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dotieeee · 5 months

Text

The Gamemaker's Apprentice

Level 4

Pairing: Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow x You, named!Reader

Overall Warnings:

NON-CON, DUB-CON, Dark!Young!Coriolanus Snow, Snow himself should be a warning, lots of blackmailing, gaslighting, manipulation, obsession, possesiveness, eventual forced marriage, eventual loss of virginity, breeding kink, canon-compliant major character death, reader is named but has no physical descriptions in the fic so one might also consider her an OC but in 2nd POV, will have canon inconsistencies, and other stuff that may be added

Masterlist

Level 4 Warnings:

Snow being a manipulative and gaslighting creep, shady deals done behind your back, things begin escalating here!!!

Replay Level 3

Ready? Level 4 Start:

The doorbell to your apartment rings just as you’re setting the table for three. You get the door, and true enough, your only guest for tonight waits on the other side, carrying a box wrapped in a scarlet bow on one hand and a large bouquet of red roses on the other.

He hands the flowers to you as you invite him in and take his coat.

“These are lovely, thank you,” you beam at him. You bask in the aroma of the fresh flowers, but Coryo’s nose seems to focus on something different.

“Pasta, and garlic bread? It smells wonderful,” he compliments. He hands you the box, which you assume is cake, and asks, “Where shall I…?”

“I’ll put that in the fridge and put these – ” you gesture at the flowers – “In a vase. Take a seat and I’ll get you a drink. Any preference?”

He gracefully sits on the sofa and, giving you a warm smile, he replies, “Just tea, please.”

You hear the oven ding in the kitchen, followed by a shout from your uncle, who seems to be in his office.

“Plumcake, can you take the garlic bread out of the oven, please?”

“‘Plumcake?’” Coryo asks with a teasing grin. “I’ve never heard of that before.”

“It’s just a nickname,” you reply a little more defensively than you mean to. “I’ll get you the tea in a moment.”

“I’ll help,” he says. You try to get him to stay put, but he’s already following you into the kitchen.

He helps with the garlic bread, and as he’s removing the gloves, he says, “Can I call you that?”

To say you’re mortified is an understatement. “Please, no.”

“Why not?” He gives you a wide-eyed innocent look as he accepts his tea. “It makes perfect sense; your name already gives it away.”

But your Uncle Cas chooses that moment to enter the kitchen.

“Sorry about that, plumcake, I – oh.”

“Uncle, this is Coriolanus,” you begin introducing the two. “I know you’ve already met, but I might as well. Coryo, meet my Uncle Cas.”

Your uncle puts on a pleasant smile and greets your guest. “Coriolanus! I’m glad you could join us.”

Coryo’s posture straightens as he extends his hand and addresses him formally. “Mr Innis. Thank you for having me, pleasure’s all mine.”

Uncle Cas shakes his hand and declares, “So, who’s hungry?”

Dinner begins without any hitches, and the conversation in between is lighthearted. Coryo is just as charming as always, and your uncle is just as delightful a host.

“This is delicious, Mr Innis,” Coryo praises, referring to the pasta.

Your uncle, seated at the head of the table, brushes it off with a laugh. “If I cooked that, you’d be on the floor by now, heaving and having seizures. That’s Nellie’s, although I take full credit for the sourdough bread.”

Coryo turns to you from across the table with a grin. “One learns something new every day. Are there any more talents you’re keeping hidden from me?”

“Oh no, this isn’t a talent: it’s survival. Otherwise, my uncle’s cooking would’ve poisoned me,” you shoot your uncle a pointed look, before turning back to your friend. “And I wouldn’t have made it past the age of seven. But I’m glad you like it.”

“I do. I have not had a home-cooked meal in a while since I moved out from Corso I, and it felt a tad too excessive to hire a cook with me being out for most of the day,” Coryo admits.

His moving out is news to you. “Wait. You moved out? Since when? And where?”

“A month ago, to a new building near the University and the Citadel. It’s a wonderful place, I have it all to myself – an albeit late gift from Mr Plinth for my twentieth birthday. But I’m still trying to settle in.”

“Oh, but that’s nice, still!” you say, before biting into a piece of garlic bread. “You get the place to yourself, practice your independence, and all – ”

“Nellie, I know it’s your birthday and you can perfectly take care of yourself, but I’m not buying you an apartment,” your uncle interrupts flatly.

“What, I didn’t say anything!”

The pasta is eventually cleared up, making way to dessert. When you take out the cake from the fridge and out of the box, you gasp audibly.

Coryo bought you your favourite cake flavour: chocolate cherry.

You gape at him and ask, “How did you know?”

But he just flashes a mischievous look at you. “I’ll never tell.”

After all of you get each other’s fill of the cake – the most delicious of its kind you’ve ever had – your uncle volunteers to clear the table so you and your friend can move to the living room to talk. You decide to bring out the only bottle of wine you have in the pantry.

“No maids tonight?” Coryo questions, setting down the bottle on the coffee table and pouring the red liquid halfway through your tall glass.

“We have two in shifts; they alternate each morning. Uncle decided a long time ago to not hire stay-at-home maids, or a cook, so we could both learn a little responsibility.”

“Hmm. And he doesn’t drink?”

You shake your head as you sip. “No. He’s been sober since I can remember.” You put down your glass with pursed lips.

Coryo’s lips are upturned as he observes you through the rim of his glass. “You don’t drink either, from the looks of it.”

You grin dryly in admittance. You watch as he takes another sip before his expression shifts to excitement.

“I have been meaning to give you this all night.” He takes out a tiny, velvet box from inside his waistcoat pocket. “Your birthday gift,” he whispers.

Too stunned to speak, you gulp lightly when you take it.

“Open it,” he urges.

You flip the lid to reveal a plum-coloured, tear-drop-shaped diamond charm attached to what looks like a fine, white gold chain necklace. Your jaw drops at its sheer elegance. Judging by his look, he’s extremely pleased at your reaction.

“See? ‘Plumcake’ is fitting. Or...how about ‘sugarplum?’ That way, only I get to use it.”

His use of pet names even fails to faze you. “Coryo, this is too much...” you begin, but he just shushes you with a finger to your lips.

His eyes are half-lidded, glinting in the dim lighting, his tone hushed as he says, “Turn around so I can put it on you.”

You do as he says, only because that stare of his unnerved you a little.

His fingertips graze your collarbone as he gathers your hair to the side. You feel the weight of the diamond necklace around your neck: cold, heavy, a little stifling, just like his proximity. His hands finish with the clasp of the necklace, but they remain on your shoulders.

You’re overreacting, you tell yourself.

You almost jump as you feel warm breath brush against your earlobe, and his voice, an octave lower, whispers, “Happy birthday, plumcake.”

You get a sudden urge not to turn around.

In an attempt to break the tension, you lightly joke, “Call me that one more time and I’ll put poison in your tea.”

But his lips brush against your hair this time, and he lets out a breathy laugh that tickles the shell of your ear. “For you, sugarplum, I’d drink it in a heartbeat and ask for seconds.”

Goosebumps erupt on your arm as you feel his fingertips ghost over your back when he releases your shoulders.

“Hmm. I like the sound of that better.”

A pause ensues, but all you can hear is your thrumming pulse, accelerating when you hear his next request:

“Turn back around so I can see you wearing it.”

You breathe sharply and steel yourself to comply.

There’s an odd glint in his gaze that chills you, except you’re not sure what it is or why you’re frozen in place with it. The corner of Coryo’s mouth lifts, he strokes your jaw and lifts your chin while a forefinger traces a line on your cheek. Your lower lip trembles every so slightly.

“My pretty little sugarplum.”

He releases you in the blink of an eye, his smile once more broad and friendly, just as your uncle walks into the living room to declare he’s finished cleaning up.

It’s nothing, you assure yourself.

You’re desperate to change the subject, so you ask your friend if he wants to take home some of the leftover pasta which he gratefully accepts.

“That way, I’ll have something you made for breakfast,” he says.

When you hand him the glass container filled with the food, he addresses your uncle, who’s quietly leaning against the kitchen entryway watching the two of you.

“I have to confess: I actually have a bit of an ulterior motive for coming over, Mr Innis.”

“Oh?”

“The Plinths, specifically Mr Plinth, want to invite you and Nellie for dinner this Sunday. I suspect Mr Plinth wants to make a proposal that will benefit his business and yours.”

Your uncle’s expression lights up, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s two days from now. I wonder what it could be about. Any chance he’s elaborated?” he asks.

Coryo just smiles apologetically and responds, “I’m afraid that’s the extent of what I was told. Their new home is just a floor below ours at Corso I, and the dinner is at seven, if you choose to accept.”

Uncle Cas nods thoughtfully. “Alright. Tell Strabo we’ll be there. Should we bring anything?”

“They will take care of everything, Mr Innis, don’t you worry.”

Your friend, thanking you both for dinner and wishing you once more a happy birthday, shakes your uncle’s hand and finally bids farewell for the night.

Relief takes over your form the moment you close the door behind him.

“Nellie.”

You glance at your uncle with tired, heavy eyes. He gives you a concerned once-over.

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly, placing both his hands on your shoulder. His stare lands on the necklace you’re still wearing, his eyes narrowing at it, before flicking back to yours.

Did he see... anything in the living room before he walked in?

“Yeah,” you say. You immediately regret how unconvinced you sound. “I’m just tired, uncle. Are we really going to the Plinths?”

“Do we have a reason not to?”

You chew on the insides of your cheek, unable to come up with an answer. You doubt he’d believe it if you say, ‘I just don’t feel right about it.’

Uncle Cas observes you with his hands in his pocket, but he lets out a drawn-out exhale. “We’ll go, but we’ll leave when things get uncomfortable, okay? Get some sleep.”

You hadn’t originally planned on enrolling for summer classes, but you figure you need the distraction, and the extra credits can’t hurt.

No matter what you do, however, no matter how much work you take on yourself in your uncle’s private lab, you can’t seem to get your mind off your friend’s peculiar behaviour towards you after dinner. Perhaps it was all just a friendly gesture to him, and he meant nothing by it; you just misread the whole situation. Maybe you could pin it to booze, but as far as you can remember, he had barely finished half a glass then. Whatever it was, it still leaves you perturbed every time you think about it. And what’s worse is you don’t know why you feel that way.

Thankfully, you don’t see a single platinum-blond hair of Coriolanus Snow for the next two days; so far, he’s only had coffee and some of your favourite pastries delivered to the Uni’s private lab. How he found out you’re there, you don’t want to know. After you finish enrolling in the subjects you felt you needed, you bury yourself in your code work, unsure how you’re going to face a lousy two or three hours sitting down with the family of the dead man you love and the friend whose recent actions have increasingly confused and unsettled you.

And then, there’s Ma Plinth. You have not had a chance to even talk to her or ask her how she’s been since Sejanus’s death. She’s still obviously devastated, that much you know. If she ever finds out about your feelings for her son, or that you have not gotten over him after all this time, who knows what she’ll do or say? Who knows what kind of grief could resurface if she starts talking to you about him?

Just that thought alone makes you dread the dinner with the Plinths all the more.

Saturday arrives without much fanfare, but your misgivings increase tenfold.

“Uncle Cas, do I really have to be there?” you grumble as you adjust your black dress and your hair tie for the umpteenth time. “Coriolanus said it’s a business proposal, I might not even be needed.”

You find your uncle in the living room waiting for you with a deadpan smile.

“Welcome to adulthood, plumcake, where half the places you go to are places you don’t even want to be in.”

You shoot him a half-hearted glare, but he just laughs.

“That’s the spirit.”

You can’t help but pout. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“What are you talking about? I’m the epitome of misery.”

You don’t have to walk that far, seeing as the new Plinth home is just directly across, located in the most luxurious of the Corso buildings. You and your uncle are greeted by a jovial Strabo Plinth with Coriolanus in tow looking like his usual charming self. You greet Sir Plinth politely.

“Ah, the Innis princess! My, you’ve grown into a fine, young woman, Prunella Innis,” he praises. He then addresses the young man behind him. “Coriolanus, see to it that Nellie is taken care of, will you?”

With his arms behind his back, he nods with a smile. “Yes sir, I will.”

Satisfied, Plinth senior turns his attention back to your Uncle Cas, saying, “Why don’t we leave the kids to talk, Acacius? I heard of Innis Tech’s recent CapNet acquisition…”

The two older adults walk away in deep conversation about business, leaving you alone with your friend. You try to avoid eye contact with him, but you can’t keep from brushing past him as you cross the foyer.

“You look pretty,” he leans closer to your ear as you walk by. You mutter your thanks, intending to get as far away from him as the Plinth apartment can afford you, only to be blocked by the arm he places in front of you to keep you in place.

“Nellie, is something wrong?”

He sidesteps to fully face you. You cross your arms and stare right at his collar just so you can keep from looking into those blue orbs.

“Did I say or do something to hurt you?”

“No, I – ”

“Then, what is it? Why are you upset?”

You bite your lower lip, unsure what to tell him. What exactly are you upset about?

“It’s nothing,” you whisper.

“There is clearly something that’s making you unhappy. You can tell me what that is.”

“I said it’s nothi – ”

“Nellie, you’re pushing me away again.”

The obvious hurt in his voice makes you look up at him. “I don’t mean to,” you admit. You could never intentionally hurt him.

“Then what is this about? Is this about that night at your place?” He dips his head further when you avert your gaze. With a finger, he lifts your chin, making you observe his reproachful expression. “Whatever I did, whatever I said, I did because I like you. I like your company; I like being around you. I’ve always felt I could be more open to you compared to everyone else. You’re different that way, Nellie. Is it so bad to want to give a person I like a gift on her birthday?”

Of course not. Is it possible that your head got in the way of your friendship again? Feeling sheepish, you begin explaining yourself. “No, I’m sorry, I’m being foolish. I don’t know why I’m reacting this way. I should be thankful for your gift, Coryo.”

Your friend’s expression softens considerably.

“I’m sorry.”

He kisses your hair gently and flashes you a smile when he pulls away. “All is forgiven, sugarplum. I can never stay upset at you.”

You simply misinterpreted his actions. Right?

Maybe that is what happened. Before you can mull over your feelings, however, Ma Plinth enters the foyer, and with an audible gasp, she makes a beeline towards you. You take a small, backward step between you and your friend, a little embarrassed that you’ve been caught so close to each other by no less than Sejanus’s mother. You think you saw Coryo’s jaw tick at the distance, but Ma encases you in an affectionate embrace and his features are once more genial.

What is it they said about seeing things you’re expecting to see? You’re being unfair to him again.

You hug the mother of the man you loved just as fondly, hoping you can convey everything you want to say to her with just a single touch. She releases you, beaming with pure joy as she lifts your chin with both palms. “My dear Nellie, look at you, you look even prettier than the last time I saw you. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you. You don’t come by anymore.”

You flash her a contrite smile, regretting not keeping in touch with her. Even after all those times, she still greets you the same way. Unable to think of anything else to say, you settle with, “You look well, Ma. Thank you for having us tonight. I’m sorry, I promise I’ll come visit you more.”

She waves a dismissive hand and takes you by the arm.

“Oh, dear, I understand. Coriolanus talks about you all the time, and he’s been relaying how busy you’ve been under your uncle’s tutelage. He’s told me you work in the same position as he does. Acacius must be so proud.”

“Well, I have to admit; Coryo has had significantly more success in the field than I have.”

Your friend glows at your compliment as he steps beside you and Ma. “Don’t sell yourself short, my dear Nellie. I’m sure you’ve made great progress in your own right,” he says as he places his hand on your arm.

You let her lead you away to a lounge where you’re served tea by a maid. Ma leads the conversation, settling for a recipe that she thinks you might like to try. Coryo just observes the entire time, chiming in when necessary. A little while later, another maid announces dinner time, and you follow Ma to the dining room, your friend trailing behind. Plinth senior pulls up the chair to his right for his wife, before taking his seat at the head of the table. Coryo also pulls up the chair beside Ma’s for you and takes the seat directly across from you.

Strabo flashes him a look of pride. “It’s the important women in our lives who have to be served the most.”

You decide to completely ignore this comment and just smile politely.

Dinner is served in several dishes by several maids, with everyone, especially your uncle, praising Ma’s spectacular cooking. Lighthearted conversation ensues about the Plinth and Innis seniors’ work, followed by yours and Coryo’s, which of course veer into the Hunger Games.

Again, you smile politely throughout the conversation, wishing the night is over and you’re back at home swathed in blankets and dozing off.

Eventually, the torture subsides with dessert – a perfectly crafted panna cotta courtesy of Ma – and Strabo formally requests a private audience with your Uncle Cas and takes your friend with him.

You’re left sitting beside Ma on the couch back in the lounge where you had tea earlier.

“Bring me the magazines while you’re at it,” she tells the maid serving you another cup of tea.

The magazines turn out to be a pile of bridal catalogues – Panem’s most stylish wedding gowns and bridesmaids’ collectionsn plus some of the most extravagant, highly in demand wedding plans in high society – an appalling treasure-trove of overpriced matrimonial junk only to be used once and then promptly discarded as soon as the magic is over.

“I have always loved this part,” Ma tells you excitedly as she flips the latest edition magazine open. “Nellie, do tell me what you think of this theme.”

She extends the catalogue for you to see – a lavender and pastel-green-themed set of table decor adorned with fresh lavender flowers, baby’s breath, and other greens.

“It’s pretty, Ma,” you say. It’s true. But why is she showing you this?

She exclaims ‘Ooh!’ at another one she finds – this time, a shade of atrocious pink and alien-puke green – which she shows with just as much gusto. She shows you several more, before declaring – more to herself than to you – that shades of dark red might be the way to go.

Just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, she gets to the bridal gowns section.

Either she’s getting remarried, or she’s officially gone loopy.

“Ma, you seem keen on planning this wedding. Is this for a friend of yours?” you ask her after she shows you the seventh gown.

She waves her hand and says vaguely, “Oh dear, it’s for family. It hasn’t been confirmed yet, but I suppose it’s only a matter of time.”

Eventually, Ma sighs dreamily, relaxing on the couch and sipping her tea. She goes quiet for a few moments before abruptly addressing you, making you almost jump in your seat.

“You know, Nellie, dear, between you and me, I’ve always thought Sejanus had taken a...special liking to you.”

And there it is. The one conversation with her you had been trying avoid.

She senses absolutely nothing of your reluctance to discuss anything to do with her son.

“He would never admit it to me, but I could tell,” she continues. “He would always get nervous about having you over for your school projects. He would suddenly be very nit-picky with the food and he would fuss over the clothes he’s wearing...”

She trails off, her eyes glistening with moisture. You may have lost your first love, but she lost her only son. Your heart squeezes at the thought of her suffering quietly while everyone around her seems to have moved on.

You hold the hands she has folded on her lap and confess.

“I’m so sorry, Ma. I wish I had come by more often after...” You inhale sharply to avoid saying it out loud. “I loved your son, I want you to know that. I love him to this day. I promise I’ll be around more, it’s the least I could do.”

Sejanus would be so disappointed in you for waiting so long to say this to his mother.

She tears up at your words and pulls you in for a hug.

“My dear girl, there is nothing to be sorry for. I knew you were hurting, too. I’m glad my son had you in his life.” She pulls away and lifts your chin, flashing you a wet smile. You shed your own tears, but her warmth is so comforting you can’t help but smile too.

She’s almost as warm as him.

“And now, my other son has you in his life, and for that I’m grateful,” she adds.

What?

You blink twice to make sure you heard correctly.

She goes back to her tea once more as she wipes her eyes with a handkerchief.

“I worry constantly about him, with him moving out and living independently. I suppose there was nothing I could have done; Coriolanus had always been adamant about chasing after his dreams that way. But now that he has you, I can worry less.”

Oh no. She can’t be thinking that you and Coriolanus are together, can she?

“Uh, Ma, there’s – ”

Somewhere in the lush apartment, a door bursts open, indicating the end of the conversation between the men.

“Ah, Nellie! There you are.”

Uncle Cas enters the lounge with a breezy smile. But something’s off, you can tell. You know your uncle well and long enough to figure out that he isn’t in the best mood. He tilts his head imperceptibly at you, indicating his want to leave.

Oh, he’s pissed.

“Thank you for having Nellie and me, Mrs Plinth,” he addresses the Plinth matriarch with a kind smile as you get to your feet. “I’d love to stay a little while longer, but I have early summer classes to attend tomorrow, and Nellie has to help me with the preparations.”

A carefree Plinth senior makes his appearance in the lounge with an unreadable Coriolanus following behind him.

Your friend’s eyes, however, are nothing but enraged.

What the fuck happened in there?

“Strabo, by your leave,” your uncle says with a tip of his head. “Thank you, you three, for a wonderful meal.”

Mr Plinth nods with a wide smile. “You are welcome anytime, Acacius. Again, if you change your mind, we are more than willing to re-discuss our terms.”

“Of course.”

You take your turn thanking Mr and Mrs Plinth and bid your friend a good night. His eyes relax visibly as he returns your farewell.

And just like that, you find yourselves out of their home and back into yours. In one piece, safe and sound.

Uncle Cas plops down onto the living room sofa with a groan of exhaustion.

“That was...eventful,” you say.

“Yeah, no kidding,” he murmurs to himself while he stares at the ceiling.

You take the empty couch next to the sofa.

“You lied to them. You don’t have a summer class, not until Thursday.”

“Eh. They don’t know that.”

You wonder what would make your uncle want to leave like that when the Plinths hosted you so graciously. “Uncle? How’d the business proposal go?”

He sighs, removing his shoes, as he debates within himself. “It went...as well as you’d hope.”

You narrow your eyes in confusion. “And...?”

He gets up with a flat smile and walks off to his bedroom, presumably to deposit his shoes. You follow him, wondering why he’s stalling. You lean against his bedroom doorway with your arms crossed.

“And I ultimately decided that their values don’t align with mine and I declined the proposal,” he says. “Happy? Now go to bed. Whether I have a class or not, those class guides aren’t going to print themselves tomorrow. They may need a certain apprentice of mine to get them printed, sorted, and stapled.”

You ignore the reminder of more work in favour of extracting more information. “Your values don’t align,” you insist. “Which is business talk for ‘we’ve nothing in common that we’re practically enemies, and it will never work out, so I told them to fuck off.’”

He gives you a pointed look as he exits his room. “Language, plumcake. But yes, essentially.”

You follow him to his office, where he turns on his computer and begins typing furiously at a program you’re not familiar with.

“Uncle Cas, did you just make enemies out of the Plinths?”

“Nah, I’m sure they don’t see it that way. On the other hand...” he trails off and doesn’t add anything more, leaving you hanging and all the more confounded.

You finally give up. If he wants to be this secretive about it, fine. “Thanks for an enlightening exchange. Good night, uncle.”

He just hums in acknowledgement. You turn to exit his office, but he calls your name at the last minute.

“Nellie? About Snow...”

Oh no. He, too, can’t be thinking you and your friend are together, can he?

“What about him?”

“You know what, never mind,” he dismisses. “There’s an envelope on my desk at the University lab that I’d like you to bring to Dr Kay tomorrow. At the Citadel.”

Now, this stumps you. Your uncle made you a promise he’d never make you work there. “Why now?”

“Dr Kay needs it. She’s been pestering me about it for days. She wears those ridiculously large pink glasses, she’s not hard to miss.” As if he reads the dread on your face, he adds, “It’s not going to take you long. Bring it to her, and then you can leave, go back to the University, and print those class guides.”

You nod, however reluctantly.

“Nellie? I need you to listen carefully. There’s a reason why I gave you my word never to bring you to the Citadel, despite being my official apprentice. Lingering inside that place can get you in trouble.”

Your uncle’s serious warning stays with you when you finally get to bed, and it’s the first thing you recall when you wake. He’s gone, presumably to his work at the Citadel, so you do as you’re told. You make a quick way of retrieving the typical-looking envelope before you ask the driver to take you to the place you’d never thought you’d ever enter.

The car isn’t allowed beyond the gates, so you approach the Peacekeeper station on foot, where you through retina scanning. They probably would’ve confiscated your bag if you brought it with you. One of them makes a move to take the envelope, but you take a step back.

“Acacius Innis wants me to give this to Dr Kay. I’m assuming it’s top secret,” you defend.

He nods in understanding and beckons you to follow. With your escort, you trudge down a long, empty grey hallway.

There’s a certain special kind of relationship that the Capitol has with Brutalist architecture. Brutalism was designed to be cold, imposing, and utilitarian. It has beauty, you suppose, but the type of beauty that’s distant, almost desolate, and unforgiving.

The elevator takes you deep underground, eventually opening its doors to a bright open space, strewn with long, white tables, and high ceilings covered in what look like glass panels. You exit, turning to the peacekeeper to ask for directions, but the elevator door closes behind you.

Maybe you could’ve asked your uncle for a map in hindsight.

Moving along the path to your right, you get a closer look at the glass panels to discover they’re actually cages.

Cages upon cages, stacked sky-high, containing a slew of creatures, some genetically altered beyond recognition.

Lingering inside that place can get you in trouble.

As your uncle’s words echo in your head, you walk quickly, averting your gaze from the glass cages and doubling your motivation to find this Dr Kay. You meet no other human being as you tread aimlessly, and soon enough it becomes harder and harder to navigate the seemingly endless rows of glass cages without at least peeking at them, or risk going around in circles. Eventually, you find yourself in a section labelled ‘Aviary,’ surrounded by cages filled with nothing but winged creatures of all sizes and shapes, cooing and caw-ing in sickening discordance. You walk several more steps before you hear a voice.

“Fetch the doughnuts.”

Finally, a person!

“Hello?” you call out. You hear someone echo it. You call out again, walking in the direction of the sound. “Excuse me?”

“Excuse me?”

It echoes again, this time sounding more familiar.

“Excuse me? Excuse me?” The voice repeats. And then it clicks: the voice is familiar because it’s yours, and it’s coming from a cage to your left.

Jabberjays. Of course.

The plumage is unmistakable from the books you’ve read. Sleek black feathers, morphing to bluish-purple at the base of its neck.

Eventually, the others catch on, and in a few seconds, all you can hear is the maddening sound of your own confusion being repeated a hundred-fold. You clutch the envelope close, having a half-mind to just come back later when you hear a pair of heels catching up on you.

“Wait, are you Acacius Innis’s niece?”

You turn around to find yourself face to face with a woman wearing pink glasses too big for her face.

“Dr Kay!” You sigh in relief.

“Come with me over there, it’s much quieter.”

Glad to finally be away from the birds, you’re quick to fall into step with her, only stopping when you reach a table stacked to the edge with documents and envelopes not unlike the one you’re holding.

“Your uncle told me he’d have you bring the papers over?”

You nod and hand it over.

“They’re quite unnerving, huh?” she says with a smile, referring to the jabberjays.

Sheepishly, you laugh. That’s an understatement; they’d make perfect devices for psychological torture. “Yes, a bit. How did you get that many?”

“We had them flown from District 12, actually. It took a joint effort of peacekeepers to gather them.”

This information piques your interest. Coryo was stationed in District 12 as a peacekeeper. Maybe be rounded off a few of them.

“When did they get here, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Uh, September four, if I remember correctly,” she says absently as she struggles with opening the envelope. “...because we had to quarantine them from the rest of the birds, one of them died the day after they arrived. It kick-started a vaccination campaign in the entire Genetics department.”

September four. Two days before Sejanus was executed.

A wave of ice-cold realisation hits you.

“The jabberjays...they can record human voices with a remote, right?” you ask, masking your suspicion with curiosity.

“Yes, if they’re on ‘record,’ otherwise they’d mimic pretty much any sound they fancy.”

Determined to seek answers, you press on, carefully choosing your words. “It’s surprising how they still function so well after all those years...”

Dr Kay smiles warmly at you. “You Innises...so naturally inquisitive. Your uncle is the same, you know. We’ve worked on a handful of projects together before...but yes. Some of the peacekeepers even tested them out before they were sent here. You know, I was wondering when your uncle would bring you around, you’re his apprentice, right?”

“Oh, he occupies me with administrative stuff at school.” Your reply becomes automatic, your mind running on overdrive. Like an algorithm being fed with new information to process.

“Yeah, that sounds like your uncle, alright.” She finally succeeds with prying the files out of the envelope, but you’re only vaguely taking this in. “There must be a mistake, these are test papers for Advanced Trigonometry.”

“Huh? I’m sorry, I must’ve grabbed the wrong files...” Your eyes glaze over the papers as you try to calm your inner turmoil.

A peacekeeper ratted Sejanus out.

As soon as you come to a terrifying conclusion, it’s all your mind could run.

“Nellie! There you are, I just knew you’d get lost.”

Your uncle breaks you from your trancelike state. Addressing Dr Kay, he says, “I had the files all along, I totally forgot I wedged them hastily yesterday inside my briefcase.” He hands the female doctor a similar-looking envelope.

“They really should label these...” Dr Kay mutters.

“So sorry, plumcake. Here. For your trouble.”

Uncle Cas digs into his lab pocket and hands you a lollipop.

You have to get your shit together.

You inspect the candy as you take it, noting how it’s melted in its plastic wrapper and has lint sticking all over it.

“Does the Citadel know you’re casually carrying around a level three biohazard in your lab pocket? How long has this thing been in there?” you joke. Dr Kay’s laughter echoes through the glass-cage-laden hall.

“Try it and then let me know. If you get hives after, we’ll chalk it up to science,” he says just as cheekily. “Run along now. I’ll walk you to the upper level, you might get lost again.”

“Good to know she has your sense of humour,” Dr Kay comments lightly.

Your uncle takes you by the shoulder and guides you to the elevator. “You know what, go straight home, Nellie. Take the day off. The class guides can wait until tomorrow.”

Safe with your uncle inside the elevator, you finally had time to piece together in your head the information you had accidentally stumbled upon.

A peacekeeper must’ve recorded Sejanus on a confession using a jabberjay. It’s not a coincidence only one of them died after the birds got to the Citadel. Whoever killed the bird knew who betrayed your friend and ultimately got him killed, and they did it to cover their tracks.

Coriolanus most likely rubbed shoulders with them, too, and he doesn’t even know it.

The elevator takes you to the top floor with a ding. Uncle Cas escorts you to the gates, but before he takes his leave of you, he casually leans closer so only you can hear what he says:

“Whatever you found out in there, plan your next move wisely.”

With a final strange look, he turns away and disappears inside the building.

Another less outlandish idea crosses your mind: maybe your uncle didn’t forget about the file. He planned your trip to the Citadel on purpose.

Did Acacius Innis just lead you to unearth the truth about Sejanus’s death?

You understand why, but the timing...why now?

You decide to take your uncle’s advice and head straight home – your brain possesses too little processing power to run that much information at once. Like a microprocessing chip that’s overheating and about to crash, running a program that’s too big for its capacity.

Once home, you head straight to the kitchen in a trance. You take out a pint of ice cream from the freezer, and without even sitting down, you demolish it in one go as you lean heavily on the counter. You eat so fast, that you barely taste the flavour: brownie ala mode.

A snide voice invades your thoughts – the familiar one that always resurfaces just before you make incorrect assumptions that lead to horrible decisions.

What if it was Coriolanus?

It takes the loud clang of your spoon on the kitchen floor for you to recognise that voice and push it away.

How could you think that of Coriolanus? There you are again, not giving him a chance and judging him without basis. He wouldn’t betray his best friend. He wouldn’t lie to you. He certainly would never kill Sejanus then worm his way into the Plinths in place of their dead son, and still be able to live with himself. It’s impossible. It’s just your mind trying once more to sabotage the only friendship you’ve gained since Sejanus died; something in you that refuses to allow yourself to live a normal fucking life for once.

Coryo isn’t a cold-blooded sociopath.

You barely make it to the bathroom when you begin retching uncontrollably. As you empty your stomach of the entire pint of ice cream you ate, a single thought makes you even sicker to yourself for even thinking of it: What if he did it?

Enter Level 5

Author notes:

Please reblog and comment, it's always appreciated!!!

Any guesses what went on in the meeting with Strabo?? 🤭🤔 lemme knoooow!!!

#dark!coriolanus snow #dark!coriolanus snow x reader #young!coriolanus snow #young!coriolanus snow x reader #named!reader #or #OC2ndPOV #18+ only #dark!coriolanus snow fic #dark!coriolanus #dark!coriolanus fic #dark!fic

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separatist-apologist · 24 days

Text

The Sweetest Con

Summary: Nesta Archeron has been trapped in witness protection for the past five years, hiding a secret no one can ever learn. All she has to do is wait out the criminals back home determined to punish her and her sisters for a lie they told years before.

She can handle anything- even the new agent sent to keep her safe.

Read on AO3 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Nesta Archeron had bread in the oven.

It had been Cassian’s idea that morning. Why not check on the sourdough starter they’d been fermenting and try it in some bread? It was obvious he merely wanted to spend time with her in the kitchen and Nesta was hard pressed to think of a reason they shouldn’t. It was moody that morning—a thunderstorm had rolled through and showed no signs of relenting.

They were stuck inside and she’d reasoned it was better to do something rather than what they were usually doing.

And still, with twenty minutes left on the oven timer, Nesta found herself on her knees anyway, Cassian’s massive cock in her mouth. It started with a kiss that became two, became four, became Nesta up on the table while Cassian pressed himself between her legs. And then everything became frantic and desperate. She’d just managed to get his pants around his ankles first, but if she’d waited another thirty seconds, she’d be spread across the table.

Not for the first time, either.

She told herself just liked to watch him (a lie). Cassian was terrifying, a force to be reckoned with. He was an immovable object right up until Nesta was sliding her hands between his legs—and then he was as malleable as clay in her hands. Did he genuinely like her, she wondered? Or was she merely a distraction?

There was only one way to find out. Nesta had been plotting for the same amount of time she’d been touching him to get her hands on his phone. Sitting next to him on the sofa the night before had revealed his passcode—0000—and now all she needed was to so thoroughly exhaust him, he wouldn’t notice her snooping through his messages.

She just wanted to know, once and for all. What was his plan for her? Had Rhysand instructed Cassian to kill her? And what of her sisters? Nesta told herself once she knew, she could better plan…but that didn’t account for her actions right then. Nor was it entirely true to act like this was merely all part of some brilliant scheme. Not when Cassian threw his head back, hand holding her jaw while Nesta struggled to take the rest of him into her throat.

“Fuck, Nes—just like that,” he panted, his grip tightening ever so slightly. Nesta could feel the bulging vein just under the head of his cock, a tell-tale sign that he was about to come. She braced herself, eyes fluttering shut, just as Cassian grunted with pleasure and poured himself into her mouth.

The timer went off at the exact same time, thwarting Cassian’s obvious plans to reciprocate his pleasure. That was both disappointing and for the best, she decided. The night before, Nesta had passed out with her cheek stuck to his chest and woke to bright sunlight and the smell of burning coffee.

Not this time. This time, Nesta intended to wear Cassian out and stuff him full of food and let the Georgia heat do the rest. While she made her way to the oven, Cassian hastily pulled up his shorts.

“Is it wrong that I want to know every man you’ve ever practiced on?”

Nesta bent over the steaming oven to examine her sourdough. “What are you going to do, shoot them?”

“Yeah,” Cassian replied, elbowing her out of the way. His hands were clad in bright pink oven mitts and his dark hair was a tangled mess around his otherwise handsome face. It was the exact kind of logic a mobster would employ—she belongs to me, so I’ll pretend no one else has touched her.

Like a toddler hoarding toys at the playground, she thought wryly. She’d grown up in this life and had always rebelled at the idea that men owned their wives. And yet…yet, Cassian’s possessive nature wasn’t awful, either. Maybe because she knew the entire affair was time limited. Either he’d try to kill her or he’d be discovered by the actual feds and wind up in a prison cell.

So what did it hurt to enjoy herself for now?

“Looks good. Want me to grab butter, or—”

“We should let it cool down,” Nesta said, eyeing his naked, tattooed chest. “Want to do some yoga with me before we eat?”

The look on his face screamed no even as Cassian smiled easily and said, “Sure thing, baby.”

What followed was torture for them both. It was already miserably humid and insufferably hot. Nesta wanted to claw herself out of the clingy fabric she wore and hoped none of it showed on her face. She was one with the world, serene and unbothered. The sun could not hurt her so long as she slathered a thick layer of sunscreen all over her body. She’d bullied Cassian into putting some on, too—a careful ruse to run her hands up and down the toned muscles of his body though he needed it, too.

They practically crawled back into the cold air, with Nesta flinging open the freezer to stick her head inside while Cassian drank straight from the kitchen faucet.

“You’re a masochist,” Cassian accused, eyes squeezed shut as replaced his mouth with his entire face beneath the stream of cold water.

“I didn’t think it would be so bad,” Nesta said, taking some frozen, bagged broccoli out to place against her bare stomach. Cassian watched with open fascination, though he didn’t move to touch her.

“No more outdoor workouts. Lets go to a gym like civilized people,” he breathed, rising to his full height.

“The gym is unairconditioned—”

“Nesta, I can’t live this way,” he half pleaded, half joked. “I’ll put weights in the basement and run at two am.”

Nesta bit her bottom lip, thinking of the life Cassian was proposing. It was so easy to picture—and dangerous, too.

“I’m gonna shower, and then we’re going to eat some of this bread,” Cassian promised, pressing a quick kiss against her cheek. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“You got it,” she lied, eyes snagging on his phone. It was exactly where he’d left it, tossed casually to the kitchen table along with all the mail she didn’t want to look at. Nesta waited unmoving, listening as the bathroom door clicked shut. A moment later the sound of water hitting the porcelain tub filled the silence. Nesta counted to ten before lunging, typing in the passcode.

There, pinned at the very top of his messages, was a group chat with no other descriptor than a bat emoji. She wondered the significance as she scanned the names.

Rhysand: I don’t care what you need to do—drag E back and lock her in a closet if you have to.

Azriel: Easy for you to say while you’re playing house. She broke my fucking nose with that stupid bat—and she’s with a goddamn agent.

Cassian: How hard could it possibly be to keep track of one oblivious woman?

Azriel: Eat shit.

Rhysand: Are you tracking her? What does the agent know?

Azriel: He’s got family up in Appleton. Headed that way—as far as I know, they don’t know who I was.

Rhysand: Take the agent out, no questions asked. Secure E through whatever measures necessary—do not kill her.

Azriel: Wasn’t planning on it, but got it.

Nesta’s heart hammered in her chest. E—that had to be Elain. She hadn’t spent much time thinking about Elain but now…fuck. A quick search of her phone told her Appleton was in Wisconsin. If Elain was headed that way, Nesta needed to find her and warn her.

With shaking fingers, Nesta sent a text.

Cassian: Want help with a trace? Send me her number.

Please, please, please let them buy it, she prayed silently. Nesta’s heart was the loudest sound in the house, beating so violently she could barely hear the sound of Cassian’s shower over it. Her hands shook, holding his phone as she waited. The water cut off and Nesta was certain she’d been caught—Cassian would get the text later, realize what she’d done, and the entire thing would be blown.

Azriel: Sure. 555-201-9855. See if you can figure out where Vanserra is taking her. I’ll continue following behind.

Cassian: Meet me in Chicago? I can help lure her home with Nesta.

Azriel: Will she cooperate?

Cassian: Got her eating out of the palm of my hand.

Azriel: See you soon.

Nesta scribbled the number down on the back of an unopened bill before deleting the messages she’d sent. Nesta scrambled for her own phone, punching in the number to the sister she hadn’t spoken to in years. That ought to buy Elain some time, she reasoned, heart still pounding. Just enough for Nesta to get to her before anyone else did, anyway.

Nesta: Elain? This is Nesta. Rhysand is after you—they’re tracking you. Hide and tell no one where you are until I can get closer. I’m on my way—we have to find Feyre.

There. With that sent, and a clock ticking loudly in her head, Nesta all but ran to her bedroom and the gun she had hidden in her bedside table. Nesta had it in her hands, a small bag thrown together years ago slung over her shoulder, when she and Cassian met in the hall. His eyes dipped to the gun in her hand before he offered her a lopsided smile.

“Everything okay, Nes?” he asked, running a hand down his naked chest. The towel he’d wrapped around his waist was almost too small for him, accentuating the vee of his abdomen and the appendage hanging just between.

“I know what you are,” she whispered, hating the waver in her voice. Cassian’s smile only widened. “I’ll shoot.”

“Put the gun down, baby,” Cassian murmured, his voice honeyed and sweet. “Let's talk about this.”

“I’ll kill you,” she warned, well aware that her words were a lie. She couldn’t—even knowing who he was and what he was capable of, Nesta knew she couldn’t kill him.

Cassian advanced, unconcerned with the gun in her hand. She supposed he was used to seeing them, used to having them pointed directly at him. He was The Lord of Bloodshed, after all. That didn’t stop Nesta, who’d been going to the gun range long before feds ever dumped her in this swampy nowhere town.

Kill him and be done with it.

“Then why were you on your knees this morning, Nes?” Cassian whispered, those hazel eyes glittering with amusement. “You had my cock in your mouth. I didn’t even have to ask.”

“What happens in the bedroom and what happens out here are two separate things, Cass,” was all Nesta could think to say in response. She really was sorry, in that regard. She knew he didn’t see it that way.

Cassian shook his head, the loose ends of his wavy, dark hair brushing those muscular shoulders. “I’ll find you.”

“You’ll be dead,” she replied, willing the words to be true.

“You can’t kill me and we both know it,” Cassian told her. She hated that he was right, just like she knew that if she didn’t, he would hunt her down. This was personal, now—beyond the lies she’d told on her sister's behalf.

It didn’t matter. Rhysand had found them and Nesta needed to get to Elain before something horrible happened. Then they’d find Feyre and pray Rhysand hadn’t gotten to her first.

“I’m sorry,” Nesta whispered before she pulled the trigger. Cassian howled, crumpling to the ground. He wasn’t dead—just wounded. She’d shot him in the leg.

Nesta turned, knowing she only had minutes to put distance between them before Cassian rallied, caught her, and did god knows what to her. He looked enraged as she made her way toward the front door.

“This isn’t over between us, Nesta! I’ll have you back by the end of the week!”

She grabbed the keys to his jeep and made her way outside, fingers shaking. Nesta tossed the gun to the passenger seat before pulling her phone from her pocket. She had the car out of the gravel drive before she pulled out her phone, texting people she knew better than to drag into this mess.

Gwyn and Emerie were waiting for her when she pulled up to Emerie’s place.

“Start from the beginning,” Emerie ordered the moment Nesta swung from the blue vehicle while Gwyn held a shotgun in both hands, eyes pinned on Nesta. It was an odd moment, telling her friends—who were like sisters in a different sort of way—everything that had transpired half a decade before.

Gwyn and Emerie wouldn’t turn on her, though. Nesta didn’t know how she knew that, only that it was true. As Nesta drove, she told them everything they didn’t already know—starting from the beginning with the murder of their father. Nesta told them how she’d lied to the police for her sister, how it had been her idea to kill two birds with one stone and frame Rhysand. She hadn’t expected to be put in witness protection or she might have decided to take all the money their father had and flee the country instead.

One decision, made by a young, impulsive woman, had cost the three of them so much. Nesta couldn’t bring herself to regret anything that happened, a fact she told her friends while clenching her jaw. Let them see her, she supposed. Calculated and cold when necessary, and willing to make the hard decisions no one else would. Better they knew upfront than to find out later and decide they wanted nothing to do with her.

“So there’s a mobster after your sisters?” Gwyn confirmed, the shotgun now resting in her lap.

“Rhysand will kill Feyre if he finds her,” Nesta lamented, squeezing the steering wheel so violently her knuckles were bloodless. “I knew when Cassian came, but…I figured they hadn’t found her if he was still with me.”

“It sounds like they only have you and Elain,” Emerie reminded the pair, reasonably, sitting in the middle back seat so she could position herself between Nesta and Gwyn. “If we can get to Elain first, we could go to the police and tell them what we know.”

“Did you take his phone?” Gwyn asked.

Nesta sighed. “I didn’t.”

“That’s okay,” Gwyn reassured her, teal eyes hard with determination. “We’ll figure it out while we drive.”

“I’ve never been to Wisconsin,” Emerie added cheerfully.

And that was that, Nesta supposed.

CASSIAN:

“What the fuck do you mean, Nesta Archeron shot you?”

Gritting his teeth, Cassian held a lighter over the wound in his thigh, having already poured alcohol in an attempt to sterilize it. He didn’t have time for a hospital nor the inclination to spend a night hooked up to machines while nurses fussed over him.

“Don’t know how to make it anymore clear, boss,” Cassian snapped, his pain making him mean. “She fucking shot me, she knows who I am, and she’s on the run.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you and Azriel?”

“Enough to fill a textbook probably,” Cassian mumbled, wincing as he rose to his feet. When he got her back he was going to teach her how to aim better. If she’d been going for his heart, she’d failed abysmally. Not that he wanted her to kill him, of course. Cassian wanted Nesta back in his bed even if he had to tie her up to get her there.

“When Az and I are back together, we’ll have fewer problems.”

“You’ve got forty eight hours before to lock this whole thing down,” Rhysand warned. Cassian didn’t need to be told twice. Practically, if Nesta and Elain slipped their leashes, they’d go straight to the cops and it would be hard to deny his involvement this time. At least where their father was concerned, Rhysand was actually innocent—one of the Archerons had killed their father. Cassian’s money was on Elain given her use of the bat against Azriel, though in truth it could have been any one of them. Nesta had a penchant for violence that rivaled her bastard father.

But more realistically, Cassian simply wanted her, reason be damned. If she’d just come to him, he could have reassured her that no one wanted to hurt Elain. Hell, for all Cassian knew, Azriel was in love with her, too. It seemed to be their current curse, after all.

He’d been down fifteen minutes—long enough to give her a moderate head start but not so long Cassian couldn’t easily catch up with her. She’d need to make stops…and she’d taken his jeep. Cassian could track its progress as he slid into Nesta’s smaller coup, leg screaming in pain. At least she hadn’t shot his driving leg, he reasoned before swallowing an ungodly amount of ibuprofen. It would have to do.

The last thing he needed was to get pulled over for being under the influence.

What Cassian really needed was sleep, preferably with Nesta curled up beside him. As he drove, his mind wandered to the sight of her flushed cheeks and shaking hands as she held that gun between them. Was it deranged, he thought, to admit he’d been turned out?

Would she use it in the bedroom, he wondered?

God, he hoped she would. Cassian intended to ask her when he had her back. With the location of his jeep tracking on his phone, Cassian set his course and tried to keep his mind off his leg. Azriel was after Elain, but had promised to help Cassian if they caught up with each other, and it was clear Nesta was headed toward them both. It had been easy enough to guess what she’d sent Azriel and Azriel, frustrated with the situation, hadn’t bothered to ask himself why Cassian would offer to help track Elain’s technology.

As if he knew jack shit about that sort of thing.

There was more than enough time to ruminate on his failures. While Rhys waxed poetic about moving Feyre without her figuring out the truth, Cassian focused on catching up with Nesta. He caught her just outside Bowling Green, Kentucky. She’d brought her friends with her—Gwyn, with her vibrant hair and a shotgun tossed casually in the passenger seat and Emerie, her dark hair pulled off her face in a messy ponytail and flip flops on her feet. They could have been on a road trip.

They weren’t.

Cassian could have dragged Nesta back and killed her friends if he’d wanted to. Watching her outside a truckstop, he weighed the pros and cons of the killings before ultimately deciding against it. Nesta would never forgive him and Cassian didn’t like killing people without a reason. Gwyn and Emerie were innocent—it didn’t sit right with him to take their lives.

Besides—Cassian wanted to see what was going to happen next, Rhysand be damned. Everything was a mess already—if the FBI agent hadn’t already alerted his superiors, well, he would before Cassian crossed into another state. Rhys might come up with some lie that explained what they were doing, but Cassian doubted anyone would believe them.

Might as well enjoy himself.

And trailing Nesta was immensely enjoyable. He liked the way her mind worked. She was logical, picking the most expedient routes and when she stopped, it was always somewhere populated. Somewhere people could hear her scream. Cassian might have liked that, but practically, didn’t want to sit in a holding cell for twenty four hours waiting on a judge.

She’d have to stop eventually, and stop she did a day and a half later in Chicago.

Cassian knew Nesta and her friends were exhausted. They’d traded driving, but he very much doubted any of them were getting quality sleep. Neither was Cassian, truthfully, but he reasoned that he was better at keeping himself up, his instincts sharper.

Azriel was waiting for him when he arrived, his face a mask of sharp, cold fury. “Give up?” “I’m not getting fucking arrested,” Azriel snapped, hands jammed in his well-fitted jean pockets. “What are you doing?”

“Watching,” Cassian replied, nodding his head across the busy intersection where Nesta, Emerie, and Gwyn were standing. They hadn’t noticed him, laboring under the belief they’d lost him.

“What happened to your leg?”

Cassian grimaced. “She shot me.”

Azriel’s brow furrowed as he ran a scarred hand through dark, mussed hair. “And she’s alive?”

“I’m bringing her home,” Cassian said, throwing a wink at his exasperated friend. “What’s Elain’s apartment like?”

“A death trap,” Azriel replied without emotion. “They can get in, but they can’t get out.”

“Where’s Morrigan?”

“Ahead of you,” Azriel muttered, whipping his phone out to make a call. It would be easier if they had a third person helping them, and unlike Azriel and Cassian, Mor was cold-blooded in a way that made even Rhys hesitate at times. Cassian watched from his spot behind a street cart selling tourist items as Nesta and her friends jogged toward the towering skyscraper and vanished inside.

Good girl.

Getting her out without causing a scene would be another thing entirely. It was a big city, he reasoned. He’d have Mor park right out front, flashers on, and just dump Nesta in the back before anyone could say anything. He doubted anyone would be racing to rescue her, besides.

Mor arrived in tight jeans and a tank top, blonde hair pulled in a thick, deceptively messy ponytail. Cassian knew her well enough to know she labored over it, every wispy strand placed by Mor’s own immaculate hands.

“What needs cleaned up?” she asked, flashing them both a perfect, white smile.

“Upstairs,” Azriel muttered, beckoning for Mor to follow after him. She was Rhys’s second in command and even Cassian didn’t know everything she did for her cousin. Only that she was called in when shit went south. Things were so far south that they might have been at the equator. Could Mor drag the missing Archeron back, too?

That was Azriel’s problem. All Cassian needed to worry about was Nesta. Trailing behind Mor, the three made their way into the immaculate lobby and Cassian was struck at the incredibly elegant life Elain Archeron appeared to have been living. While Nesta was holed up in rural Georgia, Elain got to live in screaming civilization. It irked Cassian, even as he recognized the solitude had served him well.

Azriel pushed the number thirteen, staring anywhere but at Mor, who was too busy examining her nails to notice how awkward things were. Cassian said nothing because it was none of his business. Something must have happened, though—Azriel wasn’t standing too close, wasn’t shooting furtive glances. And Mor wasn’t using Cassian as a shield like she often did.

Had they talked, then?

Cassian didn’t ask. Instead, he followed Azriel down a blue carpeted hall that smelled like someone's two day old cooking. Azriel pulled a keycard from his pocket and opened the door to find a shotgun waiting for him.

“Not another step, pretty boy,” Gwyn said in that southern drawl of hers.

Behind Az, Mor rolled her eyes.

“You think I’m pretty?” Azriel asked casually, unconcerned with the danger he was in.

“That ain’t a compliment,” Gwyn snapped.

“Sounded like one to me,” Azriel replied smoothly. Cassian and Mor exchanged a glance. Since when did Az engage in witty repartee? “What else do you like?”

“Shut up,” Gwyn ordered, but it was too late. Azriel had the upper hand and they all knew it. With the speed of a man used to being threatened, he wrenched the barrel of the shotgun out of her hands and yanked, pulling both the weapon and the woman into his waiting arms. Gwyn yelped, arms pinned to her side as Az tossed the gun behind him for Mor to pick up.

“Quickly,” she ordered as Cassian swept in. Az hadn’t lied—Elain’s apartment was turned upside down, furniture shoved against the walls for his little traps and cameras. Nesta and Emerie had clearly walked right into one, legs tied to the floor in some contraption that shouldn’t have fascinated him as much as it did.

“Hey, Nes,” he said with a grin.

“Fuck you,” she replied, sweet as ever.

“Are you gonna come with me nicely? Or am I going to have to carry you out?”

“Don’t you touch me,” she warned, answering Cassian’s question all the same. Just beside him, Mor was pulling rags from her bag like they were mints, handing one to Cassian before making her way toward the flailing, fighting Gwyn. Cassian let Nesta watch Mor smush the rag over Gwyn’s face so she knew what was waiting for her.

What he’d do if she didn’t agree to come like his good little girl.

Gwyn went limp against Azriel, who merely scooped her up like she was nothing.

“What do you want to do with the two of them?” Mor asked Cassian, eyes finding a silent, but furious looking Emerie. God—this plan was so off the rails it was almost embarrassing. There was only one thing they could do.

“Take them home,” he said.

“Their home? Or our home?” Mor clarified.

“Ours, for now.” Cassian turned back to Nesta.

“Cass,” she tried, the pretty little liar. “You don’t understand. My sisters, they—” “It’s too late for them,” he said. He wasn’t even a lie. “Rhys has Feyre and Elain is on her way back home. The only hold up is you.”

She shook her head. Nesta was smart not to believe him, even if it irked him deeply. Cassian made his way toward her, trapped by Azriel and unable to do anything but watch.

And slap. The moment he crouched in front of her, Nesta slapped him hard. Her nails raked down his cheek, wounding him just enough to rankle him. He shook his head. “Don’t do that.”

“Let me go.”

“I can’t,” he replied with some regret.

“Make a decision, Cass,” Mor said as she leaned beside Emerie. Emerie didn’t hit, grimacing as Mor brought that rag to her face. “I don’t have all day.”

“You’re a cunt,” Emerie hissed at Mor, who only grinned back.

“I’ve been called worse.”

Mor held the rag to Emerie’s face as Nesta watched, face pale and eyes wide. “Cass,” she whispered.

“Come with me,” he urged, knowing she wouldn’t. Nesta couldn’t. She’d fight him until she decided this was her decision, and then she’d likely fight him a little more. The rest of his life would be a fight—and Cassian wanted it.

“It’s time to go home, baby,” Cassian murmured, pressing a kiss to Nesta’s temple as she tried to wrench away. Putting the rag over her face felt like a betrayal and Cassian had to remind himself that she’d shot him not two days earlier. Mouth to the shell of her ear, he murmured, “We’re even now.”

Hardly, though. Cassian hadn’t held it against her to begin with. Nesta never took her eyes off him, holding her breath until she couldn’t, only to suck in a gasp of poisoned air. It went faster after that, leaving her limp in his arms as Mor undid the traps.

“You’re a bastard for these,” Mor said, looking down at Emerie with an expression Cassian couldn’t quite place.

Azriel onlys shrugged, still holding Gwyn in his arms. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“Come on,” Cassian interrupted, not interested in another argument between the pair. “I’m fucking tired and I want to go home.”

Cassian’s leg was killing him, he was bone weary, and a little afraid of what was coming for him. Either the US government or Rhys—and Cassian didn’t know which scared him more. For now, Cassian was resolved to get her home and hope that Feyre wasn’t far behind.

Elain was already lost. There was no getting her back. The best they could hope for was utter silence as Rhys hunted them down, killed the agent hiding her, and brought her into the fold, too.

But it would take time and right now they were nearly out of it.

And it was time to go home.

#nessian #this might need a fifth chapter lord help me

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misc-obeyme · 4 months

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mc cant make bread at the house of lamentation. unless its one with a very short resting time and while beel is away at a game/other time consuming activity bc otherwise he just. eats the raw dough. and likes it like a sweet lil weirdo. and of course he gets rly guilty abt it seeing mcs face when they come outta the kitchen like 'does anyone know what happened to my bread 🥺'

sometimes if he knows mc wants to make bread hell make a point to stay out for most of the day so hes not tempted. otherwise mc has to go to the demon lords castle (fancy and prolly has a proof box, but availability can be spotty) or purgatory hall (risk of solomon)

also, since the devildom tends to be much warmer than the human world i bet rising/rest times are cut much shorter. but it begs the question of if yeasts native to the devildom need higher temperatures to activate. probably i feel thatd make sense.

also mild fluff headcanon: barbatos sees mc's interest in the differences between human world and devildom yeasts and helps them build a lil sourdough starter experiment where they make ones from the different types and see how they compare :) And since starters can become specialized to the bacteria of the person who made it (when its mixed by hand) they obvs have to each do a set of human world and devildom starters (barb likes to give them bread made from the starters specialized to him cuz it feels like a way of marking mc :3 )

do i know how to be concise? no. is bread science sick as hell? yes. -🥐

YO I love all of this!!

Okay okay, Beel eating bread dough, though. And deliberately making sure he's not home when MC wants to bake bread, that is so so CUTE. Poor baby Beel can't keep himself away from the bread dough and has to leave the house entirely so MC can bake some bread in peace, please that's adorable.

I definitely think the castle is probably the best option for alternative baking locations. As you pointed out, Purgatory Hall is too risky.

I know nothing about yeast. The only bread I've ever baked has been bread that's actually cake. You know, like pumpkin bread and zucchini bread. They're really cake, right? They taste like cake. I think it's the loaf formation that causes people to call them bread. All of this is to say that I feel I have learned some new facts about yeast. It never ever would have crossed my mind that the Devildom temperature would impact the rate at which yeast rises. And I LOVE the idea of native Devildom yeast!

You killed me with that fluffy Barb headcanon... BARB give me all your bread made from your specialized starters lasdfkjldfkj. Everyone must know whose bread I'm eating!! Please that's such a cute way of being possessive and so totally his style. It's like this one is mine, but I'm not going to be loud about it or anything. I'm indicating it with my bread. I love it. I love him.

Once again, I know nothing of bread baking, but I would give my soul to have a sourdough starter experiment with Barbatos. It's such a cute little scenario, I absolutely love it.

Ahhh what would I do without you bringing all the baking knowledge to my ask box, 🥐 anon?? I'm really in love with all of these ideas!

#baby Beel he's so precious #Barb my true love I can't with you #I actually really like baking #I just don't have the time to do it usually #obey me #obey me nightbringer #obey me beelzebub #obey me barbatos #obey me mc #🥐 anon #misc answers

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possibilistfanfiction · 9 months

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nightmare for the one word prompts

[a little sad but mostly very silly, butch bea universe]

'i really don't have to go today,' beatrice says, kissing your forehead before settling down next to you on the couch. you know she means it: beatrice means everything she says, first of all, and you have grown — despite your brain's best efforts to steer you otherwise — to trust her when she offers care. you take her in: her fresh haircut that she gets done every month now, usually neatly parted on the top, messy from sleep; her tender wrists; the soft skin of her thighs; the soft sweater you bought her last christmas, sleeves pulled down over her hands, which are always cold.

you sigh. you had had nightmares — more than one, which is rare this many years later, after the worst of it — and woken up with scars that you don't think about too often, or at least with too much pain or sorrow anymore, aching all over your body. your legs had been pins and needles — worse, you've discovered, than feeling nothing some days — and your spine had ached, the halo feeling your sorrow, sharing in it. beatrice had skipped her typical surf session this morning, partially because she'd woken up with you both times last night, and partially because she's worried. she doesn't try to hide it anymore, her concern written all over her gentle face, in her sweet eyes, her soft hands. you find it nestled along all the small things she did for you in the past two hours: bringing you pain meds along with an easy breakfast of scrambled eggs and your favorite rosemary sourdough toast, doing a few snuffles with korra's morning unkibble so she's calm and ready to work today for whatever you need, helping you, after your glum nod, transfer from bed to your chair. you twist the wedding band around on your finger, focus on the few freckles that sit on the tops of her hands because of her time in the sun. your life is real, you remind yourself. your time on the other side, every endless day you spent in hell, was worth it for this, for beatrice quietly and patiently sitting next to you, soft and always becoming more herself; for your family visiting at the end of the week, camila begging to go to universal studios, lilith grumbling but giving in; for the respect people owe you now, and ready give; for your dog and your bar and the edibles you share with beatrice some nights, easy with laughter, and the farofa you feel confident in making for dinner when your friends come over, a warm offering.

'no,' you decide on, firmly, and you know beatrice will trust you. 'we should go. it'll be fun.'

'it will be fun,' she says, the same gleam in her eye you remember from years ago when she was ready to "maim or kill" (lilith's words) anyone who was in the way of her and the mission, especially once you became involved.

'you remember this is, like, your weekly tennis match for fun, right?'

'of course, ava.'

the way she cracks her knuckles tells you that the for fun is lost on her for the most part. it's endlessly amusing to you, though, and quite harmless — although maybe not to her opponent's pride — so you don't bother to argue any further. 'okay, well, i think angela and ruth wanted to have lunch anyway today after their jazzercise class, so we can watch you play.'

'no catcalling.'

you pout. 'you're my wife.'

'not from you, not from ruth or angela.'

'they're old, bea. let them have some fun.'

'at my expense? no thank you. i need to focus while i compete.'

she's already sitting up straighter, eyes lively. she's playing david today, you think, if you remember the club's "adult intermediate to advanced tennis league" rotation correctly. he's a decent player, and their head to head record is relatively even. he's also a bit of an asshole, and a venture capitalist, so it stands to reason beatrice despises him.

'fine.' you squeeze her hand. 'but can you change your shirt between sets?'

'ava.'

'gratuitously towel off or something at least.'

'ava.'

'whatever,' you say. 'i'm wearing a bikini. at least ruth and angela will appreciate it.'

'oh, i'll appreciate it,' she says, and then laughs softly and leans over to kiss you.

everything about beatrice, you decided years ago, is endearing. can she kill a man in, like, one second using just her hand? yes, sure, but you've seen her very skillfully practice her forms every morning for years, barring injury, and frown when anything is off, even by a breath. most people find her precision in all things kind of terrifying, but you've learned that some of it is a trauma response — from her childhood, from being a soldier, from losing you — and some of it is really just how she is. her books sorted exactly how she wants them — by genre, subgenre, and then author's last name — on the bookshelf; the meticulously labeled spices in your pantry, always in both their language of origin and english; her surfboards waxed perfectly and neatly stored in the small shed in your yard. everything about her precision is endearing because you understand her and you love her, and maybe the most endearing, or at least you think some days, is the way she treats rec league club tennis.

no matter how many times you've jokingly reminded her that your club isn't wimbeldon, she likes to wear all white little outfits; men's shorts and, your favorite, a neat polo. in the summer, she favors tanks, which you are not complaining about. she has three racquets and a very impressive bag like all the pros carry onto the court, special towels, pristine sneakers, and, when you're most amused, a wristband she very sincerely wipes her sweaty forehead on. since you'd met she'd loved watching tennis, and she'd taught you — as patiently as she has always taught you anything — the rules, her favorite players (not that it was, like, hard to think serena williams was the best athlete ever), common terms to know. you'd gone out with her a few times to the courts and she'd shown you proper form; you'd found out, eventually from her, that her dream as a little kid was to be a tennis pro, which was so charming and a little unexpected. you had thought she would've wanted to be some kind of scientist, maybe a really good lawyer, but her brother had dug out some pictures of little beatrice in her tennis getup, her expression so, so serious for a nine year old, and you'd fallen in love all over again.

she listens to her "pump-up music" — a lot of pop, surprisingly — as she drives you both to the club, focused already in her tennis outfit, complete with a quarterzip warmup top and everything. you're endlessly amused by her, in a way that most people are too intimidated to be, and you think it's good for her, to feel human, to not be taken so seriously when she should get to just enjoy things. your pain meds are helping by the time you get to the club, the pins and needles down your legs leveling out, the halo shaking off some of its deep sorrow, the memories of torture and abject aloneness that sometimes show up in your dreams. today is bright and sunny, the bluest sky, and your friends wave to you once you get out to the tables near the tennis courts. beatrice says a quick hello and then bustles off to start her very precise warm up routine, and you all wait until she's out of earshot to share a fond laugh.

'david today?'

'i swear she was rewatching coco and iga's last match yesterday to prepare.'

ruth pats your hand and angela orders a charcuterie for the table, gets prosecco for ruth and herself and — they both know you well enough by now that your chair usually means you've had to take medication, which you don't mix with alcohol — a cranberry soda for you, your favorite.

david shows up a few minutes later as you're gossiping, angela gasping at ruth's latest escapades with her new boyfriend while you laugh delightedly. he's the kind of muscular dude that likes to run along the beach shirtless because he thinks it's impressive but really it just looks ridiculous, the kind of dude that would give unwanted pointers in the gym. you don't have a disdain for him like beatrice does, because he's never done anything abhorrent to you personally, but when you see her steely gaze as he goes to his bench on the court, you get it. and, also, it's hot, so, like, you shoot a quick thanks to david and his douchey backwards cap for that.

things go just about as you'd expected: beatrice plays with the amount of passion you'd see in a wimbeldon final, and angela and ruth relentlessly whistle and cheer and boo. the charcuterie has a new truffle havarti you're all in love with, and the bottle of prosecco gets split happily while you watch. it's a fairly even match — david hits harder than beatrice but is slower and definitely stupider — and she wins the first set 6 games to 4. she gets mad at him for serving too slowly, and they briefly have an argument over whether or not one of his backhands was in. it's all deeply ridiculous for an afternoon at in an amateur club league, but beatrice and her overhand serves get you every single time.

she's down a break in the second set when she hits a drop shot that has david falling over his own feet, and you know it's over then. the second bea realizes someone is truly out of sorts, in any scenario, she's already won.

they shake hands after the match is over, beatrice taking the second set much quicker than the first, and then she makes her way over to your table and sits, very satisfied, in the chair next to you, a towel around her neck.

'my champion,' you say, and she rolls her eyes, accepting the congratulatory beer angela had already ordered for her as the last game was winding down with a thankful nod.

'great match, beatrice,' ruth says, half-sincere, half-teasing, but beatrice smiles anyway. sometimes, things are not good; sometimes, on the worst days, even now, even still, even with all this love, you still remember what it was like to suffer alone — without feeling, with too much feeling — for so much of your life. but beatrice slips into her quarterzip next to you and you smell sweat and laundry detergent and the pomade she puts in her hair, you feel the sun warming along your back and you hear the small group of children starting their lesson, laughing brightly. beatrice holds your hand and you'll nap later; you'll order takeout from your favorite thai place and watch the sunset on your patio; you'll fall asleep in her arms. you'll wake up and do it all over again — the loneliness, the pain, the longing — just for this.

#wn #wn fic #avatrice #avatrice fic #butch bea 🥺🫡#this is mostly bc a) i’ve been meaning to write this for like six months lmao it’s so funny #b) i’ve been watching the us open go coco obviously #c) whew ava deserves a silly happy life!!!! thinking abt him always #also d) bea when faced w normal competitive scenarios would be so insane #just absolutely batshit crazy i love her

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waters-and-the-wilde · 10 months

Text

fuck it okay i am once again thinking about Jet teaching Nureyev how to cook

it starts with Juno trying to teach Nureyev how to cook, because Juno can cook and Nureyev realizes he's never had the chance to learn how and wants to make a go of it. it Goes Poorly not because Nureyev is a disgrace who sets the kitchen on fire, but because between the way he is as a person and the way Juno is as a person, it's an extremely frustrating experience. Juno Can Cook but that doesn't mean he Can Teach, there are a lot of concepts that he can just take for granted because of like growing up In A House and knowing What Appliances Do. he knows how to throw together some decent meals but not how to Explain The Process and Demonstrate How It Works, 'i dunno it just does okay??'

It's a whole 'can they assemble ikea furniture together' type thing, every time they try Juno gets impatient and Nureyev gets defensive and they wind up bickering and having to troubleshoot their communication again later that evening. maybe they manage to get through making what they set out to do but Nureyev doesn't actually feel like he retained any of the knowledge to be able to do it again next time, and neither of them really enjoy the experience which is a bummer for them both in its own right.

but Nureyev as a guy who can do anything he sets his mind to is like 'nonetheless i must learn to make a breakfast for my lady love for the days when he can't get out of bed.' and he starts watching Jet, who fields most of the family dinner type meals and has a sourdough starter and ferments things. he could ask Jet if he wants help, but it's hard enough trying to learn new things and make mistakes and be bad at things in front of Juno and he's feeling discouraged enough that he does not want to deal with Jet thinking he's just ingratiating and underfoot, or bluntly picking apart everything he's doing wrong, he might actually cry okay? he's already anxious enough about Wasting Food or Causing A Fire or Damaging The Cooking Implements. but if Jet says he wants help that's fine because Nureyev is more than happy to Be Available and in the meantime he'll do his best to absorb things by proximity

Jet does not know why Ransom is hovering in the kitchen watching him cook, but if he cared to know, he would ask point blank. and if Ransom does not want to be voluntold to help with dinner, he would not hover in the kitchen. Nureyev's nefarious scheme is working, insofar as Jet does not respond to hints but he does do what he wants and he wants help with cooking dinner. Nureyev is now in a position to Ask Questions, and the brilliant thing about working with Jet is that Nureyev can in fact Ask A Stupid Question and Get A Stupid Answer concise and matter-of-fact face-value response to something that might otherwise be considered obvious. and if Jet is being facetious, he's doing a damn good job at not showing it (and also he tends to save that up for Juno)

it is still a frustrating experience because Cooking Is Very Difficult and Nureyey is Trying Very Hard and getting distracted and flustered and making just the worst jokes around someone who does not think he is even a little bit funny and is not about to bother to pretend otherwise. and there is absolutely no one better for this right now. because The Thing Is. that Jet Gets It. because he had to claw his way into 'repetition and focus; control over every part' years ago. because it is abundantly clear to him that he is not teaching Ransom How To Cook, but How To Learn New Things When Not Under Extreme Duress. because Jet Has Opinions about Contriving Surprise Factors In The Learning Process and the moment Nureyev indicates that was how he was taught, his immediate response is 'then whoever taught you that that was very irresponsible and should not have done so'

(Nureyev gets very quiet and spacey for the rest of the day and eventually Juno storms into the garage spoiling for a fight, all 'what the hell did you say to him I haven't even been able to find him for the last three hours' and Jet very gravely relays the conversation and 'it was not my intention to upset him but unless he is able to communicate why he is upset, I am in no position to address it' but Juno's just still staring at him and then he sits down and then he starts getting the big sad-eye and then he's like 'never mind Big Guy. hey completely unrelated but can I um. give you a hug?')

#the penumbra podcast #tpp #peter nureyev #jet sikuliaq #i love my gay space crimes family #it's about the adhd solidarity fistbump

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idontplaytrack · 3 months

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“bye, softie jr.”

Rosa Diaz x teen daughter! reader

warnings: the squad being their usual chaotic selves & rosa being an (over) protective mama. (i love rosa being soft, lol)

in which, the 99 finally meets y/n. unplanned.

continuation to “you’re a softie”

You always wondered how it was possible that no one on the squad’s somehow run into you while you were out with Rosa. Your Mom’s somehow never run into her colleagues outside of work, while she was with you, at least. Due to your closeness in age, the two of you have been mistaken for siblings on many occasions. And on this fine day, you had a first date gone…bad and needed keys to get home. But you left them at home since you left home the same time as Rosa that day to go to school. After school let out at 2:30, you went to lunch with Amelia from your Social Studies class. She was nice, and you liked her- but at the end of the lunch, you’ve come to realise you didn’t actually like her the way you thought you did. Being a 15-minute walk away from the precinct, you decided to use the fact that you needed the house keys as an excuse to mess with her. She wasn’t against you meeting them, thus you your decision to go to the 9-9. Stepping out of the elevator and entering the bullpen, you headed straight for Rosa’s desk barely having to look where you were going.

“Been expecting you. How was the date?”

“Fine, but that was also the last.” You told her and she pulls the one earbud you had in, off. Just for the heck of it.

“Why? Did they do anything-”

“No, I just don’t really vibe with her at all, that’s all. I’m perfectly fine.” You assured.

“Good.”

“I need your keys. Forgot to grab mine since we left together this morning.”

You could feel the eyes on you but you tried to ignore them.

“Here.” She opens up her drawer to get them, “Be home when I’m home. Otherwise, I can’t get in.”

“Of course.” You stifled a laugh, “What time do you clock out?”

“From the looks of it, 6:30? Maybe 7. I’ll pick up dinner on the way, how’s that?”

“That’s great.” You gave her a big smile on purpose just to see how she’d react.

“Hey, Rosa.” Amy says as she walked by you, “Wait—” She stops in her tracks and turned on her heels to take a good look. By now, everyone Rosa worked with was watching. Amy was the last one.

“Who’s this, Roro?” Charles asked.

“Call me that again and I’ll burn your sourdough starter to a crisp.” Rosa threatened. You let a laugh slip- you simply couldn’t take her seriously. She wasn’t like this with you at all- this was an act.

“She looks like she could be your sister.” Terry noted.

“Nope.” Rosa answered, “Try again.” You and Rosa shared a glance. Truthfully, the answer could not have been more obvious if it weren’t for the close age gap. You were pretty much a spitting image of your Mother— thank goodness.

“No way- it can’t be.” Jake broke the silence. Amy analysed Rosa’s face then yours, noting that the two of you had your arms crossed the same, with the same expressions on your face. Even the way you were dressed- heavily influenced by Rosa’s style. A light bulb went off in her mind.

“Rosa, I cannot believe this- you have a teenage daughter and this is first time we’re meeting her?!”

Terry’s mouthful of yogurt felt like it got caught in his throat, Charles nearly spilled his coffee all over himself, Jake’s bag of gummies and jellybeans fell from his hand and hilariously scattered all over the floor. Hitchcock and Scully? As clueless as ever. Solely focused on their bags of chips. Oh, and Gina who immediately snapped a photo of you two side by side. There was pin drop silence in the bullpen up until Holt came out to check on his squad. “Why is it so quiet? This is extremely unlike your usual selves.” He remarked, then he quickly spotted an unfamiliar person— you standing by Rosa’s desk. Now, it got awkward.

“They’ve just met my daughter and they’re shocked.” Rosa informs him.

“I see.” He nodded emotionlessly, “Nice to meet you, y/n.”

“Captain Holt. Likewise.” You gave him a polite smile.

“Everybody, get back to work.” He ordered. The buzz continues. “Will you guys wait until I’ve at least left the precinct to talk about me?” You sassed.

“How old are you?” Jake asked.

“17.”

“Damn. Respect, Rosa.” Jake’s eyes widened, “You were 18?!”

“Okay, that’s it. You guys already know too much.” Rosa decided, “No more questions. y/n, go home.”

“Yes, ma’am.” You joked.

“Stop it.” She said back, acting cracking a smile.

“Boy, I haven’t seen you this close to smiling since never.” Jake commented.

“I heard you had a date? Who’s the lucky guy?” Boyle asks.

“Charles, right?” You cleared your throat, “I’m a lesbian, so there was no guy.”

“Oh. I- I am so sorry.” He stutters.

“Why are you afraid of a 17-year old?” Rosa snorted.

“Why isn’t she afraid of you?” Charles retorted before he even thought it through.

“I am loving this.” Gina sighs.

“Why would she need to be? We’re practically best friends.” She shrugged. Now, they were even more curious about how Rosa was like outside of work. “Okay, you need to get home.”

“I’m going, I’m going. I know.” You sigh, throwing your hands up in mock defeat, “You’ll pick up my prescription?”

“I remember, y/n, yes.”

The squad says bye to you as you turned to leave. In retrospect, you could’ve easily passed some time at the nearby library and did some work but you weren’t going to pass up the opportunity to meet her friends officially.

“Byeee, softie…junior.” Jake called out, causing you to laugh as you hit the elevator button.

#rosa diaz #jake peralta #amy santiago #captain holt #charles boyle #brooklyn nine nine #b99 #alternative universe

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moregraceful · 3 months

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1. Semifreddie’s sour batard 2. San Louis Sourdough, sliced 3. La Brea I guess 4. I think there’s one from Watsonville. It’s getting ranked behind la brea because I can’t remember the name, but I do think that La Brea loses points having to get shipped from LA. It is objectively better for eating plain but if I want that I’d just get semifreddies and otherwise the best grocery store sourdough is that which makes the best grilled cheese sandwiches. Which is San Louis.

YOU COME INTO MY HOUSE AND INSULT SUMANO'S LIKE THIS----SAN LUIS OVER SUMANO'S-----

#cage replies #localapparent #could hork an entire semifreddi's in one sitting true BUT SAN LUIS OVER SUMANO'S.....

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askyvesbaking · 1 month

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Prince Yves,

Thank you so much for this blog - I'm really enjoying reading it.

I've been baking bread and sweets for a few years now, with mixed success (happy to note that I actually managed a pie crust last year). I'm about to take the next logical step... grow my own sourdough starter.

Any words of advice? I'm a bit nervous about it. It seems like such a delicate process.

Thank you in advance, Your Highness.

Hello, there.

I'm so grateful to hear you've been enjoying my blog. I'm glad I can bring happiness to someone in any kind of way.

Congratulations on the pie crust, those can be quite difficult to work with. Especially without modern refrigeration.

(What's that?)

(... I have no idea, Licht. What did I just say?)

A-anyway. Don't be too scared. A sourdough starter is actually a very hardy thing once it's grown a decent size! Sometimes I forget to feed mine for weeks at a time, and it's just fine!

But, please make sure to feed yours regularly ^^;

My words of advice are:

Make sure your water is pure. Either spring water or distilled water. Any chlorine or other unwanted minerals can kill your starter.

(What's chlorine?)

(I don't know!! Now please get out of the kitchen before you start a fire, Licht. I'll start on your darioles soon.)

Also, use either bread flour or all purpose flour to begin with. You can phase it out for some other type of flour when it's matured. It's easiest to see the consistency and reactions when using the flours I recommended above.

Lastly, be careful of the water temperature. Lukewarm water will give you best results in the starting stages. Room temperature water will work fine when it is mature. Do NOT use hot water, it will kill everything.

As for general maintenance, I feed my starter once every two weeks or so. Make sure to discard some starter if you haven't used any, otherwise you might end up with an overflowing mess.

When you store it, it NEEDS to be in a container that is not airtight. It will shatter from the escaping gas otherwise. I use a jar with a wire clamped lid. If you remove the rubber gasket, it won't be airtight.

(What's-)

(LEON I SWEAR-)

You can also simply place the lid of a jar over the top.

And although it's not necessary, I recommend getting a Danish dough whisk.

...

No one this time? Good.

Anyway, it's quite helpful for mixing the started thoroughly when you feed it, and nothing will get stuck inside.

Oh, one more thing. Do you have a scale? If not, get one. Non negotiable. Your starter must be fed equal amounts of water and flour by weight once it has matured.

I think that's everything! Let me know if you have any questions.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go lie down. All this breaking the 4th wall has got me very tired.

-Yves Kloss

#ikemen prince #yves kloss #licht klein #leon dompteur #baking tips

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fisheito · 2 months

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how would you eat/cook each nukani character

oh noooooooooo (holds my face in great contemplative agony) u can't do this to me

Eiden: oh mein gotTtTtt getting my hands on eiden would be like receiving an entire cart of summer fresh-from-farm produce. or an entire cow carcass . i would have SO MANY PARTS and SO MANY WAYS to prepare him and every part of him would taste delicious in its own way. there's no way i can ONLY cook eiden one way. i'd have to put him thru every process possible (true to his versatility). i thought about spitroasting him (for the joke) but that's too much eiden for one method. i need to covet him like the king tuna at the fish market as i take him apart piece by piece look. i am frying him like egg for a fast breakfast. i am meticulously grinding him to a paste in a traditional mortar and pestle. i am using him as pesto AND as dipping sauce. i will dehydrate him and drink him as tea. he will be roasted . braised. devoured raw in ceviche. i'll infuse him with vinegars! syrups! oils!! is there a way to make a sourdough starter but it's eidough starter so i can just keep him on my shelf and feed him every day and pass him down for generations? i want eiden for every meal of the day prepared 1000 ways

Aster: would aster taste like blood or the absence of it? hmmmm..... i guess it depends on when he feeds! maybe if i bite into him after a feeding session, he'll burst like a cherry tomato. but otherwise i feel like giving aster the sashimi treatment. put him all fancy on the plate with some garnishes after i treat him with a light citrus wash or smth. a fresh cool flavour!! i'm tempted to make some sort of beverage out of him. dilute him into a fancy mocktail of strange spirits and woody spices. aster juice?!?! looks like pink wine???! i have to treat this one like i'm spoiling him with gifts. he'll probably end up on the artisanal charcuterie board with the fusion jams and marmalades...

Morvay: i feel like he would have a very...particular aroma. he eats a very specialised diet so of everyone in the clan, he has to follow "you are what you eat", right?? my first instinct for some reason is to cure him. like, turn him into prosciutto. if he's gonna have a funky smell, might as well turn up the salt and cure him. tie him up and lock him in the carefully controlled environment of the curing basement. dark... surrounded by other meatbags... slap him around every now and then. slice him up thin and put him on that fancy cheese board with a bunch of other strong smelling foods. slurp him down him with a glass of astringent aster juice to balance out the richness of the morv

Yakumo: soup. he's getting souped. it's only right. might split him half and half into one soup and one stew. maybe the soup will just be a concentrated essence of snek-style broth. like a clear, warming bowl of pho that is DISTILLED YAKUMO and doesn't need much else besides some fave spices to accompany the flavour. as for the stew? i just straight up like stew and it can be so nutritionally complete. so he's going in the classic comfort stew. chunks of yakumo and seasonal vegetables simmered to make a thick hearty pot of glorp. maybe add some alcohol to it if i want to live dangerously. he will sustain me for days to come. anything that i do not turn into soup? i'm going to steam him. a mild little parcel of wrapped yakumo, gently steamed for a hot minute. yakumo tastes best to me when a little wet.

Edmond: to honour his thick sugary ass, i have to turn edmond into some sorta dessert. turn the defrosted ice queen into ice cream? now i could just put edmond in a pot and reduce him until he turns into a syrup but then i would waste all the extra good bits that make up edomon. u need the tsun with the dere and reducing him to pure dere is NOT balanced. he can withstand quite a bit of punishment so maybe i'll whip him up like a custard (by hand FIRST. if that's not strong enough, i'll use an electric hand mixer). turn him into an earl grey creme brulee where u can set him on fire then smack that caramelised crust before spooning out the goopy insides.

Olivine: i feel like i'd wanna enjoy olivine in his least processed form. just enjoy the pure marbled goodness of well-exercised, tender oli. so why not a steak? medium rare to rare? just a little pan-sear and we can chew on him all we want. (i considered searing on a grill, but it's easier around here to get a pan instead of a grill. and oli is all about being accessible to the greatest number of people.) on the other hand, that might not honour oli's nature. he, too, can stand up to a lot of punishment. he might even like it. so part of him can be the relatively unprocessed slab and the other can be a cutlet. that way i can beat him with a hammer, dredge and bread him, then toss him into the deep fryer. to be served with a variety of heavy or creamy sauces.

Quincy: this man is OLD and TOUGH and he probably tastes like every bit of wildlife in the forest combined. then again, he's also always sleeping so does that mean his meat is quite relaxed and i don't have to tenderise forever to be able to chew it? quincy probably eats the simplest diet (no processed microwave preservative type cocktails in here) so he'd be best appreciated in an equally simple dish?? i'd like to skewer him. make him bite-size and cook him over a campfire. alternating with simple salt vs. intricate dry rubs bc i'm not sure which i'd prefer. if he ends up being tough, i'll let him hang out in a savoury marinade for however many days he needs (do NOT make me put a pineapple in there, mister).

Kuya: i lied. **THIS** man is OLD and TOUGH and SINEWY and A BITCHASS to deal with and i bet if i cut him at *just slightly near the wrong spot* then some mystery sac of foul gunk will explode all over me like a punk'd prank. i will take any excuse during the cooking process to abuse this one. grate his rind to infuse in the sauce. mince him for the physical satisfaction then throw him into the blender anyway. toss him violently into a fiery wok and start saute-ing him with every other ingredient ever. i hope you get stabbed by a bunch of pointy carrots. i'll broil him as if he's not already crispy. and I BET at the end of all this work, i'll have somehow have messed up and made him inedible. skill issue. at this point i give up, toss the entire kuya into the pressure cooker, and turn him into stew.

G/Karu: i wanna toss them like a salad (i think they'll have fun with that). i could go the traditional way and make wolf jerky. bring it on the road for a durable snack! if i could somehow chop these two up and turn them into furikake, they could become my convenient, reliable flavour injector for a quick bowl of rice. it's tricky because there are two distinct flavours and they gotta be treated differently to bring out their full potential. but they're also inseparable. what do i do??? i might just put them into my party-type foods where flavours are supposed to mix and it's the wildness of the combos that make it all fun. he's going on the 12-topping pizza!! he's being melted onto the giant tray of nachos!!!

Blade: CAN I EAT THIS? WILL I DIE? WILL MY TEETH BREAK OFF? i have to debone him. i bet there are pointy bits hiding everywhere. get my special tools out and pluck at him for over an hour (i must be thorough). might just put him in the microwave (he'd probably enjoy that). i feel like essence of Blade would also do well as a bubbly drink. mix a simple edroid syrup with some club soda and some edible flowers to look pretty (low calories too!). if the legends are true and blade can adapt to any flavour, i might just turn him into a condiment or special spice mix. grind him to dust and put him in a nice glass container near my stove so i can add him to various foods (the weirder the combo, the better). keep the spirit of experimentation alive with Blade popcorn seasoning!!

Dante: i am gonna make him fragrant as hell. gonna smoke him over intricate spice combos or tea leaves and impart him with the most alluring lung-punchiest sniffs. i don't wanna be too harsh with him but i trust that he'll at least stand up to heat well. he'd probably complain about wasting time, but i'm not rushing the process. u will sit in the smoker and steadily break down over time. maybe after the smoke, i can tuck the odds and ends into a savoury saucy pie. bake him for an hour surrounded by a flaky buttery crust? i might also experiment with some fermentation, like a dante kimchi. i'm curious as to how he'd change flavours given time to age (and just relax for a bit, really).

Rei: i am pickling him. he's gonna become that sour salty lil accompaniment to every meal i have. he'll last forever and somehow never mould and no matter how long i leave him chillin in the fridge, when the time comes to put him on a bun, i know i can rely on him to not suddenly go limp. i still gotta be careful with him tho. can't just stick my fingers in the jar and introduce contaminants all the day because it IS possible to Spoil the Goods idk i just feel like i'd have to let him sit in SOME sort of marinade or brine. if i try to eat him raw i might turn 14 shades of purple before dissolving into radioactive bile

#this is something i never thought about until u brought it up #it felt like zizz pointing to this big button on my head like WHAT'S THIS?#and i respond: uhhm. i don't know. maybe you shouldnt-#zizz: presses the button #[a door on my skull swings open and my brain leaps out. landing on the floor with a wet florpch]#dude legit i was thinking about this for days #if you're wondering whether i was imagining real gore or just fun silly metaphorical cooking #it was oscillating between both. i can't tell where the mind theatre is right now. probably jumping between genres #last night i was tempted to erase my entire blurb for yakumo #and just go I WILL CONSUME HIM. ALIVE. RAW. I WILL VORE HIM STARTING FROM HIS FINGERs #then i slept on it and woke up with inhibition renewed so i left the blurb alone #the clan's all here!#asks

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