading to another case out of state. She wasn’t expecting it. By the pause on your side of the line, she knew you hadn’t meant to let it slip out yet. She rushed home after that case, having taken down a pack of deranged sadists in a raid. She smiled, remembering the rush of heat on her face when she got to say it to you in person.

She hadn’t felt this helpless for so long. It lingered like the weighted vest you wear to get x-rays of your teeth; familiar yet unnecessarily confining. She shook herself free from the memories and the fear induced paralysis. JJ had work to do.

“Garcia, I want you to look into Y/N’s last school. She left that job about three years ago? I remember her mom saying she quit in the middle of the year, but I don’t think I ever found out why.”

You couldn’t leave, you couldn’t scream and you couldn’t fight back. It was an impossible situation. You stared back at your former student, whose life you had apparently ruined with a failing Chemistry grade three years prior. There was no other reason you had given this kid to attack you. He must have suffered a great deal since you had last seen him.

Devon Johnson was an athlete, you remembered, but you couldn’t recall what sports he played. He was smart enough, but wouldn’t put any effort in to the work. It was frustrating teaching kids like him. This specifically stung after spending two hours each day tutoring kids who were half as smart and twice as dedicated. You could lead a horse to water, but you couldn’t make a teenager care about their future.

His speech was rehearsed, it seemed he had a flare for the dramatic. The pain in your legs and head really took away from your ability to focus on the point he was trying to make though. Suddenly his reddened face was inches from yours. You gasped in shock, your eyes trying to focus on his.

“That’s what wrong with you teachers. You don’t think you have to do any listening. You think you’re the only ones with something important to say? Guess again, Ms. Y/L/N.” Devon spat in your face with each angered word. He stepped back to get a wider swing, this one landing swiftly to your temple. You lost time.

The team flew down the gravel driveway towards the empty car. They didn’t bother with sirens as they only had a short distance and no traffic to deflect. Prentiss led the charge, her guilt over leaving JJ behind melted in her determination to fry this unsub that coursed through her veins. The slamming doors didn’t draw anyone out of the vehicle or the shed. Alvez scanned the rust bucket, shaking his head at Prentiss’ watching eyes.

She nodded to Walker, they moved in sync towards the wide door. Tossing the door open, “FBI!” was called from numerous mouths. There on the cement slab flooring was Y/N lying bound and unconscious in a puddle of her own blood. Spencer gasped seeing his friend like that.

Prentiss nodded to the slender man to examine her. He called to a detective, so not to alert JJ on the other end of the comms. “Call an ambulance on your radios, victim found, unconscious with blunt force trauma to the head and legs.” Emily continued to search the crowded space, her flashlight snaking in wide arches through the stacks of equipment.

“FBI! Put your hands up!” Walker’s deep voice boomed from the other side of the door. “Drop the weapon, son.” His voice firm, but calm. Emily and Alvez flanked the tall dark agent. Devon Johnson was trapped, three trained guns pointed at his face. Laughing he dropped the bat, the sound dinging throughout the dark shed. “It’s alright, I got it this time. She’s done for. I finally passed.” His rants would be humorous if they weren’t so unsettling. The unwell young man put his hands to the back of his shaved head. His revolting look told Emily he was proud of his accomplishment.

Walker holstered his weapon and reached for his cuffs, approaching the suspect. He went quietly, at least. The paramedics arrived and Y/N was on the gurney when they finally called in the apprehension.

“JJ, we got him. They are taking Y/N to the hospital, you can meet us there.”

“Oh no!” JJ’s voice strained. “Is she okay?!”

Emily hesitated too long, a sob burst over the open channel. “They are doing everything they can for her. Reid is riding with her, alright?”

JJ couldn’t speak. Rossi’s voice came through clearly. “Good job, guys. We’ll catch up shortly.”

The ride to the hospital was one of the longest car rides JJ had ever taken. It was only 5 miles from the precinct steps to the Emergency Room entrance. Rossi opened the door for his passenger who was clearly having difficulty putting one foot in front of the other. Garcia had driven from headquarters and met them in the parking lot. Her comforting arms practically carried JJ’s numb form to the waiting room. Alvez and Walker were standing talking near the revolving doors.

Spencer and Emily were seated nearest the nurses’ station. Their keen eyes watching every doctor, orderly or nurse who passed by. JJ felt her legs were boulders as she joined the huddle of friendship that waited for her. Then the real waiting began.

Y/N was in surgery for a brain bleed for four hours. The team left to rest in shifts, though Reid and Garcia never left JJ’s side. Emily had to wrap up the investigation with the locals, otherwise she would have been there as well. Penelope had already talked to Mrs. Jareau about the boys, giving as good an explanation as she could to how Y/N had been injured. Reid was reciting bits from ‘Born Standing Up’ by Steve Martin to try to get JJ to laugh.

During the second hour she fell asleep between her two pillars of support. Penelope held JJ’s feet while Reid held her head, having used his Kevlar and a cardigan as a make shift pillow in his lap. She didn’t dream.

When JJ woke up, everyone else had fallen asleep. She slowly unfurled her tense limbs and began to pace the waiting room. It was after her third lap that she found her phone to call her mom.

The doctor let JJ back to Y/N’s room in post-op ICU. It had taken a grueling hour longer then they anticipated, but finally the BAU heard Y/N had made it through the surgery. She had four broken bones in her right foot, hemorrhaging on the brain that was going to need to be continually monitored, a stellate fracture in her left knee cap and raw skin from her restraints.

When JJ entered the room all she saw was the most beautiful woman in the world. Beneath all the gauze and tubes, there she was and she was alive! JJ waited by her side all night, waiting for her love to wake up and come back to her.

Michael had started talking. His little eyes wide as he copied your prompts. “Doggie? Can you say doggie?”

“Dug-dy?” He sputtered. You all clapped at his achievement. You saw JJ smiling at you holding her baby and you knew your heart wasn’t done growing yet. Her pink lips framed her perfect teeth, her blue eyes shining at you. It took your breath away.

You were coughing. Why couldn’t you breath? Something was in your throat, you had to get it out. Where were you?! JJ’s voice was calling for a doctor, she was nearby! Then suddenly there were strange faces peering down at you, too many hands were checking you. The fear continued to stutter your breathing. Slowly a familiar voice made sense. “Y/N, babe, you have to calm down, ok?” JJ begged. “There is a tube in your throat to help you breathe.”

You could see her now, her eyes reassuring and tired, so tired. You nodded at her, wanting to scream that you loved her, that you were so happy she was here. A deep voice spoke from the other side of the bed, “We are going to remove the tube, but it is going to hurt. Are you ready for the procedure?”

You blinked in frustration of more pain, but nodded to the doctor with the beady eyes.

JJ came back into the room after you had been triple checked by the doctor and two nurses. She was so lovely. Her worried face forced a smile for your benefit. You moved your hand, hoping she would take it. She did, the warmth flooding you with hope.

“Y/N, I am so sorry I let him get you. I never thought you were in danger. I never.” She stopped herself, sniffling. She took a few deep breaths. You wanted to reach for her, to let her know you were here and it was going to be okay, eventually at least.

“I am not going to lose you, Y/N. Do you hear me?” JJ stated defiantly. “I am here, no matter what. I want you, for always. Do you understand?” You thought you did, but somehow there were tears blocking your view of her beauty. You coughed, your throat still raw from the tubing.

“Don’t talk, just nod?” JJ sniffled. “Or shake your head too, if that’s how you feel.” She took both of your hands now, gently as they were bandaged. “Y/N, I want all of your tomorrows. I want the recovery, the physical therapy sessions, the work, the smiles, the late nights. I want it all. I want you. Forever. Marry me?” She said it with such a burning intensity that your eyes exploded. Your heavy head a resounding affirmative.

“Yes?” JJ checked, kissing your hands.

“Y-yes,” you gasped against the pain in your vocal chords. She leaned in and kissed your chapped lips. You patted the bed, calling her to you. She didn’t even hesitate, she crawled right over the rail and snuggled into your side. Right where she would fit, forever.

@dontshootmespence @imagicana @milkandcookies528 @ssajenniferjareau @cherry-loves-fanfic

[ecotone99]

[HM] Teletubbies of Terror

A few months ago I stayed a few weeks in a small duplex in the suburbs of NYC while I worked a freelance job. It wasn’t the best neighborhood. As in, while walking home in the dark I would often comfort myself by thinking I was in a foxhole in Afghanistan. To paint a picture, the place was situated between an abandoned gas station and a Boost Mobile, and the dilapidated hut across the street with a collapsing roof and bars on the windows was sporting a brand new Porsche in the driveway.

A few days after I moved in, I was getting ready for work, and just as I was leaving I found a series of photos under my door. They were of me, inside an apartment that looked identical to mine. I was tied to a chair over a pentagram, surrounded by… Teletubbies.

Now, I’m going to go on the record here and state that I fucking hate Teletubbies. I don’t mean they annoy me, I mean they genuinely scare the endorphins out of me. You know how some people are with clowns? I’m that but with Teletubbies.

Aside from teaching kids how to walk like morons and how to count in an annoying manner, there’s a sinister atmosphere around the freaky impish dancing of those furry sinspawns. In a parallel universe, where the water is tears and air is made of fear, they exist as bloodthirsty lunatics, something you’d want to fire a twelve gauge into, only to recoil in horror as it continues its death march towards your soul. Oh, and did I mention they’re 10 feet tall? Fuck that. Whoever invented them is in need of dire intense psychiatric evaluation and should be on an FBI watch list. But I digress.

There was no doubt the photos were me. I looked at my face in the photos, my expression was the epitome of fright, the same face of every rational American when Trump was elected. I was so baffled I couldn’t quite process it. My logical reasoning short-circuited, as it seemed so unreal I just threw them in the trash and went on with my day, hoping I could bury that memory in some dusty corner of my mind, behind my distant high-school knowledge of algebra and the French Revolution.

But then it happened again, the very next night. This time I couldn’t just brush it off. I observed them closely they might be coming from my neighbor’s apartment. Because in each photo, the room looked just like my room, but the doors and windows were flipped, like it was a mirror. I realized that must be how the apartment across the hall from mine is set up, like a backwards layout to mine. So I called the police. But I didn’t know what to say.

The officer took one look at the photos and said, “you know, I could be sitting comfortably in my squad car, using my police database to spy on the 20-year-old nursing student next-door and score some dates, but instead I have to deal with this bullshit. Did you know, right now my arch enemy in the department is dealing with a guy on meth who hijacked an ice cream truck and is running down innocent people? And my partner is in a high-speed chase with a college freshman with alcohol poisoning driving her dad’s BMW down the wrong lane on I-95, yet I’m supposed to one-up their stories tomorrow at the water cooler with this horseshit?” He was there for a mere 20 minutes, and most of it was spent arguing my way out of being charged with a false-report.

Seeing that the fuzz was unable to help with my dilemma, I figured my next step was to do some investigative work on my own. So I took the photos to a developing center, and they confirmed the photos were developed by hand, and were authentic. They could find no signs of photoshop or digital manipulation. I thought I was going crazy, but as work piled up and I was missing phone calls from my clients by the hour, I figured I could distract myself from the astounding reality that I’m being terrorized by Teletubbies with some good ol’ fashion excel spreadsheets of hair-care product inventory. If I can make some quick cash over the next few weeks with this job, I can get the hell out of there sooner than later.

But it only got worse. Day after day, I would wake up, in excruciating pain, with more photos slipped under my door. After a full week had gone by, I decided to set up a camera to record myself as I slept. But upon awakening the next morning, my camera had suddenly shit the bed. It wouldn’t even turn on, and the SD card was corrupt. The following day was a Friday, so I had another plan—I’ll just pull an all-nighter. I gulped down six Red Bulls, figuring even if my heart explodes, it would be better than dealing with this. From dusk to nearly dawn, I was awake. But all that caffeine mixed with the waterfall of emotions caused my heart to beat like a dog in heat and my brain to flatline like a vegetable. Just before the sun came up, I knocked out.

Not more than an hour had passed, and I awoke again, in the same position I was in when I knocked out. But this time, in excruciating pain, and once again, more photos on the floor. Over the course of the week, I had continued to contact the landlord to inquire about the apartment across from me, but she refused to answer. I finally went down to her office and banged on her door, upon answering I shouted, “who the fuck lives next door? And what do they want from m—“ she cut me off. “Nobody lives there, dude. It’s been under construction since the last guy dropped a deuce hotter than a Hiroshima bomb and caused a catastrophic detonation of the plumbing system. It’s speculated he ate from the Chipolte down the street earlier that day. I suggest steering clear of their pork burritos.”

Well, that was a bust. But I wasn’t having it. I was sleep deprived, terrified, angry, and ready to go full Harambe on whoever was hiding out in that room, because somebody was in there, and I was not going to be their sacrificial lamb to the church of satanic Teletubbies any longer.

I stormed back into the building, and armed with a can of pepper spray and a baseball bat, I kicked down the door and bursted in, ready for a death-match with some Teletubbies—but the room was empty. In fact, it looked like nobody had even stepped foot in the apartment in ages.

Regardless, I crossed into the bedroom, where the photos were taken. Lo and behold, was a chair bolted to the floor, with a pentagram painted around it in blood. Just to the right, a tripod with a camera was set up in the corner.

I hauled my ass out of there faster than Sonic the Hedgehog on adderall. I called up the police and waited anxiously outside. And sure enough, it was the same cop.

“You again? Jesus, what is it this time—mutant Ronald McDonald with a chainsaw? The Michelin tire guy with a lightsaber? This better be good!” I took him upstairs to the apartment, but upon entering the room, the chair was gone, the camera was nowhere to be seen, and the pentagram had disappeared faster than an 8 ball on Miami Beach.

I moved out that day.

submitted by /u/shaherrrb [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/3i4fPTv

[adambstingus]

Londons Always Been Violent But Now Its Surpassed New York

The first punch snapped my head back with such force I thought my skull had become dislodged from my spine. And then more skinheads, sweaty after their exertions on the dance floor, streamed out of the pub, encircling me so that their odor mingled with their snarling rage. A couple more punches gave way to a fusillade of blows that knocked me to the filthy, gum encrusted sidewalk. And then the real brutality began.

Precision punches gave way to kicks as highly polished steel-toe-capped Dr Marten boots sought out my face and the back of my head. Suddenly, as my front teeth audibly snapped, I tasted blood mingled with Guinness, my half empty glass still on the bar before trouble started.

I still can’t be sure what started the melee, but I think it was when a young skinhead bounced into me off the dance floor and I reflexively put my arm up to protect my beer from being spilled, an act that was seen as an act of aggression against a pack of skinheads who had taken over the pub and the dance floor at the Laurel Tree in Camden Town, north London, a familiar after hours spot.

I’d run outside to avoid “a glassing”—a common act in London pubs of the late ’90s whereby a pint glass is smashed in half and the base and its jagged edges are ground into the unfortunate victim’s face. I avoided that fate, but I was kicked into unconsciousness before the skinheads withdrew.

A few minutes later, a buddy, also attacked but not as badly, dragged my limp form to its feet, my face a mask of blood, as I struggled to regain consciousness. A routine police van driving past slowed to a crawl as one of the cops, with the sliding door wide open, shouted out cheerily, “Is your mate all right?” My buddy struggling to hold me up replied, “Yup, he’ll be fine!” And with that the cops gave a friendly salute and drove off. I made it to the hospital at around 3 a.m.

This was my London in 1995. So the April 1 news from London—that for the first time the city has a higher murder rate than New York, with a rash of gang-related stabbings and drive-by shootings over crack-cocaine and petty sleights on social media largely occurring in my old neighborhood of Hackney—was no surprise to me. Violence has always bubbled under London’s seemingly genteel surface.

In the ’90s, pub and street violence were a daily part of our lives if you were a male between 16 and 29, with half of the country’s assaults taking place in and around pubs on men in that age group. The perpetrators were proud of the violence, a fact I discovered after some brain scans and reconstructive dental work when I found a small piece of paper that had been stuffed into the top pocket of my leather jacket: “You just met the West Ham Inter City Firm.” The skinheads were aligned with the east London football club West Ham.

Often the violence was centered around football teams and could erupt in any part of London, rich or poor. I got used to leaving my flat in Finsbury Park on Sunday morning to get the newspapers to find the landlord of the pub next door hosing broken glass and blood into the gutter after Arsenal fans had a “tear up” with Chelsea.

In 2002 I moved to a walk-up apartment in the East Village, New York City some three thousand miles from my flat in North London, despite the protestations of some family members who had been raised on American cop shows and movies like The Warriors who thought I was going to live in one of the most dangerous cities in the world.

Instead, I found Manhattan startling in its peacefulness and civility. New Yorkers sipping vodka martinis were astonished when I told them of my daily experiences in London pubs, where we formed a scrum at the bar, fighting for the bartenders’ attention and violence could explode at any second. New Yorkers in contrast said please and thank you and excuse me when they bumped into you on the street, which caused me to do a double-take. And I never felt threatened walking the streets of Manhattan at 3 a.m., unlike London where I was once robbed at knifepoint doing exactly that.

“There is no doubt that the brutal history of the crack-cocaine epidemic in New York will also be visited on London.”

In fact, the only trace of hostility I experienced in New York was when my girlfriend dragged me to an improv poetry performance in a warehouse in Chelsea which comprised a woman dressed all in black reading a few stanzas of poorly written slam-poetry before ululating and screeching into a microphone for ten minutes at a time, before returning to two more badly-written lines of verse. When an urbane hipster asked me excitedly what I thought, pushing his oversize plastic-rimmed glasses up his nose, I demurred, saying I failed to see the artistic merit. “Oh-mi-god,” he snorted, crossing his legs fussily. “You Brits are so goddamn literal.”

I felt like a barbarian from a strange land, but I fell in love with New York City and its refinement, decorum, and elegance.

For years I set out on journalistic assignments like illegal gold-mining encampments in Africa, or weeks with a bounty hunter in south Central Los Angeles, and returned from the fray and the craziness of the outside world, to the sophistication and pacific calm of Manhattan where I felt safe.

But I was living in a bubble. When I embarked on my book, Sex Money Murder: A Story of Crack, Blood and Betrayal, about one of the Bronx’s most dangerous gangs and the deadly hold they had in the housing projects in the ’80s and ’90s, I was totally shocked to discover a racially segregated world and a level of poverty that rivaled much of what I had seen in the favelas of Brazil or the garrisons of Kingston, Jamaica but right in the city I loved. The island of Manhattan where I had been living was quite unlike the world I experienced across the Harlem River in the Bronx. Crack cocaine and a growing army of young men flocking to the Bloods was a stark contrast to the wealthy elite I had mingled with on the upper east side.

Of course, it could be that I moved from one of London’s poorest boroughs to one of New York’s most gentrified on the edges of Alphabet City. But as London faces significant challenges in the months ahead, there is no doubt that the brutal history of the crack-cocaine epidemic in New York will also be visited on London. Just like the Big Apple, London has densely populated government-funded public housing complexes that have become incubators for violent crime, the same as the ones in the Bronx that were so badly affected in the ’90s and continue to struggle to this day.

Now when I return to London, I see a city that has been hollowed out, with the affluent central areas around Paddington or Chelsea and Kensington taken over by wealthy Russian oligarchs who have bought all the expensive real estate, sending rents through the roof, while the local pubs and restaurants close due to a lack of customers.

London increasingly resembles New York, as disaffected youngsters form street gangs on the tough housing estates of Tottenham, north London, and begin the familiar retributive cycle of murder that denotes gang life in New York. Globalization and the growing rift between the rich and the poor, and the acute alienation and disenfranchisement of our inner-city youth, now fashions London, New York, and the world’s big cities into an eerie simulacrum of one another.

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/londons-always-been-violent-but-now-its-surpassed-new-york/ from All of Beer https://allofbeercom.tumblr.com/post/184170088477

[samanthasroberts]

Londons Always Been Violent But Now Its Surpassed New York

The first punch snapped my head back with such force I thought my skull had become dislodged from my spine. And then more skinheads, sweaty after their exertions on the dance floor, streamed out of the pub, encircling me so that their odor mingled with their snarling rage. A couple more punches gave way to a fusillade of blows that knocked me to the filthy, gum encrusted sidewalk. And then the real brutality began.

Precision punches gave way to kicks as highly polished steel-toe-capped Dr Marten boots sought out my face and the back of my head. Suddenly, as my front teeth audibly snapped, I tasted blood mingled with Guinness, my half empty glass still on the bar before trouble started.

I still can’t be sure what started the melee, but I think it was when a young skinhead bounced into me off the dance floor and I reflexively put my arm up to protect my beer from being spilled, an act that was seen as an act of aggression against a pack of skinheads who had taken over the pub and the dance floor at the Laurel Tree in Camden Town, north London, a familiar after hours spot.

I’d run outside to avoid “a glassing”—a common act in London pubs of the late ’90s whereby a pint glass is smashed in half and the base and its jagged edges are ground into the unfortunate victim’s face. I avoided that fate, but I was kicked into unconsciousness before the skinheads withdrew.

A few minutes later, a buddy, also attacked but not as badly, dragged my limp form to its feet, my face a mask of blood, as I struggled to regain consciousness. A routine police van driving past slowed to a crawl as one of the cops, with the sliding door wide open, shouted out cheerily, “Is your mate all right?” My buddy struggling to hold me up replied, “Yup, he’ll be fine!” And with that the cops gave a friendly salute and drove off. I made it to the hospital at around 3 a.m.

This was my London in 1995. So the April 1 news from London—that for the first time the city has a higher murder rate than New York, with a rash of gang-related stabbings and drive-by shootings over crack-cocaine and petty sleights on social media largely occurring in my old neighborhood of Hackney—was no surprise to me. Violence has always bubbled under London’s seemingly genteel surface.

In the ’90s, pub and street violence were a daily part of our lives if you were a male between 16 and 29, with half of the country’s assaults taking place in and around pubs on men in that age group. The perpetrators were proud of the violence, a fact I discovered after some brain scans and reconstructive dental work when I found a small piece of paper that had been stuffed into the top pocket of my leather jacket: “You just met the West Ham Inter City Firm.” The skinheads were aligned with the east London football club West Ham.

Often the violence was centered around football teams and could erupt in any part of London, rich or poor. I got used to leaving my flat in Finsbury Park on Sunday morning to get the newspapers to find the landlord of the pub next door hosing broken glass and blood into the gutter after Arsenal fans had a “tear up” with Chelsea.

In 2002 I moved to a walk-up apartment in the East Village, New York City some three thousand miles from my flat in North London, despite the protestations of some family members who had been raised on American cop shows and movies like The Warriors who thought I was going to live in one of the most dangerous cities in the world.

Instead, I found Manhattan startling in its peacefulness and civility. New Yorkers sipping vodka martinis were astonished when I told them of my daily experiences in London pubs, where we formed a scrum at the bar, fighting for the bartenders’ attention and violence could explode at any second. New Yorkers in contrast said please and thank you and excuse me when they bumped into you on the street, which caused me to do a double-take. And I never felt threatened walking the streets of Manhattan at 3 a.m., unlike London where I was once robbed at knifepoint doing exactly that.

“There is no doubt that the brutal history of the crack-cocaine epidemic in New York will also be visited on London.”

In fact, the only trace of hostility I experienced in New York was when my girlfriend dragged me to an improv poetry performance in a warehouse in Chelsea which comprised a woman dressed all in black reading a few stanzas of poorly written slam-poetry before ululating and screeching into a microphone for ten minutes at a time, before returning to two more badly-written lines of verse. When an urbane hipster asked me excitedly what I thought, pushing his oversize plastic-rimmed glasses up his nose, I demurred, saying I failed to see the artistic merit. “Oh-mi-god,” he snorted, crossing his legs fussily. “You Brits are so goddamn literal.”

I felt like a barbarian from a strange land, but I fell in love with New York City and its refinement, decorum, and elegance.

For years I set out on journalistic assignments like illegal gold-mining encampments in Africa, or weeks with a bounty hunter in south Central Los Angeles, and returned from the fray and the craziness of the outside world, to the sophistication and pacific calm of Manhattan where I felt safe.

But I was living in a bubble. When I embarked on my book, Sex Money Murder: A Story of Crack, Blood and Betrayal, about one of the Bronx’s most dangerous gangs and the deadly hold they had in the housing projects in the ’80s and ’90s, I was totally shocked to discover a racially segregated world and a level of poverty that rivaled much of what I had seen in the favelas of Brazil or the garrisons of Kingston, Jamaica but right in the city I loved. The island of Manhattan where I had been living was quite unlike the world I experienced across the Harlem River in the Bronx. Crack cocaine and a growing army of young men flocking to the Bloods was a stark contrast to the wealthy elite I had mingled with on the upper east side.

Of course, it could be that I moved from one of London’s poorest boroughs to one of New York’s most gentrified on the edges of Alphabet City. But as London faces significant challenges in the months ahead, there is no doubt that the brutal history of the crack-cocaine epidemic in New York will also be visited on London. Just like the Big Apple, London has densely populated government-funded public housing complexes that have become incubators for violent crime, the same as the ones in the Bronx that were so badly affected in the ’90s and continue to struggle to this day.

Now when I return to London, I see a city that has been hollowed out, with the affluent central areas around Paddington or Chelsea and Kensington taken over by wealthy Russian oligarchs who have bought all the expensive real estate, sending rents through the roof, while the local pubs and restaurants close due to a lack of customers.

London increasingly resembles New York, as disaffected youngsters form street gangs on the tough housing estates of Tottenham, north London, and begin the familiar retributive cycle of murder that denotes gang life in New York. Globalization and the growing rift between the rich and the poor, and the acute alienation and disenfranchisement of our inner-city youth, now fashions London, New York, and the world’s big cities into an eerie simulacrum of one another.

Source: http://allofbeer.com/londons-always-been-violent-but-now-its-surpassed-new-york/

from All of Beer https://allofbeer.wordpress.com/2019/04/14/londons-always-been-violent-but-now-its-surpassed-new-york/

[allofbeercom]

Londons Always Been Violent But Now Its Surpassed New York

The first punch snapped my head back with such force I thought my skull had become dislodged from my spine. And then more skinheads, sweaty after their exertions on the dance floor, streamed out of the pub, encircling me so that their odor mingled with their snarling rage. A couple more punches gave way to a fusillade of blows that knocked me to the filthy, gum encrusted sidewalk. And then the real brutality began.

Precision punches gave way to kicks as highly polished steel-toe-capped Dr Marten boots sought out my face and the back of my head. Suddenly, as my front teeth audibly snapped, I tasted blood mingled with Guinness, my half empty glass still on the bar before trouble started.

I still can’t be sure what started the melee, but I think it was when a young skinhead bounced into me off the dance floor and I reflexively put my arm up to protect my beer from being spilled, an act that was seen as an act of aggression against a pack of skinheads who had taken over the pub and the dance floor at the Laurel Tree in Camden Town, north London, a familiar after hours spot.

I’d run outside to avoid “a glassing”—a common act in London pubs of the late ’90s whereby a pint glass is smashed in half and the base and its jagged edges are ground into the unfortunate victim’s face. I avoided that fate, but I was kicked into unconsciousness before the skinheads withdrew.

A few minutes later, a buddy, also attacked but not as badly, dragged my limp form to its feet, my face a mask of blood, as I struggled to regain consciousness. A routine police van driving past slowed to a crawl as one of the cops, with the sliding door wide open, shouted out cheerily, “Is your mate all right?” My buddy struggling to hold me up replied, “Yup, he’ll be fine!” And with that the cops gave a friendly salute and drove off. I made it to the hospital at around 3 a.m.

This was my London in 1995. So the April 1 news from London—that for the first time the city has a higher murder rate than New York, with a rash of gang-related stabbings and drive-by shootings over crack-cocaine and petty sleights on social media largely occurring in my old neighborhood of Hackney—was no surprise to me. Violence has always bubbled under London’s seemingly genteel surface.

In the ’90s, pub and street violence were a daily part of our lives if you were a male between 16 and 29, with half of the country’s assaults taking place in and around pubs on men in that age group. The perpetrators were proud of the violence, a fact I discovered after some brain scans and reconstructive dental work when I found a small piece of paper that had been stuffed into the top pocket of my leather jacket: “You just met the West Ham Inter City Firm.” The skinheads were aligned with the east London football club West Ham.

Often the violence was centered around football teams and could erupt in any part of London, rich or poor. I got used to leaving my flat in Finsbury Park on Sunday morning to get the newspapers to find the landlord of the pub next door hosing broken glass and blood into the gutter after Arsenal fans had a “tear up” with Chelsea.

In 2002 I moved to a walk-up apartment in the East Village, New York City some three thousand miles from my flat in North London, despite the protestations of some family members who had been raised on American cop shows and movies like The Warriors who thought I was going to live in one of the most dangerous cities in the world.

Instead, I found Manhattan startling in its peacefulness and civility. New Yorkers sipping vodka martinis were astonished when I told them of my daily experiences in London pubs, where we formed a scrum at the bar, fighting for the bartenders’ attention and violence could explode at any second. New Yorkers in contrast said please and thank you and excuse me when they bumped into you on the street, which caused me to do a double-take. And I never felt threatened walking the streets of Manhattan at 3 a.m., unlike London where I was once robbed at knifepoint doing exactly that.

“There is no doubt that the brutal history of the crack-cocaine epidemic in New York will also be visited on London.”

In fact, the only trace of hostility I experienced in New York was when my girlfriend dragged me to an improv poetry performance in a warehouse in Chelsea which comprised a woman dressed all in black reading a few stanzas of poorly written slam-poetry before ululating and screeching into a microphone for ten minutes at a time, before returning to two more badly-written lines of verse. When an urbane hipster asked me excitedly what I thought, pushing his oversize plastic-rimmed glasses up his nose, I demurred, saying I failed to see the artistic merit. “Oh-mi-god,” he snorted, crossing his legs fussily. “You Brits are so goddamn literal.”

I felt like a barbarian from a strange land, but I fell in love with New York City and its refinement, decorum, and elegance.

For years I set out on journalistic assignments like illegal gold-mining encampments in Africa, or weeks with a bounty hunter in south Central Los Angeles, and returned from the fray and the craziness of the outside world, to the sophistication and pacific calm of Manhattan where I felt safe.

But I was living in a bubble. When I embarked on my book, Sex Money Murder: A Story of Crack, Blood and Betrayal, about one of the Bronx’s most dangerous gangs and the deadly hold they had in the housing projects in the ’80s and ’90s, I was totally shocked to discover a racially segregated world and a level of poverty that rivaled much of what I had seen in the favelas of Brazil or the garrisons of Kingston, Jamaica but right in the city I loved. The island of Manhattan where I had been living was quite unlike the world I experienced across the Harlem River in the Bronx. Crack cocaine and a growing army of young men flocking to the Bloods was a stark contrast to the wealthy elite I had mingled with on the upper east side.

Of course, it could be that I moved from one of London’s poorest boroughs to one of New York’s most gentrified on the edges of Alphabet City. But as London faces significant challenges in the months ahead, there is no doubt that the brutal history of the crack-cocaine epidemic in New York will also be visited on London. Just like the Big Apple, London has densely populated government-funded public housing complexes that have become incubators for violent crime, the same as the ones in the Bronx that were so badly affected in the ’90s and continue to struggle to this day.

Now when I return to London, I see a city that has been hollowed out, with the affluent central areas around Paddington or Chelsea and Kensington taken over by wealthy Russian oligarchs who have bought all the expensive real estate, sending rents through the roof, while the local pubs and restaurants close due to a lack of customers.

London increasingly resembles New York, as disaffected youngsters form street gangs on the tough housing estates of Tottenham, north London, and begin the familiar retributive cycle of murder that denotes gang life in New York. Globalization and the growing rift between the rich and the poor, and the acute alienation and disenfranchisement of our inner-city youth, now fashions London, New York, and the world’s big cities into an eerie simulacrum of one another.

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/londons-always-been-violent-but-now-its-surpassed-new-york/

[anavoliselenu]

Dublin street chapter 1

Surry County, Virginia

I was bored.

Kyle Ramsey was kicking the back of my chair to get my attention, but he’d been kicking my best friend’s, Dru, chair yesterday and I didn’t want to upset her. She had a huge crush on Kyle. Instead, I watched her as she sat beside me drawing a million tiny love hearts in the corner of her notebook as Mr. Evans scribbled another equation on the board. I really should have been paying attention because I sucked at math. Mom and dad wouldn’t be happy with me if I failed a class the first semester into freshman year.

“Mr. Ramsey, would you care to come up to the board and answer this question, or would you prefer to remain behind Selena so you can kick her chair some more?”

The class tittered and Dru shot me an accusing look. I grimaced and shot Mr. Evan’s a pointed glare.

“I’ll stay here, if that’s okay, Mr. Evans,” Kyle replied with impudent swagger. I rolled my eyes, refusing to turn around even though I could feel the heat of his gaze on the back of my neck.

“That was actually a rhetorical question, Kyle. Get up here.”

A knock at the door put a halt to Kyle’s groan of acquiescence. At the sight of our principal, Ms. Shaw, the whole class grew still. What was the principal doing in our class? That could only signal trouble.

“Whoa,” Dru muttered under her breath and I looked at her, frowning. She nodded at the doorway. “Cops.”

Shocked, I turned to look back at the door as Ms. Shaw murmured something quietly to Mr. Evans, and sure enough, through the gap in the door, I could see two deputies waiting out in the hall.

“Miss Butler.” Ms. Shaw’s voice snapped my gaze back to her in surprise. She took a step towards me and I felt my heart leap into my throat. Her eyes were wary, sympathetic, and I immediately wanted to back away from her and whatever it was she was here to tell me. “Can you come with me, please? Grab your things.”

This was usually the part where the class would ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ about how much trouble I was in. But like me, they sensed that wasn’t what this was about. Whatever news was out in that hall, they weren’t going to tease me about it.

“Miss Butler?”

I was shaking now from a spike of adrenaline and I could barely hear anything over the sound of my own blood rushing in my ears. Had something happened to mom? Or dad? Or my baby sister, Beth? My parents had taken some time off work this week together to de-stress from what had been a crazy summer. They were supposed to be taking Beth out today for a picnic.

“Selena.” Dru nudged me, and as soon as her elbow touched my arm, I shot back from the table, my chair screaming across the wooden floor. Without looking at anyone, I fumbled with my bag, swiping everything off my desk and into it. The whispers had started hissing around the room like cold wind through a crack in a windowpane. Despite not wanting to know what was ahead of me, I really wanted out of that room.

Somehow remembering how to put one foot in front of the other, I followed the principal out into the hall and listened to Mr. Evan’s door snick shut behind me. I didn’t say anything. I just looked at Ms. Shaw and then at the two deputies who stared at me with a distant compassion. Standing near the wall was a woman I hadn’t noticed earlier. She looked grave but calm.

Ms. Shaw touched my arm and I looked down at her hand resting on my sweater. I hadn’t spoken two words to the principal before, and now she was touching my arm? “Selena… this is Deputy Wilson and Michaels. And this is Alicia Nugent from the DSS.”

I looked at her questioningly.

Ms. Shaw blanched. “The Department of Social Services.”

Fear gripped a hold of my chest and I fought to breathe.

“Selena,” the principal continued. “I am so sorry to have to tell you this… but your parents and sister, Elizabeth, were in a car accident.”

I waited, feeling my chest tighten.

“They were all killed instantly, Selena. I’m so sorry.”

The woman from the DSS stepped towards me and started speaking. I looked at her, but all I could see were the colors that she was made up of. All I could hear was the muffled sound of her talking, like someone was running tap water beside her.

I couldn’t breathe.

Panicking, I reached for something, anything to help me breathe. I felt hands on me. Calm, murmuring words. Wetness on my cheeks. Salt on my tongue. And my heart… it felt like it was going to explode it was racing so hard.

I was dying.

“Breathe, Selena.”

Those words were said in my ear over and over again until I focused enough to concentrate on just breathing in and out. After a while, my pulse slowed and my lungs opened up. The spots across my vision began to disappear.

“That’s it,” Ms. Shaw was whispering, a warm hand rubbing soothing circles on my back. “That’s it.”

“We should get going,” the DSS woman’s voice broke through my fog.

“Okay. Selena, are you ready?” Ms. Shaw asked quietly.

“They’re dead,” I answered, needing to feel how the words felt. It couldn’t be real.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

Cold sweat burst on my skin, my palms, under my arms, across the nape of my neck. Goosebumps rose up all over and I couldn’t stop shaking. A rush of dizziness swayed me to the left and without warning, vomit surged up from my churning gut. I bent over, losing my breakfast all over the DSS lady’s shoes.

“She’s in shock.”

Was I?

Or was it travel sickness?

One minute I had been sitting back there. There, where it was warm and safe. And in a matter of seconds, in the crunch of metal…

… I was someplace else entirely.

~1~

Scotland

Eight years later…

It was a beautiful day to find a new home. And a new roommate.

I stepped out of the damp, old stairwell of my Georgian apartment building to a stunningly hot day in Edinburgh. I glanced down at the cute, white and green striped denim shorts I’d purchased a few weeks ago from Topshop. It had been raining non-stop since then and I’d despaired of ever getting to wear them. But the sun was out; peeking over the top of the cornered tower of the Bruntsfield Evangelical Church, burning away my melancholy and giving me back a little bit of hope. For someone who had packed up her entire life in the US and taken off for her motherland when she was only eighteen years old, I wasn’t really good with change. Not anymore anyway. I’d gotten used to my huge apartment with its never-ending mice problem. I missed my best friend, Rhian, who I’d lived with since freshman year at the University of Edinburgh. We’d met in the dorms and hit it off. We were both very private people and were comfortable around one another for the mere fact that we never pushed each other to talk about the past. We’d stuck pretty close to each other freshman year and decided to get an apartment (or ‘flat’ as Rhian called it) in second year. Now that we were graduates, Rhian had left for London to start her PhD and I was left roommate-less. The icing on the cake was the loss of my other closest friend here, James, Rhian’s boyfriend. He’d run off to London (a place he detested I might add) to be with her. And the cherry on top? My landlord was getting a divorce and needed the apartment back.

I’d spent the last two weeks answering ads from young women looking for a female roommate. It had been a bust so far. One girl didn’t want to room with an American. Cue my ‘what the f**k?’ face. Three of the apartments were just… nasty. I’m pretty sure one girl was a crack dealer, and the last girl’s apartment sounded like it got more use than a brothel. I was really hoping my appointment today with Ellie Carmichael was going to go my way. It was the most expensive apartment I’d scheduled to see and it was on the other side of the city center.

I was frugal when it came to touching my inheritance, as if that would somehow lessen the bitterness of my ‘good’ fortune. However, I was getting desperate.

If I wanted to be a writer, I needed the right apartment and the right roommate.

Living alone of course was an option. I could afford it. However, the God’s honest truth was that I didn’t like the idea of complete solitude. Despite my tendency to keep eighty percent of myself to myself, I liked being surrounded by people. When they talked to me about things I didn’t understand personally, it allowed me to see things from their point of view, and I believed all the best writers needed a wide open scope of perspective. Despite not needing to, I worked at a bar on George Street on Thursday and Friday nights. The old cliché was true: bartenders overhear all the best stories.

I was friends with two of my colleagues, Jo and Craig, but we only really ‘hung out’ when we were working. If I wanted a little life around me, I needed to get a roommate. On the plus, this apartment was mere streets away from my job.

As I tried to shove down the anxiety of finding a new place, I also kept my eye open for a cab with its light on. I eyed the ice cream parlor, wishing I had time to stop and indulge, and almost missed the cab coming toward me on the opposite side of the street. Throwing my hand out and checking my side for traffic, I was gratified that the driver had seen me and pulled up to the curb. I tore across the wide road, managing not to get squashed like a green and white bug against some poor person’s windshield, and rushed towards the cab with a single-minded determination to grab the door handle.

Instead of the door handle, I grabbed a hand.

Bemused, I followed the masculine, tan hand up a long arm to broad shoulders and to a face obscured by the sun beaming down behind his head. Tall, over six feet, the guy towered above me as most tall people did. I was a smallish five foot five.

Wondering why this guy had his hand on my cab, all I really took in was the suit.

A sigh escaped from his shadowed face. “Which way are you headed?” he asked me in a rumbling, gravelly voice. Four years I’d been living here and still a smooth, Scots accent could send a shiver down my spine. And his definitely did, despite the terse question.

“Dublin Street,” I answered automatically, hoping I had a longer distance to travel so he’d give me the cab.

“Good.” He pulled the door open. “I’m heading in that direction, and since I’m already running late, might I suggest we share the taxi instead of wasting ten minutes deciding who needs it more.”

A warm hand touched my lower back and pressed me gently forward. Dazed, I somehow let myself be manhandled into the cab, sliding across the seat and buckling up as I silently questioned whether I’d nodded my agreement to this. I didn’t think I had.

Hearing the Suit clip out Dublin Street as the destination to the cab driver, I frowned and muttered, “Thanks. I guess.”

“You’re an American?”

At the soft question, I finally looked over at the passenger beside me. Oh okay.

Wow.

The Suit wasn’t classically handsome, but there was a twinkle in his eye and curl to the corner of his sensual mouth that, together with the rest of the package, oozed sex appeal. Perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties, I could tell from the lines of the extremely well-tailored, expensive silver-grey suit that he wore, that the Suit worked out. He sat with the ease of a fit guy, his stomach iron flat under the waistcoat and white shirt. His pale blue eyes seemed bemused beneath their long lashes, and for the life of me I couldn’t get over the fact that he had dark hair.

I preferred blondes. Always had.

Yet none of them had ever made my lower belly squeeze with lust at first sight of them. A strong, masculine face stared into mine—sharp jaw-line, a cleft chin, wide cheekbones, and a roman nose. Dark stubble shadowed his cheeks, and his hair was kind of messy. Altogether, his rugged unkemptness seemed at odds with the stylish designer suit.

The Suit raised an eyebrow at my blatant perusal and the lust I was feeling quadrupled, taking me completely by surprise. I never felt instant attraction to men. And since my wild years as a teen, I hadn’t even contemplated taking a guy up on a sexual offer.

Although, I’m not sure I could walk away from an offer from him.

As soon as the thought flashed through my head I stiffened, surprised and unnerved. My defenses immediately rose and I cleared my expression into blank politeness.

“Yeah,” I answered, finally remembering the Suit had asked me a question. I looked away from his knowing smirk, pretending boredom and thanking the heavens that my olive skin kept the blushing internal.

“Just visiting?” he murmured.

As irritated as I was by my reaction to the Suit, I decided the less conversation between us the better. Who knew what idiotic thing I might do or say? “Nope.”

“Then you’re a student.”

I took issue with the tone. Then you’re a student. It was said with a metaphorical eye-roll. Like students were bottom-feeding bums with no real purpose in life. I snapped my head around to give him a scathing set-down, only to catch him eyeing my bare legs with interest. This time, I raised my eyebrow at him and waited for him to unglue those gorgeous eyes of his from my bare skin. Sensing my gaze, the Suit looked up into my face and noted my expression. I expected him to pretend he hadn’t been ogling me, or to look quickly away or something. I didn’t expect him to just shrug and then offer me the slowest, wickedest, sexiest smile that had ever been bestowed upon me.

I rolled me eyes, fighting the flush of heat between my legs. “I was a student,” I answered, with just a touch of snark. “I live here. Dual citizenship.” Why was I explaining myself?

“You’re part Scottish?”

I barely nodded, secretly loving the way he said ‘Scottish’ with his hard ‘t’s.

“What do you do now that you’ve graduated?”

Why did he want to know? I shot him a look out of the corner of my eye. The cost of the three-piece suit he was wearing could have fed me and Rhian on crappy student food for our entire four years of college. “What do you do? I mean, when you’re not manhandling women into cabs?”

His small smirk was his only reaction to my jibe. “What do you think I do?”

“I’m thinking lawyer. Answering questions with questions, manhandling, smirking…”

He laughed a rich, deep rumble of a laugh that vibrated through my chest. His eyes glittered at me. “I’m not a lawyer. But you could be. I seem to recall a question answered with a question. And that,” he gestured to my mouth, his eyes turning a shade darker as they visually caressed the curve of my lips. “That’s a definite smirk,” his voice had grown huskier.

My pulse took off as our eyes locked, our gazes holding for far longer than two polite strangers’ should. My cheeks felt warm… as well as other places. I was growing more and more turned on by him and the silent conversation between our bodies. When my ni**les tightened beneath my t-shirt bra, I was shocked enough to be plunged back into reality. Pulling my eyes from his, I glanced out at the passing traffic and prayed for this cab ride to be over yesterday.

As we approached Princes Street and another diversion caused by the tram project the council was heading up, I began to wonder if I was going to escape the cab without having to talk to him again.

“Are you shy?” The Suit asked, blowing my hopes to smithereens.

I couldn’t help it. His question made me turn to him with a confused smile. “Excuse me?”

He tilted his head, peering down at me through the narrowed slits of his eyes. He looked like a lazy tiger, eyeing me carefully as if deciding whether or not I was a meal worth chasing. I shivered as he repeated, “Are you shy?”

Was I shy? No. Not shy. Just, usually blissfully indifferent. I liked it that way. It was safer. “Why would you think that?” I didn’t give off shy vibes, right? I grimaced at the thought.

The Suit shrugged again. “Most women would be taking advantage of my imprisonment in the taxi with them—chew my ear off, shove their phone number in my face… as well as other things.” His eyes flicked down to my chest before quickly returning to my face. I swear to God, I was tomato-red on the inside and I couldn’t remember the last time someone had managed to embarrass me. Unaccustomed to feeling intimidated, I attempted to mentally shrug it off.

Amazed by his overconfidence, I grinned at him, surprised by the pleasure that rippled over me when his eyes widened slightly at the sight of my smile. “Wow, you really think a lot of yourself.”

He grinned back at me, his teeth white but imperfect and his crooked smile sent an unfamiliar shot of feeling across my chest. “I’m just speaking from experience.”

“Well, I’m not the kind of girl who hands out her number to a guy she just met.”

“Ahh.” He nodded as if coming to some kind of realization about me, his smile slipping, his features seeming to tighten and close off from me. “You’re a ‘no sex until the third date, marriage, and babies’ kind of woman.”

I made a face at his snap judgment. “No, no, and no.” Marriage and babies? I shuddered at the thought, the fears that lived riding my shoulders day in and day out, slipping around to squeeze my chest too tight.

The Suit looked back at me now, and whatever he had caught in my face made him relax. “Interesting,” he murmured.

No. Not interesting. I didn’t want to be interesting to this guy. “I’m not giving you my number.”

He grinned again. “I didn’t ask for it. And even if I wanted it, I wouldn’t ask for it. I have a girlfriend.”

I ignored the disappointed flip of my stomach and apparently the filter between my brain and my mouth. “Then stop looking at me like that.”

The Suit seemed amused. “I have a girlfriend but I’m not blind. Just because I can’t do anything doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to look.”

I was not excited by this guy’s attention. I am a strong, independent woman. Glancing out of the window, I noted with relief that we were at Queen Street Gardens. Dublin Street was right around the corner.

“Here’s good, thanks,” I called to the cab.

“Whereabouts?” the cab driver called back to me.

“Here,” I replied a little more sharply than I meant to but breathed a sigh of relief when the cab driver’s turn signal started ticking and the car pulled over to a stop. Without another look or word to the Suit, I handed the driver some money and slid a hand along the door handle.

“Wait.”

I froze and shot the Suit a wary look over my shoulder. “What?”

“Do you have a name?”

I smiled, feeling relief now that I was getting away from him and the bizarre attraction between us. “Actually, I have two.”

I jumped out of the cab, ignoring the traitorous thrill of pleasure that cascaded over me at the sound of his answering chuckle.

***

As soon as the door swung open and I took in my first sight of Ellie Carmichael, I knew I was probably going to like her. The tall blonde was wearing a trendy play suit, a blue trilby hat, a monocle, and a fake mustache.

She blinked at me with wide, pale blue eyes.

Bemused, I had to ask, “Is this… a bad time?”

Ellie stared at me a moment as if confused by my very reasonable question considering her outfit. As if it suddenly occurred to her that she was in possession of a fake mustache, she pointed at it. “You’re early. I was tidying up.”

Tidying up a trilby, monocle and a mustache? I glanced behind her into a bright, airy reception hall. A bike with no front wheel was propped against the far wall, photographs and an assortment of post cards and other random clippings were attached to a board braced against a walnut cabinet. Two pairs of boots and a pair of black pumps were scattered haphazardly under a row of pegs overflowing with jackets and coats. The floors were hardwood. Very nice.

I looked back at Ellie with a huge grin on my face, feeling good about the entire situation. “Are you on the run from the mafia?”

“Pardon?”

“The disguise.”

“Oh.” She laughed and stepped back from the door, gesturing me into the apartment. “No, no. I had friends over last night and we had a little bit too much to drink. All my old Halloween costumes were dragged out.”

I smiled again. That sounded fun. I missed Rhian and James.

“You’re Selena, right?”

“Yeah. Selena,” I corrected her. I hadn’t been Selena since before my parents died.

“Selena,” she repeated, grinning at me as I took my first steps inside the ground floor apartment. It smelled great. Fresh and clean.

Like the apartment I was leaving, this one was also Georgian, except it had once been an entire townhouse. Now it was split into two apartments. Well, actually, next door was a boutique and the rooms above us belonged to it. I didn’t know about the rooms above us, but the boutique itself was very nice with handmade one-of-a-kind clothes. This apartment…

Wow.

The walls were so smooth, I knew they had to have been plastered recently and whoever had restored the place had done wonders. It had tall baseboards and thick coving to compliment the period property. The ceilings went on forever, as they did in my old apartment. The walls were a cool white, but broken up by colorful and eclectic pieces of art work. The white should have been harsh, but the contrast of it against the dark walnut doors and hardwood flooring gave the apartment an air of quiet elegance.

I was in love already and I hadn’t even seen the rest of the place.

Ellie hurriedly took off the hat and mustache, spinning around to say something to me only to stop and grin sheepishly as she tore off the monocle she was still wearing. Shoving it aside on the walnut sideboard, she beamed brightly. She was a cheerful person. Usually I avoided cheerful people, but there was something about Ellie. She was kind of charming.

“I’ll give you a tour first, shall I?

“Sounds good.”

Striding to the door on the left nearest me, Ellie pushed it open. “Bathroom. It’s in an unconventional place, I know, right near the front door, but it’s got everything you need.”

Uh… I’ll say, I thought, tentatively stepping inside.

My flip-flops echoed off the shiny cream tiles on the floor, tiles that covered every inch of the bathroom except for the ceiling which was painted a buttery color and inset with warm spotlights.

The bathroom was huge.

Running my hand along the bath tub with its gold claw feet, I immediately envisioned myself in here. Music playing, candles flickering, a glass of red wine in my hand as I soaked in the tub and numbed my mind to… everything. The tub sat center of the room. In the back, right-hand corner was a double shower cubicle with the biggest showerhead I’d ever seen. To my left was a modern glass bowl situated atop a white ceramic shelf. That was a sink?