#but there's one that sticks with me involving my cat

[ajdrawshq]

i love sending my brother screenshots of lil manga Akechis where he looks all sweet n innocent to make it seem funny how badly hes treated in our au with him. and pretending the canon horrors he doesnt know abt dont exist

[the-cat-at-the-theatre-door]

Struck by the Tumble and Etcetera are cousins agenda this evening.

[hedgehog-moss]

Last spring my neighbour asked if I could let Pirlouit mow the grass around his barn from time to time, which Pirou was happy to do at first but if I left him there several days in a row he got pretty sad about being alone (lots of wistful, melancholy braying). So this year when my donkey was hired for this job again, I went for a different formula: for the past few weeks I've been bringing all the animals to the neighbour's barn for an hour of landscaping services now and then at apéritif time.

The fence is extremely not Pampe-proof so I have to have my apéritif while sitting on the road in a strategic position from which I can toss a stick in her direction if she tries to escape, but other than that I've been really enjoying this peaceful evening ritual, just sitting there reading and watching the animals while feeling like I'm doing my neighbour a favour. Pirlouit doesn't get all the grass to himself anymore but I've learnt that he prefers to be rich in friends than in food.

You'll notice that Merricat is present in every photo, looking alert. She too has been hired, but for the thankless job of Thought Police. She may look like she's just napping on the warm asphalt with not a care in the world...

... but she is working! Keeping an eye on the llamas, always.

I've discovered that in a specific context my three cats can act as precogs and warn me of Pampe's future crimes. My theory is that they developed this skill because of Poldine, who loves cats. Any cat who enters the pasture will soon be noticed and (lovingly) chased by Poldine, who wants kisses. Cats not only do not want llama kisses, they don't differentiate between individual llamas. They are all potential kissers. So even if it looks like she's all relaxed, Merricat is constantly monitoring where the llamas are and what they seem to be planning. If we are on the other side of a fence and Pampe approaches it a bit too slyly, Merricat will jump to her feet, ready to flee (and I will toss one of my anti-Pampe sticks, and say NON.)

Merricat and I are a very good team! We've foiled several of Pampe's plots, but we need to be on the road for Merricat to remain wary (if we were in the pen Pampe's escape attempts would involve getting away from us and the cat wouldn't care.) Cars are rare so it's okay (plus it's so quiet you can always hear them coming), and on the few occasions when someone showed up and asked why I was having apéritif on the road, I pointed at Pampe and they were like, "Ah! Didn't see her here. Good luck!"

"Hedgehog-moss, you're exaggerating. Pampe can't be that—"

She is! She is. And she always seems to notice when Merricat is on a bathroom break and I'm absorbed in a book.

There was one evening though, when she got distracted by a fascinating new idea. I don't claim to know what's going on in this llama's head (except when she's looking at a fence, then it's easy) but as you can see, once I brought the animals to the barn Poldine started eating flowers, Pirlouit started eating grass, and Pampe started eating the wall.

After a moment she slowly circled the barn, then stopped and lay down right next to it, settling down in a comfortable position but with focused ears and her head still turned towards the wall. It was suspicious behaviour, but on the other hand she now looked so uninterested in the road that I decided to take a risk and run home to bring back some dinner—and she didn't move while I was away! I even brought Pandolf, who is usually banned from these soirées because he would disturb my Merricat alarm system. He was happy to be finally included.

It's unclear if Pampe was eating the wall, talking to the wall, or carefully examining various parts of the wall as Step 1 of 27 of a complex plan only she understands, but she stuck close to the barn all evening instead of lying in wait by the fence so I was able to have a picnic in the grass rather than on the road, which felt more bucolic. I know that "Pampérigouste has a new, mysterious project" is a worrying sentence but at this early stage (feasibility study) it felt to me and Merricat like a little holiday!

[steddie-as-they-come]

everybody talks

i could not tell you what this is. i wrote it all in one sitting. enjoy or whatever

It starts with the graffiti.

Scribbled in thick, permanent marker across the boys' gym lockers.

STEVE HARRINGTON FUCKS EDDIE MUNSON

The custodian tries half-heartedly to scrub it off, but he only manages to get about a letter and a half off the locker before his shift is over. It's back up by the next day anyway.

Half the school is walking on tiptoes around Steve, waiting for him to blow up and demand a manhunt for the culprit.

The other half is snickering and laughing as he walks by in the halls.

Steve doesn't give two shits. He holds his head up high and walks onwards, ignoring the laughs and the kissy noises. He needs to graduate. He needs to not get eaten by a terrifying monster from an alternate reality. More pressing things happen to Steve Harrington than grade school graffiti.

Until he turns the corner and sees Eddie Munson glaring furiously at his closed locker.

He doesn't speak to him. Even if the graffiti isn't a big deal, there's no need to add any fuel to the fire.

Eddie finally steps forward and wrenches open his locker door. The crowd milling in the halls begins to laugh.

Papers spill out, dozens of them, cascading over the floor and burying Eddie's shoes. One slides all the way to Steve's feet.

He looks down automatically.

There's an atrocious drawing of two stick figures bent over each other. The one on the bottom has two lines of curly hair, while the one on the top has a singular swooping line of graphite.

Great.

Steve swiftly scoops it up and crumples it in his fist, shoving it in his pocket. He'll toss it out later.

As he hustles past Eddie, steadfastly not looking in his direction, he thinks he hears Eddie mutter, "Every class period."

Steve turns a corner, and the train wreck that is Eddie's locker is gone.

He slides into his seat, knowing the band girls who sit in the back corner of the classroom are whispering about him, but finding he couldn't care less.

The teacher starts class.

He reaches into his pocket and slides the crumpled paper between his fingers, over and over.

Steve raises his hand. "Can I go to the bathroom?"

The teacher nods and waves him away, and Steve scrambles out the door, rounding the corner.

Eddie's still there, kneeling by his locker, trying to scoop up papers.

Steve kneels next to him. "Hey."

Eddie jumps like an alley cat that's been spooked. Steve could swear his hair starts bristling, puffing up.

"Your majesty," Eddie finally says, glaring back at the pile of paper like Steve'll disappear if he doesn't look at him. "To what do I owe the pleasure."

It's not really a question.

Steve answers it anyway. "Came to help," he says simply, picking up a piece of paper that has EDDIE MUNSON X STEVE HARRINGTON written on it in bold letters, surrounded by stupid little hearts. "After all, my name's on half this stuff."

"How kind," Eddie said. "Keeping me distracted while your buddies key my van or something?"

Steve reels back. "Huh?"

"I'm not dumb, Harrington," Eddie says, crumpling up another sheet of paper. Steve can barely catch EDDIE HARRINGTON on it before it's balled in Eddie's fist. "I get this is a prank or whatever. I just can't understand why you'd involve yourself with me. The King and the Freak."

"'Cause I'm not the King anymore." Steve says, standing to drag a nearby garbage can closer. It's already half-full of papers. "You sure don't listen to gossip, Munson. Billy beat my ass and I lost every friend I had. So. I think it's a prank on both of us."

"Oh."

Eddie, wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, shuts the fuck up. Steve had seen people lose their meals to his impassioned school cafeteria rants, but it only takes Steve Harrington to shut Munson's infamous mouth.

Wait, that sounds wrong.

They keep cleaning in silence - relatively. Steve starts balling up the papers and tossing them at the trash can, unable to stop himself from hissing out a yes! if he makes the throw.

"Impressive," Eddie says dryly. "Can you do this?" He raises one hand in the air like he's about to take a pledge, and in the other he folds and rolls a slip of paper until it's shaped like a joint.

Steve chuckles. "Nope." He takes the fake joint, and it comes undone in his palm, revealing the same crude stick figure couple from earlier.

Right.

Steve had forgotten what they were doing here.

Evidently, Eddie had too. He looks down at the drawing, then snatches the paper from Steve, tossing it in the trash, two spots of pink high on his cheeks.

He scoops the last of the papers into his arms, dumping them in the trash can. "You can go back to class," he tells Steve, settling down with his back against the locker.

"What are you doing?" Steve says, slightly caught off-guard by the dismissal.

"Seeing if those pricks will try to do it again." Eddie says, folding his knees up to his chest. "They do it all the time. I think there's a jungle's worth of trees just being used to make shit for my locker."

"You're just gonna guard it?" Steve asks.

"Sure," Eddie says, picking at a piece of lint on his shirt. "What else have I got to do?"

Steve plops himself down next to Eddie. "I'll guard with you," he says stubbornly.

"Seriously?" Eddie asks, like Steve's particularly slow. Steve's gotten that tone of voice a lot in his life.

"Yeah." Steve says. He parrots, "What else have I got to do?"

"You're just gonna fuel the rumors, dude." Eddie says. "My name's mud around here. You know that damn well."

"Sure," Steve shrugs. "But it hasn't been half-bad hanging out with you, and I don't care what these jackasses think of me anymore. Bigger things to worry about."

They settle into a comfortable silence, watching the students pass by, their whispered comments and curious glances bouncing off the duo. Eddie taps his fingers rhythmically on the ground, humming a tune Steve doesn't recognize but finds oddly comforting.

He reaches into his pocket to feel the small paper, then tugs it out. Is it dumb that a stupid drawing is making him think about himself this much?

"Hey, Eddie," Steve starts, hesitating. "Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot," Eddie says idly.

"How do you... I mean, when did you know you were gay?" Steve asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

Eddie's expression turns to one of suspicion, but he answers anyway. "I guess I always knew, deep down. But I really figured it out in middle school." He looks at Steve out of the corner of his eye. "Why?"

Steve bites his lip, considering his next words carefully. "I think I might be... different too. I mean, I've only ever dated girls, but lately, I don't know. I feel... something."

Something means he worried for weeks when Billy beat the shit out of him because suddenly all these feelings were tugging at his brain. Feelings for people like Eddie Munson.

Eddie's eyes widen slightly, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. (What? Steve's not looking at his lips. Huh?) "Steve Harrington, the former King of Hawkins High, might not be straight? Now that's some gossip I'd actually pay attention to."

"Shut up," Steve mutters, but he's smiling too. "I'm serious."

"Well..." Eddie trails off. "We can try it out?"

Steve's heart skips a beat. "Huh?"

"We can try it out." Eddie repeats. "But, uh," he leans close, his breath ghosting over the shell of Steve's ear. "Just so you know, I prefer to be the one on top."

Weeks later, the school is overtaken by a new kind of graffiti. Papers plastered to every surface, a spiky handwriting (usually used to write setlists and D&D character sheets) adorning each and every one of them.

EDDIE MUNSON FUCKS STEVE HARRINGTON

[bottomcyclonus]

My sister is a total cunt and around when we were kids, 12 (her) and 15 (me), she became a really big fan of that Jesus guy, but in a ‘if you wear lipstick that’s TOO red you’re clearly a whore who is doing naughty things with the devil’ and ‘all “dark” animals like black cats, snakes, rats, spiders, and bats were sent by the devil himself”. W e had an older home, and the way it was set up is that one of our vents had a chute that went over the porch, and you could look down it and see basically right over the porch itself. This is relevant because I, at the time, really wanted a cat and our parents were considering it. However, cheese cunt (my nickname for her which she hated <3) saw me looking at an adoption page for a black cat. She absolutely lost it and said that I was trying to bring the devil into our home and that I was going to hell and that that cat was evil and going to claw out my eyes in my sleep. We got in a BIG fight over that. By the time we moved out there were still puncture marks in the wall from where she went at me with a fork. Back to the porch and vent. Kind of. I _needed_ to get this bitch, so I recruited two of my good friends who I knew would be ready to commit a fuckery. One of them had a pet snake (which I think she found in her yard and abducted adopted) and she fed him frozen mice and whatnot. Obviously we weren’t going to involve her snake, but the frozen mice? Those were fair game. Her job was to bring the mice and help behind the scenes. My other friend, he’s a big guy, intimidating if you don’t know him, *his* job was to be the devil. We’d found a dead bat in my attic (again old house) and made it look alive with popsicle sticks, then tied it to a string wound through the vent. We planned the fuckery for when our parents were staying at a hotel for their anniversary, so we were home alone all weekend. We had a pizza box as bait outside, with the frozen mice inside arranged in a pentagram. My guy friend was dressed up in a stereotypical grim reaper outfit, big black cloak, white ghoulish face, lantern, the works. We waited around until night, then he rang the door bell and hid, with the pizza box left on the porch, just far out enough that you would have to step outside. Me and my friend were in the bathroom when then happened so that my sister would have to go look. In reality, she was waiting above, ready with the bat, and I was hiding behind the garage door, which was right next to our front door. The moment I hear my sister let go of the door I gently closed it and locked it on her. I heard her scream and the sound of her dropping the pizza box, which was my friends cue to drop the bat on her and dance it around. At this point she’s freaking out and trying to get back inside, screaming and shrieking. I turn off the porch light, and from the shadows across the street, emerges my friend, face dimly lit by the lantern in his hand. I had to muffle my laughter with my fist in my mouth cause my sister is yelling like she’s going to die, which yeah, I can see her thinking that. All my friend had to do was walk across the street and point at her to get her to start crying, and she bolted into our backyard, where she tried to get in through the back door that was unfortunately for her, locked, courtesy of me. We made her stay out there for an hour or so, giving us time to put everything back to normal and sober ourselves up from laughing so hard. Then I let her back in and acted like I didn’t know anything. We got the cat and I named him Pizza.

THIS IS A TRANSFORMERS BLOG

[iceunhie]

— phaethetically in love !

premise. belle thinks her brother is the most oblivious person in sixth street. the reason? one: because his (super obvious) crush on you is practically the worst kept secret in new eridu, and two: because he can't even see that said crush is reciprocated! good thing he has one (1) amazing, wonderful, nosy sister to help him out, yeah?

or, belle thinks the two of you are a prime example of an s tier romance movie; and she really wants to skip to the final arc already.

pairing. wise x gn!reader.

warnings: kinda ooc wise (i just started the game), wise is a loser (lovingly), belle is an instigator (proudly), comedy, facepalm moments.

a/n: for @vxnuslogy and @milksnake-tea bc yes wise kissers yes

MY (rlly cool btw 🥺) MASTERLIST || INBOX !

“you're in love with [name], aren't you?”

like all siblings in the world—or what's left of it, belle schemes.

(against wise, of course. obviously.)

her brother bursts into a mess immediately, nearly spilling his cup ramen all over his new shirt, chopsticks sticking out. laughing nervously. general chop would not be proud. “who told you that? i mean— haha, who said that, belle?”

his sister rolls her eyes. “me, myself. i.” she emphasizes, leaning her elbows against the table and putting her palms together; the grin she wears right now is so serene, but not in the angelic, nice way. belle smiles and wise finally thinks, oh. my sister may need to book herself to the closest self-help guru in new eridu.

“i have reason to believe that you, my dearest brother, are in love with [name].”

her voice goes up an octave at the last bit, leading wise to stuff her mouth with potato chips. already, heads have turned. “mff.”

“keep your voice down! and stop broadcasting it to everyone here-”

“what, i am right, aren't i? they clearly like you back, so why haven't you confessed yet?”

“keep. your. voice. down.” wise says, and belle's shit eating grin only widens as she sees her brother's ears tinged with pink. “and... how did you even know that?” he asks, mortified.

“well, one: because it's obvious—like, have you seen how obvious you are?” belle huffs, taking a bite of the potato chip with force (personal grudges are involved). “and two, because they like you back, dummy!”

because when belle sees the two of you together, it's like wise focuses on no one else. you are the center of his world—and he is just being pulled to bask in your light. his eyes soften like they melt only for you, and wise looks like all he is is, all he wants to be, is to belong with you.

(and, wise likes to stare at you for ungodly amounts of time. belle even caught him staring when you were petting a cat by the street and decided to name the stray ‘wise’; courtesy of him, apparently. the cat literally just had grey fur.

“wise.”

“hm?”

“you're practically spawning heart eyes now.”)

it's sickening. (in a oh my god my brother is in love kind of way, mind you.)

“so!” belle says, a devilish sparkle in her eyes. “allow your dearest sister to help you out, 'kay?”

wise nearly coughs up blood.

“what?!”

so at present, belle compiles her (hastily written) list of romantic moments you and wise have shared. she's not surprised—the number can be counted on one hand. diabolical, disappointing, world-ending! she resists the urge to cough up blood.

first, a coff cafe date with tin man's help: a fail. tin man's wingman capabilities were very superb, but she never heard the end of it when wise was lecturing her about how tin man kept sending over heart shaped desserts and little fortune cookies. the fortune cookies in question which said ‘you can do it!’ and a latte with art of caricature tin man making a heart. (you were very confused). belle thought it was motivating. wise thought it was mortifying.

next, even instilling help from fairy to calculate statistics about what event would you two be likely to be together. fairy said, and belle quotes: “probably never. that kind of pining's for the long run, with the other master's current experience. give it a year or six, master.”

so, she's currently face-palming.

did her brother really have zero game? why were the two of you just dancing around each other?! she's tried everything—from letting you two spend more time with each other in commissions, her inviting you over more to leave you to chat with her brother, and even the entirety of sixth street has lent their aid! how were you two not dating yet?!

“didn't they go on an arcade date at random play yesterday?” belle mutters. “that should've increased your progress by a long mile, bro! even general chop said you two were really, really close in the noodle shop....”

just what was she going to do now? at this rate, her brother would be relationshipless in no time! in fairy's words again, it would be phaethetic. and that would be a phaethal blow on her pride.

“...master, i said no such thing.”

“well, now you did.”

“The Ethereal Reckoning,” there's a pep in your step, the boxes full of movie DVDs in your arms as you walk back to the movie store. it was heavy, but at least you got to walk with the grey-haired proxy beside you. “That movie was great! Thanks for recommending it to me.”

Sporting a dopey, lovesick grin in response, wise nods at that, content to listen to your voice. it was actually belle's idea to let you lend movies you like over so the two of you could talk about it back and forth. wise would need to (begrudgingly) treat her to a bowl of ramen later on.... she saved him—he probably wouldn't even be talking to you for this long at this point, let alone hang out with you without her. for someone so nosy, he guesses his sister was a pretty good wingwoman.

“the main character was pretty similar to billy, you know?” you ramble on as wise listens. “i mean, because they were an android too, and...”

he finds that he's content to listen to anything you say, really. (right now he doesn't really know what you're saying, something about a horror ethereal movie, but you could just tell him anything and he would listen).

“i feel like the heroine's death was unnecessary, though.” you sigh, “too much tension just for it to end like that? how anticlimactic.”

your voice was so nice, so warm and easy to listen to, and wise can't even say anything to retort, simply staring with a growing (lovesick) smile on his face. talking to people was hard work, and talking to you? it might just make him combust.

“...ise? wise?”

“ah, huh?” he snaps out of his trance, only to find you mere inches away from his face, the only thing keeping you apart the boxes full of movies he's carrying. “...!”

“are you listening?” you furrow, and someone really might be out to get him right now because in that moment, wise flinches from the proximity, bumping into you.

then, because the universe thinks his life couldn't get more dramatic than it already was—you stagger, about to fall forward.

he moves before he thinks. “watch out!”

and wise.... practically astral-projects to another plane when he feels you fall into his arms, his hands on your waist. he can feel the warmth of your skin on his, the flustered look on your face. (he feels like he's going to die).

the two of you lock eyes for a moment, and wise feels like he's about to so something very stupid and his hands are still on your waist—

“....”

“.....”

someone save him.

“ah...”

“sorry!” you recover first, hurriedly letting yourself pull away from him (much to his disappointment). “i wasn't looking, and i- are you okay, wise?”

“no, no, it's fine.... i-i'm fine....” he hopes his voice isn't as small as it is, he couldn't be smooth to save his life; and wise helps you gather your bearings, his hands brushing against yours, blood rushing to his ears. sheepishly rubbing at his nape. “sorry, i was distracted.”

perhaps in the mood to lift the atmosphere, you sputter out, “no worries! it's fine! besides, you listened to me all this time.... i really enjoyed the movie, really.”

“of course i'll listen.” and before wise can think to stop his traitor of a mouth, the words spill out of his lips like it always wanted to be.

“you're worth paying attention to.”

it's automatic—your face heats up, warming like the sun on a hot day in new eridu, and god, he is such an idiot-

“you think so?” wise gulps. you looked bashful, and were way too adorable right now, and his face felt like it was on fire.... wait, that's not the point! he has to answer you, at least. this is a chance to make progress!

“y-yeah. definitely. i enjoyed... watching the movie with you.” he says. did his voice just crack just now? “we can hang out more often too, even without belle.”

he feels bad for throwing his sister under the bus like that, but—wait, did he just ask you out on a date? (accidentally)

well, it didn't matter because wise feels like he won the lottery right now, because you brighten up immediately. “really?”

then you cough and compose yourself. “i mean, sure! i'm sure it'll be fun, haha...”

awkward silence ensues. uh oh, did he say something wrong? was he too forward? he wants to say something, but something is lodged in his throat, and wise can't bring up a response. (his heart was beating like crazy right now, though).

“uh...”

“....”

then, something soft brushes against the side of his cheek. as fast as it was felt, wise felt the sensation leave just as easily. did you just-?

you just kissed him. on the cheek.

“thanks for hanging out with me, wise.”

“you're welcome- wha- huh?!” he nearly drops the stack of dvd's he was holding. you pull away, an enigmatic smile on your face. face flushed.

before he can even respond, the two of you finally arrive at the movie store. damn it, gods of the world. why did his luck run out now?

“i guess this is your stop.” he blinks, your voice coming back to him. “and, wise?”

“ah, uh, yeah?”

“it's a date, then?” your eyes sparkle and shine a light through his heart. super effective!

is this really happening? is he really going on a date with you—oh, he's so thrilled he could actually burst into song and kick his feet, but belle would tease him ruthlessly after. nosy sisters were so much work....

“yes!” he almost yells it out, but because he didn't want to look uncool in front of you, wise composes himself. play it cool, play it cool. don't mess up this chance! “yes, definitely. it's... it's a date.”

you put down the other stack of dvd's down the table, flashing him a dizzying, lovely smile smile. wise swears he falls even harder for you.

“then it's a date.”

BONUS.

“seriously?! you're going on a date with them?!” belle shouts, so unceremoniously that wise slaps a hand on her mouth.

“not so loud! but, yeah.” he says, face heating up. “your plan worked, sis.”

“yes! yes! finally!” his sister practically cheers, “i can finally be free of your sickening heart eyes... and finally, our street's most anticipated couple is here!”

wise can't help but sigh in fond exasperation. he guesses he'll let her have this one today.

“also, belle?”

“what?”

“you didn't tell anyone about this, did you?”

...

“uhh....”

(on the day of the date, wise receives an abnormal amount of good luck posters. he also gets a disturbing amount of thumbs up from the neighbors.

the last straw? tin man, giving him a baked cake with the words ‘rooting for you!’ covered in pink heart sprinkles.

he facepalms. belle...!)

a/n: d d do you guys get it..... phaethetically...... phaethon..... wise is phaethon and he's awkward in love lol hahahahaha (💀)

@ ICEUNHIE: do not repost translate or plagiarize my works.

[gnocchibabie]

Desire and Blood (Chapter 3)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Targaryen/Strong OC (Jaenara Velaryon)

Tags: AU - canon divergence, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, Targcest (uncle/niece)

Wordcount: 4.7k

Summary:

Against all odds, the love between childhood friends prevails and the Dance of Dragons is avoided.

However, peace comes at a cost. With the unexpected proposal of marriage between Alicent Hightower's son and Rhaenyra Targaryen's only daughter, can love truly blossom between sworn enemies? Or will Jaenara Velaryon be reduced to a mere pawn?

Love may yet arise where enmity once thrived, but Aemond's relentless pursuit of power threatens to shatter everything they hold dear, including each other.

A/N: You can find the previous chapters on my masterlist!

If you are liking this series, please consider showing some love on my AO3 posting of this fic :) thank you x

!!! This chapter contains dialogue in High Valyrian, which will be designated by bold and italics...enjoy :)

A week had slipped away since Jaenara and her family had settled into King’s Landing. She found herself passing time by discussing plans for the upcoming coronation with her mother or entertaining little Aegon and Viserys. Occasionally, she rode out on dragonback with Baela and Rhaena, savoring the freedom of the skies above. When she was up amongst the clouds, the princess forgot all about what her life had become down below. Sitting atop Aetherion, it was as if nothing else mattered.

Yet above all, Jaenara found herself occupied with a careful dance of avoidance whenever Aemond Targaryen crossed her path. She had escaped several close calls, ducking into unoccupied rooms whenever she saw the prince at the other side of a hallway. Jaenara had often wondered to herself if she could continue to keep up this game of cat and mouse well into their marriage, but the prospect of having to constantly hide from the man who was to be her husband did sadden her. Ever so slightly. 

Currently, the princess found herself in the castle gardens walking shoulder to shoulder with Helaena. Jaenara had not had as much alone time with her aunt as she would have liked, and was eager to reconnect with the one member of the Targaryen-Hightowers she could actually stand to be around. Helaena seemed to be pleased with the company, though it was difficult for Jaenara to tell at times. Her aunt had always been a somewhat emotionally distant person, even when they were children.

“My mother tells me that the planning for Rhaenyra’s coronation is almost finished?” Helaena inquires.

Jaenara and Jacaerys had both been closely involved with the planning of their mother’s name day ceremony. The preparations had proven to be stressful, even now plaguing the princess’ mind. Temporary discomfort is a small price to pay for mother to sit the Iron Throne - Jaenara had told herself. Though, she could not say she felt the same way about the looming, permanent discomfort she would soon find herself in…

Rhaenyra had even tried to include Aegon in the ceremony planning as well. An offering for the position he had given up for his older sister. Though he had seemed less than interested, opting to disappear for hours at a time instead. Even now, Jaenara wondered where her uncle often took off to, leaving her sweet aunt and their children alone. She questioned if she would be condemned to such a fate as well - Aemond fluttering about doing gods know what while she was left to care for their babes alone. The princess decides it is best not to mull over such depressing possibilities that she may soon enough find herself in.

“Yes, her name day will be here before we know it - just a short week away. Though I find myself anxious about the festivities.” Jaenara finally responds. 

“I understand,” Helena breathes, “I am not one for crowds either.”

“Well then we must stick together until the whole ordeal is over.” Jaenara reassures her aunt. And herself.

“I would gladly,” Helaena giggles, “Though when your wedding day arrives, my brother will stand at your side, not I."

Jaenara sighed - another formality she had been dreading heavily. She’d venture to guess that the moment her mother’s name day passes, planning for the wedding will begin immediately. The princess knew that her scarcity of interactions with Aemond would not last for much longer. Not if either of their mothers could help it. 

Jaenara felt she had little to discuss with her betrothed. What else was there to say?

Helaena came to a halt, bending down to pick up a large, green beetle. Jaenara winced - she had never been one for bugs, save for the pretty butterflies she had often chased with her aunt in their youth. She watched as the beetle began to travel up Helaena’s arm. Jaenara found that Helaena looked serene, her blonde-white hair picked up by the breeze and a content smile on her lips. The princess decides to take advantage of the peaceful moment to ask her aunt a troubled question.

“What is it like? Being married, that is.” Jaenara’s face grows serious.

Helaena removes the beetle from her forearm with a gentle touch and places it on a leaf below.

“It doesn’t really feel like anything,” She says, though her aunt does not sound particularly bothered by the dreary thought, “Aegon does not pay me much mind. Save for the times we have…done our duty.”

Jaenara clears her throat awkwardly.

“So, I suppose it is not so bad. I am free to do as I please. As he is. Though I think Aemond will make a better lover.” Helaena finishes. Jaenara looks at her aunt as if she has three heads and scoffs. She looks back at the princess with a coy look on her face.

“What a terrifying thought.” Jaenara sounds defeated as the two women resume their walk. A calm silence passes over them once again, as does the gentle breeze.  

Helaena looks as though someone is speaking to her and finds herself gazing up at the sky for a moment - and then to her niece.

She smiles, as if the clouds have told her a secret.

— — —

On the far side of the Red Keep, The One Eyed Prince begins to lay the groundwork of his plan to put his soon-to-be wife on the Iron Throne. Aemond has decided he must get in the good graces of his family - especially Jacaerys - if he is to carry out familicide without raising any suspicion that he had a hand in it. Something easier said than done, Aemond knows. Any amount of decency he could afford the heir and his brother would be met with scrutiny. A few kind words will not undo years of victimization dealt on both sides. 

Aemond clenches his jaw as he searches for his nephews throughout the grounds of the Red Keep. Locating them had proven to be challenging, though not as much as finding their sister. Aemond knew that Jaenara had been purposefully avoiding him. One evening, he had even caught sight of her ducking into her mother’s chambers when he had turned a corner, entering the same hallway as her. Her elusion frustrated the prince. If he could not speak to the princess and build up a rapport with her, then she would assuredly be the first to point her finger at him when news of Jace’s murder came about.  

Just when Aemond is about to give up entirely, he spots Jacaerys and Lucerys in the training yard, wooden swords in hand. Aemond lurks back for a moment, watching them practice their drills. Their moves are quick and calculated, proving that his nephews had become even more skilled fighters during their time away from the Red Keep. Though their moves had a certain unrefined quality to them. Aemond finally moves from his spot, drawing nearer to the princes. Lucerys spots him first and mumbles a curse under his breath, as hid older brother turns to meet Aemond’s eyes. Aemond smirks at the boys, and he can tell it takes all of Jace’s strength not to throw down his play sword and saunter off. 

The prince stands tall over his nephews, to hide the uneasiness he feels about approaching them. He’s pulled his long, sleek hair into a bun. His own sword, a practice blade worn smooth from countless hours of swinging, hung loose at his side

The air is tense around the group and a short silence hangs over them. Clanking of wood and metal and grunts fills the yard as the princes all stare at each other.

Aemond finally clears his throat and breaks the quiet.

"You're both too cautious," he remarks in a voice that carries authority but also a hint of patience. "Don't overthink your strikes. Let them flow naturally. It's about instinct as much as it is about technique."

Jacaerys narrowed his eyes skeptically. "You must think of us as fools, uncle. Why would we listen to you? You do not practice the habit of fighting honorably - Luke and I’ve both seen that.”

And what would you know about fighting honorably? Aemond remarks to himself.

Where is the honor in gouging out a boy’s eye? 

He inhales a deep breath to calm his rising frustration.

Lucerys, ever the more reserved of the two, held his ground but watched Aemond with a cautious curiosity.

Aemond knows he should not make the jest, but before he can stop himself, the words fall from his smug mouth.

“Fools? No - I only see two Strong boys before me.” 

Both of the brother’s harden their gaze. This time, Jacaerys does take off, with Luke trailing behind.

Fuck.

“But!” Aemond is quick to add to his lecture, desperate to keep the boys where they are, “Honor in battle is not always as straightforward as the songs would have it. There are times when survival demands unconventional measures.”

“And how,” Jace has stopped and turned to face his uncle once more, “would you know anything of a real battle?”

“You forget I train with Ser Criston Cole.” “You forget we trained with Daemon Targaryen.”

Aemond chooses to bite back another remark about how - despite training with one of the realm’s most formidable soldiers, the brother’s still lacked the necessary knowledge and skills.

Instead, he walks back towards their place in the yard and motions for the Velaryons to follow him. Jace stares at him a moment, lets out an exaggerated huff and mutters, “Come on, Luke.”

At their return, Aemond demonstrates a quick feint, his movements precise. “You’re signaling your intent with your movements, Jacaerys. And Lucerys, you hesitate before every strike. Be bold, but calculated. Like this," he continued, demonstrating a fluid series of strikes and blocks. Luke, with a touch of reservation, takes up a fighting stance in front of his older brother.

Aemond nodded approvingly. "Let's try it again. And this time, don't hold back."

For the remainder of the afternoon, Aemond guided them through drills and techniques, offering pointers in between bouts. Slowly, the initial wariness between the boys and the Targaryen prince faded, replaced by a grudging respect for his skill and knowledge.

When the sun had begun to dip into the horizon, the three young heirs sheathed their swords. Aemond found a rare smile breaking through his usually stoic demeanor. He did not find any joy in the times he sparred with Aegon, which had been few and far between lately. His brother had no real interest in learning and bettering his skills. And Criston Cole was becoming predictable - through no fault of his own. Aemond simply had no one else to spar with that was anywhere near his level. He found unexpected fulfillment in teaching his nephews.

Jace finally deposits his wooden sword with the others in the training yard, Luke following suit. 

With a huff and an expression that makes the prince seem physically pained he tells his uncle, “Well. That was rather…I did not think I’d ever see the day where you would give us any kind of genuine advice. Nevertheless, I am…grateful for your counsel uncle.” 

“Yes. Thank you, Aemond.” Lucerys adds curtly.

Aemond gives them a nod as acknowledgment.

Naive fools.

With that, Jace and Luke begin their journey back into the Red Keep. Aemond watches the boys stride away side by side. He almost resigns himself to turning in for the day, when a thought suddenly enters his mind. 

“Do you know where I might find your sister?” He calls after them. 

Jace remains silent continuing his walk. Aemond rolls his eyes.

She has sworn them to secrecy.

Lucerys seems to take some sort of pity on his uncle after their shared afternoon - much to the dismay of Jace, “I think she spoke of spending time in the gardens…” the younger brother’s sentence trails off when he sees the look Jacaerys gives him. 

Aemond nods gratefully, though no one sees it, and sets off towards the gardens, his mind already racing. He knew spending time with Jaenara was another crucial part of his plan he needed to begin sowing the seeds for. As much as she may detest it.

The believed that if he could convincingly pretend to be infatuated with his niece, to the extent that she truly believed his feelings were genuine, it might help divert suspicion away from him regarding her brother’s eventual murder. She may even come to defend him, when the time comes. Though this would prove to be a challenge.

“You can expect a union that does not harbor any illusions of love” Aemond’s own words from her first evening back at King’s Landing echoed in his mind.

Aemond lets out a frustrated groan and picks up his pace.

When he reaches the gardens, Aemond finds Jaenara and his sister seated on a weathered stone bench in deep discourse, while their ladies-in-waiting linger nearby, amusing themselves.

The distant laughter of the two maidens surprises Aemond and stirs a hint of a smile on his face. He couldn’t remember the last time his sister had laughed so freely. It was then, he realized, he had never heard Jaenara genuinely laugh. Everything she let out in his presence was nothing more that a scoff or dry laugh. This, he thought, was a nice change of pace. Happiness suited her.

I should leave them. Aemond’s resolve falters for a moment, and he pivots for a swift and silent retreat. Yet, his sister catches sight of him before he can vanish.

"Aemond!" Helaena's voice rings out, compelling him to sigh and reluctantly turn back to face them.

Helaena's eyes glint with mischief as she waves a hand, beckoning him over. Meanwhile, the fleeting smile on Jaenara's face vanishes, replaced by an indifferent gaze.

"Aemond," his sister greets again, her tone laced with curiosity. "Where have you been?"

"Just sparring with your brothers," Aemond replies, his gaze drifting towards Jaenara.

The surprise in Jaenara's eyes is evident and impossible to conceal.

"With Jace and Luke?" she questions, her voice tinged with disbelief. "You seem…unscathed. I trust the same can be said for my brothers?"

"It was just a training session - nothing if not civil. I only meant to give them a bit of advice," Aemond responds, a smirk playing upon his lips.

Helaena suddenly springs to her feet. "I don’t believe you two have had many opportunities to speak as of late. I will leave you to catch up" she suggests, a faraway look on her face. "I must attend to the children." Her lady-in-waiting follows closely behind as she departs.

Jaenara starts to rise, offering to assist, but Helaena insists she stay. Aemond can't help but conceal his amusement at Jaenara’s desperate state.

The princess exhales sharply and resumes her promenade through the gardens, without so much as a glance over her shoulder at Aemond. With a huff, he follows behind her, as her lady-in-waiting mirrors.

The prince wishes he could dismiss the attendant, wishing for a moment alone with Jaenara to speak without restraint. 

He thinks of another solution.

Aemond peers down at his niece and lets High Valyrian fall freely from his lips.

“You have been avoiding me.” 

Jaenara does not remove her eyes from the path in front of her.

“You have not sought me out.” She retorts, her tone cool and collected. Aemond lights up. He had not expected his niece to be fluent in their mother tongue, and hearing her voice enunciate the ancient words caused something unknown inside of him to stir. 

“I am now,” he replies evenly, “ And I have to say, I had not expected you to be so fluent in Valyrian. Not even my brother speaks it so well. That idiot can barely piece together a single sentence.” 

Jaenara laughs, “I am a Targaryen. Every Targaryen should speak their language. Understand their history.”

Aemond nods, “Something we can agree on, niece. Though I have to say, you speak it better than I thought a-”

“Then a bastard would?” Her words are laced with a bittersweet acknowledgment that catches Aemond off guard. His niece had never spoken the truth of her parentage in front of him - or anyone for that matter. In truth, Aemond found him unsettled from her acquiescence. Though he understood the only reason she dared to acknowledge the truth now, is because no one around them had a clue what she was saying. 

“You’re not laughing, uncle. Very unlike you - you who never passes up an opportunity to remind me of my blood.” Jaenara still seemed unfazed, her attention drifting to a cluster of blue irises at their feet. She bends gracefully to touch the silky petals, and Aemond finds himself captivated by the way her dark hair spills like a cascade of black silk over the blossoms. He clears his throat.

“You are to be my…ābrazȳrys (wife). I no longer wish to humiliate you over things out of your control, such as your parentage.” Aemond’s voice is steady and controlled, betraying his inner turmoil over making such remarks.

Jaenara lets out a laugh, though it sounds hollow. Much unlike the laughter she had shared with his sister. Her lady-in-waiting shifts uncomfortably behind them. “Actions speak louder than words, Aemond.” The princess rises from her spot amongst the flowers, turning to face her betrothed.

Aemond is filled with a stubborn determination at hearing her challenge, and takes a few steps towards her - until he can feel his niece’s breath fan over him. He stares down at her, and finds that he enjoys how she does not shrink under his gaze.

“Pār nyke jāhor gaomagon.” - Then I will act.

Jaenara laughs again, but it is quickly put to an end.

“I do not know why you laugh, Jaenara. I am being sincere.” His gaze is hard. 

She considers his words for a moment, and turns back to the garden path. The princess returns to the common tongue. 

"Come along, it is growing darker," Jaenara says, her voice carrying a hint of finality as she resumes their journey along the garden path. Aemond follows silently, his mind still processing the weight of their conversation. The sun dips lower, casting long shadows across the estate grounds, while a cool evening breeze stirs the leaves of ancient trees. When the couple finally reach the stone archways and paths of the Red Keep, Aemond speaks up once more. 

“You will have breakfast with me. Tomorrow” It is not a question, though his tone remains soft..

“I will?” Jaenara asks, an eyebrow raised in defiance.

“This is me taking action.” He offers her a wry smile.

Jaenara exhales and looks to her handmaiden, who skillfully avoids her gaze. “Fine. I will see you in the morning” She stomps off to her chambers, lady-in-waiting trailing behind. The princess does not get to see the small, honest smile that settles on Aemond’s lips. 

— — —

Early the next morning, Jaenara awakes to a polite knock on her chamber door. Alora, her lady-in-waiting, entered cautiously, offering a sheepish greeting. "Good morning, Your Grace."

The princess rubbed her eyes wearily and yawned. "Good morning, Alora. And please, call me Jaenara when it is just us. No need for formality in the privacy of these chambers." she replied with a tired attempt at a smile.

"Oh! Yes, my lady—I mean, Jaenara," Alora stumbled over her words, feeling conflicted over addressing a princess so casually. "Um... Aemond - the prince - sent me to assist you with dressing. He wishes to have breakfast with you?" She sounds uncertain.

Jaenara sighed lightly and pushed herself to her feet. "Very well. Let's not keep him waiting," she said, giving Alora a reassuring glance.

Alora deftly combs out Jaenara's long, ebony hair, swiftly braiding half of it and letting the rest fall down her back. As the princess gradually awakened, she engaged in light conversation with the younger girl, easing her nerves. 

With gentle assistance, Alora helped Jaenara into a splendid dress—its upper half a deep shade of black, its lower half a rich crimson. The sleeves were wrought with golden embroidery. Once satisfied with her handiwork, Alora guided Jaenara to the dining room, where Aemond awaited their arrival.

“Thank you, Alora. I think that will be all for now.” The princess smiles at her lady, dismissing her. Jaenara hesitantly pulls out a chair across from Aemond.

“Good morning.” She offers. An honest attempt at niceties. 

Aemond hums, sounding pleased. “Good morning.”

It remains quiet for a while, as the two begin to serve themselves and take a few bites of the breakfast that has been prepared. The prince steals glances at his niece, observing how her dark curls frame her face. Watching her spoon her food gracefully. Noting how her dress clings to her.

At last, Aemond ventured to break the quiet. “That dress suits you well.”

The princess pauses her cutting of a sausage. Jaenara had not expected to hear that kind of comment so early in the morning. And no less from Aemond of all people. She narrows her eyes at him.

“What?” She asks, as if offended.

Aemond pauses, mid-bite. “I only meant it as a compliment. The Targaryen colors agree with you.” 

Jaenara continues with her meal, deciding that pretending as though she had not heard her uncle was the best course of action.

Why did he say that? Does he mean to mock me?

The prince breaks the silence once more, wanting to change the subject. "I hear your mother's name day preparations have been finalized."

Jaenara swallows a mouthful of food and clears her throat. “Um…yes. I believe so. Everything should be in place by now. The ceremony will be in…five days? I believe.”

"My mother seems unusually eager for the occasion," Aemond remarked. "She and Rhaenyra have been quite chatty lately."

“You’ve noticed too?”

“It is hard not to.” Aemond admitted.

Jaenara shrugs, “True enough. Well, they seem happier anyway.”

Aemond only hums in agreement. “My mother, although…she seems to be even more excited about the wedding than the coronation ceremony.”

Jaenara sputtered on the ale served alongside their meal.

A smug grin spread across the prince's face.

“Oh? Is that so?” She asks as nonchalantly as she can. 

“Oh yes,” Aemond sounds amused, “I hear her and Rhaenyra have taken to planning a few things.”

"What!?" Now Jaenara could not hide her surprise. Her outburst drew the attention of nearby servants, and Aemond grinned at her fluttering.

“Um - I only meant. I had not known they were already planning the ceremony.” She finished, dabbing a napkin to the corners of her mouth.

“Well someone has to. We certainly have not spoken about it.” Aemond remarks.

Jaenara almost feels guilty. She searches Aemond’s eyes for any indication of regret or sadness over their lack of time together. 

“Well then…what would you like to discuss about it?” The princess makes an attempt to turn to the matter.

Aemond considers the question. “What kind of cake would you like?”

Jaenara lets out a true laugh at that, catching Aemond off guard.

“If I must tell you,” She says while catching her breath, “I am fond of lemon pastries.”

Aemond makes a noise of agreement. He recalls that her mother favors the sweets as well. “Then we shall have them.”

Jaenara looks up from her meal and the couple lock eyes. She stares intently into his, trying to decipher his unreadable expression. 

What are you doing, uncle? She is left to wonder. Jaenara feels a crack begin to form in the walls she had put up to keep Aemond out. But the fracture is filled as quickly as it appears when she considers that Aemond is simply playing his part. Putting up a charade. The princess looks at the man before her, and can only seem to remember the cruelties that he has dealt. Her heart hardens.

"Why do you care?" she questioned, her tone accusatory. Despite their heartfelt conversation in the garden the day before, Jaenara only continued in her struggle to believe in her uncle's sincerity.

“Because I want to care.” Aemond is taken aback, though he makes an effort to sound earnest.

The princess scoffs and takes a swig of ale. She rises to her feet.

“I am full.” she declares, signaling an end to the meal and perhaps to their conversation. Jaenara stands and walks the length of the table, drawing near to the door but coming close to Aemond.

That strikes a chord within the prince, “You are about as stubborn as a damn mule,” he mutters under his breath.

The retort is not lost upon the princess’ ears. Jaenara spun around abruptly, facing her uncle where he was currently still seated. "Excuse me?" she exclaimed incredulously.

"Damn it," Aemond whispered to himself, closing his eyes briefly. 

“And here I thought you were being truthful yesterday when you said you no longer meant to belittle me.” She bites.

Some unseen force compelled Aemond onward. He reached out and gently but firmly grasped his niece's wrist.

"I only meant..." He struggled to find the right words. "Gods, you're infuriating."

Jaenara felt a stirring within her at his touch, but she pushed the sensation aside, focusing instead on his words. "I’m infuriating?" 

Now, Aemond raises his voice. “Yes! Infuriating. I am making a sincere effort to get to know you, and I am met with nothing but resistance. There is nothing we can do to change the marriage we will soon find ourselves in,” He rises from his chair, hand still gripped around Jaenara, “but I am making a sincere attempt to make it more bearable. For you.”

A part of Aemond understood that his words were primarily to uphold a facade, to maintain the illusion of feigned interest in his niece. Yet another part of him recognized sincerity in his sentiments. He couldn't help but feel pity for Jaenara. This thought had crossed his mind repeatedly—in the quiet of his chambers, in the stillness of the night, and even yesterday as he watched her depart from the estate gardens. She had undoubtedly drawn the short straw amidst their betrothal.

Jaenara Velaryon was being forced to marry Aemond, a scarred and flawed second son by his own reckoning. While Aemond had initially perceived the proposal of marriage to his own bastard niece as an insult, he couldn't deny the faint attraction he harbored towards her— a sentiment he was certain she did not reciprocate. 

The princess regarded her uncle with a peculiar mix of curiosity and contemplation, allowing his words to sink in. Jaenara's relationship with her uncle had always been incredibly strained — tense. Yet, as she observed the furrow in his brow and the genuine anguish in his eyes, she sensed a truth in his earnest plea. She reflected on her initial hopes—that they might spend their lives avoiding each other, barely exchanging words. Yet, standing before him now, she reconsidered. If Aemond—of all people—could muster some semblance of kindness, however feigned, Jaenara resolved she could reciprocate. Even if it was nothing but a lie. 

For in the convoluted dance of courtly alliances and familial expectations, sometimes even the semblance of civility could hold more weight than honesty in securing fragile peace.

With hesitant resolve, she reached out, gently clasping his hand in hers. Aemond feels goosebumps form on his skin from the additional contact. 

"Aemond," she began quietly, meeting his gaze squarely. He makes an effort to memorize how his name sounds on her lips.

Gods be damned, he thought. 

"I apologize. I hadn't fully appreciated your efforts. You are right. For this marriage to have any chance of contentment and peace, we must find common ground. We must make an effort to get to know each other."

The princess finished her apology, her words hanging in the air between them. All Aemond could manage in response was a silent nod, fearing that his mouth would betray him if he were to open it.

Jaenara withdrew her hand from his with a slight hesitation. "Well…I should be going. I intend to meet with my mother to discuss our impending wedding. There is much to plan," she added, her voice faltering slightly as she hurried out of the room.

Aemond stood there, taking a deep breath to calm his racing heart. He glanced down at the hand that had briefly held his niece's, flexing his fingers thoughtfully, a mixture of uncertainty and determination swirling within him.

A/N: As you may have noticed, this chapter is structured a little differently! I decided to make these changes for narrative purposes/so everything flows better. Because of this, I will be revising the previous two chapters, so the next chapter may take a little longer to come out (I also have a job interview coming up, so I will be doing a lot more than just brainstorming and writing now T-T) Anyways! As always, thank you for reading :)

Tags: @toodlesxcuddles

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

He'll Follow me Down Every Street, No Matter my Crime

PAIRING: John 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: You had an affinity for shiny objects. This time, a sting of pearls locked away in a mansion calls your name through the crowd of a party - only trouble? You have a hunch the man you help at the front door isn't all who he says he is.

WORDCOUNT: 11.9k

WARNINGS: Guns, blood, death, gore, heists, theft, suggestive mentions, mentions of sex, heavy flirting because reader's a tease, propositions of sex, drugs, the reader is loosely based on Cat Woman from DC, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You wouldn’t call yourself a good person.

Life had given you the short end of the stick early on, taking what little you had in your grubby hands and shoving it into the ground, making you watch as they stomped on it until all that remained was a remnant of hope. Like a shard of glass, you held it even as it cut your palms open. But there was only so much that you could hold until you longed for more of it—until you wanted to take the broken bits and try and form a mosaic out of them. 

It started as petty crime—the theft. 

You got good at it. Very good.

You remember the first time you tried to pick a man’s pockets; aged fifteen with a switchblade in your pocket that you had never used before, bought off a man in exchange for cigarettes. When you’d been caught, the man—looking quite like Albert Einstein, mind you—had snapped your wrist so far back you heard it snap in two places. It still aches on cold days. 

In that moment, a firm resolve had taken over you. A rabid understanding.

No one was ever going to do anything for you, and if you can’t rely on your skills to get you through, then you only had yourself to blame when it all went bad. 

As you said, it started with petty crime. Then it got a bit more serious. 

You dabbled with blackmail and multi-level schemes that involved all sorts of money and luxurious items. Extortion.

You considered yourself quite the salesperson, admittingly.

But personality-wise: arrogant, prideful, and vain. The list went on and with no near end in sight. It was life, was it not? You were finally able to live it lavishly even from the time you’d just gone past the border of the drinking age.

But the best part about it was that you were entirely alone. Alone in every sense—not even a cat or dog to your name, much less a person to care for or about. It was perfect. 

Years of this went on, and you mean years. This was a job to you, and as you slipped into the hugging form of a deadly red dress, and rubbed your lips with the exact same shade—#4A0000 Oxblood—it was enough to make your pulse thump with excitement. The thrill of this made you want to never let it go; adrenaline junkie down to the jitters in your fingers when you first got the invitation. 

‘On behalf of Victor Lawson, you are formally invited to his mid-autumn get-together at his estate. Enjoy such finery as a five-course dinner, open access to his ballroom and gardens, and the pleasure of the host himself who’s eager to have you over. This invitation is viable to bring a plus one. We look forward to having you. ’

It was perfect. Perfect.

Chuckling under your breath, you think of the items that Victor had in that mansion of his—the jewelry and the raw cut gems. Your particular interest was a set of pearls that his mistress wore, well, wife now. Affairs are such messy things.

Slipping into black heels and looking into the full-length mirror, you smirk slowly at yourself, glancing up and down. You were the picture of elegant perfection—like a woman born and bred into money. Your penthouse was layered with the remnants of your spoils, stories on every counter or vanity; engraved into the pieces of fine metal and stone you wear on your wrists and neck. Bleeding wealth. Everything you have you had lied for, but did lies not take more practice than truths? 

You consider yourself an artist. 

“Perfect,” you clip the heavy earrings to your lobes, seeing the skin droop at the weight of rubies. Brushing down your dress, you hum, clicking your tongue at the thought of how pearls would better compliment the outfit. “No,” you grumble, frowning in disgust. “Nearly perfect.” 

Walking out of the fabric curtain you have to block off your room, your heels click against the marble floors, creating a large echo over the vaulted ceiling; the place had a coldness to it, really. A separation. 

Not that you cared.

Grasping the modest wool dress coat from the coat rack, you slip it on with a huff and fix the collar; hand moving into the pockets to take out your silk gloves and move your fingers into them. Last was the purse—a small black leather handbag that you let hang off of its strap on your right shoulder like another limb. The invitation was kept safe inside of the wool.

One last breath to try and keep your cool and stop the constant smirk that tries to force its way onto your face, and you call the elevator to your floor before stepping into it. 

“The pearls are in the office,” you say, inserting your key and pressing the button for the lobby. “His wife leaves them in the glass display case if that maid’s words are anything to go off of. And tonight,” you hum, finger grasping your phone from your purse and pressing into the front to unlock it. A social media profile pops up and you stare, eyes half narrowed in lustful pleasure. “She’ll be wearing her sapphires.”  

Victor’s wife is pictured in blues and silvers, and you had to admit, it wasn’t the correct color scheme for a mid-autumn ball. But you supposed she wanted to be the center of attention anyway, so her plan if that was the case would pan out perfectly. No one wears a blue that shade this late into the season. 

You drop your phone into your coat pocket and shrug, blinking slowly as the small waft of the elevator music is interrupted by the ding of the doors; that sudden lightness to your head shows that it has come to a stop. Stepping through the opening, you wave to the doorman and plaster a sickly sweet smile on your lips. 

“I’ll be back soon,” you explain. “Don’t miss me too much, then.”

He grins like an idiot. “Yes, Ma’am! Here,” the man scrambles, “I’ll get the door for you.”

“Oh, lovely, thank you, Dear.” Outside is a nice chilled breeze, leaves moving over the street only a small distance of concrete away—your driver is waiting patiently outside of it, the tinted windows up and the engine already running. 

Your body moves to it. 

“Ma’am,” he nods.

“Hello there, Buck,” you blink slowly at him, politely reaching out an arm and squeezing. “So good to see you again—and the Misses?”

“At home resting, thanks to you.” You hum, dismissing the comment as the man pulls at the car handle and moves to the side.

“It was the least I could do. Such a horrible feeling,” your lips mutter, “getting sick. If I only have to throw some of my money to get people to listen to their patients, it’s money well thrown. Do tell her I hope she feels better soon.”

“Of course, Ma’am.”

“Wonderful.” Sitting down on the seat, you carefully tend to your dress so it won’t wrinkle, picking at loose bits of wool from your jacket and gazing at your reflection in the glass. Such a vain little creature you’d grown into. Your eyes trail down your nose, lips, down the swell of your neck, and the bones of your face; running a finger over your cheek and trying to stop itching at the makeup you already long to take off.  

But beauty takes time. 

You’d look better with those pearls. 

Buck gets into the car and locks the doors, and soon the entire vehicle is speeding off into the darkening sky. Your skin tingles with anticipation. 

You enjoyed making those who’d broken the backs of others see a bit of your power when they realized you’d won, but the instances when you could go in and leave without a trace made you feel on top of the world. A woman with such a desirable position; an unforgettable ease of mastering a conversation. 

It was addictive to watch them fumble around like idiots. Go crying to authorities about things they could easily buy again and again. It makes you want to never stop talking. Your fingers twitch at it—your heart pounds. 

A sly fox’s smile comes to your lips, and you hum under your breath as the car brings you into the lion's den.

—

“Well,” Johnny grumbles, voice gruff. “I don’t understand why it needs to be me. Gaz looks better in a suit and everyone knows it.”

“Damn right I do,” the man in question replies, tossing a belt the Scot’s way, to which Johnny catches with no problem, slipping it into the loops of his dress pants with a heavy hand. “Don’t forget it.” 

MacTavish's throat echoes with an unimpressed grunt, side-eyeing Kyle as he smirks. Grabbing the fly of his pants, the man runs it up, moving his feet to make sure he’s not stepping on any of the fabric. 

“Garrick needs to be nearby in case of trouble. He’s your oversight.” Captain Price leans against the far table of the hotel room, glancing at his watch. “Five minutes, Sergeant.” 

“Five bloody minutes,” Johnny groans, blinking as he tightens his belt. “Couldn’t at least have bought a bigger dress shirt? Suffocating over here, Sir.”

Ghost glances at him from where he stares out the window, arms crossed and fingers tapping his bicep. “You can blame Laswell for that.”

“Just make sure you don’t rip it in the middle of the party,” Gaz pats his shoulder, and Johnny glares, sighing out aggressively at the pull of fabric. The fellow Sergeant is smug and amused. “Can’t go in and bring you another.”

“Ah,” the Scot grunts. “Don’t worry, it’s just a little public embarrassment. Nothing I haven’t gone through before.” 

“Story for us?” Simon utters, raising a brow.

“Not one I’m willing to tell.

John interrupts the banter session easily with a sharp command. “Alright, you can trade stories all you want later, we’re short on time and the driver’ll be here any minute. Soap,” Johnny blinks over, buttoning up his waistcoat and pushing the blue tie under it. Price stares, raising a brow, but his lips pause for a minute. “...Why are you wearing a bloody blue tie, Son?”

“What?” Johnny’s face pulls in, stubble shifting the scar on his chin. The sides of his eyes crinkle in. “Why’s that matter?”

John’s eyelids close for a moment before he takes a long breath and looks to the side, shaking his head. “No time,” he utters before coming back to it. “Go through it again, Sergeant. Slowly.”

“Target is Victor Lawson’s computer—located in his office at the back of the mansion. Three rights and a left is the fastest way there, barring breaking down the walls.”

“Good,” John grunts, seeing Johnny’s smirk at his joke. The Scot goes and grabs his suit jacket. “And?”

“One gun and a knife, hidden in the back garden with a silencer near the fountain,” the man licks his lips. Gaz passes over an earpiece which he hooks into his shell, clear and nearly invisible against his skin. “M9 with only one magazine. Fifteen rounds.” 

“You don’t have to use it,” Simon weighs in. “In situations like these, opt for a knife. Less mess to clean up if you do it right.”

“Don’t want to think about the types of parties you go to, Lt,” Soap sends a sly smile the Lieutenant's way. “Think I’d shit my pants if I saw you at one. Mask or no.”

“I like parties,” Ghost says blandly back, blinking at him slowly. “They don’t skimp out on the appetizers.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Johnny mutters, moving back and hurriedly flattening out his suit. “Right! Time to get this over with, boys. I’m goin’ in—don’t miss me too much while I’m away.”

Price’s hand goes to rest on his shoulder, moving him out of the door as Kyle calls his good luck to him. The Captain moves a hand in emphasis on the words he ends up speaking. 

“In the inside pocket, you have a USB,” he says, and Johnny’s blue eyes stare at him, serious with his lips flat. “We don’t need the entire system—just plug it into the box and let it do the work.”  

“Rog.” Soap asks, “Anything I need to expect from this Lawson fellow?” 

John grunts. “Negative. Man’s a drunk who likes to flaunt wealth, he’s in the background of his practice; has others do the dirty work for him. But we need his intel.”

“Then I’ll get it,” the Scot assures firmly, steel determination in his gut. “M’not so easily distracted, Price. It’ll be like takin’ a walk through the park.” 

—

“I’ll be back soon, Ma’am,” Buck comments as he opens the door for you, sticking a hand out to assist you out to the red-carpeted grounds. “Call if you need to.”

“Thank you, Buck, I will,” you chuckle, nodding. 

Walking past you run your hands over your jewelry, slipping your fingers up the inside of your wrist until you grasp the sleeve of your coat and pull it down more. It was growing colder out, and it was best to get inside the party as soon as possible. Already the air was thick with the noise of music and small talk, properly illuminated by lights that spilled out like water from a river. 

Around you, the front entrance was guarded by the tall sentinels of rose bushes; decorations in the form of strung lights and pumpkins placed and carved to immaculate detail. The mansion itself was the biggest on the tree-strangled street, and cars were coming and going quickly; lights moving through the dark trunks. 

Looking and walking slowly down the red carpet to the front entrance, your shoulder is lightly grasped. 

“Ma’am?” You startle, head whipping around to the sound of a deep Scottish accent. 

Your eyes lock with cobalt blues, a large man behind your form holding a piece of paper in his hand. You look at it quickly, the calloused and firm fingers extending the item.  

He was in a black suit, and while you fight to raise your brow at the deep shade of blue for a tie, you find that the outfit suited his stocky build quite well. You could see the size of his biceps easily, and in the light, your face nearly went slack at them. 

Not even mentioning the thighs.

“Apologies,” the stranger breathes, backing up a step and releasing you with a soft smile on his lips. “Saw this fall out of your pocket. I’d hate for you to lose it so close to the door.”

Staying silent for a moment, you quickly fall back on your natural charm. 

“My pocket?” Your hand extends, brushing against the man’s own before lightly taking up the familiar shade of the invitation. You flip it over in your hands, eyebrows raising in slight shock. Your other hand pats down your coat pocket, finding no firmness besides the body of your phone. 

“I didn’t even notice,” you chuckle lightly, focusing on the man ahead of you. A small flutter of upset moves in your veins. “Thank you very much, Sir. That would have been embarrassing.”

“Ah,” he shrugs his wide shoulders. “Don’t worry about it. And Johnny’s just fine, Dearie.”

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Johnny,” you move up and lean forward, lips shifting to leave a delicate kiss on the side of his cheek. Hearing a slight hitch in his breath, you hide your smirk, leaning back fully to stare into Johnny’s slightly widened eyes and the reddish sheen to his cheeks. He clears his throat, mohawked hair shifting in the breeze as he turns his head to the side for a moment. “You’re a lifesaver.”

You tilt your head. 

“So, here for Victor’s party then?” 

“Ah,” the man recovers quickly, nodding as you turn and begin a slow pace. The both of you stay near each other as the stairs to the front door get closer. “Yes, Ma’am. Have you…been to one before?”

You humph, shaking your head. “No way, I only ever go to these things once. Waste of time, in my opinion.” Your eyes send Johnny a glance to find him blinking at you in confusion. “What? You thought I would be all snobby about it? Most of the people here can’t even take back a shot correctly.” 

A shocked chuckle exits the Scot’s lips, eyebrows raising on his face. A far more casual smile now takes form on his part. 

“What are you even here for then,” he asks cheekily. “If you don’t mind me asking?”

You smirk. “The spoils of war, of course.” 

“You’re strange, you are,” Johnny utters, but finds he can’t wipe the grin on his face for the life of him. In his ear, Price’s voice grinds through like iron. 

“Soap, stay on schedule.”

He grunts, rolling his shoulders. Johnny’s thumbs go to rest in his belt, looping the brown leather.

“War’s a big word, Bonnie,” his blues glint.

“Would you prefer quarrel,” you dart back, and your spirits seem to enjoy this conversation some. The man was…new, so to speak. There was something different about him that you couldn’t place; he felt more layered than the normal people at these events usually came. Like you could speak to him for hours and only crack the surface. But, even by just his eyes, you could tell that he was intelligent. Very much so. 

“That might be more your speed,” you end with a tilt of your head, jewelry lightly clinking against one another. 

“I think you’d be surprised.” Your chuckle is smooth and easy to listen to. 

“Perhaps.”

Johnny hums, smirking as he pulls ahead a tiny bit. “And what do I call you, exactly?”

“My name?” You find a hand in front of you when you make it to the stairs, and you mildly get thrown off by it. Blinking quickly for a moment, you recover and delicately place your hand into the Scot’s, smiling as he helps you walk up. 

His flesh is warm, and you can feel it even through your gloves as it bleeds into you. A warmth that pushes back the chill of autumn, sending winter scampering like a dog with a tail between its legs. You ignore how your breath hitches at that action.

“You can just call me Cerise.” Is what you say as the doorman draws near and as Johnny stares with an intrigued furrow on his brow. Before the Scot can speak, you’ve already walked away, heels clicking and your purse swinging; hand whispering out of his like it was never there. 

Blue eyes watch, but they quickly snap out of whatever trance was there beforehand. 

There were things to accomplish—adrenaline was already taking hold in Soap’s bloodstream, making his focus hone in. While your conversation had been…interesting, and you were quite the beautiful woman, of course, he had a job to do. 

But first, he had to get through the door.

As you were speaking with the doorman, easily handing over your invitation, the man slips his hand into his pants pocket to get it ready; voices from other guests all around.

But his hand touches nothing. 

Immediately, Johnny feels his stomach drop.

“Where’s the fuckin’ invitation,” he hisses under his breath down the line, trying to keep his voice low. Soap’s eyes darted about on the ground, thinking that maybe he’d done the same as you and just dropped it. But no, nothing.

John’s hurried voice moves through the earpiece.

“Sergeant, don’t tell me you lost the fucking invitation.”

“It was in my pants!” He growls. “Bastard things that are making my thighs go numb.”

You’re none the wiser to the conversation in the man’s ear, only pausing when you hear the implication of something not going right. As the doorman takes your invitation and looks it over, you turn your head to the side and watch for a moment in confusion as Johnny pats his thighs and backside, hands over the pockets and his body turning in a circle.

“Johnny?” You call, walking towards him. The man freezes, eyes snapping back to you. You grab onto the tips of your gloves and begin taking them off, stuffing them into your coat. “Are you alright over there?”

His jaw is clenched, eyes simmering with annoyance. “Just fine, Hen, no need to ask,” your eyes narrow, slowly dropping to where the obvious lack of an invitation sits in his hands. “Just…uh, seems I’ve gone and lost something o’ mine.”

He goes back to whispering under his breath, throat bobbing with irritation that could rival even yours on a bad day. Even his cheeks gained a sheen of red to them, and not from the wind. 

You blink, sighing under your breath. 

You weren’t a good person, but you weren’t heartless either. The man had been good company, the least you could do was repay him. A good conversation is so hard to come by these days. 

“Oh,” you play off with a chuckle, turning back around and speaking loudly. The doorman looks up at you quickly. “I’m so sorry, I forgot to tell you about my boyfriend, Johnny.”

The air halts, and wide blue eyes snap to the back of your skull.

“It must have slipped my mind in all the excitement, you can understand how such a magnificent property just takes all of my attention.” You chuckle, pushing an embarrassed sheen to your eyes and body—hunching your shoulders in, gripping by the elbows, even bending your spine lightly forward to lean closer to the man. “It’s so beautiful here, I was so caught up in the decorations. He’ll be my plus one for the night.”

The doorman chuckles with you, glancing at the Scot who quickly clears his throat; taking this blessing for what it is and ascending the last steps in record time. 

A hand hovers over the small of your back, a bulky body slotting beside your own. Your nose twitches to the scent of hair gel and…you pause, swallowing down saliva. Was that the tang of gunpowder?

“It’s just fine, Miss,” you blink back to the present. The invitation is put to the side. “You’re both welcome inside. Please, enjoy your time in Mr. Lawson’s estate.”

“We will,” Johnny grunts, nodding. “You have a good night, Mate.” 

You smile politely, the two of you walking through the open doors. A pair of lips moves to your ear, the words said with low reverence.

“I owe you, Bonnie,” he pauses. “Big time. Nearly scuffed the entire thing.”

“We can’t have that,” you ease, voice like water. “Quickly, what’s your last name?”

You both walk side by side, yourself only stopping for a moment to shimmy out of your coat. Hands move to the back of the collar, helping. 

“Last name?” Johnny asks, confused at the instant question. “Why?”

“They’re going to introduce us when we walk in—I need to know so I can tell the announcer.”

The Scot stares, holding your coat as you take your phone out and put it into your purse. He passes off the item to a man near a side door, who asks your name and scurries off when he has it.

“MacTavish, full first name, John.” He grunts, admitting, “There’s a lot more to this than I expected.”

“It’s all for show, Mr. MacTavish,” your hand moves to his arm, lightly taking him along with you and restraining the want to squeeze the muscle under your fingernails. The man was as built as an Ox—what did he eat? 

“There’s always more to things like this,” you chuckle. 

A small silence falls, but it’s broken when Johnny’s curious nature betrays him. The way you had lied to the doorman…it had been so natural for you it had made him pause now that he had the time to think it over. Hell, he’d half-believed you himself.

Price had even been silent in his ear since then, only a shocked grunt moving across the line. As you shift a hand-held mirror out from your purse and bring it up, looking into it, he speaks up.

“You were good at that,” the Sergeant mutters, looking around at the paintings and decorations in the hallway, hearing more people entering from behind. The noise echoes from ahead as well, the party in full swing. “It was quick-thinking on your part, any reason as to why you’d help me?”

A smirk flicks over your lips as you snap your hand-held closed, moving it back into your purse. “You’re asking if I want to get into your pants?”

Johnny nearly chokes. “N-no! Not at all.”

Your head tilts, side-eyeing him, heels hitting the floor and carrying your snake-like stride. Not once do you blink at him, studying; taking him apart. Johnny’s enamored by the way you do it. 

He suddenly knew to be far more cautious around you than he had been previously. His fingers twitch at his sides, and he goes to push back his mohawk with a run of his palm over his hair. He licks his lips and turns his face forward with a heat writhing under the skin.

“It’s alright,” you explain. “I wouldn’t be opposed, but, unfortunately, tonight I have other things to fuck than you, Mr. MacTavish. Perhaps at a later date.” 

The man is at a total loss, jaw as slack as a piece of paper in the wind.

But what shocked response he could give you is lost as you move into a far more open room, you both at the top of an overhang—pillars and a large chandelier, shining bright. Marble with real vines wrapped around banisters; tables full of food in such quantity it seemed excessive. But the people. Hundreds of them, all dressed their very best at the bottom of these double stairs. 

Soap’s eyes went over all of them, studying faces in an instant and memorizing them for later. No Victor from what he could see…he just needed an excuse to slip away when everyone was occupied. He had to get to the garden first; get that knife and his gun that had been stashed. If it all came to worse, he couldn’t afford to get caught without one of them. 

Gaz can only do so much as overwatch from outside.

You move to a woman at the left, smiling as you move to whisper into her ear your title and Johnny’s.

“Miss Cerise and her plus one, John MacTavish.” 

The woman nods, and no later does she call into the crowd, moving her voice above the bob and flow of the conversation waves. Many of the men in the crowd choke on their drinks—eyes snapping up—at the mention of your moniker.

“The Miss Cerise and her plus one, John MacTavish.”

“Johnny,” you call, and the man blinks, seeing and immediately moving out his elbow so you can loop your arm through his. “I am curious about one thing,” you say as the scent of gunpowder returns. 

“Yeah?” Soap asks, scanning the faces that now pause their speeches and look at the pair of you. He grows uncomfortable at the attention, but you seem to soak it up—particularly the glares from a few faces that you seem to be acquainted with. “What’s that then?”

“You’re not here for the party, are you?”

Bloody fucking Christ, who is this woman?

“What makes you say that, Bonnie?” He forces out, his muscles winding up; jaw working itself in a tight clench. The Scot’s stubble writhes with the force of it. Has he been compromised that quickly? Not possible. Johnny’s mind starts running, and Price gets into his ear to call a firm order to move away from you immediately. 

But that would make your unblinking eyes worse, and Soap didn’t want that. The hair on his arms starts to rise, spine straightens like a stick. You felt it, feet going down the stairs without having to look at them, your head is stuck gazing at him. 

“No offense, of course,” your voice even results in his feet wanting to disobey him, to turn your way. The way you spoke was hypnotic. A siren. Some womanly beast from long lost history, coming to haunt him when he had a job to do on a limited schedule. 

You continue. “But you’re not right. You don’t fit into this crowd.”

“What?” Soap tries to push a flat joke. “Did my hair give it away?”

You study him, smirking. “No.” There’s no other explanation beyond that.

This was supposed to be simple.

Give him a gun and he’d be the most experienced shooter in this room; a jumble of cables? He’d have a homemade explosive in minutes. 

But why the hell would they put him in a suit?

“Listen, Cerise, Hen,” Johnny levels, “I’d love to stay and talk, really, but I need to fuck off and find some of my friends. Thank you very much for the save at the door, but there are some things I need to take care of.”

“And here I thought I’d get to keep my fake boyfriend,” you pout, leaning into his side. He watches you tensely. 

Your lips move in a laugh like a ringing bell. “But, yes, you’re right. I also have to take care of my entertainment for the night.” You move up to his cheek again, placing a kiss on his stubble as you both reach the bottom of the stairs. You whisper into his ear. “It was very nice meeting you, Johnny. Do tell me if you’ll ever take me up on the offer I gave you.”

Disappearing into the crowd, it’s like you were never there.

—

Johnny grunts as he tries to bend down, the fabric around his thighs and arms pulling tight enough to stop the blood in his veins. 

“If someone doesn’t get me properly fitted,” he growls down the line, “you can find a new demolitions expert, Price.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Sergeant.”

“It was short notice, Johnny,” a Manchester accent follows.

Blue eyes glared at the bag hidden beneath foliage, a hand snatching out and grabbing it quickly.

“Ghost,” Soap huffs. “Good of you to join us with our late-night heist.”

“Figured you could use the support.”

“Oh,” Johnny scowls, “always. ‘Specially when I have to get myself surgically removed from this piece of utter shite.”

“Now you’re just being dramatic.” With a shake of his head and a growing smirk, the Scot takes out the M9 and the combat knife. Moving to attach the silencer to the gun. Blue eyes scan the garden rapidly; on the lookout for any guests or guards walking near the fountain at his back. 

“Alright, I’ve got the gun.”

“Knife?” Ghost asks. 

“Affirmative, Lt.” 

“You’ll be smart to use it away from any prying eyes. Neck leaves too much of a spray—go for the gut and cover the mouth until they stop moving.”

There’s a moment of rustling fabric as Soap shifts the gun into the small of his back, the back of his suit enough to cover the grip but restricting the ability for a fast draw. Simon was right—the knife was the best option for him. 

“You are stone cold, Simon,” the Sergeant smirks, eyes gazing over grass and gravel as the knife finds a home up his right sleeve, resting against his forearm. “Price, has Gaz checked in?”

“Affirmative,” the Captain comes back on as Johnny stands, re-hiding the bag into the bush. “Says he has eyes on from the neighboring mansion’s roof. He’ll lose you when you go inside, but if you need any guards terminated, lead them outside and he’ll take care of ‘em.”

Soap nods, head swiveling and brushing down his front. “Copy. I’ll keep it in mind.” 

But as he’s walking, the Sergeant pauses, dress shoes getting brushed by the grass. A bead of silence lingers on him like a needle into fabric, a nagging feeling like an itch at the base of his skull. 

“Price?”

“What is it?”

“I need you to look into someone else at the party, calls herself ‘Cerise’.” Johnny can practically hear the confusion over the line and he moves on to explain as he walks farther into the garden. “See if there are any files with that name. I have a bad feeling, and I can’t place it.”

“The woman?” Simon’s voice enters his ear.

“Aye, her. The things she said…they’re stickin’ with me.”

“Hate to tell you, Soap,” Price sounds slightly amused in his dim monotone way. “But the things she says stick to most men.”

He growls, face going heated as his chest tightens. “I’m not speaking ‘bout any of that.” Johnny’s head swivels up to the balcony of the ballroom, trying to pinpoint his location from the maps he’d memorized prior. “I’m talkin’ about how she—”

Speech halts in a fast instant of a choked-off sentence. 

A flash of red catches his eye. 

“Johnny?” Simon asks over the earpiece, confusion in his tone. But with a slack jaw, Johnny can only watch in awe and shock at the woman currently breaking into one of the locked balcony doors. And he knew they were locked. The informant had said they would be. 

It was you. 

Red dress and moonlight over your flesh, you look around the balcony before bending and opening up your purse, fiddling for a moment with the contents inside. 

“Johnny, sit-rep.”

Unblinking, Soap watches as you take something out, moving closer to the door and inserting it into the door lock. 

“She’s fucking picking the lock,” Johnny breathes, his breath making a cloud on the air. 

“Who, Sergeant?” Price asks.

“Cerise,” Soap huffs, his jaw closes slowly, blinking as a hand comes up to rub at the back of his head. Only a minute or so later, you move back from the door swiftly, stuffing your items back into your purse and standing. Hand going to the handle, you push into it…and it opens with no trouble at all. 

Walking through, Soap gapes as the door closes silently behind you.

“She got in,” he relays, and he hears Price order for Simon to contact Laswell—possible hostile inside of the mansion. “How do I go about this, then?”

“We need that intel—neutralize her if she interferes.”

Something swirls in Soap’s chest, but as he hurries to the stairs up to the balcony after you, gravel stuck into the grips of his shoes. With a grunt, he says, “Copy, Sir.”

Reaching the very same door you’d just gone into, the man slips inside without a whisper, clicking off his earpiece.

—

You trail a hand along the wall at your side, keeping to the barrier and resisting the temptation to fill your purse with expensive pewter statues and whatever other bits you can fit. But you can’t fight off the feeling for long, and before you take a fast right on the way to the office, your noiseless hand snatches at a small statue of a knight and stuffs it into your bag. A low chuckle breeds in your throat. 

As you pass mirrors, you gaze at your neck, trying to imagine the glint of pearl and the way they’ll feel over your flesh; sitting heavy with wealth and dripping perfection down to the golden clasp. 

“Three rights and a left,” you go off the words from the maid, pausing when you hear the sounds of staff or security. Heels muffled on the thin carpet, your body slinks along like a cat, red dress trailing with all its dangerous intentions. 

You’re only one last turn to the hallway of the office when you’re unceremoniously grabbed by the scruff of your neck. 

Eyes snapping wide, a sharp inhale is muffled on your lips as a hand settles over your mouth, ripped back along the carpet and shoved into the wall with a rattle of picture frames. 

Ignoring the sting of your spine and the fingers that find purchase around your flesh, you blink away the sheen of panic and lock eyes into familiar cobalt blues. 

“Johnny?” Your voice is muffled behind skin, and your hand snaps up to his wrist when pressure is set over your windpipe. Shock flies to every other emotion available, confusion taking precedence. 

His face is rabid with anger.

“Who the fuck are you?” The words are snarled on his accented tone—lower than the bottom of a canyon. 

Physical interactions, in this sense, were never your strong suit, of course. You specialized in getting out before anything like this ever happened, not when a hand was around your throat and starting to put pressure. In fact, now that you thought about it, the man ahead of you would have absolutely no trouble snapping your neck in a second. Despite all of your pride, a bead of fear moved up your back. 

Yet, you still glare with all the venom you can muster over the barrier of Johnny’s hand. The weight at your neck stays, but the one over your mouth moves to lean into the wall beside your head. 

“Get your hands off of me, you brute,” your words are tight, nails digging into his skin and making indents. 

The man can feel your pulse under his hand, the thump of your blood as he looms, glaring heavily. He wanted answers. 

“I asked you a question, Bonnie,” his jaw clenches, eyes unblinking. “I think it’s in your best interest to answer it truthfully, eh?” 

“And what about you then?” You force out, “I guess my hunch was correct, you’re not here for the party.”

“I have a job to do,” Soap snaps under his breath, eyes moving the hallway as your free hand delves into your purse slowly. “I have a feeling you’re lacking in that department, Cerise, whatever the hell that name bloody means.”

“It’s French,” you snarl, teeth bared, and feeling insulted. “It’s elegant.”

“It’s a load of bullshit. That’s not even your real name, you minx.” His hand tightens even more, and your eyes gain a sheen of panic as your throat closes—his hold was unbreakable just as is, a trained and dangerous thing. Trained? Who was he? What did he want with Victor’s estate? 

Was he a thief like you, or hired security? 

“Answer me!” His face moves forward, nose nearly brushing yours and breath puffing your face. “Who do you work for?”

“Work?” Your voice raises, confused and angry. “I fucking work for myself, asshat! Do you think I’d waste my time doing this for someone else? Those pearls belong with me.” 

His eyebrows pull in, face tight.

You lash out with the pewter statue in hand, aiming for his head. Halfway there, the man’s limb beside your skull flashes out and you find your wrist captured, shoved back into the wall, and outstretched beside you. 

Gasping at the pain that ricochets your bones, your hand drops the item in an instant. Your brows go tight with old wounds, the memory of your first attempt at pickpocketing sparking up along with the pinch of marrow. 

“Not very bright, Hen,” Johnny’s voice is graveled, glancing at the statue as it bounces along the floor. His lips twist, expression shifting as he takes in your prior confession one word at a time. The attack hadn’t even phased him. The scar at his chin roaves, as he huffs out as the hold on your neck loosens, “Now what did mean pearls—?”

Your knee reems itself upward and connects with his crotch.

Balking back, Johnny’s spine bends, curling in as a long and loud groan enters the hallway—a curse hurled out soon after. Not planning on lingering, you bolt off, jewelry jingling, and lungs heavy in your chest. 

“What the hell,” you gasp, taking that last left and staring at the large wooden door at the end of the lineup; fancy gold handle. Fingers shaking and neck aching, you hear the sharp call from behind you as your body gets to the barrier.

Yet, there’s no time to pick the lock. A curt bark moves along the walls.

“Cerise!” 

“Fuck,” you draw the word out, quivering hand moving through your purse to find your picks. 

Johnny rushes the corner, one hand still on his aching lower body and the other pointing down the hall. 

“Get over here,” he snaps. 

“Fuck you!” You snap, glaring. “Stop acting like there was anything down there for it to hurt!” 

“I am five seconds away,” the man hisses, “from dragging you out of here by your arm and throwing you to the fuckin’ security. You’re a damn thief.” He says it with utter surety, knowing as he puts all the pieces together. 

“I am a businesswoman,” you back up a step as he moves even closer, the bulk of his body intimidating now that you know what it could do to you. “And, apparently, you think it’s acceptable to toss one around like you’re trying to have sex with it,” your eyes flare, back going flat to the window behind you. Johnny looms once more, arms caging you in as they go beside your head and the fingers curl. Both of you bark at one another with, at present, no bite.

“I’m not opposed to fun, Mr. MacTavish,” your smirk is venomous. “But I prefer to do it when I’m not on the job.” 

“Stop talking,” he snaps, eyes darting to your lips as your gut spikes with adrenaline. His front is nearly flush with yours. “This isn’t worth it—you’re wasting my time. I need to get into that office”

“Then let me go,” your lips are near his, brushing with every word. Now your silver tongue has something to latch onto. He wants to get into that office just as much as you do. “We can help one another.”

“You?” Johnny scoffs, tilting his head as footsteps echo down one of the nearest halls. “Help me? Sorry, Dearie, but after that stunt of kickin’ my fucking balls in, you’ll have to wait for ‘em to re-drop before I put any sliver of trust into you.” 

“Tempting,” you huff, both of your teeth bared like dogs—not once do either of you blink away. “But you can’t get that door to move without me.”

Johnny raises a disbelieving brow, and you elaborate.

“If the pins aren’t all moved in under ten seconds, and the door opened, an alarm goes off,” the man stills above you, and you smile in pleasure. “All security in the area will come rushing down on you and your horribly styled hair,” he snarls, eyes flashing, but you continue, face triumphant. “And I hate to say it, Mr. MacTavish, really I do, but I doubt you can pick a lock better than me.” 

Johnny glares still, and this time, it’s far more sharp. Something moves behind his blues; consideration or exasperation, you don’t know. Hell, you still don’t know what he’s going to do when he gets into the office. But this is an alliance between wild animals.

The man is about to open his mouth, jaw already loosening, when a loud, questioning, voice moves from the end of the hall. 

Both of you freeze, pupils going tiny from where they stare into one another's. Even the blood in your veins slows to a near stop; shock so potent it renders you speechless. Someone was coming down the hallway.

“Is anybody down there?” A voice calls, echoing off the ceiling. There wasn’t anywhere to hide. 

Johnny moves back immediately, a hand going to the back of his suit to try and grasp at something as you hurriedly blurt out, “Kiss me!” 

The man flinches, anxious eyes narrowed. He blinks rapidly. “What?”

“You heard me,” you snap. Footsteps get closer and the Scot looks at you like you’ve gone mad. 

“I am not fuckin’ kissing you, Bonnie,” he says bluntly, a chuckle on his lips. “No way on God’s green earth.”

“Do you want to get caught or do you want to play it off as a mistake?” Your hand moves forward and grabs at his tie, yanking him back to you. He barely budges, raising an unimpressed brow. “I swear to God, MacTavish, do not ruin this for me.”

The man glares, snapping, “I’m not the one that decided to kick a man in the dic—”

“Hurry up and kiss me!” No time.

Someone’s shadow cusps the visible part of the hallway, and you stare with a pleading expression, Johnny glances over his shoulder before he moves his hand away from the M9. With a deep grunt of disapproval, he leans forward swiftly and slams his lips to yours.

Gasping at the intensity of it, your face is smushed as the Scot’s hand comes up, grasping under your jaw and keeping you attached to him, the other stuck at your hip where it creases the fabric. 

For a moment you even forget why he did it, and your body melts slightly as he huffs through his nose—your fingers finding his waist. He shivers as they dig in, and he pushes you into the wall, making the dichotomy of warm flesh and a chilled window leave your eyes nearly rolling to the back of your head. 

When your tongue brushes his lips, soft smacking meeting your ears, he hums, leaning into you harder. Neither of you fight it when your lips meet again and again, this time making your hand go to the back of his head, greedy mouth opening when he growls into your flesh. It’s nearly feral with clacking teeth and a massacre of senses. His fingers knead at your jaw slowly.

“E-excuse me,” Johnny rips himself from you, whipping around with a red face. Keeping you in front of him, his pounding heart makes his eyes blur for a moment, attempting to focus. You peek over his shoulder, face burning like a million suns, but a smirk forcing itself forward.

The man behind the mysterious Scot is older, and not part of Victor’s security at all. Just a partygoer who had gotten lost along his way. How he even got back here through the main way without being spotted was something of an achievement, you supposed.  

He stutters into the heated air. “Sorry to…erm, interrupt, but I don’t suppose you two know the way to Mr. Lawson’s garden?” 

The both of you are brainless for a second, Johnny’s hand still on your hip. 

“Two lefts and a right,” you utter on swollen lips, eyes smug. “Door’s already open.”

He hurries off, without a glance behind him, and silence falls again. 

You blink at the man now suddenly unable to meet your gaze, backing off of you like you’re made of red fire. Your head tiles even as molten heat rages in your bloodstream, pounding in the base of your throat. 

“My, my, Johnny,” you draw out, leaning closer as he sends sharp glances. “I’m impressed, who knew you had that in you?”

“Stop it,” he ends the subject, voice fast and firm.

“And here I thought you’d be a bad kisser. Very attentive to a woman’s needs.” You smirk, slinking past him and muttering in his ear, “Gold star for you, Mr. MacTavish.”

“Get the door open before I change my mind!” He snaps, but you aren’t put off by the darkness of his eyes.

You raise your hands, tossing a look over your shoulder.

“How did I know you’d be so pushy?” The man’s jaw moves as it clenches, nose twitching. He runs a hand over the back of his neck and glares.

You kneel, opening your purse and snickering as you grasp the picks and twirl them between your fingers. They were metal—long and bent to be inserted into the lock and manipulated until you found the correct sequence of pins inside of the mechanism. Inserting the first pick, you take and turn the knob slightly to the left, keeping it like that as you hurriedly insert the second.

“Ten seconds,” Johnny utters, watching closely as his anger simmers down to annoyance with you. Yet, he can’t deny that he liked that kiss, either. “Bastard has a lot to hide.”

You hum under your breath, face close to the door and ear twitching with each click. “Not for long.”

White pearls glimmer in your mind. 

Feeling around, the pressure from one pin to another is easily definable to you—years of practice moving from brain to brawn flooding out. With every bit of loose metal identified, the handle is moved by the first pin to keep them from slipping back down. 

“Five seconds,” the man behind you forces out, looking back from you to the hallway, anxious about getting caught. 

“Do shut up,” you sigh harshly, head tilting. “Stop breathing down my neck and make yourself useful.”

“Doing what,” he grunts, blues getting stuck at the back of your scalp.

“Hand near the door,” your voice is easily forced to sound hurried. “You need to push it open, shoulder and all.”

“When?” He barks, already rushing to hover his large limb over your head. You finally get the small snap of all of the pins in place, a click of achievement. 

Your heart skips a beat, yet you say casually, “Now.” 

He nearly barrels it down, and your eyes widen as he moves through with the force of a bull, your left-behind form kneeling as the man’s shadow dashes. You blink a few times, brows pulling in with distaste.

While you should have been happy, all you do is stare with a raised brow at Johnny as he stops the inside handle from making a dent in the wall, head on a swivel.

“I said to push it open, MacTavish,” you grunt, standing. “Not bring it down, you idiot.”

He turns as you fix your clothes, taking out your compact mirror once more and running your hands along your neck; slinking into the office. Johnny huffs, rolling his eyes. 

“Forgive me, Cerise, if I didn’t want the entire bloody party comin’ to me.”

You wondered if now was a good time to tell him you lied about the alarm but decided it was better to hold off until you had your prize. The less he knew, the better.

“Yes, yes,” your voice is low, “are you going to tell me what you want with this place or am I going to be left in a well of intrigue?”

“You’re not gettin’ a peep out of me, Dearie,” he levels looking around slowly—always keeping an eye on you. Johnny doesn’t trust you, but, hell, you don’t trust him.

Shrouded in mystery. 

You shut the door behind you, gazing with glee at the expensive decor and knick-knacks. Was that a gold statue of a deer, you spied? Oh, that would fit just perfectly on your foyer’s side table. Pity you can’t just carry it out of here. 

“Such a tease,” you hum, sauntering like a fox over the hardwood. “But I have to admit, John, I don’t care a large deal. You’re not important to me.”

“Likewise, Thief,” he grumbles, eyeing the way your hips sway with every step. 

There’s the click of a safety going off, and before your fingers can card along the glass case set into the side wall, keeping velvet boxes in their clutch, you freeze. The door’s lock is reinstated. 

Eyes still, you stare at Johnny’s reflection in the glass, heart slightly pounding faster. His face is staring, lips pulling into a smirk. 

“As much as I’m just loving our little session, Ma’am, I just need you to understand something, yeah?” 

You don’t speak, don’t blink. You hate to admit it, but you feel a droplet of unease as it enters your bloodstream. Had he had a gun this entire time? Your eyes find it now, an M9 hanging from his right hand. It’s black body and the long silencer, an image of death if you’ve ever seen one. You’re not new to guns—no, no, not with how you’ve chosen to live your life; the world you’ve taken by the throat and throttled. But getting threatened with one never became easier.

“I think I understand just fine,” you say, smoother than you feel. Shifting your head, you look over your shoulder, raising a brow. “I have business to attend to, MacTavish. I suggest you do the same.”

“I can’t have witnesses,” you laugh, shrugging. Your hands go to the clasp of the glass cabinet, flicking it to the side with a slide of cold metal.

“And I can’t go without these pearls, do you expect me to care about what you can or can’t have? My needs outweigh yours.”

A low rumble. Johnny’s hips shift weight, and that gun still hasn’t risen from the side. He wasn’t going to shoot you, though you recognize that it may be a bit of a shock to him as well as to yourself. 

“I very much doubt that,” enters the air with an accented drawl.

“Doubt it, then,” your bluntness is cold and precise, attention already taken as you move to grasp one of the jewelry boxes, pushing the top open with a squeak of the tiny hinge. A silver sigil ring meets you, and your lips twitch at its shimmering material. “Just stay out of my way.” 

“Bloody fuckin’ bastard,” the Scot utters under his breath, shaking his head harshly before his feet take him to the desk set near the back. He allows you to stuff your purse to your fancy, even as his mind screams at him to just put a bullet in you and end this—there wasn’t time for games. Certainly not ones played with a damn fox like you. 

The memory of the kiss still sears the man’s brain, until Johnny thinks of every interaction you two had had over this fast-paced and stressful night. 

But now it was time to hone in. Clean-up later. 

“Price, I’m in the office,” Soap mumbles through the line, clicking his earpiece back.

“Good,” the reply is swift. Johnny ignores your small intrigued look, not commenting on the amount of valuables you suddenly have bulging out of your purse. Like a kid in a candy store. The sight is almost enough to make him smirk at you. “Insert the USB and let it do its work. Should take a few minutes—hunker down and assess the exits. There are three floor-length windows behind the curtains; if it comes to it, break through and drop into the pool below.”

“Swimming lesson?” Soap jokes, patting his inner jacket pocket and producing a small black USB stick. 

“Eager, are you, Sergeant?”

“Not particularly, Sir.” 

“Coulda fooled me,” Ghost joins on, dry response adding to the choir of strange humor.

Johnny’s fingers move to plug the USB into the port, hearing the click of it inserting and stepping back as lines of code jump across the now illuminated screen—files pop up and disappear just as quickly, and the blinking light on the stick tells him all he needs to know about if it’s working or not.

“Johnny,” Simon pipes back in, and the man shifts his body to the side, hand coming up to his earpiece on reflex. 

“What is it, Lt?”

Across the way, your eyes glint.

Lieutenant? So the man’s military? Jesus, that changes things. I thought he was just some guy trying to get dirt on someone he disliked. Business partner, maybe. But military?

Your shoulders get a bit more tense, but it doesn’t stop your fingers from brushing your real prize—the last box inside of the case; red leather. It was all but calling your name like a veiled ghost of lust.

“Got a hit for a file with an Unknown, alias ‘Cerise.’ Laswell dug through the records.”

“Do you?” Johnny licks his lips, feet backing up a step and swinging his weapon. “Lay it on me, then.”

“Not much to relay—multi-year investigation, borders on some of their top classified cases for untouched HVTs. Don’t even have a description. String of high-caliber thefts, blackmail, extortions, and suspected of multiple murders to end it all off. Woman’s been busy.”

“Well,” Soap draws, tilting his head with raised brows. “Isn’t that just lovely?”

But the last part stuck with the Sergeant—murders? Call him naive, but you didn’t seem the type for that.

Blue eyes linger on you, slipping up and down with a twitch in their lids. He sees your face light up as you pop open a jewelry case; lips peeling in a violent smile as the round bodies of elegant and expensive pearls meet the light. Hell, Soap nearly hears you squeal. 

Murder? But he knows that looks are deceiving. 

He addresses Price, peeling his eyes away and taking a long breath. “Any advice, Captain?”

“She’s not the mission. Get what we need and get out.” It wasn’t shocking. 

“And Gaz?” 

“Still on overwatch—getting antsy. Says there are more security patrols in the gardens but they haven’t done anything more than speak to an old man.” 

Johnny blinks. “Say again, Sir?”

“Old man,” Price repeats. “Have him out by the gardens, moving about; asking questions.” A pause. “Why?”

“We might have a problem,” Soap growls, and not a second later there’s news being relayed. 

“They’re moving up the stairs into the mansion, Soap.”

“Fuck me,” the Sergeant snaps, rushing to pull at the curtains behind him, seeing the pool far below—it would take a bit of a jump to land a safe distance from the concrete, but there were limited options. 

Making out in a hallway pretending to be horny partygoers wouldn’t fix this.

You glance over at the ruckus, in the middle of clipping your prized necklace over your flesh, feeling the weight of it against your collarbone. The sensation of pleasure was so overwhelming your gut swirled with achievement like a storm at sea. 

It was perfect. 

Staring long at yourself in the glass reflection, your smile is wide and sharp—uncaring to the Scot’s sudden anxieties. You had your pearls and a few extra treasures, that was all that mattered to you. All that was left was your escape. Taking your phone out of your stuffed purse, you text Buck and tell him you’re ready for a pick-up and to park a little way down the street.

‘Need to walk the drinks off a little bit,’ is what you type, before hitting a firm send with a smirk.

Moving backward, Johnny still speaks hurriedly into the earpiece you had deduced that he has, and has probably had since the evening began. Fast-clipped sentences, and glances to the whirring computer, the USB stick you see inserted into its body. Your curiosity has always been your downfall, but you weren’t about to mess with whatever heist this was; especially involving the military and their forces. 

That was a cat you didn’t want to drag out of the bag. 

Making your way to the door, your hand is just about to grasp at it when you full-stop. Blinking slowly, your head tilts, your ear twitching to hear the muttering from beyond the barrier. With a moment of understanding brewing, a hand lands on the back of your neck and yanks you back, dragging you like a toddler for the second time tonight

Before you can shout at the brutish man, a hand is once more over your mouth, and a voice in your ear. Was this really the only way he could figure out how to keep you quiet?

“No speaking—you’ll just give away our position.”

You glare, unimpressed, until he releases you—blue eyes firmly leveled on your face in order. 

“Keep it shut,” he harshly whispers. As your mouth opens, he raises a finger and clicks his tongue, moving away quickly as you stare past in insult. Jaw loose, your eyes glint with hatred, growl in your throat as you turn after him. 

“I’m not fucking three, you asshat!” You exclaim under your breath. “I bet I’ve gotten out of more situations like this than you have. And would you quit dragging me everywhere?!”

The handle across the way is jiggled, Johnny glancing at the computer screen in desperation. It wasn’t done yet. He scoffs, face twisting. 

“Debatable.” You vehemently roll your eyes, looking around the room. This wasn’t exactly good—but it wasn’t unsalvageable. Looking at the woodgrain of the door like a plotting snake, you decide you could always play it off as one of Vicor’s multiple affair partners. He had scores, no way the man could remember them all. Tell security that he’d invited you here to discuss child support or hush money; that had to be fair play. 

You hum under your breath, sighing. How would you explain Johnny? A lover? Bodyguard? Your mind runs through scenario after scenario, until a large knife is shoved right in front of your face. You balk back with a choking sound, startled like a bird on a line.

“Take this before I change my mind,” Johnny grunts, grasping at his gun firmly. 

Your eyes stare with a sneer at the combat knife, which wiggles as the man’s hand shakes it impatiently. 

“I’m not taking that—are you mad?” 

Soap’s face is as stubborn as stone. “I’m not leaving without my intel, and neither are you.” A look is thrown up and down your body which makes you straighten, heels situating themselves below you. “You wanted to be here, Dearie, so you can’t back out now, can you?” 

“If I was here alone, none of this would have gone wrong,” you get into his face, eyes deadly. The door shakes as someone runs a shoulder into it—loud shouting from the hallway. 

“You’re a vain little minx that plays mind games because she thinks it’s fun,” Johnny hisses, breath atop of yours and eyes unblinking. “Mind yourself, you hear? This is bigger than a necklace, you vain creature.”

You huff. “It’s funny you think I care.”

“Little—” The computer beeps, and Johnny’s head whips back around as the frame of the door begins to crack.

The USB’s light glints a steady green, and then goes off, just as the computer screen blackens.

“Price!” Soap barks. “USB is done uploading, I need intel from Gaz, now!”

“Everything below the window is clear, Sergeant—get out!

“I need something to protect the damn thing from the water,” the man is already moving back, gun clattering to the desk as he opens drawer after drawer for anything—even just a little bag of—

“Holy shit,” you laugh, picking up something that had fallen to the floor in Johnny’s rabid search. “Victor was getting up to it.”

Cocaine baggie—the Sergeant snatches it from you. 

“Woah,” you huff. “Wasn’t aware you had an affinity.”

“I am beggin’ you to keep your trap shut.”

“Ooo,” you smirk, eyes shimmering. “I like that.”

Johnny seethes like a dog, looking at you as he dumps out the drug and rips the USB out, shoving it inside as white powder hits his dress shoes. From there, the thing gets shoved into his pocket with a heavy hand.

“Come here,” he takes you by the arm, pulling. With his other, he grasps his M9 once more. Your annoyingly smooth voice in his ear is a constant knife right to his brain. 

“Of course, Handsome.”

“Sergeant, for the love of God, tell me that Cerise isn’t in that room with you.” Price’s voice interrupts the two dogs at each other's throats, baring their fangs with sharp intentions.

Soap tilts his head harshly, moving to the window with you beside him. For whatever reason, he fights his senses to leave you here to be caught. 

“Then I won’t tell you, Sir.”

“Fucking hell, Soap.” The Scot huffs, smirk at his lips. 

“In a worse way because of it, too.” His hand tightens on your arm and you only chuckle, fingers to your mouth as heat moves up Johnny’s neck. He clears his throat, looking away, muttering to his Captain. “Won’t bloody leave me alone.”

“Awe,” your free hand captures his bicep, running up the fabric of his suit jacket. “I’d never leave you alone, Baby.” 

Soap suppresses a whole-body shiver, your heated kiss still strangling him every second he gets a whiff of your perfume. His feelings towards you were strange; potent like a snake to a mouse. 

The worst part was that he didn’t know who was who in this equation.

Releasing you, your body jostles at the sudden lack of a brace, but you recover with a laugh and a raise of your brow. 

Johnny takes his gun and sends four rounds into the glass.

Yelping, your hands go to your head, covering your ears and slightly ducking. 

“Time to go, Sunshine!” Your waist is gripped, legs jerked up with a grunt. All at once your eyes widen, your brain understanding the total lunacy that’s about to take place.

“Wait!” You shout just as the front door is busted down. “I’m wearing tangerine quartz—i-it can’t get wet!”

He’s already in mid-air, a smirk on his face, peeling back the stubble on his cheeks as his body crashes through the broken glass.

There’s the sensation of flying, briefly experiencing what a bird lives before gravity takes over, stealing you just as it does your stomach. You yell sharply, but that’s all you get above Johnny’s heavy chuckle before water enshrouds you both. It sloshes over your head, and takes you down into its depths; chlorine makes your eyes burn before you snap them shut.

You’re taken by the first thing that strikes you as your waist is pulled back to the surface—Johnny hiking you upward with your back to his chest. 

Who keeps water in the pool this late into autumn?

Gasping as your head breaks out of the water again, your nails dig into Soap’s wrist, loud commotion from far above, and the screaming of orders. 

A bullet whizzes past your face. 

“I’m going to need Gaz on this!” Johnny shouts, unwilling to let you go as his legs begin kicking, water running through his hair and flowing off of his nose.

There’s a muffled call before one of the security guards from the office window is struck in the head, a spray of red popping from the burst container of his skull—body slumping out of the hole. He hits the ground with a slapping crunch as you pant on fast breaths. 

Getting forced back along with Johnny, you curse in the open air at the sight, eyes wide as your dress is utterly ruined by the pool. 

You’re tossed upward, body grunting and skidding along the concrete as your palms slap the ground. Scrambling up, Johnny pivots with you behind him, taking his M9 and leveling it up, firing off a few rounds before the sound of your rushing heels strikes him. 

Soap calls to you, but you’re already speeding away to the tree line, water leaving a long trail as you sprint to the best of your ability. The pearls around your neck glimmer, slapping against your flesh.

“What the fuck,” you gasp, heart rushing like a lion. “What the fuck!”

Grass moves near your feet, the estate slashing by—gunshots still echo, those loud booms moving over the night; you even hear the loud panic of the party, beginning to understand what they’re hearing. 

Stumbling on a rock, your palms skin themselves along the ground, but you don’t wait to think about the sting. You push back up and keep running.

“Cerise!” Soap barks, running after, looking over his shoulder as his earpiece is full of loud orders. 

A hand swipes at the back of your arm and misses as you pivot and grasp your purse strap, swinging it around until it slams into Johnny’s head. 

“Fucking hell!” He snarls, hand raising to shield himself as you do it again. 

“You’re crazy!” You yell, mind stuck on blood and bursting heads. Your purse is in the air, swinging from your raised hand; feet still backing up from the bulky form. 

Blue eyes blink at you, occupied with both looking behind for pursuers and shots as you both move into the trees rapidly, circling one another even while escaping. “You’re shooting people?!”

“It’s my mission!” Johnny shoves out, jerking out a hand. “We need to leave—now!” 

“I’m not going anywhere with you!” You yell, looking him up and down, backing up, and bringing your purse close to your chest. 

Both of your eyes lock in a battle. 

“Bonnie,” the man levels, “You’re not staying here with them—they’ve seen your face.”

“I like my chances better when I’m alone,” you swallow down your tone, evening it out to emanate the confidence that you always try to carry like a sword. You’re not going with Johnny—not now. Now you had to go through aliases; move again—run like a petty criminal. You had to hide your valuables and get your finances together.

Staring, you pant, water dripping from your nose. 

You needed to disappear again. 

“Don’t be a bloody fool,” Johnny hisses, moving closer. “C’mon, we need to leave.”

“You’re right we do—go, then.” It’s final. “I’m not following you anywhere,” your eyes darted his form, remembering how his weight had pressed you into your wall. “Enjoy your intel, Mr. MacTavish, but I have my own affairs to deal with.” 

You slip your purse strap over your body and unclip your heels, dangling them by your finger as you stand back to full height with a deep breath. You’re scared now—nervous. Being around guns was one thing, but watching someone get shot was another. 

No one was supposed to die tonight; you’re shaken.

“Cerise,” Soap opens his mouth, annoyance in his veins. But he looks into your eyes and pauses, seeing the fidgeting, the flightiness. The man stills, glancing at your visible heartbeat, gobsmacked. 

You were afraid. The woman who’d smirked when he’d pushed her into a wall—the woman who had no terror of getting caught. Afraid of him.

He backs up a step raising his hand. 

“Hey,” Johnny eases, lowering his tone. You don’t change your attitude.

“No, MacTavish,” you clench your jaw. “This is where our game ends. For good.”

Eyes lock; stare. They dig and they stay still, night aflame with chaos. The game had been fun, but, Soap knew the truth about this as well as you did. It was felt in the very air along the vibrations. He can’t drag you along back to the Exfil point��it would bring nothing of it but wasted time and energy. There wasn’t any time, and even as his instincts told him to level the barrel of his weapon with your skull…he couldn't do that.

He had to let you go.

There aren’t any words spoken; none said in parting or goodbye—in all accounts, the two of you don’t even know if you like one another. Both of you would aggressively deny any such thing, even if the pair of you were absorbed in how one another feels rubbing your hands along clothes. That dig; that pull.

In the end, you turn, and you disappear into the trees, rushing to circle back to the front of the property where Buck will be waiting down the road. Your heart patters, your jewelry bouncing, and your purse full of your stolen quarry.

In the end, blue eyes watch you for a long moment.

And then Johnny backs into the shadows of night, and neither of you seemed to have ever existed at all.

TAGS:

@sheviro-blog, @ivebeentrashsince2001, @mrshesh, @berryjuicyy, @romantic-homicide, @kmi-02, @neelehksttr, @littlemisstrouble, @copperchromewriting, @coelhho-brannco, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @fictional-men-have-my-heart, @sleepyqueerenergy, @cumikering, @everything-was-dark, @marmie-noir, @anna-banana27, @iamcautiouslyoptimistic, @irenelunarsworld, @rvjaa, @sarcanti, @aeneanc, @not-so-closeted-lesbian, @mutuallimbenclosure, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @gildedpoenies, @glitterypirateduck, @writeforfandoms, @kohsk3nico, @peteymcskeet, @caramlizedtomatoes, @yoursweetobsession, @quesowakanda, @chthonian-spectre, @so-no-feint, @ray-rook, @extracrunchymilk, @doggydale, @frazie99, @develised, @1-800-no-users-left, @nuncubus, @aldis-nuts, @clear-your-mind-and-dream, @noonanaz, @cosmicpro, @stinkaton, @waves-against-a-cliff, @idocarealot

[rainylana]

“Baby, are you okay?”

Eddie Munson x female reader

summary: drug deal gone wrong. eddie realizes just how important you are to him. requested by @sharp-and-swift

warnings: reader has a knife held to her throat, sexual assault (reader is touched inappropriately), language, drug deal, fluff, major hurt/comfort trope (my favorite), special appearance by uncle wayne.

give me love babes mother needs it<3

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If Eddie were an animal, he’d be a cat. Why? Because he had nine lives. He had more than nine, actually. He seemed to be void of all danger. Well no, that wasn’t true. Danger stuck to him like glue, but he was amazing when it came to getting out of it. Wayne teased him by calling him MacGyver and that he needed his own show. He loved the danger, the chaos of it all. It never bothered or got to him, atleast until one day when you were involved.

Eddie hadn’t had a bad drug deal in several years. The only people around Hawkins who needed a fix where high schoolers or lone wolves at the hideout. So, he didn’t think much about it when you asked to come along to his next destination.

You walked swinging your hands together, his fingers laced in yours as you crunched the fall leaves beneath your Chuck Taylor’s. It was supposed to be quick in simple. It was a friend of his uncle’s, who he’d never met, but he didn’t think much of it.

When you finally got to the designated meeting spot, you and Eddie sat across from each other at the picnic table in the middle of the woods, tapping your fingers and making small talk. Whoever you were meeting, was late. Eddie tiredly rested his chin in his palm, the cool air a bit nippy at his neck, but his jean jacket kept him warm. He offered it up to you, but you promised your orange sweater was enough.

“Ow.” You complained under your breath, finger scraping too hard at the wood beneath your palms.

“What’s wrong?” He creased his brow across from you, not moving from his position.

“Splinter.” You bit your lip, bringing it up to investigate. “Fuck, hurts like a bitch.”

“Here,” He reached out to take your hand and brought the tip of your finger up to his eye line, squeezing at the skin around it. He muttered a soft apology when you winced at his prodding.

“I think I got a knife in here somewhere.” He padded at his jacket, making you scoff and widen your eyes.

“You’re not cutting that thing out of me.” You shook your head. “Hell nah.”

He rolled his eyes. “Fine.” He hopped up and rounded the table to set beside you, holding your red, irritated finger. “Seems like we might have a no show.”

“Get that a lot?” You tried to ignore the pain as he squeezed the skin, gritting your teeth.

“Not really.” He focused on the wood under your porcelain skin, sticking out his tongue in concentration. “Just sell it to someone else if they don’t.”

The wind picked up a bit and shivered inside of your clothes. Eddie hummed and squeezed your wrist. “Told you you’d be cold.”

“Shut up.” You lightly kicked him. You were naturally a cold blooded girl. “Just get this tree trunk out of me.”

Eddie snickered and teased you by squeezing your pained skin, but he finally got it out as you sighed with relief. He took the splinter away from your cut it held it up with victory, a goofy smile on your face. “Tada.”

Victory was not held long though. The dark curtains of his hair kept him from witnessing the stranger from the corner of his vision, and you were too focused on the task at hand, and a scream lodged it’s way out of your throat when you were yanked up from the table.

It all happened so quickly. You were now being held up off the ground, a blade held thickly at your throat and a strong arm wrapped around your waist. Eddie was stumbling off the ground from trying to catch you, his eyes wide in a panicked fear.

“Don’t you fucking move!” Whoever it was behind you screamed into your ear, and you were hyperventilating as your eyes blurred with tears, heart racing like a wild stallion.

“Hey, hey, okay, okay!” Eddie begged, holding up his hands with an unhinged jaw. His eyes were wide and his face had gone pale.

“You got what I came for?” The man asked bitterly. Your body was pressed up against his, and you could smell alcohol and cigarettes on his breath. The sharp blade was right at your jugular, and you were whimpering, not able to struggle and paralyzed with fear, body stiff as the planks you had sat on.

“Yeah, yeah, man, I got it!” He nodded rapidly, eyes flicking between you and who he assumed, was his uncles friend. He needed new ones. “Just.. just, hey, you don’t gotta do this, okay? She’s..she’s not done anything. I’ll give you what you want just let her go, alright?”

Eddie’s voice was shaking, and you could only cry in your captives arms. Your eyes were so wide that it hurt your head, your body was shaking and you had to clamp your mouth shut from screaming.

“What else you got?” The man was larger built, dark hair and tan skin. He looked like a truck driver. Eddie hadn’t seen him before.

“Anything.” Eddie pointed back to his lunchbox. “Coke, weed, acid it’s all yours, man, just let her go!” He was more frantic with his words, knees barely buckling underneath him.

“Give it to me. Toss it over here.”

Eddie obeyed quickly, reaching behind him, arms still up, and tossed over his lunch box his your feet. “Now, let her go.”

You cried out when your body was bent over, the man reaching down to pick up the box. Your eyes never left Eddie’s, wide and terrified, your cries breaking his heart. With one hand, he opened the box and quickly scanned it, giving a satisfied nod. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

He still hadn’t let you go.

Eddie’s stomach twisted upside down when the man’s eyes started to observe the side of your cheek, and you squeezed your eyes shut as the man shushed you sickeningly. You were crying, tears dripping down you neck with soft sobs. You begged yourself not to move. One wrong motion and Eddie would be traumatized for life.

“Hey!” Eddie tried to get the man’s attention. “Let her go.”

The urgency in his voice made you break a sob, cringing and shying away as his free hand came up to pet your cheek, drifting down your hip. You tried to calm yourself. Freaking out would only make your case work, but you could only quiet down so much.

“Hey, don’t touch her, man!” Eddie snapped, taking a step that got the knife digging into your skin even more as he shouted at Eddie to stay away. The action, and the sudden burn of blood that leaked at the cut along your neck, made you hysterically sob and scream out, your legs giving out from under you.

“You shut your mouth before I slit her throat!” He screamed, only worsening your case. Your chest was heaving and you were begging Eddie with silent eyes to help you.

You but your tongue so hard you tasted blood when the man’s hand cupped the space between your legs, squeezing you and making your throat close. You had to look away from Eddie, not daring to let a full fledged whimper out.

“Stop! Fucking stop it!” Eddie screamed in desperation, stumbling on his feet with shaking limbs and wide eyes. “Please, please you got what you wanted, please let her go!”

He gave you a little jostle and licked your neck, rubbing the fabric of your jeans and making you grow cold. He gave your neck a little bite before he loosened his grip on you, removing the knife as he held it out to Eddie. “You keep your distance until I’m gone, ya’ hear?”

Eddie nodded as quickly as he could. “Yeah- yeah, you got it.”

Your body was set free but you couldn’t move, your hands froze in the air as you paralyzing stared off at the side. Your heart felt like it was going to explode. Eddie kept his eyes on the man, who kept the knife up, backing away deep into the woods. When he was finally gone from sight, Eddie ran to you.

It was like your brain had turned to mush. Your face was pressed into his chest and his arms were wrapped around your shaking body so tightly it almost hurt, then he’d pull away to look at your neck, grab your face and hold your hands, pulling you back in to hold you. He was speaking all the while, but you could only hear muffled words. His touches felt fuzzy and tingly, like he wasn’t really there. You couldn’t see clearly, and your tongue felt heavier.

“Come on, we’ve gotta get outta here.”

You didn’t hear it, but an arm wrapped around your waist and led you away from the forest.

•

“Eddie, what happened?”

Wayne had yet to take a sip from his freshly brewed cup of coffee when his nephew barged in with you by his side, shaken up as he ever saw them.

“We got jumped.” Eddie gulped, closing the door behind him, his hand holding yours tightly. “Some guy that..I don’t know, claimed to know you,” He was panting as he rambled, pausing to turn to you. “Hey, why don’t…here, honey, you need to sit down.” His voice had turned so much more gentle as he grabbed your shoulders and softly ushered you to a seat on the couch, crouching down below you. “I’m gonna..I’m gonna get something the clean your neck, okay?” He looked into your eyes and you gave a weak nod, not meeting them.

“Eddie,” Wayne said more seriously when Eddie ventured into the bathroom. “What the hell happened?”

Eddie stopped and his face went white, bringing a hand up to his forehead. He stepped around his uncle to close the door. “He..he came out of nowhere. I didn’t see him. He…he held a knife to her throat and- and he..he- touched her.” His voice broke and he could hardly get out the words. “Fuck,” He grew overwhelmed and covered her face. “He cut her neck a little bit but- fuck, Wayne he touched her right in front of me and she won’t- she won’t say anything, oh god, this is my fault. It’s my fucking fault, Wayne-”

“Hey, hey,” Wayne grabbed his face and pulled him close. “Calm down, Eddie.” He recognized the signs of his past panic attacks, his breathing erratic and face gone of color. “You’re alright. She’s alright. But now you know why this stuff is dangerous, right? You’re lucky nothing worse happened. It needs to stop, bud. You don’t gotta worry about money.”

“I know, I know,” He breathed, resting his hands on his uncle’s arms. “Fuck, Wayne, what do I do? I’ve fucking traumatized her.” He squeezed his eyes shut.

“No, you haven’t, Ed.” Wayne said calmly. “Just learn from this, okay? You’ll both be okay. Just need to calm down, alright?”

Your ears caught the sound of the bathroom door opening, but you didn’t look up. You said rigidly on Wayne’s sofa, knees up and arms laying loosely at your sides. Your face was pale and void of color, eyes glossed over and red, the skin around them swollen and irritated. You felt disgustingly gross. You heard Wayne fish for his keys in the pocket of his jacket, his boots padding in the carpet as he walked around the coffee table to stand next to you. You tried to smile when he bent down to give you a kiss on the top of your head.

Eddie came back to crouch in front of you, tearing open a first aid kit and looking through it’s contents. He muttered to himself about what he needed to find. He had a wet napkin sitting on his thigh, and he picked it and looked at you. “Is it okay if I clean it up a bit?”

You nodded softly and lifted your neck a bit, his hand soft on your skin. You tried not to cringe at the feeling, but you couldn’t help but get a flash of ptsd. You pushed it away. He cleaned as quickly as he could, his other hand rubbing your thigh softly. He kept looking up at you lifeless eyes, a frown on both of your faces. When he finished, putting a dab of Neosporin and a bandaid, he had to speak up.

“Baby, are you okay?” Of course, you weren’t. His lips were pulled down and his hands held your knees, his voice soft like a winter’s first snow.

“Yeah.” You forced yourself to speak, the crack in your voice betraying you.

“Y/n, I’m so, so sorry.” He pleaded, gathering your hands and kissing them. “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” He kissed up your arm until he got the dent of your elbow.

Never in his life had he felt so much love for another person. He always knew you were important to him, but important didn’t even grace it now. You were his life. Your spirit animal was not a cat, and you did not have nine lives. Eddie wanted to cry again. “I’m so sorry this happened, baby.” He looked up to you from your stomach. “Are you okay? Please, talk to me.”

You didn’t know how to feel. You weren’t processing anything. The only thing you did feel was terror. Your mouth opened and closed, trying to find words. He could see the confused, complicated look on your face as he sat up. You grew panicked, but before you could get too overwhelmed he cupped your cheek.

“It’s alright.” He said softly, giving you a kiss on the lips, soft and delicate. “You’re alright, honey. Here, sit back.” You leaned back until you rested on the back of the couch, and he propped your feet up on his lap. He worked to untie your shoelaces, working them through the triple nots you tied. He managed to get one off before the damn broke.

When you let out a quiet sob, his eyes snapped up to you, face dropping. You were looking up at the ceiling, holding your stomach as tears fell down your neck as you cried steadily. Eddie disregarded his task at taking off your other shoe and sat beside you, shushing you softly as he pulled you down into his lap, your face scrunched up in his jeans. He leaned down to hold you tight, kissing your shoulder and offering words of apology.

Why did something so horrible have to finally make him realize how much he cared for you?

[marlynnofmany]

Handy Tools

For some people, an afternoon spent blasting across a desert on a hoverbike with the passenger behind them wrapping tentacles around their waist would be a charming date. For me, it was a work day, and our delivery was about to be late.

I yelled over the wind, “Am I going too fast for you?”

Mur’s voice was muffled against my shirt. “I’m just glad I don’t have to steer at these speeds. Keep going.”

I went faster. Now that I’d been officially trained on the hoverbike, I was going to enjoy every opportunity to use it. Especially since it turned out that most of my coworkers didn’t actually like seeing the scenery flash past at breakneck speeds, with the wind in their hair (or lack thereof).

Their loss. I caught some air going over a low sand dune, and allowed myself a whoop of joy. Mur didn’t hold on any tighter, but that was because he had all his other tentacles suctioned onto the bike. Nobody stays in their seat like a Strongarm who’s properly motivated. He reminded me of cats I’d known who spent trips to the vet with their claws sunk into whichever soft surface was in reach. All that was missing was the yowling.

A gust of wind buffeted us sideways, but the bike’s auto-balance function kept it upright. With a thought for how much I would have liked that kind of technology in my childhood bicycle, I steered us back on track toward the distant buildings on the edge of the desert. The plan had been for our client to come meet us at the spaceport, but something had come up on their end, and they still needed the package in a hurry. Luckily for all involved, it fit in the storage compartment of our courier ship’s speedy little hovercycle. And I was happy to deliver it at high speed to a building that the ship couldn’t land near.

Eventually we’d be weaving through city streets and I’ve have to slow down. All the more reason to make up time with the high speeds now.

But of course it couldn’t be that easy. As I crested another rise, a herd of small things on the ground swarmed toward us out of nowhere.

I swerved hard, but no luck; there were far too many to avoid. With the wind behind them, they flowed under the hoverbike and onto its lower parts, where a bunch of the round little whatevers stuck fast.

The bike coasted to a stop, despite my efforts to urge it faster. The rest of the things ghosted merrily away, looking more like inanimate objects blown by the wind than like living creatures. Dozens of them were stuck to the bike.

Mur swore loudly in his own language, a series of rippling pops that sounded like someone going to town on a bunch of birthday balloons. Which seemed pretty appropriate, actually.

“What are these?” I asked, turning off the engine. They looked like little sand-beige balloons with leaves at the bottom. Were they plants?

They were.

“A muddy problem is what they are,” Mur said, loosening his tentacles and opening the storage compartment. “Seed pods famous around here for gumming up electronics by getting stuck where they shouldn’t. You can’t just pull ‘em off; you have to pop them.”

I got to my feet, careful to keep my legs away from the things. “Are they dangerous to touch?”

Mur climbed halfway into the storage compartment, digging with his tentacles around the package. “No. Just hard to puncture. Where is the toolkit?”

I had a sudden memory of our ship’s mechanic saying something about borrowing it while I was talking to the captain about the delivery. Uh oh. “I think we left before Mimi put it back.”

With an angry tentacle slap against the bike, Mur dug faster. “There’s got to be something pointy in here. Maybe in the medkit?”

While he pulled that out and sifted through the bandages, I got a closer look at the seed pods. They reminded me of pufferfish: a little spiky, and rubbery when I poked one. Oddly enough, it didn’t stick to my finger, just the bike. Seeds rattled inside.

Further pop-swearing told me there wasn’t anything particularly sharp in the tiny medkit. Mur shut it with a snap and looked around at the desert. “See any sticks?”

I did not. “There’s probably something at the town, but that’s a bit of a walk. Are you sure we can’t just rip them open? Are they toxic to bite?”

“Definitely don’t bite them,” Mur said. “I’ve heard stories of what those seeds can do to a digestive system.”

“By hand, though?” I tried to pinch one, but it was like trying to tear open an over-inflated kickball. Thin material, just without enough give to dig my fingers in. A pushpin would have done it. I kept trying anyway. “I see what you mean.”

Mur started tugging at various parts of the hoverbike. “And of course we can’t take off a sharp metal bit without tools either. And neither of us have claws. What around here is pointy?”

“Well, I almost have claws,” I said, looking at my fingernails. “Maybe I could bite one into a point. Or actually—” The nail on my middle finger was the longest. I dug a thumbnail into the corner and ripped the end off, then handed the tiny crescent to Mur. “Is this sharp enough?”

“What’s this?” He took it in his tentacle, surprised.

“Fingernail,” I said, waggling my fingers. “Mine are soft enough to tear off pretty easily. It’ll grow back.”

Mur blinked in surprise but didn’t comment. He just grasped it firmly with his most dexterous tentacle, and popped a seedpod with it.

“Hooray!” I said as seeds rained down and the pod deflated. To my surprise, it promptly detached from the bike as well.

“We might just be on time after all.” Mur started popping with a vengeance, swarming over the bike to get everything within reach.

I sacrificed another fingernail — ring finger this time — and joined in. Between my long arms and his maneuverability, we soon had all of the troublesome things collapsing onto the sandy ground.

I wondered briefly about the biology at work; maybe the outer surface of the pods would decompose into nutrients for the seeds. But then Mur was climbing back onto the seat, and we had other things to worry about.

“I’m going to make sure that toolkit goes back where it belongs the moment we get back,” Mur said. He opened the storage compartment and dropped the fingernail inside. “Keeping these, though. Gimme the other one.”

I handed it over with a smile and got back into place while he shut the compartment. The bike started as if there had never been anything wrong. I was a bit curious about that too, but figured it was something for Mimi to figure out when he gave the bike a checkup later.

After we delivered our package, that is. I kicked it into high gear, and with Mur holding on for dear life, I blasted off across the desert once again. The wind in my hair felt great.

~~~

These are the ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book.

Shared early on Patreon! There’s even a free tier to get them on the same day as the rest of the world.

The sequel novel is in progress (and will include characters from these stories. I hadn’t thought all of them up when I wrote the first book, but they’re too much fun to leave out of the second).

[bonefall]

how do surrogacies for cats in another Clan work, socially? With honor siring you don't have to stick around once the cat you're siring for is pregnant; but with surrogacies you're going through an entire pregnancy and kitting process, which your Clan will probably catch onto at some point. Do you just... go off to give birth and come back and tell your Clan "bad news they didn't make it :( they all got uhhh eaten by a hawk sry all" after dropping them off with the cats you surrogated for

The out of universe reason is simple logistics. Some parents can't give birth but they still need a visit from the stork, with how small Clan sizes are.

In-universe, it's a whole process.

MOST surrogacies are done by family, or are in-Clan. A sibling who is able to get pregnant will do so, with the expectation that their family member will take and raise the kits.

More are done on a sort of "open book" policy. Onestar and Whitetail are an example of this; One wanted kits and asked White, but didn't want to coparent. She agreed, and neither one kept it a secret.

So Whitetail is not Heathertail's MOTHER, but it is known she was the honor-sire.

Likewise though, it's within your rights to keep it secret, even within a Clan. If you asked Onestar where the kit came from, invoking Queen’s Rights would shut it down.

But you could put two and two together that Whitetail was probably pregnant and stopped being so right when Onestar became a Mi.

For the record though. Listen carefully.

not every cat who is expecting will suddenly flash like a neon sign indicating it. The whole Clan will not suddenly get a text saying "DUDEHEART IS PREGNANT." Some people just don't show. Some cats don't smell that different. It's rude to ask unprompted and even worse if you guess wrong. Like real life.

Please understand.

On the Anthro-Scale, from 100% feral cat to 100% fuzzy human, BB cat gestation is closer to the feral cat than most of their other behaviors. So this is not the same "big deal" as a human pregnancy.

In general, I write "medical" topics closer to real cats than the Erins do. I mostly take "liberties" in the portrayal of disabilities so THOSE are closer to the real humans in my audience

intelligent cats are not going to be correcting me on my incorrect portrayal of Feline Diabetes, but I could unwittingly cause harm in spreading diabetic misconceptions that real people try to clear up, y'know?

Anyway. What that means is that warriors giving birth is not the federal issue that it is for humans. It's still not TOTALLY safe, but dying in childbirth is exceptionally rare, plus being much less painful and considerably faster

"The Birthing Stick" means something is wrong.

So there's several factors at play within Clans, but Out-of-Clan surrogacies are much more interesting.

These are usually arranged at Aftergatherings. They were rarer before the move to the Lake, which now sees waaaay more cross-clan friendships.

USUALLY the Clan's Cleric will be involved, which IS technically a waiving of the Queen’s Rights. Leafpool simply doesn't interpret it that way.

A more "traditional" Cleric, like Littlecloud, will NOT be involved for personal safety and comfort reasons. This makes a bad situation but that's the reality of QR (and is a reason why Fire Alone cats think QR doesn't go far enough.)

Kits are always given to the parent before 1 moon. Fading Kits aren't socially questioned if they fade before that 1st moon. So it's pretty easy to hide it.

"All of my litter was faders" is unfortunate in the way that a car accident is unfortunate. "Shit, are you ok?" "Is StarClan trying to keep a close eye on you? Are you going to try again?" Etc.

"Frequent Flyer" surrogates, like Brightheart, often keep a single kitten from each litter to avoid the implication of "bad omens."

If they aren't Brightheart who likes raising kittens with her mate, the kitten is often given to an in-Clan parent who wanted a child.

Most surrogacies aren't "free," but it does depend on who's doing it for you.

Like all other things in BB, this looks very different between generations, and depends heavily on the "attitudes" of the Clans at the tine. But, Queen’s Rights will protect you from revealing too much. STILL, surrogacies ARE harder than sirings. Just not impossible.

[greer2301]

Theo Raeken X Liam Dunbar X Fem Reader

MDNI!

Thiam X Human fem reader

You're beautiful. Pale ivory skin, blushed cheeks, plump build, wonderful green eyes, unfortunately for them you're also beautifully human.

Theo and Liam watched as you hung, a battery hooked up to your body delivering shock after shock from the turning hand of Gerard Argent. Your body soaked and shivering or maybe you shook from convulsions, truthfully they couldn't tell as they wolfed out and tried to help you attacking every warm body near by. The fighting only stopped when Scott arrived, accidentally killing the old hunter as Liam and Theo helped you down.

A trip to the hospital to see Melissa, a check up from Deaton and you were finally home wrapped up in Liam's spare lacrosse joggers and one of Theo's sweaters. Criminal Minds played on the TV for noise as you just rested your head on the arm of the couch, the only sound other than that was your cat messing around with his catnip mouse.  Liam sat beside you first, his hands gently massaging your thighs as he wasn't quite sure what to say yet. Theo followed sitting next to the couch playing with your hair hanging over the edge, you knew what was coming.

They've told you, Scott and Stiles have told you. Hell you've even thought it a few times, humans shouldn't get mixed up with the supernatural business here in Beacon Hills. You couldn't help it tho, the second you laid eyes on the beautiful blue eyed explosive Beta you fell hook line and sinker. You only dug a deeper hole for yourself when you and Liam fell for Theo, the way he protects yous and takes you both seriously even when you sound off your rocker with theories. When anyone would speak out about the relationship your defense had always been, making a point that Stiles has been involved since day one and no one has pushed him away.

"I know, I know what you're thinking. I don't care what you're going to try and reason with, or how bad you want to fight me on it. I love you both. I do not care what I have to fight to keep loving you, I know what I feel for you is worth everything because I will only feel it once in my life. So, no we aren't breaking up, and I won't be going anywhere and if you want to fight about it fight with each other because I won't even entertain it." You tell them, not bothering to look at them as you feel both of them tense and then look to each other. "Sugar, things aren't going to get any easier" Theo says as he rests his head on the cushion.

"Nothing worth having is easy Theodoré" with that you stand and walk into the bedroom, resuming the show in there tucked under the big black duvet. After some time Theo comes in and lays beside you, his hand trailing over the blanket and resting over your hip. Liam comes in after and turns you over to your side so he can lay behind you and be the big spoon, his body heat warming up the underneath of the blanket making you slightly drowsy. "You want to know why we work?" You ask, your voice just above a whisper. "Why do you think?" Liam asks as he rests his head on your shoulder. "Theo would kill for us, I would be killed for us and you, you always save us but you would live for us." You whisper as you look between them.

Liam breaks first, he grabs your chin turning your face to kiss you, his hands pulling your waist closer as he sticks his tongue past your lips wrapping his around your own. Theo kisses your exposed neck, Liam's fingers work your nipples through the light sweater you stole from Theo. Your moans are being swallowed by Liam as he dominates your mouth, your fingers curling in Theo's hair as he sucks his mark into your unmarked ivory skin. Liam removes his mouth from yours turning you to Theo as he starts peppering your neck with kisses, smirking as Theo swallows your moan as he found your sweet spot. His hands trailing from the back of your shoulder to your covered ass as he works over your cheeks.

You can't help it as you rutt your hips back into him, his hardening length causing your already wet pussy to drool. Liam groans as you push back harder becoming more needy for his cock, Theo doesn't bother to swallow your moans anymore as he focuses on rubbing your clit having snuck his hand into your pants. Liam reaches back into the drawer of the bedside table and takes out the finger condoms, actual condoms and numbing-cooling lube. He pushes down your pants and puts his covered prepped fingers on your hole massaging it at first.

Theo's fingers skillfully manipulate your clit as he finger fucks you, keeping you on your side by the arm that's under your head, your eyes closed in pleasure as your jaw slackens with the pace Theo keeps your moans leaving you almost breathlessly. Liam kisses your neck before pushing one finger in, your moans only increase as you enjoy the feeling of being fuller. Liam waits a minute before adding his second finger and scissoring them to help stretch you out, between Theo's fingers fucking in and out of you and Liam's prepping you needed to cum. Theo felt it, loving the way your pussy pulsated and contracted around his digits. "Mmm-mm, not yet baby" Theo tells you, his face beside your ear peppering kisses just below as he admires your fuck face.

Liam adds his third finger and you nearly lose it, your pussy gushes more slick as you fight back your orgasm your stomach muscles contracting as your body shakes, the feeling of being completely full nearly too much to bear. Liam kisses your back along your spine tattoo, loving the way you shake against them, disposing of the finger condoms Liam places the actual condom on his cock, Theo moves you to lean with your back against the pillows propped up a little. "Come on pretty girl, cum for us" Liam whispers in your ear as he manipulates your nipples, Theo's fingers quickly thrusting into you and your juices squelching as your pussy weeps. You shake as your body listens to their command, the ball snapping off the tether as your body creams and leaks more slick.

Liam moans just from watching, scooping your cream with a finger and sucking it off with another moan. Theo smirks, diving face first into your pussy licking from your opening to your clit letting out a moan that vibrates your core making you gasp. Theo sucks and licks your cum until it's gone, small tears have formed at the corners of your eyes and your body convulses. Liam watches with hungry eyes his hand stroking his hard length as you let out nearly chocked sobbed moans, leaning over your side he claims your lips as Theo finishes his work on your pretty pussy. "You taste so fucking good baby" Theo praises as he comes back up for air.

Liam helps you get into position, one all of you enjoy as you're on your knees on a hard pillow between them. Theo aligns himself with your hole as Liam kisses your shoulder and does the same to your rear, Theo can't help but smirk at the barley functional fucked out look on your face, Liam having seen it when Theo's face was between your legs was something Liam will have ingrained in his brain forever. Theo kissed you as he and Liam began sliding into your holes, your body feeling unbelievably full as their lengths bottom out pulling a loud moan from your parted lips as Theo lets his head fall back with a groan. Liam sighs as he rests his head between your shoulder blades pressing light kisses to your tacky damp skin. Their hands holding each others while on your hips holding you in place, their pace slow as we all get used to the position.

You pull Theo's mouth to yours with one hand passionately kissing him as you fight back moans, your other hand found a home in Liam's hair as he peppered kisses along your back, soft moans leaving his mouth as he looks to the mirror on the wall across from the bed watching his boyfriend fuck their girlfriend while he fucks her cute little ass, it was almost enough for him to cum right there.

Theo turns your head back and you bring Liam's head forward connecting your lips aggressively, moans leaving both of your mouths as your teeth clash together and Theo kisses your chest while they pick up speed. Your hands leave their bodies to play with your nipples, their hands gravitating to touch each other as your peak becomes closer again.

"S'close" you whimper out your neck slack and head leant back against Liam's shoulder as Liam and Theo make out passionately beside your face adding to the incoming climax, Liam's hand trails down your body to your clit rubbing circles as he and Theo place kisses to the closest skin they could reach as your body tenses. "Cum with us baby" Liam whimpers as he speeds up, Theo moans as you clench around him Liam's throaty moan pushes both of you over the edge as yous cum together and Liam shoots into the condom. Theo's thick hot cum painting your pretty pink walls as your juices coat his cock and your cream creates a ring at the base of his length.

They hold you tight to them as they pull out a whimper leaving your mouth as Liam places you onto the bed and discards the condom coming back with two wet wipes, he hands Theo one and uses the other to clean up the mess between your thighs and your bum. Liam kisses your cheek and places Theo's sweater back on you properly before tucking you in, he hands Theo clean boxers and puts on a pair himself before crawling in bed behind you holding you close, Theo kisses Liam's cheek before crawling in bed in front of you and slinging an arm over you and Liam pulling the string on the lamp to shut the light off before getting under the blanket.

[atopvisenyashill]

okay fuck avoiding the dance how do we get ned out of the capital alive.

i think his main obstacle here is actually littlefinger and that’s hard to get around because ned has no real reason to distrust him besides littlefinger being skeezy, and catelyn trusts littlefinger

still, if i’m ned, and i get a letter saying there’s a conspiracy against my bestie and my wife is telling me i have to get involved, i’m contacting the closest thing to a southerner i know aka wyman manderly and going “hey can i have like. some spies. actually can you just come to the capital with me” and i’m telling varys that respectfully he’s fired. if i can’t fire him - why SHOULDNT i be able to but maybe robert is being annoying - i’m having manderly at every council meeting regardless.

it's probably harder to fire renly but i still think i'm bringing someone else i trust - a riverlander maybe, someone more In Tune With The South, like Jason Mallister perhaps - to at least shadow him and see if he's doing his job.

i get why he doesn’t want to tell sansa straight up not to trust the lannisters because what if she gives something away but not telling her anything is clearly a mistake. tbh i think even at the capital is slightly too late, he needs to tell her before they leave winterfell that they can’t be trusted. getting cat to do this is probably helpful, i do imagine she would listen more to her mother than her father about something like marriage and southron politics.

i feel the same about lady, i understand he doesn’t just try to sneak her back north because that would be difficult as fuck but if he just straight up says to robert’s face “if you want me to kill that wolf for you i’m taking my entire family back north and i’m coming back south to be your hand without my kids.” like call that man's bluff right away. i think robert shows in canon that he'll yell and scream at ned but he ultimately won't actually arrest ned for shit and ned should really push his luck here when it comes to lady because if robert can't back him up over a pet, well that says something you know.

but really - just avoid leaving sansa alone with joffrey and you can avoid this? actually wait - call up a mormont to be sansa’s sworn shield. i think alysane is pregnant at this point right, so call up dacey (or lyra? is lyra a warrior too?) and be like "STICK TO SANSA LIKE WESTEROS VERSION OF GLUE." handing sansa off is maybe not the best move parenting wise but it's one i think ned would realisticaly take - give her a peer or two that understand the danger and can explain it to her in a way she understands easier. but also - have CATELYN explain to sansa literally anything.

also, get her the harp tutor she wants so she has something to focus on besides joffrey.

send someone you trust, like jory or even the blackfish (someone stannis would respect) to stannis to be like "why did you cut and run you fuck???? get your ass back here i need some goddamn help." if he refuses, pull rank because why is this man disappearing so suspiciously and not telling anyone???

the MOMENT there's a problem - something goes wrong on the trident, something is even vaguely fishy at the capital - tell robb and cat to call the banners in the north and riverlands. i'm dead ass here. maybe it's not subtle - can you do this subtlely? if you can, do it that way - but i just think it's better to not fuck around here when all you have is a letter from lysa saying "something's fucky."

DON'T TELL CERSEI YOU KNOW ABOUT THE INCEST BEFORE YOU GRAB HOLD OF THE CAPITAL. I would honestly grab her kids, force them onto a boat, and tell her "get on the boat right now or robert will kill you all and i won't be able to stop him." don't give her a choice, don't give her a chance to regroup.

[luvfy0dor]

Henlo

You know who it is, we all know, henlo

I feel like I’ve been here a lot recently

Just starting off with saying I loved the Dazai piece. It was really cute. Dad Dazai trying his best, made my heart melty

But I think you know why I’m here today

On this day

Honestly the day doesn’t entirely matter but I’m here on THIS one

With the dad Fyodor thought I promised

Cuz here I was thinking to myself. I feel like Fyodor definitely wants his child or children having some connection to Russian culture, since that’s a part of them too, regardless of their other parent’s nationality or background, he definitely wants his included. (Tho his partner could totally do the same)

So I was wondering, would you like a piece of him either teaching his children Russian or making Russian food for them? Or really sharing any Russian cultural thing with them at all. Honestly whatever one is easier for you to write or go into detail with, they’re all equally cute.

Cuz if his child or children develop a connection to that, I feel like that would make him a lot happier than maybe he would fully show.

I hope this ask sparks the creative brain juices in a fun way

Also considering sending a Halloween themed request at some point idk… oh but who knows!We’re here rn and having fun with this, that’s all we need at the moment

Also real glad you enjoy my messages lol. I will absolutely keep sending. Take as long as you need

-the person here attempting to give everyone baby fever because it’s funny

This blog’s Dad Fyodor anon

"da!" - Dad!Fyodor x GN!Reader ੈ✩‧₊˚

Warnings; Google translate Russian, not much reader involvement, very minimal proofreading happened

Description; Dad!Fyodor teaching his child about Russian culture! It incorporates ideas from the first dad!Fyodor part.

A/n; YESYESYES I one hundred percent agree, I think about this on the regular OMG I hope I depicted this well bc my knowledge on Russia isn't all that extensive lol, if you have any corrections, do tell me!! : ) Also I'm gonna be so fr I had NO idea what to name this so we're rolling with da I guess.............

Headcannons !! ༊*·˚

★ He teaches his child/children classical Russian music when they're old enough to play more difficult pieces. Until then, he'll settle for twinkle twinkle little star.

★ Introduces his children to ballet.

★ His children have a variety of Russian-originating toys, such as Matryoshka/Russian nesting dolls, rocking horses etc.

★ Brings his children to Russia at least once, specifically to Moscow (irl Dostoevsky was raised in Moscow, so we're gonna assume BSD Dostoevsky was too) to experience the culture first hand.

★ Teaches his children the foundations of the Russian language. He would like them to fluently speak it one day, though.

★ Cooks Russian food for them like I mentioned and included in the first part.

★ They learn about Russian history from their father, anywhere from Peter the Great to fur trade and all that jazz

Scenario !! ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥

(as always, p/t is parental title, d/n is daughters name)

Your head leaned against your fist while you watched your husband and daughter focus on their current activity. D/n carefully picked the colors and pigments she would use to color in the white spaces on her paper, and Fyodor just tried to keep things inside the lines. You could see the little girls tongue slightly sticking out from between her lips in concentration, making you smile.

Your daughter went to pick her next color, chosing a pink crayon to fill in the nose of the cat. "Papa, what'd you say your hat was called again? The one you always wear." She clarifies, even though there was really only one hat that Fyodor would wear at all. His eyes don't leave his thin paper as he replies, "A ushanka, and it's from Russia, malyshka." He answered, pushing some of his hair out of his face and behind his ear. "Russia." She says, the sound not unfamiliar, but not common to her either. "Where's that?" She tilts her head upwards, putting her crayon down to signify her attention on her papa. He puts his down too and rests his arms on top of one another.

"Quite far, but it is in both Asia and Europe. That's how big it is, it stretches over two continents." He says, a smile on his face. Her eyes widen a little. "That is really big. Have you been there before?" Her head tilts and she shifts a bit in her seat. "I grew up there, in the city of Moscow." He says, happy with her clear interest in his motherland.

"We should go there for a vacation one day!" She says, a grin on her face. He laughs a little bit and nods. "I agree, we definetly should." He agrees, fantasizing about it in his head. "Is that why you talk like that?" She questions her fathers accent, skittering around the table and climbing onto his lap. He smiles gently and nods. "Yes, it's called an accent, malyshka. I learned English, but Russian is my mother tongue. There are a lot of different pronunciations for certain sounds in Russian." He tells her, his hands fidgeting with the young girls hair. He parts it into three sections and starts to braid it.

"Is everything different there?" Fyodor hums, thinking as he weaves her hair into a gorgeous French braid. "Well, it definitely very different, but I don't think I would say everything." He says. "There are more historical differences than anything, if I do say so myself." She hums in understanding. "Papa, can you teach me some Russian?" She asks, turning her head to look at him with puppy dog eyes, even though she really didn't need them. He smiled and nodded.

"What should I teach you?" He softly questions, looking into the young girls eyes. She thinks for a moment, tapping her pointer finger on her chin. "I don't know! Whatever you want." She says, just excited to hear another language. He chuckles softly. "я не знаю, что тебе сказать" (I don't know what to tell you) he responds, a small grin on his face. Her eyes widen, almost as if she never believed he could speak a different language. You giggle a bit at her reaction.

"What does that mean?!" She excitedly asks, her mind seemingly blown over this. "It simply means I don't know what to tell you." He speaks. "But I can tell you the simple stuff. Like 'да' means yes and 'нет' means no. Hello is 'привет' and goodbye is 'до свидания'."

The young girl takes a mental note of these words. "привет, papa! I think I said that right." She says. You proudly watch the scene go down. Fyodor gives you a similarly prideful smile. "Yes, you did wonderful, malyshka." He praises her, patting her shoulder. "I'll have to teach you more one day." She nods vigorously, very obviously wanting him to. "Yes! And then we can have secret conversations, no one else will know what we're saying!" She snickers, making him smile.

A/n; I hope this is alright!! I loved this request a whole lot. Oh, also, feel free to send in that Halloween request even though it's November now lol

"Oh, ofcourse. That will probably be rather far in the future, though." He says, removing her from his lap and gently patting her back. "That's okay. If I learn more I'll know more words." She states the obvious. "And I'm gonna learn from the best russian ever." She beams, making Fyodor grin. "That's right, sweetheart."

[booppooo]

what’s going on here? pt.1

*warnings: not a whole lot tbh, friends to lovers, kissing, pining, w33d, lemme know if I missed any

-

“Ugh, it tastes like hot garbage.” Ellie stuck her tongue out, a few auburn strands loosening from her tiny pony tail. She passed the joint to me.

Several sets of eyes locked onto me. I held the joint between my fingers, trying to distract myself from the curiosity piquing in Jesse and Dina. I flashed my eyes at Ellie one last time, catching her still making a sour face and sticking her tongue out like a disgusted cat. My heart made the tiniest of leaps. My trembling fingers place the end of it between my lips and inhale deeply. In hindsight it was too strong of a drag - especially for my first one - since i coughed out all the smoke foolishly. My chest ached, my throat burned, and my mouth was annoyingly dry. I turned away from my friends to hide my watery eyes, sticking my arm out behind me to hand the joint to whomever was next.

“See - tastes awful!” Ellie pointed out.

“Okay but, is it really supposed to taste good?” Dina tried to rationalize, “Every time I heard Eugene talk about it, he says, ‘Oh - this tastes good.’”

“Eugene is also half off his rocker.” Jesse quips, taking his turn at a puff. He coughs hard like me.

Half nauseous from coughing so hard, I return to my friends and recline further into the ski lodge seating, “God, we look like a bunch of amateurs.”

Dina groans, “This is our first time smoking weed.” It’s obvious she’s fed up with the collective group complaining.

I look to my right to see a dip in the red cushion. Next I hear clinking and a familiar freckled face returning with an intricate bottle and some small glasses. She sets out the glasses and adds just a splash of the amber drink, sloppily getting some on the table. “We’re not even going to get high anyway…”

“Jesus Ellie..” Jesse mumbles, still reaching for his glass, “How did you get this?”

“A magician never reveals her secrets.” We all raise our glasses and choke down the whiskey.

Within the next handful of minutes, there’s a record playing and every object my eyes came across had a mild swirl to them. Ellie’s arm was draped over my shoulders and holding me close as we chanted along to the song we somehow still know (muscle memory?), my hand lazily on her frail hip. With hot cheeks and ears my night continued on with my closest friends, singing songs and slurring empty sentences. Delightfully, this wouldn’t be the last.

-

“That doesn’t taste too bad.” Ellie mentions, her chest puffed up from holding the smoke in her lungs, then letting it slowly slip out through her pursed lips. Internally I laugh - I can’t help but feel seventeen every time we smoke together and she mentions the quality of the weed to some degree. I wonder if she will ever think it tastes like ‘hot garbage’ again. The bong is in my palms now. Music is already playing and Dina is shuffling cards.

I’ve never been able to shake the habit of coughing from my first hit, but I’ve been able to control it so I don’t sound like a lung and a half are coming up on my shirt. Just like routine, next is Jesse. Dina is now caressing the small of his back, watching as he takes a rip and continuing to pass it along. My eyes find Ellie, as per usual.

Emerald is already studying my figure. Her ankle is crossed over her knee, cards fumbling in her bony fingers. She’s worn her hair down today, some of it curled around her ear and brushing the collar of her graphic band tee. When our widening pupils lock, she wets her lips - on cue like this simple gesture triggers a Pavlov response. My knee begins to bounce and brush against her leg…yet, she shuffles closer.

Only to grab the bong from Dina of course. I had to remind myself my imagination likes to get extravagant anytime weed is involved. The entire time she takes her rip, I watch with intention. Is there a warmth crawling up my neck? “Here-“ her voice pulls me from the clouds.

I turn to face her, taking the bong from her grasp, “Let me pull for you,” she offers. To anyone else this seems sweet, but I know the mischievous curl at the corner of her dopey lips.

“Yeah - so I can take the biggest bong rip in the world and die?”

“You’re so smart.”

My sarcastic chuckle comes across more nervous, but I oblige nonetheless. As the flame from the lighter reaches the weed and creates orange embers, I begin to inhale softly. There’s a milkiness forming below my lips, and at this point I’d wrap it all up, but Ellie is teasing when she’s going to pull out the piece. I furrow my brows at her seeing as that is all the further I can communicate with her, and she gives in with an anticipatory laugh. Most of the smoke disappears into my lungs, and I feel it sting instantaneously.

“Shotgun shotgun!” Dina chants.

I already had a mild high buzzing my body, but Ellie’s beyond friendly proximity with her half lidded eyes and parted lips basically on top of mine sobered me up quick. Leaning in just a few more scandalous inches, I blew some smoke into her lips before having to quickly turn and hack up the rest of it. If I wasn’t having a flashback to my first time smoking - I was certainly now. The only new element was the high. It hit me hard and fast, I was forced back into Ellie’s futon, my head falling against her shoulder by chance.

“Hey, you okay?” Her red rimmed eyes observing me with concern.

“More than…” I grinned uncontrollably, “Just a little light headed from coughing.” I tried to quickly cover my tracks, straightening my spine.

With that we (tried) to begin a game of rummy, my mind in six different places and mostly unconcerned with winning or losing. Most of my attention couldn’t be pulled away from Ellie’s palm conveniently falling to my bouncing leg every time her turn was up. I was already fried, but her mindless - and surely friendly - gesture seared what was left of my braincells. To keep me slightly presentable, I tried to focus on the music humming somewhere in the room. Ellie’s music of course. It only took two rounds for the group to collectively call it quits and just chat. A sense of relief gripped me, but on the next beat was released when I noticed Ellie’s gaze fixating on me. Was I greening out or was she watching my lips?

“Oooh…” Jesse hummed, beginning a thought, “I have jerky back at my place, I think I’m gonna grab it - I’ll be back.” Like clockwork, Dina was hopping up and slipping out the door with him.

“Be right back!” She cheered, securing the latch behind her.

My head lulled back to the girl seated beside me, my eyes just open enough to drag over her features and notice the allure that they carried. The squeeze on my thigh made me bite back my gasp, bottom lip pinched between my teeth.

I hesitated to speak, “Hey man…” was there even a starting point with the conversation I wanted to have? Was there even a conversation?

“Okay listen, I just want to throw something out there, and if you’re not interested you just let me know.” She blinked slowly, letting me know I wasn’t the only one embarrassingly high, “I think we should fuck.”

I choked, back tightening and eyes bulging from my skull. My body began to create some orange embers of it’s own in my chest; relief? No, shock? No.

“Oh shit…” Regret was heavy in Ellie’s raspy voice.

I waved my hand reassuringly, “No! You were just very blunt-“

“Blunt? I can’t smoke anymore.”

I rolled my eyes at her sly grin. Even toasted she was cracking jokes. Despite the ridiculousness of it all, the longing glances and lingering touches finally had an answer, and at the end of that tunnel was a possible orgasm. Not to mention the fact that I had always thought Ellie was insanely too hot for her own good. Without much more thought, I quickly leaned in and had my lips smashed against hers.

[bonny-kookoo]

Yoongi:

Lock Me Up | Intro/Part 1

In which his job is pretty clear on paper; find the witness, bring her in, write down what she saw and then let the witness protection program handle the rest. The only problem: You've got other plans.

Tags/Warnings: Detective Agust D my friends, Criminal Kitty!Reader, hybrid Yoongi, mentions of murder, mentions of violence, mentions of blood, mentions of past abuse, strangers to enemies to I don't even know, sexual tension

Length: Long, 4k words

Next ->

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"So, just her then?" He asks, reading the files about his most recent case. "Double homicide, and she got away?" He wonders, as the young officer shrugs at the table.

"According to another witness, she saw her run out of the house we found the victims in, and she apparently got chased down the street- but a butcher downtown told a patrolling officer that she was fine the day after." He explains, making Yoongi sigh.

"Well, finding a cat in D-Town." The man takes the files for himself, grabbing his coat. "How hard can it be?"

Turns out, it's not that hard at all, considering the high percentage of hybrid population in D-Town.

He's walking into the small restaurant, most of the people eating and working being hybrids, immediately looking at him with suspicion as all conversation quiets down. He's used to it by now, most hybrids aware of what he is, his reputation amongst each and every one of them one of a traitor. "I'm searching for a female hybrid. Feline." Yoongi asks one of the servers behind the counter, cooks turning around to watch the detective. "Has a ID number tattooed into her left ear. 0713." He offers an image depicting you caught by the security camera of a small grocery shop nearby.

But much to his expectation, everyone shrugs, shakes their heads, won't tell him anything. It's a typical pack-mentality amongst hybrids- no matter what, they stick together against the human dominated police force.

"Alright, let's ask for your papers then. Mind me having a look at all the legal documents for your little establishment?" He melodically threatens, and it's clear that it makes the young server and her husband close by nervous, her eyes immediately looking at two young twin hybrids watching a cartoon on an old CRT-TV. "She's.. upstairs. She didn't do anything, she's a good girl-!" The woman begs, yells after the detective as he immediately makes his way up the stairs, only her husband holding her back.

The moment Yoongi opens the door to what he assumes might be a bedroom though, you're clearly there-

Jumping straight out of a window.

"Fuck.!" He calls out, running back downstairs to run after you, whole restaurant laughing and cheering for you as you dash away from the detective, heels clicking on the pavement as you run away. He has to admit that he's a little impressed by your ability to jump over obstacles and run so fast with those mary janes, though it's clear after a while that he's got the better stamina of the both of you. He's catching up to you.

But you're clearly already very knowledgeable in police chases, because you suddenly jump up against a wall of a small building, managing to somehow heave your entire body up the ledge to get onto the roof.

"So what now, huh?!" He calls out to you, breathing heavily just like you are. "One call and I've got the fucking thing surrounded. Just get down, I'm here- fuck.." He breathes for a second, before catching his composure again. "-I'm not here to arrest you."

"Hmm.. nah, I'm good." You simply answer, sitting close to the edge of the roof now.

"That wasn't a question." He calls out back up to you, one brow raised in annoyance. "Get down."

"No." You simply answer stubbornly, your tail swaying from left to right behind you, since you've moved to lay on your stomach instead, arms on the edge of the rooftop, chin resting on top of them.

"Alright. Hybrid 0713, you're under temporary arrest for suspicion of involvement in a double homicide case." He orders out to you. "Now get down here-"

"Does that ever work on anybody?" You ask after a moment of silence with an almost bored tone to your voice, face clearly showing genuine interest in the answer though.

He licks his lips, hands now in his pockets. "Not really if I'm honest." He shrugs honestly, making you giggle. "Come on now, I seriously only need you for questioning, I don't care about any other shit you've done."

"How about you buy me dinner first?" You ask, rolling over onto your back, now looking at him upside down, and he's unsure if you're aware of your cleavage ready to spill out of your dress, or if you're trying to put him under your spell.

With eyes as enchanting like yours, he could see it work if the setting was different. Wait- what the hell was he thinking?

"Are you serious?" He growls. "You're not in any place to make demands." He argues, and you shrug at that, before getting up to leave, moving out of sight. "Hey-!" He calls out, walking around the small shed you've climbed up on, unable to spot you. "I'm not getting paid enough for this shit.." He mumbles as he moves a trashcan closer to the side of the building, slowly climbing up onto the roof- to find nothing.

"I'll give it an eight out of ten, but only cause you've got a nice ass, Mister Detective-" You giggle behind him down on the floor, before you laugh. "See you later, Imposter!" You laugh as you run off-

leaving him sighing on the rooftop, questioning his life choices.

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Every day you're out there on your own, is a day where you run the chance of getting yourself killed. And while he's got no emotional connection to you at all, you're still an important witness to his case- so he's got to make sure he can avoid you biting the dust anytime soon.

He spots you near an old fountain that's now worked for years, but still holds water, back turned towards him. From the movement of your ears and the way your tail snaps upwards once, you've clearly notice him already though. "Don't worry-" You chuckle, moving around as he walks closer. "-Won't run off this time." You say, as he's finally close enough to see what you're doing.

The side of one of your legs is severely scratched up, from your ankle straight up to almost your thigh. You're using the water to wash off any dirt, shoes and socks neatly placed next to you. "What happened?" He asks, and you shrug, calmly cleaning yourself as he sits down next to you with a respectful distance.

"Tripped. Fell." You shrug, and it's clear to him that you're not telling him the whole story. Even so, he doesn't need to know it- the only thing he needs to know, is what you've seen the night of the murder.

"We'll get that looked at at the police station." He offers, standing up, and you grin impishly, leaning your head back to look at him above you. "What?"

"You gonna carry me, Mister Detective?" You ask, tail swishing from left to right in your amusement.

"First of all, stop calling me that, second of all, why would I do that?" He asks, putting his hands in his pockets.

"I'm hurt!" You whine, turning around with your now wet legs, holding the scratched up one out towards him. "I can't walk." You say with big sparkling eyes, and he squints his own as an answer to them it feels like.

"It's just scratched, now dry off and put your shoes on." He demands, making you pout and cross your arms.

"No." You answer, and he has to take a deep breath to contain himself.

He's however, internally, a little confused at himself. Why does this whole thing amuse him so much? He's not so much angry or frustrated, but there's something entirely different brewing inside him. "Hm, that angry look doesn't work quite right with human eyes like that." You say, catching him off guard. "You'd have a way better chance without those fake lenses." You offer, and he doesn't react to it at all.

"Get up." He simply says, and you do so, limping on one foot. "Come on, drop the act now. I don't have all day for your games."

"We could already be on our way if you decided to be a gentleman, Mister Detective." You snap back, picking up your shoes and socks.

"I told you to stop calling me that." He bites at you, and you have the audacity to laugh.

"And I told you to carry me, but I guess we both won't get what we want today." You joke, before you're suddenly lifted up over his shoulder, one arm over the back of your knees to simultaneously keep your dress from lifting up by accident. "What are you doing!?" You stammer out now, and he can't help the smirk growing on his lips as he walks towards the police station.

"Being a gentleman, just like you wanted."

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"She definitely needs some sort of protection until we've found and arrested everyone involved." Another officer named Namjoon says. "She's already been targeted judging from her injuries. She's been lucky until now, but luck is a gamble. Until they've been prosecuted, we'll have to keep her under protective surveillance." Namjoon orders, before he looks at Yoongi.

"Absolutely fucking not." He immediately says, but it stays quiet.

There's no arguing with orders given, so he does ends up walking into the interrogation room, where he unlocks your handcuffs. "Oh, Mister Detective!" You perk up as you catch his scent, tail swatting into his face almost as he leans away from it. "Finally! I'm so hungry, I swear.." You whine, eagerly freeing your hands out of the cuffs before you get up, jumping on one leg as the other ankle had been put inside a brace since you've sprained it. "Can you carry me back to the restaurant downtown?" You wonder hopeful.

"You're not gonna go anywhere for a while." He tells you, moving your hair away from your neck. It's weird that the way his hands touch you makes you shiver a little- nervousness bubbling up inside you as he places the leather collar around your neck, something clicking in place in the back. "I'm legally required to inform you that you've been electronically tagged until you're no longer required to be. You'll be staying under both GPS surveillance and house arrest until the case has been officially closed or dropped, and the tag can be used at any given time to locate you or send out police enforcement to retrieve you in case it's deemed necessary. Did you understand everything I just said?" He asks, and you sigh, kicking out your feet stubbornly.

"…yeah.." You mumble with an attitude, pulling on the collar. "Can you loosen it a bit though? You're kind of choking me and I'm not really into that." You say, and he clicks his tongue.

"That's as much as I can do." He tells you after loosening it a little. "You'll get used to it."

"I guess." You snap with your eyes rolling, standing up. "So.. I'm gonna be locked up?" You ask, looking at him.

"You're just under house arrest, like I said." He shrugs. "Close monitoring is what they call it. I'll basically be forced to be your babysitter until the case is finished, but they'll let you stay at your own home unless decided otherwise." He explains, and you suddenly seem a lot more relieved about that.

"Alright I guess." You say, getting up to grab your shoes, still barefoot., before you lift up your arms towards him.

"What now." He asks with an emotionless face, hands in his pockets.

"I still can't walk." You say.

"You can hop around on that thing." He answers, turning around, before he opens the door- though you've sat back down on your chair, arms crossed.

"I don't wanna hop around." You simply say, looking at him challengingly. He pushes his tongue against the inside of his cheek- and you just know, if he did have cat ears, they'd be full force airplane-mode right now to visualize his growing frustration with you.

And you love it- because he's so stuck up in being professional that there's no way he'd ever act on whatever the hell he's thinking inside his head. He's probably used to getting his way, a macho and alpha-male who's deep down so insecure about being seen as a proper male that he-

Suddenly your world is upside-down again as he carries you over his shoulder yet again, and you kick your legs out in denial. "Hey no, that's not fair-!" You whine, tail swatting into his face before he grabs a hold of it in the palm of the hand belonging to the arm holding your legs. "-Let me down you suit-wearing di-"

"Better watch your mouth, sugar, or I'll have to charge you with disorderly conduct." He tells you, and you huff in frustration to yourself as you shut up at that, hanging limply off his shoulder as he walks out of the police station with you like this.

"You think Detective Min is going to be able to handle this on his own?" A young police officer wonders to the leading detective Kim, who just chuckles in his office as he watches the scene unfold.

"Oh, I'm not worried about him whatsoever." He simply says, grinning amused.

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It's in the middle of the night, when the small monitor on his wrist begins to buzz, waking him him from his sleep. He's squinting his eyes painfully against the bright light of the small screen, before he realizes what he's reading.

[TAG ALERT: SUSPICIOUS MOVEMENT DETECTED]

He's instantly on his feet, rushing to put on clothes and shoes before he rushes out his door and onto the streets, where he checks the monitor to know where he needs to go. The tag alert itself isn't something he's surprised about- he's expected you to start wandering around even with your little issue- but you're moving way faster than you should be capable of, indicating that there might be something terribly wrong.

In front of the restaurant you've been living at, the mother with her twin children is already standing outside, pointing down the street with one of her toddlers in her arms, making Yoongi immediately run to where she'd directed him to. There's drag marks on the ground, alarming him further as he starts to smell your fear and panic- fueling his instincts to get to you before anything could happen.

"Let go you crack-smoking rodent-!" He can hear you yell, loud commotion coming from down the street behind a closed grocery store- and it's at least a sign to him that you're still very much alive and kicking.

"Fucking bitch just bit me-!" Someone yells out, as Yoongi rounds the corner, gun drawn.

"D-Town police, hands up where I can fucking see them!" He yells, causing everyone to move and dash off, no shot of his landing to keep them there.

"Nice aim there, Mister Detective." You huff on the ground, rubbing the back of your head. "Thought you guys are trained with those things.." You mumble to yourself, as he walks closer to inspect any damage done to you.

"I'll ignore that comment for now." He says as he checks up on you. "What happened?"

"Broke in, took me from my nest, dragged me here like a bag of rice." You explain, as he lifts your head by your chin, thumb wiping your bottom lip where some blood can be seen. You know he's only trying to figure out if you're hurt or if it's not your blood, but it still affects you considering you're not used to be touched like that.

But another thing you notice, is his eyes- his entire appearance, in fact, as you reach out to move your hand through his hair.

"Hey, stop that.!" He barks out, but you've already done what you wanted to do.

"Huh." You simply hum. "Been wondering if you had anything hidden on your head."

"There's nothing to hide there." He growls almost, standing up instantly before he lifts you up by the back of your shirt. "Now come on. We'll get some of your shit from your place, and then you'll stay with me. I'm not taking anymore chances with you." He orders, and surprisingly, you don't question it, and don't even ask to be carried around, simply hopping alongside him for a while as you make your way down the street.

It's quiet, most people asleep at this point in this part of town, when he sighs, turning towards you to pick you up.

"Come here." He mumbles quietly, tapping his shoulders as he turns around and leans down for you to get onto his back. You silently accept the offer, letting him piggyback you to your home where you stay, and pack a small bag of things you deem necessary for your stay with the detective. He watches quietly from the sidelines as you say goodbye to the young cat hybrids, when he's spoken to from the sides.

"She's a good girl." The husband of the mother tells him. "Just shaped by the circumstances, you know? You bite others or get bitten, as simple as that." He explains.

"I'm not arresting her." Yoongi explains, and the man shakes his head.

"No, no, I know you don't." He exclaims. "But I know you guys always think of us as some sort of criminal bunch that don't follow the rules just to spite you, and we're not." He simply explains. "Just- ah, what does it matter to you I guess.." The man shakes his head, before he walks inside, leading his wife and kids into the safety of the restaurant-

while you walk out of it, ready to be carried away.

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Back at his place, you still haven't really said anything- making him suspicious, as he sits on the edge of his bed, having put up a mattress for you to sleep on close to him in case anything happened at night. "Who were those guys?" He asks, and you shrug, pulling out a rather worn down blanket from your plastic bag.

"Don't know." You answer. "Probably with Takehiko, if I had to make a guess." You shrug, before you pull out one small flower shaped pillow to sleep on- the man mentioned, Takehiko, being the prime suspect of the double homicide. He's well known for selling tampered drugs on the streets of D-Town, as well as blackmailing hybrids by threatening to report them to authorities to be taken into shelters.

Yoongi wants to question if you're alright- if everything's okay with you, but he doesn't. It doesn't concern him, it's none of his business, and the less he gets himself involved with you-

the better it will be for the both of you in the end.

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"Mister Detective!" You call out, and he turns around from his desk to find you rolling around on his carpet on the floor. "I'm bored." You whine, and he sighs, turning back around. "Mister De-"

"I swear to god if you call me that one more time, I'm gonna fucking gag you.!" He growls, turning back around again.

"Kinky." You wiggle your ears, and he takes a deep breath before he crosses his arms. "I'm still bored though."

"Go read something then, I'm here to protect you, not entertain you." He mumbles, before it grows quiet. It makes him turn around to notice you staring into nothingness, before you move to curl up on your mattress instead. It makes him wonder if you're always this stubborn if you don't get your way- or if there's something else going on you're just not telling him.

Either way, he doesn't care, and shouldn't, so he continues working on things he usually doesn't have time for during his workdays, while he assumes you sleep.

"Do you have a tail?" You ask out of a sudden, making him choke on his sip of water as he almost spits it out, cough interrupting him for a good moment.

"What the fuck!" He snarls out, setting down his glass as he wipes his mouth.

"So is that a no?" You wonder, and he shakes his head.

"No!" He says, grabbing tissues to wipe his desk down.

"No- no tail or no- yes tail-" You continue, but he cuts you off.

"No as in, none of your fucking business.!" He growls, clearly agitated at that question. "If your plan is to annoy the fuck out of me so someone else will supervise you, guess what, it's working great."

"Wasn't my intention, actually." You shrug, sitting up now. "Was just curious. You know- since you're clearly a cat too, but also not really. Confused me, that's all." You explain.

"Yeah well, you're not the first." He mumbles to himself, sitting back down at his desk.

"Does it confuse you too?" You ask, and he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Alright, what the fuck does it take for you to shut up?" He asks, looking at you, and you just smile.

"An answer would be cool." You simply say. "Look, I knew a cat hybrid a few years back and he had a super short tail, but he was a really nice guy! Smoked a lot of weed, but still." You explain, and he leans back in his seat, arms crossed defensively. "So?" You ask.

"I don't have one." He tells you.

"Liar." You squint your eyes, ears tilted towards him. "It's short, isn't it?" You ask almost teasingly, and he looks away at that, giving you the answer needed. "Hey, that's totally alright though, no shame in it! Or.." You tilt your head. "Is that why you hate hybrids so much?"

"I don't hate hybrids." He scoffs, shaking his head at you.

"Yeah right, as if it's pure chance that you're known for putting hybrids into shelters left and right." You huff, crossing your arms as well now.

"It's because you belong there if you do not have a legal guardian or permit for independent living." He argues. "I'm only trying to help you out. A shelter provides you food, a place to sleep, education-" He tries to explain, but you're visibly becoming defensive now.

"Oh yeah and don't forget how they hit you with whatever they've got on hand just because you knock over a glass full of juice at the dinner table!" You hiss, annoyed that he's talking about shelters like they're as holy as a church. "Or how they lock you in the shower with ice cold water after you've pissed yourself out of fear as a kitten because everyone just keeps shouting at you-!" You angrily say, and his features remain without any emotion as he realizes you're not just making up examples you might've heard.

Considering the details and the way you tremble saying those things, it's clear to him that you're talking about your experience in a shelter.

"But what is it to you." You suddenly shrug. "You go continue cosplaying as a human I guess." You mumble, turning around to hide under your blanket again, silence engulfing the room for a moment or two, before he gets up and moves around. You don't know what he's doing, and you honestly don't want to know. You also don't know what you thought blurting your childhood trauma out like that would bring you as a result- but that's how you are, and have always been. Impulsive, wild, a little hyperactive and too honest most of the time.

Suddenly, he's close to you, and you hiss in pure pettiness at him, before you stop in your tracks, watching him.

His face is as stoic as ever, sleeves of his shirt rolled up as he wraps a blanket around you, tucking another one into places, and you're confused. "I- what're you doing?" You ask, and he scoffs to himself.

"You're the hybrid, I honestly got no clue how to do this shit." He mumbles, sighing in defeat as he sits back with crossed legs, letting his hands fall into his lap in defeat.

"But you're a hybrid too." You ask confused, though he shakes his head.

"I'm a freak, there's no need to try and sugarcoat it." He shrugs. "Neither here nor there. I don't know what it's like to be put through the shit you might've been, since I never lived life from your perspective-" He explains, "-and I don't know what it's like to be a human either, since you can only hide so much." The detective explains, watching how you correct his admittedly poor attempt at nesting for you.

It's clear to you that he's trying to apologize for his assumptions without actually having to apologize- the detective is a lot easier to read than he might think he is.

"Yeah, I mean you kind of suck at being both, I won't lie." You say, making him look at you with harmless offense. "What? Your nesting sucks ass, and those contact lenses you constantly wear creep me out." You jab at him. "But!" You bark out, leaning closer to him, catching him off guard a little. "Seeing as we're kind of stuck together, I can give you a rundown on being a hybrid!"

"And why exactly would I want that?" He asks you monotonously, and you roll your eyes.

"Because you clearly got some major identity-issues going on?" You tell him as if it's obvious. "And I also clearly can't magically turn you 100% human out of nowhere."

"I don't have Identity-issues-" He argues, while you look at him with an unconvinced gaze, arms crossed.

"Mid-life-crisis then?" You ask, "You do look pretty old.." You mumble at him.

"I'm not old!" He hisses, and you grin suddenly, ears in airplane-mode while your tail swishes from side to side in happiness. "What?" He asks annoyed again.

"Your teeth." You notice, and he instantly closes his mouth, lips pressed firmly together at having them called out like that. "And you're also not wearing those creepy lenses." You continue to point out, tilting your head to the side. "Handsome, I like it." You comment, and for some reason, that's what forces him to stand up and move away from you, all while you fall onto your back, laughing loudly.

"Shut the fuck up and tell me what you want to eat for dinner instead."

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