#cobalt race suit

[reverieblondie]

Clumsy Kitty

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara X Blackcat Fem!!reader

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, Smut with Some Plot, Blowjob, Slight hair pulling, Teasing, Unprotected Penetrative Sex.

Summary: You became a thief to help you get over your mundane life. Turns out being a big time thief is not so easy…especially when you have a grumpy spider-man always throwing you off your game, if only there was a way to get back at him. 

Part 2

A/N: I really love the idea of a clumsy Black Cat interacting with Miguel. The thought plagues my brain! I hope you all enjoy it! I have a lot more fics in the works so please look out for them!  

Word count: 5,637 (edited to the best of my ability, if you have any tips on editing please share with me!)

“You have gotta be kidding me…”

Groaning as you hang from the ceiling you try to break out of the cords you are tangled in. Well, this is embarrassing, Black Cat tangled in cords suspended in the air in one of the many labs in Alchemax. Yep, this is just the cherry on top of your little escapades. 

Stealing things and breaking into places became a recent hobby of yours. Tired of your mundane life, you wanted excitement, you wanted the rush of doing something bad, So what do you do? You become a thief of course! Was this the most rational way to solve your boredom? No, but it's not like you were hurting anyone with stealing, you were just scratching that bad girl itch by taking things that didn't belong to you and breaking into places that seemed impossible to enter, you loved the rush and high your actions would give you, it was downright addicting.

Though there's only one thing wrong with your new life of thieving, it turns out you are really, not the best at it. Sure, there were a few times you were able to make it out with the goods you wanted. But you were usually not successful in your adventures in Nueva York, and it was all thanks to one blue and red-clad hero, Spider-man. 

Spider-man always seemed to show up and it would cause you to spiral out of control. Whether it was his intimidating figure or that gruff voice, his presence always turned your brain fuzzy and caused your thighs to clench. It couldn't be helped, he was a magnet and you were helpless to his pull. 

Your first ever encounter with the hero you would remember forever. It was one of the first high-profile places you had decided to break into. It was a museum that was housing a very famous jewel for an exhibit, and you just knew you needed to get your hands on it. So dawning your iconic catsuit you made your way to the museum. Breaking in and grabbing the jewel seemed to go off without a hitch, however, you must have hit an alarm somewhere because the Public Eye could be heard in the distance. 

Scrambling to the roof you stopped dead in your tracks, there he stood. Having seen pictures before you instantly recognized the icon in front of you, a dark cobalt blue suit with glowing red accents. Impossibly broad shoulders, towering height, and muscles that bulged from his suit leaving little to the imagination. Your mind felt like it blue screened, as you stared at him. How did he get here so quickly? Why is he so massive? Is he going to spank you? Wait what? Scratch that! 

You two just stood and studied each other for a moment, the tension high, your nerves going haywire being in his presence, you couldn't help the rush of heat dropping to your lower stomach. Does he realize how imposing he is? And why was he turning you on so much? Is it the thrill of stealing or is it just him? Your mind was racing, and he just stared at you. It seemed like he was studying you. Though you couldn't read any expression from that damn mask of his you suddenly had the urge to rip off his face to reveal what you could only assume was a dreamy man. Wait, why are you acting so thirsty? He's here to stop you, not to ravish you! You're a bad girl, he's a good guy, take a mental image of him for a later daydream and get out of here! Then a commanding voice grips you and makes you snap to the present.  

“Hand that over, Now!” 

The simple demand rolled from his tongue making your brain fuzzy and limbs turning to jelly. The familiar rush of heat dropping to your stomach turning into a coil. The mix in your stomach, a storm of nerves and arousal. Feeling your breath hitch you just stared blankly at the hero.

He just spoke to you! Say something, do something!

Standing dumbfounded for a moment you begin to walk to him slowly. He teased from your approach getting ready to defend himself, however he didn't need to. Before he could even comprehend what was happening you placed the jewel in his hand. Staring at him with stars in your eyes as you just backed away. You tried to speak, but it only came out a subtle whine as you turned to run off. A tilt of his head said it all to show his confusion about your silent surrender, he didn't even chase you down when you escaped, most villains put up a fight and you just gave in to his demand? That was a change of pace.

Getting back home you were pacing around your room kicking yourself. That was so lame! You could have said something! Gave him a fight! Flirted a little! Made an impression! Oh wait you did, as the worst thief ever! Handing over the loot as soon as he demands! What kind of thief does that? 

Plopping down on your bed you throw your head into your hands feeling the embarrassment still aching within you. Hopefully, next time if you run into the hero you will handle yourself like a proper theif and not whatever the hell that was!

 ----

Finally, your second chance has come! And things were going much better than the first encounter. What did you steal this time? Some important-looking technology from some important-looking building, honestly, you didn't think that what you were taking would be all that missed, but here you are getting chased by your new favorite hero. After your first meeting, you had done some research into Spiderman and you came out of it with a bit of a crush. Was it taboo to have a crush on a hero when you were participating in bad behavior? Yes, but he was just too amazing to ignore.

Jumping rooftop to rooftop using your grappling claws to help you swing and climb. It had taken you days of practice to make it look effortless. He on the other hand climbed and swung using his sharp talons and neon red webs that glowed oh so gorgeous in the night, you just assumed that the actions must have always come so easy to him. 

“Get back here now cat!”

That same rough voice yelling out towards you just makes you want to purr, maybe your persona was getting to you but you didn't care. You just wanted him to yell and bully you and you were not going to apologize for that. Have you been fantasizing a bit about the spider hero? Yes, but all the fanfiction you had stumbled on and read during your research did not help your case. Some of these writers come up with the tastiest scenarios. 

“No can do spidy! you have to catch me first!”  

Finally getting the flirty banter down you were turning to give him a cheeky wink, an action you were sure would make his head spin but, devastation accords. Right in the middle of your turn, that you had rehearsed in your mind, you clumsily tripped over your own feet and landed straight to the ground, right in front of Spider-Man. You're supposed to be agile like a cat, not fumbling like a fool!

Spider-man slows his pursuit from a sprint to a jog to a walk then standing above you looking down at you. He studies you for a moment placing his large hands on his tapered waist, you feel like you could cry, you just wish a portal to another dimension would swallow you up but you were not so lucky. He crotches down, not seeing you as a threat at all, scooping up the tech then swings away back to where you stole them. Great, he didn't even speak to you or try to apprehend you after you fell. This is truly the worst moment of your life. You gathered yourself off the floor and sulked away back home, trying to put your pride back together. 

----

Now you are hanging from the ceiling in some dingy lab, helplessly tangled. This was not helping your confidence whatsoever. The goal was to steal some stuff to improve your tools and suit, but no, you get tangled in some random cords! Unbelievable, This can't get worse. Then you spot him climbing through the side window and walking towards you, you stand corrected, this did get worse. Can't catch a break with this guy! 

Stopping right in front of you, face to face with him you could better see the subtle pixelating glow of his suit and the intoxicating smell of his natural musk. 

“What are you doing?” he spoke slight confusion in his serious voice

“Oh you know, hanging around” You chuckle at your cheesy joke but he just remains stoic. 

“You're really bad at this” he speaks frankly before quickly popping out his talons and swiftly cutting you free. 

You crash to the floor before you quickly spring back up facing him dusting yourself off. 

“What do you mean?” you quickly quip back

“I mean you're really bad at the whole stealing thing” he motions his finger in a circle in the air. 

“I think I'm just inexperienced, give me a few more chances and you will see” You start following him as he starts moving to leave, forgetting about even sealing anything, you're just excited to have a dialog with him. 

“You're lucky I don't throw your clumsy ass in jail.” 

“Why don't you then?” 

“Because you're not a threat to anyone but yourself” he whips around and pokes his finger out to you. This sudden confession takes you aback for a moment. 

“What? I am a threat! Look at these claws!” you pop out your mechanical claws trying to show him how dangerous you are, he turns and looks at your hand unimpressed you assume before sighing and turning away.

Making his way out of the window you clumsily follow behind him. The hero makes his way to the roof of the building, scaling the sides with little effort. It takes you a bit more effort to complete the climb following him. Note to self-practice climbing to build endurance.  

Thoughts swirling in your mind, it's odd to be speaking to him so casually, you're a villain, albeit a not-very-good one but you still are one. You two should be fighting or chasing each other. Though you should probably be thankful you are not fighting the guy who was way more skilled and massive. You were not a good fighter, but it was irritating that he didn't even see you as a threat, you could be a threat! Not that you wanted to be but who the hell does he think he is to undermine you to your face? 

Reaching the rooftop he stands walking away from you as you fumble behind him trying to catch up. He looks back at you as you try to catch your breath, though you can't see his face you can feel a scowling glare piercing through you. 

“Go home kitty, I have more important matters to deal with than play with you”

With that, he shoots his blazing red web in the air and swings away. Fantastic, he sees you as nothing more than just some fool to not take seriously. 

Standing there an ache fills your chest, every time he was around you looked like an idiot, clumsy and brain-fuzzed with inappropriate thoughts of things he could do to you but you didn't expect him to undermine you so bluntly. It was a major blow to your bad girl ego. 

Clenching your fist into tight balls you feel your frustration hitting its peak. Yelling out to him in desperation you shout to his fading figure. 

“You know what spiderman? You better watch out! I might just surprise you!” 

----

Okay yes, what you were doing could be classified as stalking, but you were burning to get back at Spider-Man. He had seen you look like a fool three times too many, so it was now time to make him eat his words. But how do you get back at a superhero? Well, your idea is: You find his secret hideaway, steal his stuff and leave him a note telling him how he shouldn’t be so cocky. Who could see you as some clumsy thief after that? 

The plan was in full effect: you had found him cleaning up the streets of Nueva York, beating up a gang blue and bloody. Watching him work was pretty thrilling, he moved with such force and skill. He was something to reckon with, for a moment you find yourself thinking you might rethink your plan, but you quickly shake the idea away. Spider-man was going to be knocked down a peg by you, this was definitely going to change how he sees you. 

What he had said had stirred something in you that you just couldn't ignore, it was almost like you wanted to impress him. To get his attention and see you more than just some clumsy thief, who knows maybe he would be into it? Good girls like bad boys apparently, do good guys like bad girls? Well, you hope so. 

After he finished his fight with the gang he started swinging through the city. You made sure to keep your distance so he wouldn't catch you as you kept a watchful eye out for those iconic glowing webs. After a while, you lost him in the cleaner division of the city. You looked around at the pristine buildings. Most of them were brand new, they were always developing and getting rid of buildings so everything looked unfamiliar to you even though you have lived in Nueva York all your life. 

Looking around one building caught your eye, it was tall but wasn't the tallest in the city and didn't seem to have any windows besides some at the very top. There was something about this building that you couldn't shake. Call it a hunch or just natural intuition but you knew this building was hiding something, hopefully, it was hiding Spider-Man's secret hideout. Approaching the building you looked to see if it housed a company of some sort but you didn't see anything. -suspicious. 

Needing to find a way inside, you scope out the buildings outside. The only possible opening you saw for yourself was a window and it was quite the climb to reach it. It would be worth it though, if this was really where Spider-Man was hiding, he would for sure be surprised by this sudden intrusion to his private space. The ultimate fantasy was you breaking in stealing some stuff then leaving him a cheeky note, he would be so impressed by your skill he would hunt you down and beg you to join him to fight crime. Then he would make sweet love to you, twisting you and bending around in many positions making you cum over and over again with him. 

Squealing in excitement as you climb you almost fall having to adjust your grip. Maybe it would be better if you kept the fantasies at bay for now. The climb felt like it lasted forever, huffing and pushing through your exhaustion, your fantasy driving you to your goal. Popping your head up to look through the window, you are met with your reflection, dammit. Well, time for the tried and true method, breaking and entering!

Unsheathing one of your sharp claws you start cutting through the glass. You struggle to cut a hole large enough for you to crawl through, it's rigged and wavy on the sides, truly unprofessional looking for a thief but whatever. Pushing the glass slightly it doesn't budge. Applying more force and using your body weight you finally get through the glass with a crash. Wincing you hope the sound wasn't too loud to make anyone notice, as you stand, brushing yourself off, you finally look around and are frozen by what you see.  

People in costumes all over the place have their eyes glued to you, some wear masks and some do not but there seems to be a theme to all of them, a spider theme. Your brows furrow, a costume party?

It's not until you see some of them swinging from webs and walking on the ceiling does it dawn on you that this isn't a party of normal people.

During your state of confusion, you spot him, your Spider-Man. He’s staring at you, his eye lenses raised in surprise. He seemed to have been talking to people before staring at your sudden intrusion. This wasn't your plan at all, but just go with it! Quickly finding your bearings you point to your Spider-Man face flushed but still determined. 

“You have underestimated me Spider-Man! I found your little…Clubhouse?”

As you shout out to him he walks over to you staring intently, eye lenses furrowed. His approach makes your breath shake and speech clutter into a rambling mess.  

“I'm…I'm not so clum-clumsy now huh…” 

You finally stumble out as he now stands inches from you. Then your breathing stops as the mask that has been hiding his face disappears revealing his crimson eyes, perfectly high cheekbones and full lips. His ravenous hair slicked back, the rich color brown beautifully complemented his tanned skin. Shit, he’s even more gorgeous than in any kind of fantasy you could imagine. 

He stares at you for a moment before he quickly grabs your arm and starts dragging you behind him. As you are tugged through you look at the spider people staring at you. Some would avert their gaze from you, while others just stared, you swore you could even hear some snickering and laughing at the scene. 

“Poor thing, he's probably going to kill her”

“How did she find us?”

“Looks like Miguel has a pet cat now” 

Listening to the muttering of the people your ears perk at the name, Miguel? Looking back up to Spider-Man dragging you along, his name must be Miguel then. You didn’t expect to find out his name and see his face so suddenly. But now you knew more about him, and it was exciting you.

Miguel continues to drag you through the massive building, not meeting your eye of course, you pass by many things in the building looking around in awe as your arm is held in his strong grip, almost certain that you will have bruises tomorrow.  

Finally, after the walking and a quiet elevator ride you are in a dark cluttered room, a holo agent appears to welcome Miguel back, but he only responds with a gruff command of Do not disturb. 

Releasing his death grip on you he turns to face you once more. His face alone sends butterflies in your stomach no high alert as he looks down at you. Scrunching his face before closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose, he takes a deep breath before he starts pacing. 

You watch as he paces around for a moment, muttering to himself as you just stare patiently. Your eyes take him in as you watch him move left and right left and right your head swiveling in tandem with his movements. Muscles under his tight suit seeming to get tighter as he paces. It was almost mouth watering.

“Miguel?” You say in a sweet question. 

Turning his head to you instinctively from hearing his name, he winces when he realizes that you now know his identity, "What" he barks in your direction. 

Trying to come across as unfazed by his annoyance you just chirp a “nothing” to the seething man. His eyes scan you for a moment up and down before returning to his pacing. 

You go to say something else but he quickly holds his large hand up to you, effectively causing you to bite your bottom lip to silence yourself. Opening his crimson eyes again he stares at you, this must be the look he always gives you. Furrowed brows, one slightly raised. His full flips in a furrowed pout. Any moment he could either yell at you, grab your throat and slam you into a wall, or grab your face and kiss you passionately. The intensity of his stare has you fidgeting slightly picking at your figures, a bad habit that only occurs when you're nervous. 

Full lips opening you hear him breathe out a question to you

“Why are you here gata?”

Skin tingling from his simple question it takes all the nerve you might have still had straight out of you. 

“I wanted to surprise…”

“Surprise me? I am surprised actually, it's shocking you didn't break your neck climbing up the building?” he cuts you off irritatedly

“Well, I almost fell a few times…” you nervously laugh. 

Staring at you he doesn't laugh at your quip. This was not your plan at all. 

“Do you get off on being a shocking pain in my ass?”

Eyes widen at his question, you look to your feet, shit. This isn't how this is supposed to go. Sure you know you're a pain but you just wanted his attention. And yes, that sounds kinda of pathetic but, he is your crush as odd as it is. 

Your breaking in and entering places started the rush for you, but getting to interact with Spider-Man made it all the more tantalizing. There is no way you can admit this to him though, especially now. He's irritated enough by you, plus he would most certainly reject you. Snapping his fingers at you causes you to look up at him.

“Tell me Cat”

Moving your eyes away from him, you feel less like a thief and more like an employee getting reprimanded by a supervisor. Miguel leans to meet your eyes. Noting your flushed features and rapid heartbeat, the realization hits him like a ton of bricks. 

The feeling of fingers on your chin snaps you back from your inner spiraling. As you are now forced to look at Miguel, his breath fanning on your face from his proximity those crimson eyes boring into you.

“Are you trying to get my attention, kitty? Because you have it, now what?” 

His smooth voice has your body flushing with a warm heat, ruining your panties in the process. Is this happening? Is he flirting? Is he into this? Into you?

“Whatever you want” You speak too quickly, wanting to punch yourself for sounding so desperate. 

His thumb brushes against your lips making your knees weak and breathing to spot “Then get on your knees” his smooth voice commands.

Being all to eager you drop to your knees in an instant looking up meeting his red eyes pooling with hunger. He slowly slips his thumb in your mouth feeling your tongue and pressing down to release your drool. 

“You know, you're not like others. They are not so eager for my attention,” he says with hooded eyes as you roll your tongue over his digit. You just nod, leaning in to grab his firm thighs running your hands up to palm his stranded cock you can feel as it grows and twitches in his suit. 

“Just to warn you, once we start I won't be able to stop”

You just suck on him looking up at him to convey your response. 

“Don't say I didn't warn you'' 

With that, he removes his thumb soaked from your drool, and his suit dissolves away. Watching his tanned skin be revealed to you from the dissolving light. His cock springing out towards your face. 

crouching down towards you and grabs the back of your neck pulling you in for a rough kiss. keeping his intense eyes on you as you kiss him back in a fever. Pushing his tongue in your mouth he feels as you eagerly meet him with yours, desperate to taste him. Grabbing and pressing your hands to his solid chest to support yourself, slowly getting drunk from his kiss.

Miguel breaks the kiss standing up from you, pumping his massive cock, almost teasing you with its girth and length, taunting you to take all of him in.

Grasping onto him you feel the silkiness of his cock and the ridge of each vein. The slit of his cock pebbles with glistening precum as you keep pumping him with your hands, licking and tip to take in his tangy taste you are sure to get addicted to. 

His large hand drifts to your cheek rubbing his thumb on your face. 

“Look at you being a good girl, you ready to take it kitty?”

He takes his cock back into his other hand and slaps his tip to your lips. You instantly parted your lips, eyes completely glazed over in lust for him. He slowly slips his cock through your parted lips. The heat and girth make your mouth water as he pushes inch by inch into your wet walls. Whining at the intrusion in your mouth you use your tongue to rub against the thick bottom of his heavy member, enticing him to push in deeper. His cock twinges at your eager licking and he grabs a fist full of your hair as a warning. 

“Breath through your nose” he demands

Before you know it you feel his hips buckling into you more, slipping himself deeper down your throat. Miguel was a big guy so of course he was down your throat causing you to gag and whine on him, he went to pull out to give you relief but you clung to his thighs not allowing him to leave you. Throwing his head back, a moan escapes him from your needy hold. 

Lolling his head to the side as he starts to steadily pump his cock into your drooling mouth, he can't remember the last time he's seen such a beautiful sight. Doe eyes glazed over looking up at him, face flushed, tears streaming down from the constant gagging, cheeks sucked in, his cock sliding in and out of your mouth as your saliva drops from your chin to your clothed thighs in that black skin tight suit that he just wants to rip off you. Continuing his rutting into you he just smirks. 

Swiftly he shethes himself fully in your mouth down your throat, your nose pressed to his trimmed hairs. Petting your head keeping himself in as you adjust to accommodate him he breathlessly gives you a command.

“Purr for me kitty, I want to feel how much you like it” 

Without hesitation start to purr, the vibrations sending him over the edge as he starts thrusting in your eager mouth, bottoming out each time. Feeling you rocking, he looks down to see you rubbing your clothed cunt desperately on your hand. 

“So needy gata” 

cooing to you, as you just continue your pursuit on your hand, shame and embarrassment hit you for acting so desperate. But the pleasure of the sensation of your fucked throat and pressure on your clit has you rolling your eyes back in bliss. Sure, he can call you needy all he wants, but you don't care as you get close to your high.

Thrust becoming more sloppy and his moans starting to slip out in a consistent hum you know he's approaching his release. Swiping your tongue in a fever around him to bring him closer you tighten your grip on his thighs to continue your grinding. A throbbing of his cock and the quickening of his breath is your warning before he is releasing his thick cum down your throat, that you can't help but swallow down with an urgent fever. Quickly he slips out of you, making you cough at the sudden emptiness of your throat. 

Coughing you didn't realize how much you were desperate for air during his throat fucking. Crawling away from him, not to run away but to get a break to catch your breath, you feel a quick swipe on your clothed pussy, then sudden cold air hitting it as all your arousal starts dripping down your puffy folds to the ground under you. You whine at the sudden exposure and before you can turn your head to see what's happening you feel Miguel's large hands on your hips pulling you close to him.  

“Don't tell me you're done gata? We haven't even started” he taunts while swiping two of his long fingers around your folds. 

Looking back at him you press your cunt to him whining for him to keep touching you, he hums in response.

“Good kitty” 

He continues to brush your folds, teasing your swollen clit every so often with a rub or a flick to make sure you were soaked enough to take him. Pushing on your back to lower your chest to the ground keeping your hips raised in the air. He watches as your needy hole grips around nothing begging to be stuffed. Slapping the head of his cock to your slick folds, he makes you whine you jump forward and hum at the abuse. 

“Oh? You're a sensitive one huh?”

One last slap echoes through the room with your moaning before slipping into your velvet walls causing your fingers to spread out and grip the floor as he pushes himself in keeping his large hand on your hips. Slowly rolling his hips into you, his massive cock splitting you open deliciously, the stretch making you moan out and arch further into him as he keeps his slow pace pushing himself deeper and deeper. 

You're instantly coming undone on him, clamping down on him as you gasp from your release. The tightness causes him to bully into you harder still keeping his torturous slow pace. not even all the way in and your already creaming on his cock.

Your breath is completely knocked from you once he's bottomed out, he places his hand on your lower stomach, and he feels his hard cock bulging through you. He moans at the feeling, pressing harder and rubbing the tip through your soft skin, causing you to cry in pleasure and shudder at his rolling hand. 

“Oh, you feel that don't you? Filling up that tight little pussy.” he leans over to your ear “Don't forget to breath kitty cat, I don't want you passing out” 

Before you can quip back or ask what he means, he's slipping out of you to the tip then slamming back into you in and out in rapid succession, the air in your lungs getting banged out of you. Leaning over you again, he holds your head up by your chin. His chin rests comfortably on your shoulder and he breathes in your ear. 

“Breath kitty, come on” 

taking in deep breaths as your told he treats you by fucking you harder, completely rocking your body past what you though was your limits. 

“That's my girl” 

He continues his pace, sweat rolling down his tense muscles as he continues to fuck you relentlessly. You can't help but feel like he's trying to break you. Grabbing one of your outstretched arms he curls it so you're able to rub your clit.

“Touch yourself, I want to feel you cum on my cock again.” he pants in your ear.

Giving into his demands you rub quick circles on your spent clit, the coil in your stomach being rammed into by Miguel's brutal length. Your pussy starts to grip him harder, making him fuck into you faster than you thought you could even handle.

Knocking all air from you, your lungs are burning. It feels like you're running a marathon, sweat rolling down your body, the heat being trapped in your catsuit. Almost Like he can sense your body overheating Miguel rips your cat suit like it's made of paper. You moan at the sudden cooling of your wet skin. Kissing all over your bare back, Miguel's large hands grab onto your bouncing breast, causing your nipples to suddenly peak from his pinching and tugging.

“Come on kitty, cum for me,” he says breathlessly, gripping harder onto you. 

“Miguel…” You start to moan, your cunt clenched around him, the echoing of wet squelching and skin slapping together egging you both on. Before you know it you're squirting on his hard length, screaming in pleasure then quickly in overstimulation as he doesn't let up, only pushing harder and harder. Your third orgasm hits you too fast and leaves you crying out as your brain completely shuts down to a white fog. The pain mixes into unbelievable pleasure. 

Finally, you feel your insides heat up. Feeling Miguel's cold sweat dropping onto your back as he finally came again with a loud moan and shuddering of his muscular body. The heat of his hot seed paints your insides white, as his cool sweat drips down on you. The mix of hot and cold has you twitching underneath him as he slows his thrusting to a snail's pace. Your eager pussy milks him of all his hot load.

He finally pulls out of you after he is thoroughly drained. You feel the sticky mix of both your arousal leaking out to your thighs. Rolling to your back you press your fingers to your fucked hole in a vain attempt to keep the warmth in. 

Miguel stands up and examines you, he chuckles to himself as he watches you try to keep his seed inside. Scooping you up in his arms he walks you to his office bathroom to clean you up. Exhausted, you rest your head on his warm chest, slowly catching your breath. Sure this wasn't your plan but you have a feeling that you have been successful in surprising him. As he carries you can't help yourself falling asleep in his arms. 

----

“Miguel! What is everyone talking about saying you have a pet cat now?”

Peter walks into Miguel's office but promptly freezes when he sees you asleep on a couch wrapped up in a large blanket. Miguel turns from his screens to meet Peter's confused gaze. Miguel looks towards you with affection watching you blissfully sleep. 

“Yeah, a stray followed me home. I think I’m going to keep her”

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[daddyricsdoll]

Little celebration ✭ Liam Lawson

Summary: There was no doubt everyone beamed with smiles after Liam scored his maiden points in F1, which meant the race debrief between the two of you couldn't be the same as others. And you made sure of that.

Warnings: Oral (Male receiving) and unprotected sex.

Word count: 0.7k

A/N: It was exciting to write about Liam since I had wanted to for so long, so thanks to this anon for giving me that little push. Hope you enjoy!

The team start jumping and shouting all around the garage as Liam finishes P9. I couldn’t help but join them as we all celebrate my boyfriend's first points in F1 at his favourite circuit. 

Just like every other race I would meet him in his driver’s room and he would tell me about his amazing experience in the car while I stare at him and listen intently. He’s always beaming with pink cheeks and a million dollar smile after a race, so when I see him walking toward his driver's room and our eyes meet, none of us hold back our sprints to each other.

He engulfs me in his arms and I whisper words of praise along the skin of his neck. I stay in his sturdy arms as he walks us into his drivers room and then lowers me onto the ground. I take in his state, suit hanging low on his hips and lips parted to catch deep breaths as he leans against the door behind him. 

My hands slide down his clothed chest as my eyes look into his serene cobalt eyes. “How about we postpone the race debrief for a little celebration?” 

“What do you have in mind?” He smirks at me.

“Let me show you.” I breathe out and make my way to the ground, kneeling in front of him on my knees. I look up at Liam and watch as he nods, resulting in my hands grabbing the top of his suit and sliding it down his legs, followed by his fireproofs. I have to hold back a moan as I watch his dick rest along his toned stomach just before my relatively small hand reaches out for it.

I hold him in my fist as my mouth inches closer and I leave little kitten licks over his tip. His groans make me smile while I finally lower my mouth onto him. My lips close around his dick and tongue circles around his tip before I finally bob my head as far down him as I can. I feel Liam's hand against the top of my head and his fingers intertwine in my hair.

He helps guide my head as it bobs up and down, his dick hits the back of my throat and a string of curses leave his mouth. Liam changes the pace, moving my head even faster that the tears welled in my eyes finally fled. I rubbed my thighs together trying to ease the need between them but it didn’t work as well as I’d hoped. But I forget about myself as I feel Liam’s dick twitch in my mouth, telling me he’s only mere seconds away from his climax.

So my tongue teases his tip and sucks it, just pushing off the edge and he ultimately cums in my mouth. I open my mouth and show him his cum on my tongue and he nods, lightly jutting his hips forward as I swallow. His calloused hand grabs my arms and pulls me back up to stand on my feet before placing me on the bed behind me and eagerly pushing the material of my flimsy dress up.

“Fuck” Liam mutters as his delicate fingers zealously slide my thongs down my legs. He barely gives me time to gain composure before I let out filthy sounds at the sensation of his dick thrusting into me. Each of his arms sit beside me to keep his exhausted but hungry body up. My hands grip his muscular shoulders for steadiness and lips fuse with his as we exchange whines and moans. Liam grasps one of my thighs and lifts my leg up beside his waist, resulting in reaching deeper and stroking my special spot even more intensely. 

It was like he meticulously planned out what would make my toes curl and accelerate the release of my climax. It only took bare seconds until I released with a loud whine and my fingernails dug into his smooth skin. In the same amount of time he released as well, accompanied by deep groans. Liam concluded his last few thrusts as he rode both of our highs out. Little strands of his hair dangling in front of his forehead as they moved with the rest of his body. 

“I should get points more often.” He jokes and I can only let out a light chuckle, pulling his head to mine for another kiss to finalise this amazing night in Singapore.

#liam lawson f1 #liam lawson imagine #liam lawson x y/n #liam lawson x reader #liam lawson #f1 smut #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #formula 1 #f1 fic #f1 blurb #f1 fluff #liam lawson smut

[riacte]

🛸 exterrasexymenpoll Follow

Vote for your favourite sexyman in the Exterra racing industry!

THE RED KING from TEAM DOGWARTS and BLUE BATS

vs

QUEEN OF HEARTS from TEAM BLUE BATS

For our other semi-final— BLUE BALLS from TEAM COBALT CATMAIDS vs THE HAND from TEAM DOGWARTS please vote here!

Poll closes at 8pm Intergalatic Central Time. Campaign all you like.

Spamming about van’ilah extract in the comments will result in an instant ban (yeah, we know the meme’s going around sunblr, but let’s keep this poll somewhat sensible, okay?)

Requests about including THE Blue Stalker will also result in an instant ban. This blog does not condone attempted murder, harassment, stalking, violence, etc etc.

🔮 queenofstarz03 Follow

SHUT UP HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO VOTE NAWT MY ICONIC DIVORCED PARENTS 😭😭😭😭 I’M PROPELLED INTO THE STRATOSPHEREEEEEE

voting for qoh bc rk would’ve wanted it 🥺 i miss them forever and forever ueueue

also sorry but the blue stalker is the ultimate exterra sexyman. those fanfic authors gave them so much personality when all they want is to unalive rk 😩 rotating the iconic enemies to lovers 20k oneshot in my brain

🦇 starshipspachelbel Follow

I’m more surprised by how Blue Balls is in the semi-finals

Anyways I’ll be voting for RK, he’s a pathetic wet paper bag of a Lykos lmfao <3

👽 blueballs Follow

dude my name is blueballs how did you NOT expect me to be in the semifinals lmao

🦇 starshipspachelbel Follow

HELP NOT A CC (Crew / Comms) NOTICE EXTERRABLR SCATTER

☄️ cosmiclovee Follow

I BELIEVE IN BLUEBALLS SUPREMACY #BALLSWEEP

By the way, QoH stans rise!! Did you forget our awakening? Remember the starry suit she wore for the 2109 gala and how everyone was immediately like 😳??? And she rolled up the sleeves?? Remember the x reader fics on Launchpad?

🪓 handoftheking Follow

Yeah, because I’ve read them. Hey, some fics were pretty good.

I also voted for Queen of Hearts. I mean, just look her at her. And as a fellow Lumian, I’m obliged haha.

☄️ cosmiclovee Follow

… Oops, total containment breach now? Mods I’m sorry, you guys don’t have to eat the spaceship that you promised to—

But onto more important things: RK’s own GUNNER didn’t vote for HIM??? And voted for QoH??? LMFAO THIS IS HILARIOUS. the total betrayal. it feels like he’s cheating. the disrespect for RK. i love it.

Also, Hand, you read QoH x reader fics? Any recs lmao? And did you read the bad boy RK ones?

🌲 dilfkisser Follow

So I’m learning from my dash that the Hand himself voted for QoH over RK???? My Treebark ship just sank in two seconds. Wtf.

#BALLSWEEP btw

🥂redkingsboyfriend Follow

Lololol the Hand’s narcissism is really showing. Look at him voting for his pre-transition self. He’s so vain.

@/exterrasexymenpoll can you please remove the Hand’s deadname? It’s disrespectful to transgender people.

📺 saintswept Follow

are you fucking for real, believing in the trans qoh/hand theory in this year?? they’re completely different people. shut up and ship treebark lmao

still funny that the hand didn’t vote for his bf and went for his bf’s ex gunner—

💫 concorp-official Follow

Hey, I know sunblr hates corporations but as the CEO of ConCorp, I feel rather… mystified that I got out in the first round. Was my mad scientist jacket not enough?

Personally I’m surprised that Xisuma Void got further than me. Anyways, supporting the Queen of Hearts.

👬 kissinghomiesgnight Follow

??? Look at how much this poll breached containment? First a CC notice, and then a racer notice, and now a fucking CORPORATION??? Mr Cubfan I am So Sorry but I think people were just too excited to vote for the Catmaid—

#unreality #space opera au #fake polls #ria.txt #YEAH IM GONCHAROVING THIS #wake up new space opera internet bs dropped #trafficshipping #sorry. once again idk how to tag #BALLSWEEP #tw unreality

[raitrolling]

╾━━ Drivin’ the Getaway Car - SC43

[Easy reading version on Toyhou.se]

Pairing: Sharle Casini x Photographer!Reader

Summary: You’re at the after-party for a photography event that has launched your career into true stardom. Excited and still riding the high of your career taking off, you end up having one too many drinks and have a bit of trouble getting home. You’d never guess in a million years who saves you from getting harassed by strangers and then takes you home…

Warnings: Alcohol, Harassment, Swearing, French

Word count: 1.83k

Your first photography art exhibition has gone perfectly. Hosted at the illustrious Metropolitan Museum, distinguished guests from around the planet flocked to see the debut of a rising star. Celebrities, sports events, red carpet premieres, exclusive highblood events, you’ve photographed them all.

The most admired photograph of all was one of a certain race car driver, standing on the podium holding the world championship trophy. His bright smile but sexy fiery look in his eyes dazzled thousands, and even just looking at your own photograph made you blush.

The event’s afterparty was even better. You got to mingle with all the guests, rubbing shoulders with even more celebrities who wanted your number so you could record their biggest upcoming events. Your career was about to skyrocket.

… And maybe you had one too many celebratory mimosas in the process. Oops!

You had to leave, but you were obviously drunk. You stumble in your six-inch Louboutin pumps - nude with encrusted diamonds decorating the toes, and of course the signature red bottoms - careful not to slip and drop your matching Chanel bag. You brush your long black and perfectly-curled hair out of your face, and hope you haven’t smudged your obsidian black lipstick. You’ve actually got very average features and don’t normally stand out from the crowd, but tonight you went all-out to be the biggest bombshell in the gallery.

Unfortunately, your beautiful gold designer cocktail dress has attracted the wrong kind of attention. Three men standing outside the bar approach you, lowblooded and overweight with pig-like features. They leer at you, licking their greasy lips and one even makes a wolf whistle.

“Heyyyyy sexy, what are you doing out all by yourself~?” One of the lowblooded men calls out sleazily. He was wearing a stained red shirt and scruffy torn jeans. The other men chortle and start to advance towards you, looking like they’re going to do something unsavoury. 

“Um, nothing. I’m just, um… Going home!” You try to put on a brave voice, but you’re too drunk and too scared to look like anything but a tiny little mouse. 

Oh, if only someone happened to walk by and see that you’re in trouble…

Suddenly, as if a magical genie heard your wish, you hear a voice behind you, low and threatening. 

“Oi, get away from her, you fucking creeps.”

A blueblood approaches, wearing a black suit with a tie that matches the deep cobalt of his eyes. He was very well-built, muscles obvious even under his clothing, and he was very clearly an athlete. He had short tousled hair dyed blue at the tips, a small set of spiky horns, and his thick eyebrows were scrunched into a snarl. He glared at the three trolls who were harassing you, who jeered in response. 

He looks so familiar, but you can’t figure out where he’s from…

“Is there a problem?” He growls, and you feel his fingers protectively wrap around your waist. His hands are so strong, but so delicate. It gives you goosebumps.

“Yeah? Can’t we talk to a pretty lady in peace? She was askin’ for it, wearing that dress anyway!” The other man sneers. You blush, tugging the hem of your gold designer dress down to cover more of your legs. It wasn’t that short.

“I said leave her the fuck alone, before I beat you into a pulp!” The blueblood growls again, this time baring his fangs. He looked wild, violent and dangerous, but seeing him aim his rage at some chauvinistic pigs trying to hit on you made you feel… A little hot and bothered.

Falling in love at first sight? Ugh, how cliche! That is so not you. 

But the other men back down, and the guy in red spat at the floor before he leaves the two of you alone.

“She wasn’t even that good looking anyway. Ugly bitch.” 

Your saviour scoffs, and then he takes his hand off you. When he looks at you, his dark blue eyes gaze intensely, but there is a hidden softness behind it.

“I’m sorry mademoiselle, but when I saw those rude men try to hurt such a beautiful woman I could not let that happen. Are you okay?” His accent is gorgeous and exotic, like French but better. 

He puts his hand on your chin, and tilts your head upwards so he can study your expression. His intensity makes you feel like a slice of cake that he’s desperate to take a bite out of, but also… He looks worried, afraid that you might be hurt. It’s an intriguing duality that you can’t help but be curious about.  

“Oh, I’m fine now,” You say, and in your drunkenness you want to lean against him for support. You stumble, and he catches you. “Thank you.”

“Ma chérie, you are very drunk. Let me get you home,” He offers, so soft and sweet and nothing like how he spoke to the men who were harassing you. “And what should I call someone as pretty as you?”

“I’m… Y/N,” you say, and you can’t help but blush. That has to be the alcohol, definitely. You don’t fall for men this easily! 

“Nice to meet you Y/N, I’m Sharle,” He replies.

Your sparkling sapphire orbs go wide.

“Oh my god! As in, Sharle from F1? The racing driver? Ohhh, that’s where I’ve seen you before, I’m such a big fan!” You flutter your eyelashes at him, positively starstruck. That’s the guy! That’s the guy you took a photo of!

“Yeah, that’s me, ma chérie,” Sharle grins, suddenly looking very smug. You want to roll your eyes, but his confidence is addicting. “I heard that there was a photo of me at this exhibition, so I had to get to know the person who took it.”

“That sounds pretty stuck up,” You say, rolling your eyes. But you don’t mean it. 

“Hey, mon chou, you are so cold! Maybe I could warm you up~?” He teases.

You blush a bright blue yet again, and he laughs, warm like the sun. 

“Merci, I could not help it but I wanted to see your blushing face. Shall I help you home, dear?” 

You nod meekly, your gold diamond-encrusted earrings swishing. 

He wraps his muscular arm around you and helps you into his car. He drives a classy red Ferrari, of course. You slide into the passenger seat, and he helps you get the seatbelt on as you are still really drunk. He gets into the car too, and winds down the window so you have fresh air.

“So, where do you live?”

You tell him your address, and he raises his eyebrows, puzzled.

“Merde, that far? Hm, how about I just take you back to my place instead?” He smirks.

“Are you always taking drunk girls back to your place?” You ask.

“Not all the time. But, the moment I saw you, I knew you were special. I just had to protect you from those nasty lèche-culs,” He replies, his voice warm yet protective, like a big bear hug. 

You look down at your lap, embarrassed. Sharle has one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting on the centre console. Such strong hands with visible veins, hands that you can imagine around someone’s neck in a choking grip just as easily as they could gently grasp their waist.

 You catch yourself wishing that his hand was on your thigh instead. Why did he have to be so damn hot and such a gentleman?

He takes you back to his place, and immediately escorts you to his bedroom.

His bedroom?!

“Oh, no, I shouldn’t. Where are you going to sleep?” You ask. There is only one bed, after all. Does he really…?

He points his thumb towards the couch in the lounge room.

“I will take the couch, since you need to sleep more. And, you can lock the bedroom door too.”

“Why? Are you planning on coming in during the day?” You reply, half-teasing, half-curious.

He laughs, and holds up his hands in a surrendering gesture.

“Oh non, non, mon bébé. I just want to make sure you feel safe, sleeping in a stranger’s home.” He sounds genuine, so you relax.

“Okay, thanks.” You mutter, appreciative of how considerate he is.

He nods, and grabs you a glass of water and some medicine.

“Please, take this and make sure to drink lots of water. It will help you not get hungover.”

You take the medicine with a big, but dainty, gulp of water. It’s refreshing, just as refreshing as it is to be taken care of by such an attractive and caring man. He then helps you into bed, and tucks you into the covers. You snuggle into the pillow, smelling his intoxicating scent in the fabric.

“Goodnight, ma princesse.”

He brushes the hair off your forehead so he can give you a kiss, and you drift off to sleep, feeling like you’ve died and gone to heaven.

…

You wake up to the smell of breakfast cooking in the other room. You don’t have a hangover, thanks to the medicine he made you take, but you know you still definitely look terrible. You sneak into his bathroom to wash the make-up off your face, noticing that he also has a dedicated skincare routine and some really expensive cologne. You do like a man who knows how to look after himself.

When you walk into the kitchen, you’re greeted by the perfect sight: Sharle, shirtless, cooking bacon and pancakes for breakfast. His rippling back muscles are to die for, sculpted perfectly from sweeps of intense athletic training, and his arms… Well, let’s just say it’s not just the food that’s making you drool.

He turns around, and greets you with a teasing smirk. He knows you’re not looking at his face, and you like what you’re really seeing.

“Good evening, ma cherie. I did not want to disturb your beauty sleep, but I thought you would appreciate a breakfast that will help your hangover, non?” He says, cool and casual.

Your heart flutters like a hummingbird’s wings. This is a dream come true. 

If this is what happens when you drink too much at a party, you think you’ll be attending after parties every night.

-----------------------------------------------

Ropikk stared at her computer screen as she finished scrolling through yet another fanfic related to her co-worker. She was supposed to just be monitoring any recent discussions about him, making sure none of the images she hand carefully selected to post on his Instagram had generated any controversy, but she still could not help herself sometimes.

Usually, after reading through other people’s fantasies of the racecar driver she was in charge of, she would feel a mixture of delight and regret. This time, she only felt the latter. Not because her opinions towards him had changed, much to her chagrin, but because this one was just… Bad.

“He would not say any of that,” she said with a sigh.

#drabble #sharle casini #you guys requested it! its Cursed Drabble Time #i hope this was just as awful for everyone to read as it was for me to write. lord forgive what i have made #posting this right after eating lunch and brother i am about it lose it while rereadinng

[littlemisspascal]

Formula 101 - Prologue Part 2: October

Summary: The only thing you can truly count on in the heat of the moment, when you’re speeding on the track going 170mph, is yourself.

Pairing: eventual Javi/Fem!Reader "Oddball" (OFC)

Word Count: 5000+

Rating: T

Warnings: Social Media Fic, Formula One AU ft. multiple Pedro Pascal Cinematic Universe characters, Switching POVs, Worldbuilding, Headlines inspired by true events but edited for this plot, Usernames were created for fun and if they do exist irl there's no affiliation, Slowest of Slow Burn, Language, Insecurities, Descriptions of a crash but no major injuries and/or blood

Author Note: Massive thank you to everybody who gave this fic a chance! The support is beyond appreciated 💗💗💗

Bonus shoutout to everyone who suggested snow cone flavors 😄

A03 Link | Series Masterlist

Founded in 1968, Vulpecula is the second oldest active team in Formula 1. Over fifty drivers have raced for the team, leading to numerous Drivers’ and Constructors’ Championships and giving them a reputation as one of the most successful teams in F1 history. However, in recent years Vulpecula has struggled due to a combination of poor business decisions and badly designed cars, forcing them to restrategize and seek new methods of taking back their former glory.  

(Malk, Ranzar. The Cobalt Fox: The Official History of Vulpecula Formula 1. Roost: Bothan 5 Press, 2019. Print.)

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October’s beautiful in Altair. It’s soft sweaters and falling leaves and warm drinks. People are their friendliest during this time when there’s no summer heat to irritate their tempers and winter’s chill hasn’t arrived yet to turn their bodies into ice cubes. 

They wave when you ride your bike through town, well-wishes on their smiling lips. The strong vibes of community threaten to drown you in homesickness for your village in Sorgan. It’s a feeling that follows you into Vulpecula’s headquarters, five floors of steel beams and glass walls yet somehow still cozy, still welcoming.

Every week you’re expected to devote several hours to practicing on the racing simulator. It resembles the front part of an F1 car, a replica of the cockpit complete with a steering wheel to hold onto and pedals for your feet, set up in front of 65” triple screens. Gearing up in your suit and helmet, the simulator takes you out of headquarters and immerses you into the world of F1, replicating the tracks and car movements down to the smallest detail thanks to live footage and a gigantic amount of data. It can be set up however Vulpecula’s strategists want—weather conditions, tire types, fuel load, and countless more options all programmed with the press of a button.

This is what official training for Formula 1 looks like for you, outside of the few practice laps you’ve had in Badillo’s car throughout the season. The simulator helps the strategists and engineers collect data about your driving style, and it also helps you prepare for the tracks you’ve never raced on before, letting you practice them over and over again until every movement, each brake and twist of the wheel, is muscle memory. 

Sometimes people will stop by to watch, Vulpecula staff members or Vivian or even Pietro if he’s bored enough. Sometimes when you’re participating in a virtual race with AI cars, your audience will grow from a handful to a small gathering, playfully placing bets on who will be the victor. Which, to be honest, is a little stressful.

…A lot stressful, actually.

In theory, it’s harmless fun. Hell, you’d probably do the same thing if you were in their shoes and someone else was in the driver’s seat. But here’s the kicker: you’ve been losing more virtual races than winning so far. The strategists offer suggestions on how to do better, ideas to try out, working their asses off to help you become the best driver you can be and yet still you finish in the back of the pack—P12, P15, P-fucking-19—scoring a whopping zero points. 

Nobody’s said anything about your poor results—to your face, at least. Still, there are these chronic doubts lingering in the back of your mind, triggering every insecurity you have, making you wonder if behind every encouraging smile and fist bump they’re all wondering the same thing: what the hell is this kid doing here?

It’s only October, still months to go before you’re behind the wheel of next season’s car. Your results have the potential to change a lot by then. Minds have the potential to change, too. And that’s what’s got you worried most of all.

Vivian believes you’re exactly what Vulpecula needs, somebody fresh-faced and quick, yet also levelheaded—perfect for their goal of dominating the midfield teams and eventually, one day in the hopefully-not-so-distant-future, challenging the Top 3 for the championships. And when she first told you about the plan back in August, her belief was inspiring, filling you with a sense of purpose and rightness, like it was the final missing puzzle piece you’d been looking for all this time. 

Now, staring at the simulator screen displaying the word FAILURE in big red letters after you oversteered and crashed into a barrier, it’s hard not to think maybe you’re the wrong driver to believe in.

 _________________________________________________

Formula1Daily

Oddball joins Vulpecula for Formula 1 2023: The inside scoop Ginger Ale ─ October 5, 2022

The recent announcement from Vulpecula regarding the drafting of Oddball for the upcoming 2023 F1 season has made ripples across the globe. I talked with CEO Vivian Etten about this decision and what to expect from the team in the future.

So why has Vulpecula signed Oddball?

Etten: She’s got such undeniable natural talent. She’s still young, still growing up, but I believe her and Javi, who has earned a good amount of experience during his career in F1, are an excellent combo. It was an easy decision to make to sign Oddball as our driver.

Has Vulpecula learned from past mistakes regarding young drivers?

Etten: I’ll be the first to admit to our mistakes. With Oddall, we plan to manage her with the necessary time and space she needs to adapt to the environment. We’re a different team now than we were when Omar was with us. We’ll make sure to do better moving forward.

Were there other young drivers you considered to join Vulpecula?

Etten: Oddball was always our top choice from the get-go. But there were some talks with Omar about returning to us, and a few meetings with Frederick Mercer during the summer break. Ultimately though, we wanted Oddball to stay in the Vulpecula family and we knew another team would recruit her in an instant if we didn’t.

So what can be expected from Oddball in 2023?

Etten: The focus for us this season isn’t to beat Sunspear, Nevarro, or Aurelac. We need to better ourselves first and foremost as a team. And with Oddball and Gutierrez, I believe we can make the crucial first steps forward in that direction.

READ MORE AT FORMULA1DAILY.COM

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Formula 2 is meant to be a training ground of sorts for drivers to prepare for their potential entry into F1, but it differs from F1 in several ways. For starters, the cars are slower, only capable of reaching 205mph when pushed to their limits. There’s also only twelve rounds a season instead of twenty-one with each weekend including two races—a sprint race on Saturday and the feature race on Sunday—giving drivers an extra chance of earning points.

What’s the difference between a feature race and a sprint race? Sprints are shorter, only 100km, meant to be a flat-out speed race from start to finish without any pit stops.

You never know what’s going to happen when you’re on the track. Nobody does, actually, and anyone who says otherwise is a liar because there’s literally hundreds of unpredictable outcomes. 

Everyone hopes for a first place victory for their team. Obviously. But hope does little to help when the weather abruptly changes, or your engine fails in the middle of a lap, or the pit crew isn’t prepared, or —the list of problems is endless. The only thing you can truly count on in the heat of the moment, when you’re speeding on the track going 170mph, is yourself.

The Colombian round this weekend is a crucial one, the penultimate of the season. If Ben has high finishes, his lead over the rest of the grid will guarantee him the championship title. But if you can beat him here and then do it again next round in November, you might have a chance of stealing the title from him.

You arrive at the Bogotá circuit excited and optimistic.

Friday is wonderful. Your practice session is one of the best you’ve had all season, beating Ben by two tenths of a second. In qualifying, you finish P2 just a hair behind Frederick Mercer. It’s a little shocking, since he hasn’t taken pole position on the grid since round one in March, but you know you can beat him in the upcoming races just as you have done every round so far. 

Saturday is…decidedly not wonderful. A bad start coupled with a tire puncture has you retiring from the sprint and returning to the pit with your metaphorical tail between your legs. The sympathetic looks from the team have you gritting your teeth, wishing you could claw off your own skin and disappear. 

Tomorrow will be better, you tell yourself, a hopeful mantra to ward off the dark thoughts creeping in at the edges. It has to be.

Sunday can be summed up in five words: when it rains, it pours. 

October is the wettest month of the year in Colombia. One of the mechanics tells you there’s only about 98 hours of sunshine during the whole month, so the two previous days of clear skies were a gift from the universe. You gear up like usual, knowing even if it does rain the race will go on. The cars are water-resistant and can be equipped with wet weather tires specially designed with treads to help prevent aquaplaning. Doesn’t mean accidents don’t still happen though. There are no guarantees everyone will get through the race without spinning off the track.

About ten minutes before the race begins, the cloudy skies decide it is the perfect time for a shower. The raindrops are fat, cold, the pitter-patter sound of each one striking the ground resembling a dull roar in your ears even with your helmet on. There are no signs of lightning yet, no ominous claps of thunder either, and so the race officials agree to let the event start on time.

Depending on which driver is asked, racing in the rain is either the most exhilarating adrenaline rush they crave like a drug or it’s an anxiety attack wrapped in terror with a lopsided bow of misfortune on top.

You’re somewhere in the middle of the spectrum. There are definitely some scary aspects, namely the spray coming off the tires of cars in front which creates this eerie plume of fog dirtying the air, limiting visibility to a few precious and blurry feet ahead. But rainy conditions also tend to throw a wrench in the status quo—drivers usually in the lead during dry races might suddenly find themselves overtaken by those who have barely scored any points all season.

When it rains, suddenly anything and everything seems possible.

Lap 26 out of 30 finds you at the front of the pack, searching for an opportunity to overtake Ben. All you can see are his rear lights, two glowing red beams cutting through the heavy shades of gray pressing in from all sides. Every jerk of the steering wheel when the tires hit a wet patch on the track has your arm muscles straining, fighting back against the car’s desire to spin

When the next corner comes, you don’t even see Frederick veering too close into your space.

His front tire bumps against your rear one, and then the world is spinning round and round in a bewildering mess of rain and flying debris. You’re helpless to stop any of it, can only brace for impact with the padded barrier and pray for the best—for yourself and for the car.

The sound of the collision with the barrier—an almighty thud that sends a jarring shockwave through your body, bones rattling from head to toe, followed immediately by the enraged snarling of the engine unable to comprehend what the hell just happened—snaps your frazzled mind back into focus. 

“Oddball, you alright?” your race engineer’s asking over the radio, her voice thick with worry. Koska’s your only source of contact with your team, keeping you up to date on any major developments on the track you’re unaware of. 

“Yeah, Koska,” you reassure her, wiggling your fingers and moving your legs. Nothing’s broken. No sharp bursts of agonizing pain. Just the regular amount of soreness and jitters which follow after a shunt. “I’m fine. How’s Freddy?”

“Fine. His car’s in a worse state than yours though,” she answers, and you can’t quite stifle the petty pulse of satisfaction which swells inside when you hear that. “The medical car is on its way. ”

You look up then, seeing a marshal waving a yellow flag near the corner, alerting other drivers to slow down to avoid the pieces of debris littering the track that flew off both cars during the accident. Your fingers clench and unclench around the edges of the wheel, feeling so very young and so incredibly stupid.

“Koska,” you say, biting your lip to stop it from wobbling. Your eyes squeeze shut, forcing back down the unsteady emotions threatening to escape in embarrassing ways. “Tell…tell the team I’m sorry, please. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, Oddball,” is her immediate response.

But it’s not. It’s not okay at all.

You arrived at the Bogotá circuit excited and optimistic.

Now, riding in the back of the medical car, no points won and your chance of the title completely eviscerated, it’s hard to feel anything besides gut-wrenching disappointment.

 _________________________________________________

 _________________________________________________

There’s a snow cone stand barely a ten minute drive from Triple Frontier headquarters that Frankie loves because it’s the only one in the city which has his favorite flavor: lavender bubblegum. 

It’s become a tradition for Javi and him to come here every Wednesday following race weekends. Mondays are for catching up on sleep, missed emails and calls, enjoying some personal time before the team calls them back in on Tuesday to review every second of the GP under a metaphorical microscope.

The ambiance of The Chill Zone is, as the name implies, chill and casual. A teal blue shack just big enough for the two employees to move around comfortably in as they fill orders from the chalkboard menu featuring at least a hundred snow cone options. There’s the classics—such as cherry, grape, blue raspberry—and then there’s some for more adventurous taste buds—chamoy, seasalt, and lychee among others.

Frankie always sticks with his favorite, never tempted to explore outside his comfort zone. Javi, on the other hand, likes to sample a different flavor every visit. Just like with every new experience, sometimes they’re great and well-worth the money, while other times they’re absolutely disgusting and fill him with regret. 

He’s picked tiger’s blood this time, a combination of strawberry and watermelon with a splash of coconut that elicits a pleased hum from his mouth after the first taste. A good choice for the warm afternoon, he thinks, grimacing as he wipes at his sweaty forehead with his sleeve. 

They’re sitting at one of the picnic tables surrounding the stand, painted teal to match the aesthetic with a large striped umbrella warding off the worst of the sun’s rays. The only other customers around are a woman with two young children who care more about devouring their cold treats than Javi and Frankie’s presences. Sometimes people recognize them, ask for selfies or handshakes or both, but the employees have long grown used to their recurring appearances and for the most part they’re usually left alone to enjoy their snow cones in peace. 

“Your future teammate had a serious fuck-up last weekend,” Frankie says impudently, loud enough the woman four tables away shoots him a reproachful look. He schools his expression into an apologetic one, but as soon as she’s turned around his eyes are back on Javi again with a pointed stare.

“I heard,” Javi says before shoveling a larger spoonful into his mouth. The immediate brain freeze is totally worth it, even if he nearly accidentally drops the styrofoam cup onto his lap, hands fumbling for a more secure hold.

Frankie rolls his eyes, like the same exact thing hadn’t happened to him two minutes ago, and asks, “You think she’s ready for F1?”

Javi points his spoon at him. “We all have bad races, Morales.” Then, because he can’t resist the extra dig, “Some of us quite a few more than others, if my memory’s correct.”

“Ha ha, look who’s developed a sense of humor,” is the bone-dry response followed by another eye roll. “I can’t wait until your Vulpecula’s problem to deal with and I can start getting some respect around here.”

“You honestly think Miller is going to listen to a word you say? Un-fucking-likely.” Javi can’t help but laugh a little. Everyone knows that since Miller’s now a shoo-in for the F2 championship in the wake of Oddball’s misfortune, the Triple Frontier team principal is going to have him sign a contract immediately to fill Javi’s vacant seat. Knowing Santi, he probably texted Ben the second the driver stepped off the podium Sunday afternoon.

Frankie ignores him, which isn’t a surprise, and wipes at his mouth with a napkin, leaving a bright purple syrupy stain behind. “That seems to be the problem nowadays, doesn’t it? All these new rookies the teams are bringing in, prioritizing youth over experience, thinking they can discipline them and mold them into the perfect driver they wish them to be.”

“Then dumping them when their results aren’t good enough,” Javi agrees with a frown, a sourness on his tongue that has nothing to do with the tiger’s blood flavor.

This ‘problem’ Frankie’s described, it isn’t a new thing. Four years ago, Javi was one of those new rookies who were too young and too eager to prove themselves to realize they were being thrown into the deep end of a shark-infested pool and expected to swim to survive. He’d been lucky to last his whole debut season with Crane, that they didn’t cut him loose at the midseason break after he’d made every mistake a driver could possibly make. He’d been even luckier Black Gold agreed to have him on their team, thinking he’d found people who’d help him develop his skills with patient guidance—until they eventually grew upset with his lack of promising results after two and a half seasons and arranged a transfer with Triple Frontier as part of a business arrangement between the two teams. 

Black Gold got a new engine manufacturer for their cars, Triple Frontier got Maxwell Lord’s castoff he didn’t want to waste finances on anymore.

“Uh-oh, that’s your brooding face,” Frankie’s voice snaps Javi out of his thoughts, discovering his snow cone has begun melting, resembling a cup full of blood. He sets it down on the table, a little disgusted, and looks up to meet his teammate’s knowing gaze. “You were thinking shit about yourself again, weren’t you?”

“We all have bad habits,” Javi says simply and he sees Frankie’s brow crease, a flicker of sympathy in his brown eyes. But then he shrugs, back to his normal easygoing self.

“And we all have bad races.”

 _________________________________________________

HoloNet

October 2022 Latest News

Triple Frontier signs Ben Miller for 2023 F1 Season Weekly Motorsport News - 13 minutes ago

Formula 2 title favorite has been drafted as a Triple Frontier Formula 1 driver for the 2023 season…

10 facts about Triple Frontier’s new F1 driver Ben Miller Bubblefeed - 1 hour ago

There will be a second rookie on the grid next season joining Oddball…

Santiago Garcia believes Ben Miller is the next big star WWS - 2 hours ago

F1’s grid for 2023 is one driver closer to completion with the news of F2 driver Ben Miller making his debut with Triple Frontier…

 _________________________________________________

 _________________________________________________

Prior to your F1 drafting announcement, you were used to being an insignificant presence at a Grand Prix when there wasn’t an F2 round. Maybe a few fans during the paddock tours would recognize you and say hi, maybe a reporter or two would ask for a quick quote about what it’s like being a reserve driver, but in general your race weekends were spent hanging out with Diana around the Vulpecula motorhome or chatting with the crew in the pit garage in-between moments of preparation without anybody taking a second glance at you.

Now that your face has been posted on the cover of a magazine and featured in countless articles you can barely even find privacy in the bathrooms without somebody calling out your name or whipping out their phones. Vivian laughs amicably when you tell her how strange the sudden spotlight of attention is, then claps you on the shoulder and simply says you’ll get used to it with time. There’s an unspoken you have to that your ears don’t miss.

It’s midmorning at the Boston circuit and the sky’s full of clouds—fluffy and white this time, nothing like the gloomy gray ones back in Colombia two weeks ago. The air’s a bit nippier than you’re used to the temperature being, but fortunately one of Vulpecula’s crewmembers is nice enough to lend you her extra sweatshirt. It’s soft and warm, the team’s logo of the fox constellation pasted on the back between your shoulder blades, and you make a mental note to ask somebody back at headquarters where you can get your hands on one of them.

You’re walking through the paddock, thinking about what you’re going to eat for lunch and paying just enough attention to your surroundings to keep out of the way of important-looking people in business attire. Each race seems to bring out a different crowd of the rich and famous depending on where in the world you are—politicians, celebrities, models, athletes of a variety of different sports. Your favorite is seeing former F1 drivers who have swung by to watch the event, socialize, and/or reminisce about how much things have changed since their seasons. 

Anita Moreno has come out to four or five of this season’s races, both to visit with the racing community who love her dearly and to support her son on his journey to win another world title. You’re way too shy to even make direct eye contact with her, let alone speak to the woman who inspired you to keep chasing your dream of joining Formula 1. She’s twice as intimidating in person as she is on screen. Twice as funny, too. You always know when she’s around the second you hear laughter echoing throughout the paddock, loud and jovial.

Dave York has also been making frequent appearances, even before the official announcement was made he was returning to the sport next season. In hindsight, maybe more people should have put the pieces together sooner that his visits were for business reasons rather than for his own personal pleasure.

A glimpse of a familiar face catches your eye, stopping you in your tracks. Ben’s outside the Triple Frontier motorhome, chatting with Frankie Morales and Javi Gutierrez, making them laugh with a story or joke you’re too far away to hear. He’d told you earlier in the week the team CEO Santiago Garcia had invited him to a Grand Prix so he could see up close what a race weekend was like, but he’d neglected to inform you it was this GP. 

Actually, now that you think about it, when you asked he had left you on read, the jerk.

Cupping your mouth with a hand, you shout out, “Benjamin Tiberius Miller, how dare you!”

The exclamation garners a couple dozen odd looks from those in the nearby vicinity, but your focus is entirely on Ben. 

Ben who visibly flinches mid-sentence, shoulders drawing taut like rubber bands. He whirls around, eyes sweeping the crowd and passing over you before shooting back with recognition, narrowing with enough heat it’s a wonder your clothes don’t catch fire.

“How dare me?” he shouts back, pointing a finger at his chest before turning it on you indignantly. “How dare you! You were sworn to secrecy!”

“Oops, looks like I forgot!” You feign shock for a second, then let the expression drop into a deeply unimpressed look. “Just like you forgot to tell me you were coming out today!”

People are definitely looking now, glancing back and forth at your verbal tennis match with expressions ranging from wrinkled foreheads of bewilderment to wide grins of mirth. No doubt this will end up on Twitter or YouTube later.

Ben’s head rolls back and it’s hard to tell but you suspect he’s probably groaning like an obnoxious teenager. “Alright, fine, my bad I guess!” he relents, the closest he’ll ever come to apologizing. “I’ll come find you in thirty and we’ll get lunch.”

“You’re buying,” you call out with a thumb’s up.

Once again, it’s hard to tell due to the distance, but you’re pretty sure he just rolled his eyes before turning back around to face his extremely amused future teammate who now knows his detested middle name thanks to you. The payback from Benny will be absolute torture, no doubt about it, but you’re too happy with the knowledge you’re getting free lunch later to care too much about it at the moment.

Now that the show’s over, everybody resumes what they were doing before your squabbling interrupted them. Everybody except one very distinctive person. 

Javi’s staring at you, and you can’t move. He’s wearing his dark green Triple Frontier race suit halfway undone, sleeves wrapped around his waist while the thin material of his white fireproofs clings to his broad torso and toned arm muscles. Apparently the cold air doesn’t seem to bother him as much as it does you, even as the breeze tousles his crown of messy curls. Pictures and video footage really don’t do his handsome features justice. He’s even better looking when seeing him with your own eyes. Perhaps the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen.

And you feel like a total idiot now, shouting at your friend like a madwoman, making the worst first impression of all time. It’d be wonderful if the ground swallowed you whole right now and spared you a painful death of humiliation.

Then the man offers a smile brighter than sunshine, holds up his hand and waves.

At you.

He’s waving at you and smiling, looking like the epitome of beauty. 

And you—

You’re just staring back, arms limp at your sides, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. 

Oh for fuck’s sake. Ground. Open. Now. Please.

Your hand shoots up just as he starts to lower his, waving back in a way you hope looks friendly and not at all like a preteen fangirl freaking out because one of her idols has acknowledged her. His smile, impossibly, brightens, and you find the sight too contagious to resist returning the grin with a wide one of your own.

When he turns back to the conversation with Ben and Frankie a moment later, you have to give yourself a little shake to force your legs to continue walking to the Vulpecula motorhome and not linger any longer gazing at his profile. As far as first meetings go, you think you can count this one as a positive experience, even if no words were exchanged. 

And you think maybe, with any luck, you and Javi will get along fine next season.

#javi gutierrez #javi g x reader #javi gutierrez x reader #javi g fanfiction #my fic #my writing #pedrostories #javi gutierrez x you #javi g x you

[darth-does-stuff]

Better Things Yet To Come

(but darling, misfortune always has to arrive first)

Four superheroes in the city of Cyrin, a gilded and fantastical city full of exalted and wondrous powers, according to any outsider you asked. To the locals, it’s a city with destruction around every corner, villains rearing their heads in an attempt at building a reputation, and fighting daily. And if you asked the heroes…they’d say that it’s a city that has been their home for years on end and, deep inside them, they feel a need to protect it. But if you were to take a closer look at them, you’d see the heavy burden on their shoulders, for, ultimately, Cyrin is not a city without its prices.

[First] [Next] [AO3]

Chapter One: Inferno

blazing

⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼

Fire.

Flames licking up the sides of buildings, rubble coating the ground as if it were a comforting blanket and not a hydraulic press, crush, crush, crushing those trapped under it. Smoke coated the air, seeping into the cracks of walls and lungs, tainting and staining all that it touched. 

The remnants of an explosion.

The crackling of fire was barely heard in the late morning air as screams and cries for help echoed throughout the city, sirens blaring noisily as vehicles raced to get to the disaster site. 

As if they hoped they still had time. 

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

To—

Water.

The sound of water flowing through the air before combatting the fire, and the resulting hissing of the flames as they protested, as if saying, no, we’re not done yet. 

The water replied, it does not matter, for I say you are. 

Feet softly landed on the ground, a cobalt blue suit shining in the sunlight, for it was a beautiful day. Perfect blue skies with slight clouds drifting aimlessly, the sun warming one’s back, with the only hiccup being the shrill sounds of those in pain as they begged for help and the deathly silence of those who were rendered unable to. 

The figure in blue did not sprint to the people in need. To sprint is to imply desperation, a need for speed that envelops one’s mind, rendering any other thought useless, depleting any grace.

No, to the people trapped and injured, it looked like the blue figure glided over to them, every action perfected and controlled, no fear or uncertainty present at all. Like a guardian with the sunlight framing him as he crouched down to help.

Water swirled in the air, collecting around his arms and solidifying into ice as he bodily shoved a chunk of rubble off of a group of people, holding it up so they could abscond. If there was a tremor in his arms as the people struggled to get away, he did not allow it to show.

Sirens got louder and louder as they finally arrived, always appearing as late in a city of quick heroes. 

Smoke still remained, causing coughs, wheezes, and gasps to pierce the air, but the water had put the fire out, and the only danger currently was the one the exalted was in the midst of dealing with. 

He had moved on from the first bit of rubble after anybody trapped under it had hobbled off, and was now making headway in giving the helpless aid in surviving. 

News helicopters circled the skies, as they are wont to do. Nothing attracts the eyes of the people so much as a disaster, for it is one of the few things that we can never tear our eyes away from. 

Finally, finally, there was stillness. Not a stillness in movement, no, for there was certainly an abundance of that in the form of people hurrying about, affixing oxygen masks to those who needed them, people rushed away in ambulances, and those sobbing into the arms of their loved ones at having almost faced the certainty of death far earlier than they were ready to.

Not a stillness in movement, but rather a stillness in danger. 

However, as we all know, stillness is always broken, it is not a state of perpetual being, but a momentary pause. And in a city like Cyrin, those pauses were brief indeed. 

For now, though, stillness. 

“Riptide!” a voice rang out, a news van and camera crew also having arrived and a person with a microphone running up to the guardian. “Riptide, sir, you’ve just done an incredible job in saving these citizens! Do you happen to know what caused this disaster?” 

A microphone was shoved into the face, or rather mask, of the exalted. Riptide. 

“I am, as of right now, uncertain as to the cause of this scene. I can only guess an explosion of some kind, though further investigation will be required for finding out who is responsible.”

Every word from him was both measured and steely, as if every word was calculated before it came out of his mouth. The voice modulator likely helped in that avenue. 

“I see, I see. Do you have any plans once you find out who is responsible?”

Lenses affixed on the news reporter’s eyes, giving them his full attention. “Once I discover the culprit, I will act accordingly as I have always done.”

The reporter smiled and nodded their head. “Once again, just thank you, sir, for helping this city. If you weren’t here to help, no doubt the list of casualties would be far greater than it is right now.” 

Riptide nodded, now gazing at the charred and destroyed building with lines of sadness almost present in his stance. “It is the least I could do with my abilities.” 

As the exalted walked away, to the untrained eye, he would look untouchable, ephemeral, and every bit of the reputation he had built over the years. Only those who knew him well, extremely well, would see the weight of the world on his back and the burdens set on his shoulders.

Of course, he had no need to worry about that, for it wasn’t like anybody had ever been close to him at all. 

For some odd reason, that only seemed to add a weight to Logan’s back instead of lifting it.

a/n: not all chapters are gonna be this prose-y and short but idk i was in a certain mood when writing this i guess lmao

taglist (ask to be added!): @star-crossed-shipper, @flowercrownsandtrauma, @lesbian-pattonsanders

#superhero au #ts #sanders sides #ts logan #logan sanders #lamp #romantic lamp #ts lamp #punches wall i have to specify SO MUCH #dukeceit #i have no self control <3

[popitdontdropitwrites]

"New Invention" Engineer/Medic - Chapter 10

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9,

❗ This is a sequel to Mx. Sinister. Events may not make sense if you have not read that fic.

Steam billowed from the kettle as Misha filled each cup with enormous, shaking hands. Amber curls flowed through the water, spreading, and reaching for him like liquid tongues from the deep mahogany depths. The colour only intensified as he spooned a generous heap of honey into his cup and he very nearly reached for the milk, a distant memory flickering before his eyes, one far warmer than reality and frighteningly easily to get lost in.

“Just a splash, bitte. You always put too much in… You’re too generous for your own good, Misha.”

He held himself for comfort, gazing into his reflected, distorted face in the well of the cup. He looked as though he had aged a thousand years, with tired eyes, cheerless lips, and deepened wrinkles. He stirred his tea, dispelling his grim reflection in favour of a dark, spinning swirl, creating an invitingly sweet aroma in the process, one that soothed his racing mind.

“How do you like tea?”

His guest, who had made himself at home at the dining table, looked up from his notes, his icy cobalt irises strikingly vivid against the maroon balaclava. “Black, thank you.”

He presented the cup on one of his prettier saucers, hoping it would be up to the other man’s standards – though he knew deep inside that it could never be, as told by the slight but unmistakably demeaning smirk on his lips. Misha took great care not to spill a single drop on the other man’s priceless suit, causing the ceramic to clink and clatter together, as if they too, were frightened of what was to come.

“Relax a little, mon ami.” He waved him off with a gloved hand, as if to dismiss his nerves from service. “I understand the nature of my profession is enough to make even a man like you nervous, but please, you have paid me handsomely. I have no intention of harming you, or insulting your tableware for that matter, though it is a touch garish.”

“I am not scared of you, little René.” He was well aware that wasn’t his real name – a man like him wouldn’t give away such valuable information willingly – but he used it to be polite. “I worry about what you found.” He explained, taking a seat opposite to him. The chair creaked under his weight, and he leaned over the table, resting his elbows on it. “You understand. I have been waiting every day for news about Joseph. Some things… I do not want to hear.”

“…You fear that he is dead.” The assassin said exactly what was on his mind without any care for sparing his feelings.

Misha gave a solemn nod, willing himself not to show the ache in his heart.

René reached into his coat pocket, popping open a cigarette case and placing a cigar between his lips with habitual finesse before remembering his manners. “Do you mind if I have a cigar?”

“Is okay.” Misha reassured, though he despised the smell.

He flicked open a lavish lighter, one with gold accents and a serpent carved into its body. The flame graced the tip of his cigar and the end glowed, releasing a proud puff of smoke. He inhaled, closing his eyes as he savoured the sensation, unwittingly drawing attention to his long lashes.

He exhaled with the dignity of a king and searched through a different pocket, this time procuring a black envelope with damask patterning. René peeled it open with ease, not tearing even an inch of the paper, revealing a neatly sorted collection of photographs inside, all of which had been numbered.

“In this envelope, I have included all of the evidence I have gathered thus far.” He plucked the first of many out and slid it over to Misha.

The Russian reluctantly scooped the polaroid up, swallowing down the horrid thoughts encircling his mind like opportunistic vultures. It was a snapshot of Joseph’s apartment, or more accurately, its rotten corpse. Books lied open, dishes remained dirty, the curtains wide open and food decomposing on the table. Small bugs had infested the room, feeding and breeding in the leftovers. He could only imagine the smell. Misha shuddered, unnerved by the picture.

In his minds eye, he could picture a body, grey and bloated, with fog laden blue eyes. He shook the image away, promising himself like he did every other damned day that Joseph was still alive and maybe even finding his way back home.

“Believe it or not, Misha, this is a good thing.” The assassin tried to reassure him, though coming from him, it sounded practiced, artificial, even.

“How? This is… very bad. Joseph is very neat man.”

He took a long drag of his cigarette and wordlessly handed him the next photograph.

A foul, cold pang rippled through his chest as he read the label, written in flowing cursive: Admirateur. The photograph focused on a tall vase of dead flowers in the entryway, something Joseph never bought, often regarding them as a waste of money. In the rows of dead, brown decay, a white card shone like a jewel, and he resisted the urge to snap the table in two and scream. Without prompting, he outstretched his palm to accept the following photo, which had masterfully captured the writing on the card.

Joseph,

The sickeningly sweet words of adoration crawled under his skin, their meanings too perverse to stand. The perfectly neat, evenly spaced letters only worsened the sick churn of his guts. Misha had seen neat handwriting in his time, but no person could write like this.

He swallowed thickly, feeling as though he was about to throw up. “Someone was buying him flowers?”

“Oh, more than just flowers.” René chuckled, oddly amused by this. “Seeing as you paid me so well, I did you the service of rifling through your friend’s garbage. His admirer bought him drinks, cards and even a few personalised sweets, things that were not necessarily a safe bet, but he knew he would like them. Do you see what I am getting at?”

“What is the point of this… secret admirer?” He cocked an eyebrow, failing to understand how this was a good thing.

“Misha,” He said in a haughty manner, almost scolding him for failing to connect the dots. “Joseph was being stalked by someone who was how shall I put it, madly and utterly in love with him. Almost as much as you are, non?”

Misha turned red up to the ears and chose not to respond to that.

“This is further corroborated by the evidence I discovered around the home.” He handed him several photos, one of an opened luggage bag full of clothes, including singlets, flannel shirts, overalls, shoes, thick work socks, and some gloves. “You may have noticed that these clothes are very unlike your friend’s choice of dress. They are also several sizes too small, suggesting we are dealing with a person of a short, stocky build, likely a man.”

The next showed another assortment of things, and at first, he cocked his head, puzzled. “What is this for? It is Joseph’s things.”

“Indeed, they are Joseph’s things.” René agreed. “But look carefully. His unwanted guest was hoarding them. I believe it was a compulsion of his, something he could not resist doing whenever there was an opportunity for it.”

“I don’t understand why this is important. Tell me what happened now, little man.”

René took another drag, chuckling to himself. “Patience, Misha. We are almost there. I would prefer that you have the full picture before we move on.”

He was handed several more pictures, this time of Joseph’s bedroom. The closet doors had been swung ajar, the bed unmade as if he had just gotten up and the wall phone hung from its slot, dangling from the cord and in the display were two numbers – an incomplete call. One picture was different to the rest, a close up of the wall and the carpet below, which had been stained a dark, purplish colour.

Blood.

He paled, forcefully turning the photograph over, in hopes of unseeing it, though he never would. He waited for the Frenchman to tell him the news he had been dreading for so very long now, bracing himself as though he was about to be shot.

But only a calm breath passed between them.

“I believe your friend was attacked in this room while attempting to call the authorities.” René leant over and tapped the shiny surface of the polaroid. “I assume that his admirer was discovered, and, in a panic, he resorted to attacking Joseph to keep him quiet.” His lashes fluttered, seamlessly remembering every detail. “Judging by the blood spatter, it was a single strike by a blunt object and not a particularly hard one, meaning our assailant did not intend to kill him.”

Misha realised that he had been holding his breath and he finally released it in a long, relieved exhale. “He is okay?”

“I cannot promise anything, but I have reason to believe that he is alive. Knocking your dear friend unconscious would be an excellent opportunity to abduct him, non?” He picked through the envelope, finding the next, but he hesitated, deciding not to give it to Misha just yet. “If it is any consolation, I have been hired for many situations like this and in my experience, this breed of delusional individuals are unlikely to kill the object of their obsession.”

“Unlikely…” Misha sipped at his drink, hoping the sweetness would help him to relax. “Is still possible?”

“In the rare cases where it does happen, they only kill their lovers if they refuse to play their role in their sickening fantasy.” He raised air quotes, his nose scrunching in disgust. “You said that your friend was—is an intelligent man, did you not? He would have learned to play along… eventually.”

“He is also very independent man.” Misha squeezed his hands together for emphasis. “He doesn’t like being told what to do, not even by me. Might be problem.”

The spy swished the tea in his cup, taking a modest sip. “I hope for his sake that he learned to behave.”

“Do you know where he took Joseph?”

“That,” René raised a finger. “I still need to find out.” His gaze softened, though it did not suit his angular, cruel face. “Don’t look so glum, I do have some good news.”

“You do?”

He fetched what looked to be a small stack of folded paper, tied together with a tasteful ribbon, almost like a gift. “Joseph originally thought that you were his secret admirer.” He handed the package to him. “He never quite finished his letters, but I think you will appreciate them nonetheless.”

He clutched the paper tightly, gently stroking the soft ribbon, its pristine surface appearing miniscule in his grasp. He wiped his eyes, not wanting to sob in front of him. He couldn’t muster the strength to read them now, not like this. He would wait until the dead of night, when his pillows were already soaked with his tears and his body trembling from the pain of it all. That way, it couldn’t hurt any more. Maybe then, Joseph’s sentimental words could wrap around him in the dark and heal his wounds.

“Thank you, René. This means very much.”

“Don’t thank me, you might just make me feel guilty for taking your money.” He snorted a little. “Ah, who am I kidding. I deserve it, especially after what I found.”

He fell for the other man’s bait, as obvious and prideful as it was. “What did you find?” He asked quickly, desperate to know.

“Look at this, it is… excellent.”

By now, the photographs in the envelope were running thin. A reproduction of a set of fingerprints was pressed into his palm, with each finger labelled in French.

“What is so good about fingerprints?” He scoffed, examining those belonging to the right hand first, some of which were incomplete or smudged.

He ended up eating those words as he looked to the prints from the left hand. His eyes widened and he brought the photo closer, examining the almost non-existent smears and marks, which only bore a few indents and scratch like patterns, He sputtered in Russian, in awe of this turn of good fortune.

To his surprise, René understood him. “You’re right, mon ami, your luck is astonishing. Mine, not so much, seeing as this cuts our business together rather short. In most cases I would be doing far more digging to whittle down our potential suspects, but I would say a prosthesis is rather unique, wouldn’t you?” He tapped the ash of his cigar into the saucer. “I have done my research and none of our existing consumer grade models come close to this. This one appears to be one of a kind.” He smirked. “On the back, I sketched what I believe our suspect’s prosthesis to look like, based on impressions, prints and what he used it for around the house.”

Misha froze entirely upon seeing the clean, tidy sketch, his mind cycling back to the last time he’d seen Joseph. At first, only silver eyes appeared to him, their gaze intense with bitter, burning jealousy. Then, he saw it – the newspaper, or more importantly, the advanced robotic hand effortlessly clasping it. He remembered it simply because he never seen anything like it, and of course, because he’d caught Joseph glancing at it.

“I met this man.” He breathed out, wishing he had only known. “I need his name.”

“Now this, I am proud of.” René grinned, straightening his tie. “He is an elusive little rodent, which is ironic because—”

“—His name.”

“Will you let me finish?” He hissed, glaring at him.

“Hurry.”

“As I was saying, it is ironic because he is a brilliant inventor.” He reclined in his seat and smiled, revealing the crow’s feet by his eyes. “He is the genius mind behind many of our modern appliances, tools, weapons and even our newest, most luxurious tech, such as my equipment.” He boastfully tapped his watch, showing it off. “He prefers to remain faceless, nameless. As far as the public is aware, he doesn’t even exist.”

René reminded him of a cat with the way he endlessly preened his own image. Misha sat back and endured it; his arms crossed with impatience.

“But you see, well placed coin does wonders to loosen the lips of even the most loyal men. It didn’t take long to find him with the right questions, and of course, the appropriate connections.” He snuffed out his cigar, marking the end of their time together for today. “His name is Dell Conagher. Remember it.”

Misha nodded, forcing himself to attach a name to the monster haunting his dreams, granting it even more power.

The assassin downed the last of his tea. “Ah… there is one last matter to resolve before I leave today, Misha, being my payment for how shall I put it… a thorough search for Joseph, seeing as we have established that he is likely still alive and the identity of his captor.” He rose from his seat, dusting off his suit with his hands. “Of course, I will assess whether or not a rescue will be possible.”

“And if not?”

“You know what happens.” He said coldly, his expression startlingly serious. “And it will not be cheap.”

Next Chapter

#tf2 #tf2 fanfiction #team fortress 2 #fanfiction #fic #tf2 engineer #tf2 medic #science party #dark romance #engineer x medic #medic #engineer #medic x engineer #engineer/medic #obsession #trans engie #tf2 fanfic #tf2 fic #medic/engineer #popitdontdropitwrites #new invention

[askew-d]

sanctuary

a poem dedicated to xiao zhan

You don’t need to ask where I’ve been before, you don’t need to ask about a long past; how many people I encountered, how many paths I’ve crossed until reaching yours, you should know that it simply doesn’t matter anymore. I found shelter here, right here — in your eyes, in your arms, in your lips; and love is the way you continually struggle to understand me, to understand my ways, how you leap through the kitchen to prepare a new dish for us to taste, an odd kind of tea, a different type of pasta, a foreign type of bread — “hey, try this out, I think you’re gonna like it,” and I do, I do like it, I like how you cover my face in kisses as the first thing in the morning, as the most important thing before beginning the day, more important than opening the window or engaging into your routine of exercises, even more important than turning on the lights of our bedroom; you plant kisses on my face, pull the duvet close to my body and says “good morning, my love,” then sun embraces our curtains, and you stay. I like the way you focus on listening to what I have to say, although I mostly ramble about foolish stuff you don’t exactly care about, such as complicated games, a sports competition, a motorcycle race but you still nod to my ranting, and I like it when you nod still, I like it, I like the way you wash my hair at night, though I get home late and sometimes you’re too tired to wash my hair, you tell me you love the color, “blond suits you, it’s the color of oat and wheat,” I laugh because it’s stupid, but if you like oat and wheat then it’s fine; sometimes you’re better with your metaphors, and those are the times where I can barely hold my heart in the chest, sometimes, regardless if our sometimes are actually rare, you tell me, “blond suits you, your hair is the color of sunset,” and it’s really not fair, you’re such a wonder, my heart needs some rest — but oh, I like it, you know I like it. I like it when your hands find my hands most nights, and you hold me as if space has never, ever existed between us, then you tell me, “I love you,” and I am simply too weak, so these nights I sleep dreaming of red. I like it when you explain me art stuff I know too little about, you talk about indigo, cobalt, coral — colors I’ve never heard of, but I do know your eyes are color walnut, I only know it because of you, did you know I don’t care about artistic stuff if they’re not being used to describe yourself to me? I like it though, I like the way you ask sweetly about my day, and if I say that something upset me, you hug me protectively, then I fantasize that the world exists singularly for us both. I like it when your buy gifts for me and for my parents, because my parents love gifts, and you remember mom’s favorite color, dad’s favorite stamps, if they’ll enjoy this or that, we take pictures together and your first instinct is to send it to them, you three — friends, I imagine, must now know everything about each other, and it warms my heart, you know? I wish you to always know. I like it when you say my name — it’s a short-lettered name, but still, it sounds infinite when you claim; I like it when you get jealous, but you barely get jealous (I think you do recognize that there’s no competition, when you alone has dug a home here inside me). I don’t like it when we fight, but it’s fine because we almost never do, and if we do, we make it up soon, you continue to remember me to keep going further; I like it, no — I love it, I love how we’ll always find our route back to each other. Even right now, as you lay next to me beneath the covers, I strive to write you some words, because you’re so demanding, you’re so demanding and so lovely, how could I write you, if I already have you? How could I write about love, if you’re right here already? You see, love is in our bedroom, written in our walls, in the kitchen and backyard; whether this is a sin or not, let me rest inside your arms.

#yizhan #bjyx #the untamed #wang yibo #xiao zhan #my poem #poem #cql #literature

[captainoliverfox]

Oliver's self indulgent post where they talk about OCs

Or, This website is free, and that's everyone's problem.

I have a story called Journeys of the Cobalt about a bunch of idiots in space and the myriad crimes they commit and the various ways they almost die. This post is about them.

All art featured by my amazing wonderfully talented friend @crispber as well as my friends who don't have Tumblr.

Kingston Flynn - Pilot

Reigning champ of the title Biggest Dumbass in the Galaxy, Kingston is in hot water with almost every major power there is. Despite his incredibly accurate title, he is incredibly crafty and tricky and can hold his own in a fight. He's broken out of every jail they've put him in so far, and has piloted almost every ship there is.

Pepper Flynn - Gunner

Kingstons slightly more competent sister, Pepper is something of a gadget master. She can be given any number of scraps and trash, and 10 times out of 10, she can make some kind of gun or bomb out of it. Can and does gladly embarrass men every chance she gets.

Xiri Kobayashi - Mechanic

Incredibly tired, in momentous debt, and generally grouchy, Xiri fixed the tachyon drive of the Cobalt all by herself using scrap and parts threatened out of the hands of levicraft mechanic garages. Both her legs and her left arm had to be replaced with robotic prosthetics due to Intense Personal Backstory Trauma.

Dr. Theolonious Mainecoon - Tech officer & navigator

First of all, the first drawing of him is actually a mech suit, because he is a cat. Sporting 3 phds and a general dislike of people, Theo is the smartest one on the ship and he knows it. His bow tie lets him communicate with the plebeians he calls friends. It's also quite dapper.

Pagkakataón - Comms officer & chef

Also known as Pag (not the juice) they are a Lalaki-i'a, a race of psychic fish people know for their incredible telekinetic abilities. Despite their whole deal (being a fish) the Cobalt comes equipped with an APAS (aquatic persons accommodation system) and they even have their own garden where they grow delicious fruits and veggies.

Uzei Azraqi - Gunner

Uzei is the runaway Princex of the planet Ba'ildren. They're versed in diplomacy and bargaining, but if shit hits the fan, they can kick your ass in seven different styles of Galactic martial arts. They also make a mean Ba'ildraneese stew.

Sto Awi - medic

Unassuming, but clever and brutally curious, Sto stared out as a stowaway (get it?) The drawing pictured is of her mech body, much like Theo's. That's because she's a slug. A brain slug. I think you can figure out what brain slugs do. (Starstruck Odyssey fans rise up.) It's probably a good idea to give her access to medicinal chemicals. Probably.

(Heights inaccurate. Uzei is 7ft while Xiri is 6'4")

(yes hello kitty is canon dont come at me)

I love these stupid space idiots and will definitely be posting more of them in the future

#not me adding tags implying im gonna make more posts about them #i will lets be honest #journeys of the cobalt #kingston flynn #pepper flynn #xiri kobayashi #dr. theo #dr theolonious mainecoon #pagkakataón #uzei azraqi #sto awi #oliver's ocs #original characters #ocs #original story

[cc-cobalt-1043]

recollections

*Joey and Daniel both woke up after passing out at a new year's day party at town hall*

Joey: *groaning and lying under a table* where are we

Daniel: *lying on top of said table* I seem to be lying on a dining room table, I can see cutlery, I've either died and come back as a succulent pig, or we're still at town hall...what can you see

Joey: nothing, I think I've gone blind *he sat up and hit his head on the table* OW

Daniel: heck of a party *he rolled onto his side and fell onto the floor with a thud

*the two sat together*

Joey: heck of a party

Daniel: yeah

Joey: you remember anything that happened last night

Daniel: no idea, everything went dark around the commissioner's speech, the last thing I remember is my head in the cold, unforgiving lavatory bowl

Joey: Danny, that wasn't the lavatory bowl...it was the punch bowl

*Daniel's eyes widened in horror and he facepalmed*

Daniel: hark Mr memory man

*Joey yawned and suddenly noticed something red on his hand*

Joey: oh my god...I'm bleeding

Daniel: no you aren't, that's just red lipstick

Joey: oh...Danny why am I wearing red lipstick

Daniel: cause maroon would have clashed with your eyeshadow

*Joey rubbed his eyes and noticed it, gasping in horror he wiped it off*

Daniel: *shaking his head with a grin* you should know better than to pass out unconscious while I'm still awake

*Joey nodded*

Daniel: you know, last night I think we made  one or two, teensy little mistakes, starting with a few drinks of juice, great, a few glasses of milkshake, lovely, but the soda and lemonade drinking race...that may have been a bridge too far...and our second mistake, was letting Boba convince us that you could mix a nice cold coke, with a bit of redbull

Daniel: and our third, final...crowning mistake *Daniel suddenly screamed in horror* something horrible is coming back to me

Joey: *turning pale* and me, Where's that punch bowl

*Daniel jumped up and frantically searched his suit pockets and trousers, he found a a bit of paper and stared at it in horror*

Daniel: it's true

Joey: Danny, while your up there get me the punch howl

Daniel: well thats it *he sank down next to Joey* I might as well leave town, my life's over, it was very nice knowing you Joey...you were hanging from the light fitting, Will was having a lie down in the cold buffet...and I was dancing the lambada with the daughter of the commissioner of the metropolitan police...commissioner Boyle's daughter

Joey: how'd I get onto the ceiling

Daniel: me and the others formed a human pryamid, but that is not the point...I did the lambada with the commissioner's daughter...I took her out to the cloakroom...*looking ready to cry* JOEY, I SNOGGED HER

*he looked at the paper again*

Daniel: *gasps* I've got her telephone number

Joey: *confused* 999

Daniel: that's her emergency number, her regular number's on the back

Joey: you sure it was the commissioner's daughter

Daniel: yeah, I remember it clearly, our age, white dress, green eyes, blond hair, kept smiling at me half the party

Joey: and that was her

Daniel: *groans* Joey Joey Joey

Joey: *groans* Danny Danny Danny

Later:

*the twins were walking together*

*Daniel's phone started ringing*

Daniel: *awnsering it* hello

Boba: hey Danny, me and the others have a question

Daniel: go on

Everyone: *singing* WHO WERE YOU WITH LAST NIGHT

*Daniel hung up the phone*

Joey: okay, what are we doing now

Daniel: I just want to grab a few things, I wrote  it all down here *he hands Joey the paper*

Joey: *reading it* to the naughtiest young man I ever met, kiss kiss heart heart, all my love and hair ruffles, Lilac

Daniel: underneath that, what's underneath that

Joey: PS, call me Friday, misery guts is at a conference

Daniel: UNDERNEATH THAT

*Joey covered his mouth trying hard not to laugh*

Joey: oh Danny, you are in trouble

Daniel: you think I didn't know that

*later Joey and Daniel are approached by a very angry Cobalt*

Joey and Daniel: oh hi dad

Cobalt: dont you, oh hi dad me, do you two have any idea who I've just been talking to on the phone

*the twins shook their heads*

Joey: no dad

Cobalt: commissioner Boyle

*the twins gulp nervously*

Cobalt: apparently the commissioner's beloved daughter Lilac woke up this morning with a smile on her face...smiling and whispering the same name ocer and over, Joey she kept saying, Joey, Joey, Joey...Joey Stryker

Daniel: *in shock* Joey

Cobalt: yes Daniel, but from what I hear you're both as gad as each other, first you lambarded her down to the the cloakroom...and then Joey dropped down on her from a chandelier...she hasn't been the same since *looking at Joey* APPARENTLY SHE COMPARED YOU TO ERRROL FLYNN

*he sighed and rubbed his eyes*

Cobalt: look, I know what these parties are like, we all have one or two too many, even I've done that myself when i was younger, I did some fairly dumb things too, but I didn't start swinging from the lightbulbs and kissing women I barely even know, THE COMMISSIONER WAS ALMOST IN TEARS

#star wars #the bad batch #clone force 99 #Bad batch Cobalt (oc) #Joey stryker (oc) #Daniel stryker (oc) #joey and daniel are chaotic twins

[catkittens]

Sara Paretsky

The Maltese Cat

  I

  HER VOICE ON the phone had been soft and husky, with just a whiff of the South laid across it like a rare perfume. “I’d rather come to your office; I don’t want people in mine to know I’ve hired a detective.”

  I’d offered to see her at her home in the evening-my Spartan office doesn’t invite client confidences. But she didn’t want to wait until tonight, she wanted to come today, almost at once, and no, she wouldn’t meet me in a restaurant. Far too hard to talk, and this was extremely personal.

  “You know my specialty is financial crime, don’t you?” I asked sharply.

  “Yes, that’s how I got your name. One o’clock, fourth floor of the Pulteney, right?” And she’d hung up without telling me who she was.

  An errand at the County building took me longer than I’d expected; it was close to one-thirty by the time I got back to the Pulteney. My caller’s problem apparently was urgent: she was waiting outside my office door, tapping one high heel impatiently on the floor as I trudged down the hall in my running shoes.

  “Ms. Warshawski! I thought you were standing me up.”

  “No such luck,” I grunted, opening my office door for her.

  In the dimly lit hall she’d just been a slender silhouette. Under the office lights the set of the shoulders and signature buttons told me her suit had come from the hands of someone at Chanel. Its blue enhanced the cobalt of her eyes. Soft makeup hid her natural skin tones-I couldn’t tell if that dark red hair was natural, or merely expertly painted.

  She scanned the spare furnishings and picked the cleaner of my two visitor chairs. “My time is valuable, Ms. Warshawski. If I’d known you were going to keep me waiting without a place to sit I would have finished some phone calls before walking over here.”

  I’d dressed in jeans and a work shirt for a day at the Recorder of Deeds office. Feeling dirty and outclassed made me grumpy. “You hung up without giving me your name or number, so there wasn’t much I could do to let you know you’d have to stand around in your pointy little shoes. My time’s valuable, too. Why don’t you tell me where the fire is so I can start putting it out.”

  She flushed. When I turn red I look blotchy, but in her it only enhanced her makeup. “It’s my sister.” The whiff of Southern increased. “Corinne. She’s run off to Ja-my ex-husband, and I need someone to tell her to come back.”

  I made a disgusted face. “I can’t believe I raced back from the County building to listen to this. It’s not 1890, you know. She may be making a mistake but presumably she can sort it out for herself.”

  Her flush darkened. “I’m not being very clear. I’m sorry. I’m not used to having to ask for things. My sister-Corinne-she’s only fourteen. She’s my ward. I’m sixteen years older than she is. Our parents died three years ago and she’s been living with me since then. It’s not easy, not easy for either of us. Moving from Mobile to here was just the beginning. When she got here she wanted to run around, do all the things you can’t do in Mobile.”

  She waved a hand to indicate what kinds of things those might be. “She thinks I’m a tough bitch and that I was too hard on my ex-husband. She’s known him since she was three and he was a big hero. She couldn’t see he’d changed. Or not changed, just not had the chance to be heroic anymore in public. So when she took off two days ago I assumed she went there. He’s not answering his phone or the doorbell. I don’t know if they’ve left town or he’s just playing possum or what. I need someone who knows how to get people to open their doors and knows how to talk to people. At least if I could see Corinne I might-I don’t know.”

  She broke off with a helpless gesture that didn’t match her sophisticated looks. Nothing like responsibility for a minor to deflate even the most urbane.

  I grimaced more ferociously. “Why don’t we start with your name, and your husband’s name and address, and then move on to her friends.”

  “Her friends?” The deep blue eyes widened. “I’d just as soon this didn’t get around. People talk, and even though it’s not 1890, it could be hard on her when she gets back to school.”

  I suppressed a howl. “You can’t come around demanding my expertise and then tell me what or what not to do. What if she’s not with your husband? What if I can’t get in touch with you when I’ve found that out and she’s in terrible trouble and her life depends on my turning up some new leads? If you can’t bring yourself to divulge a few names-starting with your own-you’d better go find yourself a more pliant detective. I can recommend a couple who have waiting rooms.”

  She set her lips tightly: whatever she did she was in command-people didn’t talk to her that way and get away with it. For a few seconds it looked as though I might be free to get back to the Recorder of Deeds that afternoon, but then she shook her head and forced a smile to her lips.

  “I was told not to mind your abrasiveness because you were the best. I’m Brigitte LeBlanc. My sister’s name is Corinne, also LeBlanc. And my ex-husband is Charles Pierce.” She scooted her chair up to the desk so she could scribble his address on a sheet of paper torn from a memo pad in her bag. She scrawled busily for several minutes, then handed me a list that included Corinne’s three closest school friends, along with Pierce’s address.

  “I’m late for a meeting. I’ll call you tonight to see if you’ve made any progress.” She got up.

  “Not so fast,” I said. “I get a retainer. You have to sign a contract. And I need a number where I can reach you.”

  “I really am late.”

  “And I’m really too busy to hunt for your sister. If you have a sister. You can’t be that worried if your meeting is more important than she is.”

  Her scowl would have terrified me if I’d been alone with her in an alley after dark. “I do have a sister. And I spent two days trying to get into my ex-husband’s place, and then in tracking down people who could recommend a private detective to me. I can’t do anything else to help her except go earn the money to pay your fee.”

  I pulled a contract from my desk drawer and stuck it in the manual Olivetti that had belonged to my mother-a typewriter so old that I had to order special ribbons for it from Italy. A word processor would be cheaper and more impressive but the wrist action keeps my forearms strong. I got Ms. LeBlanc to give me her address, to sign on the dotted line for $400 a day plus expenses, to write in the name of a guaranteeing financial institution and to hand over a check for two hundred.

  When she’d left I wrestled with my office windows, hoping to let some air in to blow her pricey perfume away. Carbon flakes from the el would be better than the lingering scent, but the windows, painted over several hundred times, wouldn’t budge. I turned on a desktop fan and frowned sourly at her bold black signature.

  What was her ex-husband’s real name? She’d bitten off “Ja-” Could be James or Jake, but it sure wasn’t Charles. Did she really have a sister? Was this just a ploy to get back at a guy late on his alimony? Although Pierce’s address on North Winthrop didn’t sound like the place for a man who could afford alimony. Maybe everything went to keep her in Chanel suits while he lived on Skid Row.

  She wasn’t in the phone book, so I couldn’t check her own address on Belden. The operator told me the number was unlisted. I called a friend at the Ft. Dearborn Trust, the bank Brigitte had drawn her check on, and was assured that there was plenty more where that came from. My friend told me Brigitte had parlayed the proceeds of a high-priced modeling career into a successful media consulting firm.

  “And if you ever read the fashion pages you’d know these things. Get your nose out of the sports section from time to time, Vic-it’ll help with your career.”

  “Thanks, Eva.” I hung up with a snap. At least my client wouldn’t turn out to be named something else, always a good beginning to a tawdry case.

  I looked in the little mirror perched over my filing cabinet. A dust smudge on my right cheek instead of peach blush was the only distinction between me and Ms. LeBlanc. Since I was dressed appropriately for North Winthrop, I shut up my office and went to retrieve my car.

  II

  Charles Pierce lived in a dismal ten-flat built flush onto the Uptown sidewalk. Ragged sheets made haphazard curtains in those windows that weren’t boarded over. Empty bottles lined the entryway, but the smell of stale Ripple couldn’t begin to mask the stench of fresh urine. If Corinne LeBlanc had run away to this place, life with Brigitte must be unmitigated hell.

  My client’s ex-husband lived in 3E. I knew that because she’d told me. Those few mailboxes whose doors still shut wisely didn’t trumpet their owners’ identities. The filthy brass nameplate next to the doorbells was empty and the doorbells didn’t work. Pushing open the rickety door to the hall, I wondered again about my client’s truthfulness: she told me Ja-hadn’t answered his phone or his bell.

  A rheumy-eyed woman was sprawled across the bottom of the stairs, sucking at a half-pint. She stared at me malevolently when I asked her to move, but she didn’t actively try to trip me when I stepped over her. It was only my foot catching in the folds of her overcoat.

  The original building probably held two apartments per floor. At least, on the third floor only two doors at either end looked as though they went back to the massive, elegant construction of the building’s beginnings. The other seven were flimsy newcomers that had been hastily installed when an apartment was subdivided. Peering in the dark I found one labeled B and counted off three more to the right to get to E. After knocking on the peeling veneer several times I noticed a button imbedded in the grime on the jamb. When I pushed it I heard a buzz resonate inside. No one came to the door. With my ear against the filthy panel I could hear the faint hum of a television.

  I held the buzzer down for five minutes. It’s hard on the finger but harder on the ear. If someone was really in there he should have come boiling to the door by now.

  I could go away and come back, but if Pierce was lying doggo to avoid Brigitte, that wouldn’t buy me anything. She said she’d tried off and on for two days. The television might be running as a decoy, or-I pushed more lurid ideas from my mind and took out a collection of skeleton keys. The second worked easily in the insubstantial lock. In two minutes I was inside the apartment, looking at an illustration from House Beautiful in Hell.

  It was a single room with a countertop kitchen on the left side. A tidy person could pull a corrugated screen to shield the room from signs of cooking, but Pierce wasn’t tidy. Ten or fifteen stacked pots, festooned with rotting food and roaches, trembled precariously when I shut the door.

  Dominating the place was a Murphy bed with a grotesquely fat man sprawled in at an ominous angle. He’d been watching TV when he died. He was wearing frayed, shiny pants with the fly lying carelessly open and a lumberjack shirt that didn’t quite cover his enormous belly.

  His monstrous size and the horrible angle at which his bald head was tilted made me gag. I forced it down and walked through a pile of stale clothes to the bed. Lifting an arm the size of a tree trunk, I felt for a pulse. Nothing moved in the heavy arm, but the skin, while clammy, was firm. I couldn’t bring myself to touch any more of him but stumbled around the perimeter to peer at him from several angles. I didn’t see any obvious wounds. Let the medical examiner hunt out the obscure ones.

  By the time I was back in the stairwell I was close to fainting. Only the thought of falling into someone else’s urine or vomit kept me on my feet. On the way down I tripped in earnest over the rheumy-eyed woman’s coat. Sprawled on the floor at the bottom, I couldn’t keep from throwing up myself. It didn’t make me feel any better.

  I dug a water bottle out of the detritus in my trunk and sponged myself off before calling the police. They asked me to stay near the body. I thought the front seat of my car on Winthrop would be close enough.

  While I waited for a meat wagon I wondered about my client. Could Brigitte have come here after leaving me, killed him and taken off while I was phoning around checking up on her? If she had, the rheumy-eyed woman in the stairwell would have seen her. Would the bond forged by my tripping over her and vomiting in the hall be enough to get her to talk to me?

  I got out of the car, but before I could get back to the entrance the police arrived. When we pushed open the rickety door my friend had evaporated. I didn’t bother mentioning her to the boys-and girl-in blue: her description wouldn’t stand out in Uptown, and even if they could find her she wouldn’t be likely to say much.

  We plodded up the stairs in silence. There were four of them. The woman and the youngest of the three men seemed in good shape. The two older men were running sadly to flab. I didn’t think they’d be able to budge my client’s ex-husband’s right leg, let alone his mammoth redwood torso.

  “I got a feeling about this,” the oldest officer muttered, more to himself than the rest of us. “I got a feeling.”

  When we got to 3E and he looked across at the mass on the bed he shook his head a couple of times. “Yup. I kind of knew as soon as I heard the call.”

  “Knew what, Tom?” the woman demanded sharply.

  “Jade Pierce,” he said. “Knew he lived around here. Been a lot of complaints about him. Thought it might be him when I heard we was due to visit a real big guy.”

  The woman stopped her brisk march to the bed. The rest of us looked at the behemoth in shared sorrow. Jade. Not James or Jake but Jade. Once the most famous down lineman the Bears had ever fielded. Now… I shuddered.

  When he played for Alabama some reporter said his bald head was as smooth and cold as a piece of jade, and went on to spin some tiresome simile relating it to his play. When he signed with the Bears, I was as happy as any other Chicago fan, even though his reputation for off-field violence was pretty unappetizing. No wonder Brigitte LeBlanc hadn’t stayed with him, but why hadn’t she wanted to tell me who he really was? I wrestled with that while Tom called for reinforcements over his lapel mike.

  “So what were you doing here?” he asked me.

  “His ex-wife hired me to check up on him.” I don’t usually tell the cops my clients’ business, but I didn’t feel like protecting Brigitte. “She wanted to talk to him and he wasn’t answering his phone or his door.”

  “She wanted to check up on him?” the fit younger officer, a man with high cheekbones and a well-tended mustache, echoed me derisively. “What I hear, that split up was the biggest fight Jade was ever in. Only big fight he ever lost, too.”

  I smiled. “She’s doing well, he isn’t. Wasn’t. Maybe her conscience pricked her. Or maybe she wanted to rub his nose in it hard. You’d have to ask her. All I can say is she asked me to try to get in, I did, and I called you guys.”

  While Tom mulled this over I pulled out a card and handed it to him. “You can find me at this number if you want to talk to me.”

  He called out after me but I went on down the hall, my footsteps echoing hollowly off the bare walls and ceiling.

  III

  Brigitte LeBlanc was with a client and couldn’t be interrupted. The news that her ex-husband had died couldn’t pry her loose. Not even the idea that the cops would be around before long could move her. After a combination of cajoling and heckling, the receptionist leaned across her blond desk and whispered at me confidentially: “The Vice President of the United States had come in for some private media coaching.” Brigitte had said no interruptions unless it was the President or the pope-two people I wouldn’t even leave a dental appointment to see.

  When they made me unwelcome on the forty-third floor I rode downstairs and hung around the lobby. At five-thirty a bevy of Secret Service agents swept me out to the street with the other loiterers. Fifteen minutes later the Vice President came out, his boyish face set in purposeful lines. Even though this was a private visit the vigilant television crews were waiting for him. He grinned and waved but didn’t say anything before climbing into his limo. Brigitte must be really good if she’d persuaded him to shut up.

  At seven I went back to the forty-third floor. The double glass doors were locked and the lights turned off. I found a key in my collection that worked the lock, but when I’d prowled through the miles of thick gray plush, explored the secured studios, looked in all the offices, I had to realize my client was smarter than me. She’d left by some back exit.

  I gave a high-pitched snarl. I didn’t lock the door behind me. Let someone come in and steal all the video equipment. I didn’t care.

  I swung by Brigitte’s three-story brownstone on Belden. She wasn’t in. The housekeeper didn’t know when to expect her. She was eating out and had said not to wait up for her.

  “How about Corinne?” I asked, sure that the woman would say “Corinne who?”

  “She’s not here, either.”

  I slipped inside before she could shut the door on me. “I’m V. I. Warshawski. Brigitte hired me to find her sister, said she’d run off to Jade. I went to his apartment. Corinne wasn’t there and Jade was dead. I’ve been trying to talk to Brigitte ever since but she’s avoiding me. I want to know a few things, like if Corinne really exists, and did she really run away, and could either she or Brigitte have killed Jade.”

  The housekeeper stared at me for a few minutes, then made a sour face. “You got some I.D.?”

   I showed her my P.I. license and the contract signed by Brigitte. Her sour look deepened but she gave me a few spare details. Corinne was a fat, unhappy teenager who didn’t know how good she had it. Brigitte gave her everything, taught her how to dress, sent her to St. Scholastica, even tried to get her to special diet clinics, but she was never satisfied, always whining about her friends back home in Mobile, trashy friends to whom she shouldn’t be giving the time of day. And yes, she had run away, three days ago now, and she, the housekeeper, said good riddance, but Brigitte felt responsible. And she was sorry that Jade was dead, but he was a violent man, Corinne had overidealized him, she didn’t realize what a monster he really was.

   “They can’t turn it off when they come off the field, you know. As for who killed him, he probably killed himself, drinking too much. I always said it would happen that way. Corinne couldn’t have done it, she doesn’t have enough oomph to her. And Brigitte doesn’t have any call to-she already got him beat six ways from Sunday.”

  “Maybe she thought he’d molested her sister.”

  “She’d have taken him to court and enjoyed seeing him humiliated all over again.”

  What a lovely cast of characters; it filled me with satisfaction to think I’d allied myself to their fates. I persuaded the housekeeper to give me a picture of Corinne before going home. She was indeed an overweight, unhappy-looking child. It must be hard having a picture-perfect older sister trying to turn her into a junior deb. I also got the housekeeper to give me Brigitte’s unlisted home phone number by telling her if she didn’t, I’d be back every hour all night long ringing the bell.

  I didn’t turn on the radio going home. I didn’t want to hear the ghoulish excitement lying behind the unctuousness the reporters would bring to discussing Jade Pierce’s catastrophic fall from grace. A rehashing of his nine seasons with the Bears, from the glory years to the last two where nagging knee and back injuries grew too great even for the painkillers. And then to his harsh retirement, putting seventy or eighty pounds of fat over his playing weight of 310, the barroom fights, the guns fired at other drivers from the front seat of his Ferrari Daytona, then the sale of the Ferrari to pay his legal bills, and finally the three-ring circus that was his divorce. Ending on a Murphy bed in a squalid Uptown apartment.

  I shut the Trans Am’s door with a viciousness it didn’t deserve and stomped up the three flights to my apartment. Fatigue mixed with bitterness dulled the sixth sense that usually warns me of danger. The man had me pinned against my front door with a gun at my throat before I knew he was there.

  I held my shoulder bag out to him. “Be my guest. Then leave. I’ve had a long day and I don’t want to spend too much of it with you.”

  He spat. “I don’t want your stupid little wallet.”

  “You’re not going to rape me, so you might as well take my stupid little wallet.”

  “I’m not interested in your body. Open your apartment. I want to search it.”

  “Go to hell.” I kneed him in the stomach and swept my right arm up to knock his gun hand away. He gagged and bent over. I used my handbag as a clumsy bolas and whacked him on the back of the head. He slumped to the floor, unconscious.

  I grabbed the gun from his flaccid hand. Feeling gingerly inside his coat, I found a wallet. His driver’s license identified him as Joel Sirop, living at a pricey address on Dearborn Parkway. He sported a high-end assortment of credit cards-Bonwit, Neiman Marcus, an American Express platinum-and a card that said he was a member in good standing of the Feline Breeders Association of North America. I slid the papers back into his billfold and returned it to his breast pocket.

  He groaned and opened his eyes. After a few diffuse seconds he focused on me in outrage. “My head. You’ve broken my head. I’ll sue you.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll hang on to your pistol for use in evidence at the trial. I’ve got your name and address, so if I see you near my place again I’ll know where to send the cops. Now leave.”

  “Not until I’ve searched your apartment.” He was unarmed and sickly but stubborn.

  I leaned against my door, out of reach but poised to stomp on him if he got cute. “What are you looking for, Mr. Sirop?”

  “It was on the news, how you found Jade. If the cat was there, you must have taken it.”

  “Rest your soul, there were no cats in that apartment when I got there. Had he stolen yours?”

  He shut his eyes, apparently to commune with himself. When he opened them again he said he had no choice but to trust me. I smiled brightly and told him he could always leave so I could have dinner, but he insisted on confiding in me.

  “Do you know cats, Ms. Warshawski?”

  “Only in a manner of speaking. I have a dog and she knows cats.”

  He scowled. “This is not a laughing matter. Have you heard of the Maltese?”

  “Cat? I guess I’ve heard of them. They’re the ones without tails, right?”

  He shuddered. “No. You are thinking of the Manx. The Maltese-they are usually a bluish gray. Very rarely will you see one that is almost blue. Brigitte LeBlanc has-or had-such a cat. Lady Iva of Cairo.”

  “Great. I presume she got it to match her eyes.”

  He waved aside my comment as another frivolity. “Her motives do not matter. What matters is that the cat has been very difficult to breed. She has now come into season for only the third time in her four-year life. Brigitte agreed to let me try to mate Lady Iva with my sire, Casper of Valletta. It is imperative that she be sent to stay with him, and soon. But she has disappeared.”

  It was my turn to look disgusted. “I took a step down from my usual practice to look for a runaway teenager today. I’m damned if I’m going to hunt a missing cat through the streets of Chicago. Your sire will find her faster than I will. Matter of fact, that’s my advice. Drive around listening for the yowling of mighty sires and eventually you’ll find your Maltese.”

  “This runaway teenager, this Corinne, it is probable that she took Lady Iva with her. The kittens, if they are born, if they are purebred, could fetch a thousand or more each. She is not ignorant of that fact. But if Lady Iva is out on the streets and some other sire finds her first, they would be half-breeds, not worth the price of their veterinary care.”

  He spoke with the intense passion I usually reserve for discussing Cubs or Bears trades. Keeping myself turned toward him, I unlocked my front door. He flung himself at the opening with a ferocity that proved his long years with felines had rubbed off on him. I grabbed his jacket as he hurtled past me but he tore himself free.

  ���I am not leaving until I have searched your premises,” he panted.

  I rubbed my head tiredly. “Go ahead, then.”

  I could have called the cops while he hunted around for Lady Iva. Instead I poured myself a whiskey and watched him crawl on his hands and knees, making little whistling sounds-perhaps the mating call of the Maltese. He went through my cupboards, my stove, the refrigerator, even insisted, his eyes wide with fear, that I open the safe in my bedroom closet. I removed the Smith & Wesson I keep there before letting him look.

  When he’d inspected the back landing he had to agree that no cats were on the premises. He tried to argue me into going downtown to check my office. At that point my patience ran out.

  “I could have you arrested for attempted assault and criminal trespass. So get out now while the going’s good. Take your guy down to my office. If she’s in there and in heat, he’ll start carrying on and you can call the cops. Just don’t bother me.” I hustled him out the front door, ignoring his protests.

  I carefully did up all the locks. I didn’t want some other deranged cat breeder sneaking up on me in the middle of the night.

  IV

  It was after midnight when I finally reached Brigitte. Yes, she’d gotten my message about Jade. She was terribly sorry, but since she couldn’t do anything to help him now that he was dead, she hadn’t bothered to try to reach me.

  “We’re about to part company, Brigitte. If you didn’t know the guy was dead when you sent me up to Winthrop, you’re going to have to prove it. Not to me, but to the cops. I’m talking to Lieutenant Mallory at the Central District in the morning to tell him the rigmarole you spun me. They’ll also be able to figure out if you were more interested in finding Corinne or your cat.”

  There was a long silence at the other end. When she finally spoke, the hint of Southern was pronounced. “Can we talk in the morning before you call the police? Maybe I haven’t been as frank as I should have. I’d like you to hear the whole story before you do anything rash.”

  Just say no, just say no, I chanted to myself. “You be at the Belmont Diner at eight, Brigitte. You can lay it out for me but I’m not making any promises.”

  I got up at seven, ran the dog over to Belmont Harbor and back and took a long shower. I figured even if I put a half hour into grooming myself I wasn’t going to look as good as Brigitte, so I just scrambled into jeans and a cotton sweater.

  It was almost ten minutes after eight when I got to the diner, but Brigitte hadn’t arrived yet. I picked up a Herald-Star from the counter and took it over to a booth to read with a cup of coffee. The headline shook me to the bottom of my stomach.

  FOOTBALL HERO SURVIVES FATE

  WORSE THAN DEATH

  Charles “Jade” Pierce, once the smoothest man on the Bears’ fearsome defense, eluded offensive blockers once again. This time the stakes were higher than a touchdown, though: the offensive lineman was Death.

  I thought Jeremy Logan was overdoing it by a wide margin but I read the story to the end. The standard procedure with a body is to take it to a hospital for a death certificate before it goes to the morgue. The patrol team hauled Jade to Beth Israel for a perfunctory exam. There the intern, noticing a slight sweat on Jade’s neck and hands, dug deeper for a pulse than I’d been willing to go. She’d found faint but unmistakable signs of life buried deep in the mountain of flesh and had brought him back to consciousness.

  Jade, who’s had substance abuse problems since leaving the Bears, had mainlined a potent mixture of ether and hydrochloric acid before drinking a quart of bourbon. When he came to his first words were characteristic: “Get the f- out of my face.”

  Logan then concluded with the obligatory rundown on Jade’s career and its demise, with a pious sniff about the use and abuse of sports heroes left to die in the gutter when they could no longer please the crowd. I read it through twice, including the fulsome last line, before Brigitte arrived.

  “You see, Jade’s still alive, so I couldn’t have killed him,” she announced, sweeping into the booth in a cloud of Chanel.

  “Did you know he was in a coma when you came to see me yesterday?”

  She raised plucked eyebrows in hauteur. “Are you questioning my word?”

  One of the waitresses chugged over to take our order. “You want your fruit and yogurt, right, Vic? And what else?”

  “Green pepper and cheese omelet with rye toast. Thanks, Barbara. What’ll yours be, Brigitte?” Dry toast and black coffee, no doubt.

  “Is your fruit really fresh?” she demanded.

  Barbara rolled her eyes. “Honey, the melon pinched me so hard I’m black-and-blue. Better not take a chance if you’re sensitive.”

  Brigitte set her shoulder-covered today in green broadcloth with black piping-and got ready to do battle. I cut her off before the first “How dare you” rolled to its ugly conclusion.

  “This isn’t the kind of place where the maître d’ wilts at your frown and races over to make sure madam is happy. They don’t care if you come back or not. In fact, about now they’d be happier if you’d leave. You can check out my fruit when it comes and order some if it tastes right to you.”

  “I’ll just have wheat toast and black coffee,” she said icily. “And make sure they don’t put any butter on it.”

  “Right,” Barbara said. “Wheat toast, margarine instead of butter. Just kidding, hon,” she added as Brigitte started to tear into her again. “You gotta learn to take it if you want to dish it out.”

  “Did you bring me here to be insulted?” Brigitte demanded when Barbara had left.

  “I brought you here to talk. It didn’t occur to me that you wouldn’t know diner etiquette. We can fight if you want to. Or you can tell me about Jade and Corinne. And your cat. I had a visit from Joel Sirop last night.”

  She swallowed some coffee and made a face. “They should rinse the pots with vinegar.”

  “Well, keep it to yourself. They won’t pay you a consulting fee for telling them about it. Joel tell you he’d come around hunting Lady Iva?”

  She frowned at me over the rim of the coffee cup, then nodded fractionally.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about the damned cat when you were in my office yesterday?”

  Her poise deserted her for a moment; she looked briefly ashamed. “I thought you’d look for Corinne. I didn’t think I could persuade you to hunt down my cat. Anyway, Corinne must have taken Iva with her, so I thought if you found her you’d find the cat, too.”

  “Which one do you really want back?”

  She started to bristle again, then suddenly laughed. It took ten years from her face. “You wouldn’t ask that if you’d ever lived with a teenager. And Corinne’s always been a stranger to me. She was eighteen months old when I left for college and I only saw her a week or two at a time on vacations. She used to worship me. When she moved in with me I thought it would be a piece of cake: I’d get her fixed up with the right crowd and the right school, she’d do her best to be like me, and the system would run itself. Instead, she put on a lot of weight, won’t listen to me about her eating, slouches around with the kids in the neighborhood when my back is turned, the whole nine yards. Jade’s influence. It creeps through every now and then when I’m not thinking.”

  She looked at my blueberries. I offered them to her and she helped herself to a generous spoonful.

  “And that was the other thing. Jade. We got together when I was an Alabama cheerleader and he was the biggest hero in town. I thought I’d really caught me a prize, my yes, a big prize. But the first, last, and only thing in a marriage with a football player is football. And him, of course, how many sacks he made, how many yards he allowed, all that boring crap. And if he has to sit out a game, or he gives up a touchdown, or he doesn’t get the glory, watch out. Jade was mean. He was mean on the field, he was mean off it. He broke my arm once.”

  Her voice was level but her hand shook a little as she lifted the coffee cup to her mouth. “I got me a gun and shot him in the leg the next time he came at me. They put it down as a hunting accident in the papers, but he never tried anything on me after that-not physical, I mean. Until his career ended. Then he got real, real ugly. The papers crucified me for abandoning him when his career was over. They never had to live with him.”

  She was panting with emotion by the time she finished. “And Corinne shared the papers’ views?” I asked gently.

  She nodded. “We had a bad fight on Sunday. She wanted to go to a sleepover at one of the girls’ in the neighborhood. I don’t like that girl and I said no. We had a gale-force battle after that. When I got home from work on Monday she’d taken off. First I figured she’d gone to this girl’s place. They hadn’t seen her, though, and she hadn’t shown up at school. So I figured she’d run off to Jade. Now… I don’t know. I would truly appreciate it if you’d keep looking, though.”

  Just say no, Vic, I chanted to myself. “I’ll need a thousand up front. And more names and addresses of friends, including people in Mobile. I’ll check in with Jade at the hospital. She might have gone to him, you know, and he sent her on someplace else.”

  “I topped by there this morning. They said no visitors.”

  I grinned. “I’ve got friends in high places.” I signaled Barbara for the check. “Speaking of which, how was the Vice President?”

  She looked as though she were going to give me one of her stiff rebuttals, but then she curled her lip and drawled, “Just like every other good old boy, honey, just like every other good old boy.”

  V

  Lotty Herschel, an obstetrician associated with Beth Israel, arranged for me to see Jade Pierce. “They tell me he’s been difficult. Don’t stand next to the bed unless you’re wearing a padded jacket.”

  “You want him, you can have him,” the floor head told me. “He’s going home tomorrow morning. Frankly, since he won’t let anyone near him, they ought to release him right now.”

  My palms felt sweaty when I pushed open the door to Jade’s room. He didn’t throw anything when I came in, didn’t even turn his head to stare through the restraining rails surrounding the bed. His mountain of flesh poured through them, ebbing away from a rounded summit in the middle. The back of his head, smooth and shiny as a piece of polished jade, reflected the ceiling light into my eyes.

  “I don’t need any goddamned ministering angels, so get the fuck out of here,” he growled to the window.

  “That’s a relief. My angel act never really got going.”

  He turned his head at that. His black eyes were mean, narrow slits. If I were a quarterback I’d hand him the ball and head for the showers.

  “What are you, the goddamned social worker?”

  “Nope. I’m the goddamned detective who found you yesterday before you slipped off to the great huddle in the sky.”

  “Come on over then, so I can kiss your ass,” he spat venomously.

  I leaned against the wall and crossed my arms. “I didn’t mean to save your life: I tried getting them to send you to the morgue. The meat wagon crew double-crossed me.”

  The mountain shook and rumbled. It took me a few seconds to realize he was laughing. “You’re right, detective: you ain’t no angel. So what do you want? True confessions on why I was such a bad boy? The name of the guy who got me the stuff?”

  “As long as you’re not hurting anyone but yourself I don’t care what you do or where you get your shit. I’m here because Brigitte hired me to find Corinne.”

  His face set in ugly lines again. “Get out.”

  I didn’t move.

  “I said get out!” He raised his voice to a bellow.

  “Just because I mentioned Brigitte’s name?”

  “Just because if you’re pally with that broad, you’re a snake by definition.”

 “I’m not pally with her. I met her yesterday. She’s paying me to find her sister.” It took an effort not to yell back at him.

  “Corinne’s better off without her,” he growled, turning the back of his head to me again.

  I didn’t say anything, just stood there. Five minutes passed. Finally he jeered, without looking at me. “Did the sweet little martyr tell you I broke her arm?”

  “She mentioned it, yes.”

  “She tell you how that happened?”

  “Please don’t tell me how badly she misunderstood you. I don’t want to throw up my breakfast.”

  At that he swung his gigantic face around toward me again. “Com’ere.”

  When I didn’t move, he sighed and patted the bed rail. “I’m not going to slug you, honest. If we’re going to talk, you gotta get close enough for me to see your face.”

  I went over to the bed and straddled the chair, resting my arms on its back. Jade studied me in silence, then grunted as if to say I’d passed some minimal test.

  “I won’t tell you Brigitte didn’t understand me. Broad had my number from day one. I didn’t break her arm, though: that was B. B. Wilder. Old Gunshot. Thought he was my best friend on the club, but it turned out he was Brigitte’s. And then, when I come home early from a hunting trip and found her in bed with him, we all got carried away. She loved the excitement of big men fighting. It’s what made her a football groupie to begin with down in Alabama.”

  I tried to imagine ice-cold Brigitte flushed with excitement while the Bears’ right tackle and defensive end fought over her. It didn’t seem impossible.

  “So B. B. broke her arm but I agreed to take the rap. Her little old modeling career was just getting off the ground and she didn’t want her good name sullied. And besides that, she kept hoping for a reconciliation with her folks, at least with their wad, and they’d never fork over if she got herself some ugly publicity committing violent adultery. And me, I was just the baddest boy the Bears ever fielded; one more mark didn’t make that much difference to me.” The jeering note returned to his voice.

  “She told me it was when you retired that things deteriorated between you.”

  “Things deteriorated-what a way to put it. Look, detective what did you say your name was? V. I., that’s a hell of a name for a girl. What did your mamma call you?”

  “Victoria,” I said grudgingly. “And no one calls me Vicki, so don’t even think about it.” I prefer not to be called a girl, either, much less a broad, but Jade didn’t seem like the person to discuss that particular issue with.

  “Victoria, huh? Things deteriorated, yeah, like they was a picnic starting out. I was born dumb and I didn’t get smarter for making five hundred big ones a year. But I wouldn’t hit a broad, even one like Brigitte who could get me going just looking at me. I broke a lot of furniture, though, and that got on her nerves.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. “Yeah, I can see that. It’d bother me, too.”

  He gave a grudging smile. “See, the trouble is, I grew up poor. I mean, dirt poor. I used to go to the projects here with some of the black guys on the squad, you know, Christmas appearances, shit like that. Those kids live in squalor, but I didn’t own a pair of shorts to cover my ass until the county social worker come ’round to see why I wasn’t in school.”

  “So you broke furniture because you grew up without it and didn’t know what else to do with it?”

  “Don’t be a wiseass, Victoria. I’m sure your mamma wouldn’t like it.”

  I made a face-he was right about that.

  “You know the LeBlancs, right? Oh, you’re a Yankee, Yankees don’t know shit if they haven’t stepped in it themselves. LeBlanc Gas, they’re one of the biggest names on the Gulf Coast. They’re a long, long way from the Pierces of Florette.

  “I muscled my way into college, played football for Old Bear Bryant, met Brigitte. She liked raw meat, and mine was just about the rawest in the South, so she latched on to me. When she decided to marry me she took me down to Mobile for Christmas. There I was, the Hulk, in Miz Effie’s lace and crystal palace. They hated me, knew I was trash, told Brigitte they’d cut her out of everything if she married me. She figured she could sweet-talk her daddy into anything. We got married and it didn’t work, not even when I was a national superstar. To them I was still the dirt I used to wipe my ass with.”

  “So she divorced you to get back in their will?”

  He shrugged, a movement that set a tidal wave going down the mountain. “Oh, that had something to do with it, sure, it had something. But I was a wreck and I was hell to live with. Even if she’d been halfway normal to begin with, it would have gone bust, ’cause I didn’t know how to live with losing football. I just didn’t care about anyone or anything.”

  “Not even the Daytona,” I couldn’t help saying.

  His black eyes disappeared into tiny dots. “Don’t you go lecturing me just when we’re starting to get on. I’m not asking you to cry over my sad jock story. I’m just trying to give you a little different look at sweet, beautiful Brigitte.”

  “Sorry. It’s just… I’ll never do anything to be able to afford a Ferrari Daytona. It pisses me to see someone throw one away.”

  He snorted. “If I’d known you five years ago I’d of given it to you. Too late now. Anyway, Brigitte waited too long to jump ship. She was still in negotiations with old man LeBlanc when he and Miz Effie dropped into the Gulf of Mexico with the remains of their little Cessna. Everything that wasn’t tied down went to Corinne. Brigitte, being her guardian, gets a chunk for looking after her, but you ask me, if Corinne’s gone missing it’s the best thing she could do. I’ll bet you… well, I don’t have anything left to bet. I’ll hack off my big toe and give it to you if Brigitte’s after anything but the money.”

  He thought for a minute. “No. She probably likes Corinne some. Or would like her if she’d lose thirty pounds, dress like a Mobile debutante and hang around with a crowd of snot-noses. I’ll hack off my toe if the money ain’t number one in her heart, that’s all.”

  I eyed him steadily, wondering how much of his story to believe. It’s why I stay away from domestic crime: everyone has a story, and it wears you out trying to match all the different pieces together. I could check the LeBlancs’ will to see if they’d left their fortune the way Jade reported it. Or if they had a fortune at all. Maybe he was making it all up.

  “Did Corinne talk to you before she took off on Monday?”

  His black eyes darted around the room. “I haven’t laid eyes on her in months. She used to come around, but Brigitte got a peace bond on me, I get arrested if I’m within thirty feet of Corinne.”

  “I believe you, Jade,” I said steadily. “I believe you haven’t seen her. But did she talk to you? Like on the phone, maybe.”

  The ugly look returned to his face, then the mountain shook again as he laughed. “You don’t miss many signals, do you, Victoria? You oughta run a training camp. Yeah, Corinne calls me Monday morning. ‘Why don’t you have your cute little ass in school?’ I says. ‘Even with all your family dough that’s the only way to get ahead-they’ll ream you six ways from Sunday if you don’t get your education so you can check out what all your advisers are up to.’”

  He shook his head broodingly. “I know what I’m talking about, believe me. The lawyers and agents and financial advisers, they all made out like hogs at feeding time when I was in the money, but come trouble, it wasn’t them, it was me hung out like a slab of pork belly to dry on my own.”

  “So what did Corinne say to your good advice?” I prompted him, trying not to sound impatient: I could well be the first sober person to listen to him in a decade.

  “Oh, she’s crying, she can’t stand it, why can’t she just run home to Mobile? And I tell her ’cause she’s underage and rich, the cops will all be looking for her and just haul her butt back to Chicago. And when she keeps talking wilder and wilder I tell her they’ll be bound to blame me if something happens to her and does she really need to run away so bad that I go to jail or something. So I thought that calmed her down. ‘Think of it like rookie camp,’ I told her. ‘They put you through the worst shit but if you survive it you own them.’ I thought she figured it out and was staying.”

  He shut his eyes. “I’m tired, detective. I can’t tell you nothing else. You go away and detect.”

  “If she went back to Mobile who would she stay with?”

  “Wouldn’t nobody down there keep her without calling Brigitte. Too many of them owe their jobs to LeBlanc Gas.” He didn’t open his eyes.

  “And up here?”

  He shrugged, a movement like an earthquake that rattled the bed rails. “You might try the neighbors. Seems to me Corinne mentioned a Miz Hellman who had a bit of a soft spot for her.” He opened his eyes. “Maybe Corinne’ll talk to you. You got a good ear.”

  “Thanks.” I got up. “What about this famous Maltese cat?”

  “What about it?”

  “It went missing along with Corinne. Think she’d hurt it to get back at Brigitte?”

  “How the hell should I know? Those LeBlancs would do anything to anyone. Even Corinne. Now get the fuck out so I can get my beauty rest.” He shut his eyes again.

  “Yeah, you’re beautiful all right, Jade. Why don’t you use some of your old connections and get yourself going at something? It’s really pathetic seeing you like this.”

  “You wanna save me along with the Daytona?” The ugly jeer returned to his voice. “Don’t go all do-gooder on me now, Victoria. My daddy died at forty from too much moonshine. They tell me I’m his spitting image. I know where I’m going.”

  “It’s trite, Jade. Lots of people have done it. They’ll make a movie about you and little kids will cry over your sad story. But if they make it honest they’ll show that you’re just plain selfish.”

  I wanted to slam the door but the hydraulic stop took the impact out of the gesture. “Goddamned motherfucking waste,” I snapped as I stomped down the corridor.

  The floor head heard me. “Jade Pierce? You’re right about that.”

  VI

  The Hellmans lived in an apartment above the TV repair shop they ran on Halsted. Mrs. Hellman greeted me with some relief.

  “I promised Corinne I wouldn’t tell her sister as long as she stayed here instead of trying to hitchhike back to Mobile. But I’ve been pretty worried. It’s just that… to Brigitte LeBlanc I don’t exist. My daughter Lily is trash that she doesn’t want Corinne associated with, so it never even occurred to her that Corinne might be here.”

  She took me through the back of the shop and up the stairs to the apartment. “It’s only five rooms, but we’re glad to have her as long as she wants to stay. I’m more worried about the cat: she doesn’t like being cooped up in here. She got out Tuesday night and we had a terrible time hunting her down.”

  I grinned to myself: So much for the thoroughbred descendants pined for by Joel Sirop.

  Mrs. Hellman took me into the living room where they had a sofa bed that Corinne was using. “This here is a detective, Corinne. I think you’d better talk to her.”

  Corinne was hunched in front of the television, an outsize console model far too large for the tiny room. In her man’s white shirt and tattered blue jeans she didn’t look at all like her svelte sister. Her complexion was a muddy color that matched her lank, straight hair. She clutched Lady Iva of Cairo close in her arms. Both of them looked at me angrily.

  “If you think you can make me go back to that cold-assed bitch, you’d better think again.”

  Mrs. Hellman tried to protest her language.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “She learned it from Jade. But Jade lost every fight he ever was in with Brigitte, Corinne. Maybe you ought to try a different method.”

  “Brigitte hated Jade. She hates anyone who doesn’t do stuff just the way she wants it. So if you’re working for Brigitte you don’t know shit about anything.”

  I responded to the first part of her comments. “Is that why you took the cat? So you could keep her from having purebred kittens like Brigitte wants her to?”

  A ghost of a smile twitched around her unhappy mouth. All she said was “They wouldn’t let me bring my dogs or my horse up north. Iva’s kind of a snoot but she’s better than nothing.”

  “Jade thinks Brigitte’s jealous because you got the LeBlanc fortune and she didn’t.”

  She made a disgusted noise. “Jade worries too much about all that shit. Yeah, Daddy left me a big fat wad. But the company went to Daddy’s cousin Miles. You can’t inherit LeBlanc Gas if you’re a girl and Brigitte knew that, same as me. I mean, they told both of us growing up so we wouldn’t have our hearts set on it. The money they left me, Brigitte makes that amount every year in her business. She doesn’t care about the money.”

  “And you? Does it bother you that the company went to your cousin?”

  She gave a long ugly sniff-no doubt another of Jade’s expressions. “Who wants a company that doesn’t do anything but pollute the Gulf and ream the people who work for them?

  I considered that. At fourteen it was probably genuine bravado. “So what do you care about?”

  She looked at me with sulky dark eyes. For a minute I thought she was going to tell me to mind my own goddamned business and go to hell, but she suddenly blurted out, “It’s my horse. They left the house to Miles along with my horse. They didn’t think about it, just said the house and all the stuff that wasn’t left special to someone else went to him and they didn’t even think to leave me my own horse.”

  The last sentence came out as a wail and her angry young face dissolved into sobs. I didn’t think she’d welcome a friendly pat on the shoulder. I just let the tears run their course. She finally wiped her nose on a frayed cuff and shot me a fierce look to see if I cared.

  “If I could persuade Brigitte to buy your horse from Miles and stable him up here, would you be willing to go back to her until you’re of age?”

  “You never would. Nobody ever could make that bitch change her mind.”

  “But if I could?”

  Her lower lip was hanging out. “Maybe. If I could have my horse and go to school with Lily instead of fucking St. Scholastica.”

  “I’ll do my best.” I got to my feet. “In return maybe you could work on Jade to stop drugging himself to death. It isn’t romantic, you know: it’s horrible, painful, about the ugliest thing in the world.”

  She only glowered at me. It’s hard work being an angel. No one takes at all kindly to it.

  VII

  Brigitte was furious. Her cheeks flamed with natural color and her cobalt eyes glittered. I couldn’t help wondering if this was how she looked when Jade and B. B. Wilder were fighting over her.

  “So he knew all along where she was! I ought to have him sent over for that. Can’t I charge him with contributing to her delinquency?”

  “Not if you’re planning on using me as a witness you can’t,” I snapped.

  She ignored me. “And her, too. Taking Lady Iva off like that. Mating her with some alley cat.”

  As if on cue, Casper of Valletta squawked loudly and started clawing the deep silver plush covering Brigitte’s living room floor. Joel Sirop picked up the torn and spoke soothingly to him.

  “It is bad, Brigitte, very bad. Maybe you should let the girl go back to Mobile if she wants to so badly. After three days, you know, it’s too late to give Lady Iva a shot. And Corinne is so wild, so uncontrollable-what would stop her the next time Lady Iva comes into season?”

  Brigitte’s nostrils flared. “I should send her to reform school. Show her what discipline is really like.”

  “Why in hell do you even want custody over Corinne if all you can think about is revenge?” I interrupted.

  She stopped swirling around her living room and turned to frown at me. “Why, I love her, of course. She is my sister, you know.”

  “Concentrate on that. Keep saying it to yourself. She’s not a cat that you can breed and mold to suit your fancy.”

  “I just want her to be happy when she’s older. She won’t be if she can’t learn to control herself. Look at what happened when she started hanging around trash like that Lily Hellman. She would never have let Lady Iva breed with an alley cat if she hadn’t made that kind of friend.”

  I ground my teeth. “Just because Lily lives in five rooms over a store doesn’t make her trash. Look, Brigitte. You wanted to lead your own life. I expect your parents tried keeping you on a short leash. Hell, maybe they even threatened you with reform school. So you started fucking every hulk you could get your hands on. Are you so angry about that that you have to treat Corinne the same way?”

  She gaped at me. Her jaw worked but she couldn’t find any words. Finally she went over to a burled oak cabinet that concealed a bar. She pulled out a chilled bottle of Sancerre and poured herself a glass. When she’d gulped it down she sat at her desk.

  “Is it that obvious? Why I went after Jade and B. B. and all those boys?”

  I hunched a shoulder. “It was just a guess, Brigitte. A guess based on what I’ve learned about you and your sister and Jade the last two days. He’s not such an awful guy, you know, but he clearly was an awful guy for you. And Corinne’s lonely and miserable and needs someone to love her. She figures her horse for the job.”

  “And me?” Her cobalt eyes glittered again. “What do I need? The embraces of my cat?”

  “To shed some of those porcupine quills so someone can love you, too. You could’ve offered me a glass of wine, for example.”

  She started an ugly retort, then went over to the liquor cabinet and got out a glass for me. “So I bring Flitcraft up to Chicago and stable her. I put Corinne into the filthy public high school. And then we’ll all live happily ever after.”

  “She might graduate.” I swallowed some of the wine. It was cold and crisp and eased some of the tension the LeBlancs and Pierces were putting into my throat. “And in another year she won’t run away to Lily’s, but she’ll go off to Mobile or hit the streets. Now’s your chance.”

   “Oh, all right,” she snapped. “You’re some kind of saint, I know, who never said a bad word to anyone. You can tell Corinne I’ll cut a deal with her. But if it goes wrong you can be the one to stay up at night worrying about her.”

  I rubbed my head. “Send her back to Mobile, Brigitte. There must be a grandmother or aunt or nanny or someone who really cares about her. With your attitude, life with Corinne is just going to be a bomb waiting for the fuse to blow.”

  “You can say that again, detective.” It was Jade, his bulk filling the double doors to the living room.

  Behind him we could hear the housekeeper without being able to see her. “I tried to keep him out, Brigitte, but Corinne let him in. You want me to call the cops, get them to exercise that peace bond?”

  “I have a right to ask whoever I want into my own house,” came Corinne’s muffled shriek.

  Squawking and yowling, Casper broke from Joel Sirop’s hold. He hurtled himself at the doorway and stuffed his body through the gap between Jade’s feet. On the other side of the barricade we could hear Lady Iva’s answering yodel and a scream from Corinne-presumably she’d been clawed.

  “Why don’t you move, Jade, so we can see the action?” I suggested.

  He lumbered into the living room and perched his bulk on the edge of a pale gray sofa. Corinne stumbled in behind him and sat next to him. Her muddy skin and lank hair looked worse against the sleek modern lines of Brigitte’s furniture than they had in Mrs. Hellman’s crowded sitting room.

  Brigitte watched the blood drip from Corinne’s right hand to the rug and jerked her head at the housekeeper hovering in the doorway. “Can you clean that up for me, Grace?”

  When the housekeeper left, she turned to her sister. “Next time you’re that angry at me take it out on me, not the cat. Did you really have to let her breed in a back alley?”

  “It’s all one to Iva,” Corinne muttered sulkily. “Just as long as she’s getting some she don’t care who’s giving it to her. Just like you.”

  Brigitte marched to the couch. Jade caught her hand as she Was preparing to smack Corinne.

  “Now look here, Brigitte,” he said. “You two girls don’t belong together. You know that as well as I do. Maybe you think you owe it to your public image to be a mamma to Corinne, but you’re not the mamma type. Never have been. Why should you try now?”

  Brigitte glared at him. “And you’re Mister Wonderful who can sit in judgment on everyone else?”

  He shook his massive jade dome. “Nope. I won’t claim that. But maybe Corinne here would like to come live with me.” He held up a massive palm as Brigitte started to protest. “Not in Uptown. I can get me a place close to here. Corinne can have her horse and see you when you feel calm enough. And when your pure little old cat has her half-breed kittens they can come live with us.”

  “On Corinne’s money,” Brigitte spat.

  Jade nodded. “She’d have to put up the stake. But I know some guys who’d back me to get started in somethin’. Commodities, somethin’ like that.”

  “You’d be drunk or doped up all the time. And then you’d rape her-” She broke off as he did his ugly-black-slit number with his eyes.

  “You’d better not say anything else, Brigitte Le-Blanc. Damned well better not say anything. You want me to get up in the congregation and yell that I never touched a piece of ass that shoved itself in my nose, I ain’t going to. But you know better’n anyone that I never in my life laid hands on a girl to hurt her. As for the rest…” His eyes returned to normal and he put a redwood branch around Corinne’s shoulders. “First time I’m drunk or shooting somethin’ Corinne comes right back here. We can try it for six months, Brigitte. Just a trial. Rookie camp, you know how it goes.”

  The football analogy brought her own mean look to Brigitte’s face. Before she could say anything Joel bleated in the background, “It sounds like a good idea to me, Brigitte. Really. You ought to give it a try. Lady Iva’s nerves will never be stable with the fighting that goes on around her when Corinne is here.”

  “No one asked you,” Brigitte snapped.

  “And no one asked me, either,” Corinne said. “If you don’t agree, I-I’m going to take Lady Iva and run away to New York. And send you pictures of her with litter after litter of alley cats.”

  The threat, uttered with all the venom she could muster, made me choke with laughter. I swallowed some Sancerre to try to control myself, but I couldn’t stop laughing. Jade’s mountain rumbled and shook as he joined in. Joel gasped in horror. Only the two LeBlanc women remained unmoved, glaring at each other.

  “What I ought to do, I ought to send you to reform school, Corinne Alton LeBlanc.”

  “What you ought to do is cool out,” I advised, putting my glass down on a chrome table. “It’s a good offer. Take it. If you don’t, she’ll only run away.”

  Brigitte tightened her mouth in a narrow line. “I didn’t hire you to have you turn on me, you know.”

  “Yeah, well, you hired me. You didn’t buy me. My job is to help you resolve a difficult problem. And this looks like the best solution you’re going to be offered.”

  “Oh, very well,” she snapped pettishly, pouring herself another drink. “For six months. And if her grades start slipping, or I hear she’s drinking or doping or anything like that, she comes back here.”

  I got up to go. Corinne followed me to the door.

  “I’m sorry I was rude to you over at Lily’s,” she muttered shyly. “When the kittens are born you can have the one you like best.”

  I gulped and tried to smile. “That’s very generous of you, Corinne. But I don’t think my dog would take too well to a kitten.”

  “Don’t you like cats?” The big brown eyes stared at me poignantly. “Really, cats and dogs get along very well unless their owners expect them not to.”

  “Like LeBlancs and Pierces, huh?”

  She bit her lip and turned her head, then said in a startled voice, “You’re teasing me, aren’t you?”

  “Just teasing you, Corinne. You take it easy. Things are going to work out for you. And if they don’t, give me a call before you do anything too rash, okay?”

  “And you will take a kitten?”

  Just say no, Vic, just say no, I chanted to myself. “Let me think about it. I’ve got to run now.” I fled the house before she could break my resolve any further.

 Colleagues agreed they’d seen Servino arrive around a quarter of eight, as he usually did. They’d seen the notice and assumed he’d left when everyone else was tied up with appointments. No one thought any more about it.

  Penelope had learned of her lover’s death from the police, who picked her up as she was leaving a realtor’s office where she’d been discussing shop leases. Two of the doctors with offices near Servino’s had mentioned seeing a dark-haired woman in a long fur coat near his consulting room.

  Penelope’s dark eyes were drenched with tears. “It’s not enough that Paul is dead, that I learn of it in such an unspeakable way. They think I killed him-because I have dark hair and wear a fur coat. They don’t know what killed him-some dreary blunt instrument-it sounds stupid and banal, like an old Agatha Christie. They’ve pawed through my luggage looking for it.”

  They’d questioned her for three hours while they searched and finally, reluctantly, let her go, with a warning not to leave Chicago. She’d called Lotty at the clinic and then come over to find me.

  I went into the dining room for some whiskey. She shook her head at the bottle. I poured myself an extra slug to make up for missing my bath. “And?”

  “And I want you to find who killed him. The police aren’t looking very hard because they think it’s me.”

  “Do they have a reason for this?”

  She blushed unexpectedly. “They think he was refusing to marry me.”

  “Not much motive in these times, one would have thought. And you with a successful career to boot. Was he refusing?”

  “No. It was the other way around, actually. I felt-felt unsettled about what I wanted to do-come to Chicago to stay, you know. I have-friends in Montreal, too, you know. And I’ve always thought marriage meant monogamy.”

  “I see.” My focus on the affair between Penelope and Paul shifted slightly. “You didn’t kill him, did you-perhaps for some other reason?”

  She forced a smile. “Because he didn’t agree with Lotty about responsibility? No. And for no other reason. Are you going to ask Lotty if she killed him?”

  “Lotty would have mangled him Sunday night with whatever was lying on the dining room table-she wouldn’t wait to sneak into his office with a club.” I eyed her thoughtfully. “Just out of vulgar curiosity, what were you doing around eight this morning?”

  Her black eyes scorched me. “I came to you because I thought you would be sympathetic. Not to get the same damned questions I had all afternoon from the police!”

  “And what were you doing at eight this morning?”

  She swept across the room to the door, then thought better of it and affected to study a Nell Blaine poster on the nearby wall. With her back to me she said curtly, “I was having a second cup of coffee. And no, there are no witnesses. As you know, by that time of day Lotty is long gone. Perhaps someone saw me leave the building at eight-thirty-I asked the detectives to question the neighbors, but they didn’t seem much interested in doing so.”

  “Don’t sell them short. If you’re not under arrest, they’re still asking questions.”

  “But you could ask questions to clear me. They’re just trying to implicate me.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to ease the dull ache behind my eyes. “You do realize the likeliest person to have killed him is an angry patient, don’t you? Despite your fears the police have probably been questioning them all day.”

  Nothing I said could convince her that she wasn’t in imminent danger of a speedy trial before a kangaroo court, with execution probable by the next morning. She stayed until past midnight, alternating pleas to hide her with commands to join the police in hunting down Paul’s killer. She wouldn’t call Lotty to tell her she was with me because she was afraid Lotty’s home phone had been tapped.

  “Look, Penelope,” I finally said, exasperated. “I can’t hide you. If the police really suspect you, you were tailed here. Even if I could figure out a way to smuggle you out and conceal you someplace, I wouldn’t do it-I’d lose my license on obstruction charges and I’d deserve to.”

  I tried explaining how hard it was to get a court order for a wiretap and finally gave up. I was about ready to start screaming with frustration when Lotty herself called, devastated by Servino’s death and worried about Penelope. The police had been by with a search warrant and had taken away an array of household objects, including her umbrella. Such an intrusion would normally have made her spitting mad, but she was too upset to give it her full emotional attention. I turned the phone over to Penelope. Whatever Lotty said to her stained her cheeks red, but did make her agree to let me drive her home.

  When I got back to my place, exhausted enough to sleep round the clock, I found John McGonnigal waiting for me in a blue-and-white outside my building. He came up the walk behind me and opened the door with a flourish.

  I looked at him sourly. “Thanks, Sergeant. It’s been a long day-I’m glad to have a doorman at the end of it.”

  “It’s kind of cold down here for talking, Vic. How about inviting me up for coffee?”

  “Because I want to go to bed. If you’ve got something you want to say, or even ask, spit it out down here.”

  I was just ventilating and I knew it-if a police sergeant wanted to talk to me at one in the morning, we’d talk. Mr. Contreras’s coming out in a magenta bathrobe to see what the trouble was merely speeded my decision to cooperate.

  While I assembled cheese sandwiches, McGonnigal asked me what I’d learned from Penelope.

  “She didn’t throw her arms around me and howl, ‘Vic, I killed him, you’ve got to help me.’” I put the sandwiches in a skillet with a little olive oil. “What’ve you guys got on her?”

  The receptionist and two of the other analysts who’d been in the hall had seen a small, dark-haired woman hovering in the alcove near Servino’s office around twenty of eight. Neither of them had paid too much attention to her; when they saw Penelope they agreed it might have been she, but they couldn’t be certain. If they’d made a positive I.D., she’d already have been arrested, even though they couldn’t find the weapon.

  “They had a shouting match at the Filigree last night. The maître d’ was quite upset. Servino was a regular and he didn’t want to offend him, but a number of diners complained. The Herschel girl”-McGonnigal eyed me warily-“woman, I mean, stormed off on her own and spent the night with her aunt. One of the neighbors saw her leave around seven the next morning, not at eight-thirty as she says.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. I asked him about the cause of death.

  “Someone gave him a good crack across the side of the neck, close enough to the back to fracture a cervical vertebra and sever one of the main arteries. It would have killed him pretty fast. And as you know, Servino wasn’t very tall-the Herschel woman could easily have done it.”

  “With what?” I demanded.

  That was the stumbling block. It could have been anything from a baseball bat to a steel pipe. The forensic pathologist who’d looked at the body favored the latter, since the skin had been broken in places. They’d taken away anything in Lotty’s apartment and Penelope’s luggage that might have done the job and were having them examined for traces of blood and skin.

  I snorted. “If you searched Lotty’s place, you must have come away with quite an earful.”

  McGonnigal grimaced. “She spoke her mind, yes… Any ideas? On what the weapon might have been?”

  I shook my head, too nauseated by the thought of Paul’s death to muster intellectual curiosity over the choice of weapon. When McGonnigal left around two-thirty, I lay in bed staring at the dark, unable to sleep despite my fatigue. I didn’t know Penelope all that well. Just because she was Lotty’s niece didn’t mean she was incapable of murder. To be honest, I hadn’t been totally convinced by her histrionics tonight. Who but a lover could get close enough to you to snap your neck? I thrashed around for hours, finally dropping into an uneasy sleep around six.

 V

  Chaim’s cleaning woman found him close to death the morning Penelope’s trial started. Lotty, Max, and I had spent the day in court with Lotty’s brother Hugo and his wife. We didn’t get any of Greta’s frantic messages until Lotty checked in at the clinic before dinner.

  Chaim had gone to an Aeolus rehearsal the night before, his first appearance at the group in some weeks. He had bought a new clarinet, thinking perhaps the problem lay with the old one. Wind instruments aren’t like violins-they deteriorate over time, and an active clarinetist has to buy a new one every ten years or so. Despite the new instrument, a Buffet he had flown to Toronto to buy, the rehearsal had gone badly.

  He left early, going home to turn on the gas in the kitchen stove. He left a note which simply said: “I have destroyed my music.” The cleaning woman knew enough about their life to call Greta at Rudolph’s apartment. Since Greta had been at the rehearsal-waiting for the oboist-she knew how badly Chaim had played.

  “I’m not surprised,” she told Lotty over the phone. “His music was all he had after I left him. With both of us gone from his life he must have felt he had no reason to live. Thank God I learned so much from Paul about why we aren’t responsible for our actions, or I would feel terribly guilty now.”

  Lotty called the attending physician at the University of Chicago Hospital and came away with the news that Chaim would live, but he’d ruined his lungs-he could hardly talk and would probably never be able to play again.

  She reported her conversation with Greta with a blazing rage while we waited for dinner in her brother’s suite at the Drake. “The wrong person’s career is over,” she said furiously. “It’s the one thing I could never understand about Chaim-why he felt so much passion for that self-centered whore!”

  Marcella Herschel gave a grimace of distaste-she didn’t deal well with Lotty at the best of times and could barely tolerate her when she was angry. Penelope, pale and drawn from the day’s ordeal, summoned a smile and patted Lotty’s shoulder soothingly while Max tried to persuade her to drink a little wine.

  Freeman Carter stopped by after dinner to discuss strategy for the next day’s session. The evening broke up soon after, all of us too tired and depressed to want even a pretense of conversation.

  The trial lasted four days. Freeman did a brilliant job with the state’s sketchy evidence; the jury was out for only two hours before returning a “not guilty” verdict. Penelope left for Montreal with Hugo and Marcella the next morning. Lotty, much shaken by the winter’s events, found a locum for her clinic and took off with Max for two weeks in Portugal.

  I went to Michigan for a long weekend with the dog, but didn’t have time or money for more vacation than that. Monday night, when I got home, I found Hugo Wolf’s Spanisches Liederbuch still open on the piano from January’s dinner party with Chaim and Paul. Between Paul’s murder and preparing for Penelope’s trial I hadn’t sung since then. I tried picking out “In dem Schatten meiner Locken,” but Greta was right: the piano needed tuning badly.

  I called Mr. Fortieri the next morning to see if he could come by to look at it. He was an old man who repaired instruments for groups like the Aeolus Quintet and their ilk; he also tuned pianos for them. He only helped me because he’d known my mother and admired her singing.

  He arranged to come the next afternoon. I was surprised-usually you had to wait four to six weeks for time on his schedule-but quickly reshuffled my own Tuesday appointments to accommodate him. When he arrived, I realized that he had come so soon because Chaim’s suicide attempt had shaken him. I didn’t have much stomach for rehashing it, but I could see the old man was troubled and needed someone to talk to.

  “What bothers me, Victoria, is what I should do with his clarinet. I’ve been able to repair it, but they tell me he’ll never play again-surely it would be too cruel to return it to him, even if I didn’t submit a bill.”

  “His clarinet?” I asked blankly. “When did he give it to you?”

  “After that disastrous West Coast tour. He said he had dropped it in some mud-I still don’t understand how that happened, why he was carrying it outside without the case. But he said it was clogged with mud and he’d tried cleaning it, only he’d bent the keys and it didn’t play properly. It was a wonderful instrument, only a few years old, and costing perhaps six thousand dollars, so I agreed to work on it. He’d had to use his old one in California and I always thought that was why the tour went so badly. That and Paul’s death weighing on him, of course.”

  “So you repaired it and got it thoroughly clean,” I said foolishly.

  “Oh, yes. Of course, the sound will never be as good as it was originally, but it would still be a fine instrument for informal use. Only-I hate having to give him a clarinet he can no longer play.”

  “Leave it with me,” I said gently. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Mr. Fortieri seemed relieved to pass the responsibility on to me. He went to work on the piano and tuned it back to perfection without any of his usual criticisms on my failure to keep to my mother’s high musical standard.

  As soon as he’d gone, I drove down to the University of Chicago Hospital. Chaim was being kept in the psychiatric wing for observation, but he was allowed visitors. I found him sitting in the lounge, staring into space while People’s Court blared meaninglessly on the screen overhead.

  He gave his sad sweet smile when he saw me and croaked out my name in the hoarse parody of a voice.

  “Can we go to your room, Chaim? I want to talk to you privately.”

  He flicked a glance at the vacant faces around us but got up obediently and led me down the hall to a Spartan room with bars on the window.

  “Mr. Fortieri was by this afternoon to tune my piano. He told me about your clarinet.”

  Chaim said nothing, but he seemed to relax a little.

  “How did you do it, Chaim? I mean, you left for California Monday morning. What did you do-come back on the red-eye?”

  “Red-eye?” he croaked hoarsely.

  Even in the small space I had to lean forward to hear him. “The night flight.”

  “Oh. The red-eye. Yes. Yes, I got to O’Hare at six, came to Paul’s office on the el, and was back at the airport in time for the ten o’clock flight. No one even knew I’d left L.A. -we had a rehearsal at two and I was there easily.”

  His voice was so strained it made my throat ache to listen to him.

  “I thought I hated Paul. You know, all those remarks of his about responsibility. I thought he’d encouraged Greta to leave me.” He stopped to catch his breath. After a few gasping minutes he went on.

  “I blamed him for her idea that she didn’t have to feel any obligation to our marriage. Then, after I got back, I saw Lotty had been right. Greta was just totally involved in herself. She should have been named Narcissus. She used Paul’s words without understanding them.”

  “But Penelope,” I said. “Would you really have let Penelope go to jail for you?”

  He gave a twisted smile. “I didn’t mean them to arrest Penelope. I just thought-I’ve always had trouble with cold weather, with Chicago winters. I’ve worn a long fur for years. Because I’m so small people often think I’m a woman when I’m wrapped up in it. I just thought, if anyone saw me they would think it was a woman. I never meant them to arrest Penelope.”

  He sat panting for a few minutes. “What are you going to do now, Vic? Send for the police?”

  I shook my head sadly. “You’ll never play again-you’d have been happier doing life in Joliet than you will now that you can’t play. I want you to write it all down, though, the name you used on your night flight and everything. I have the clarinet; even though Mr. Fortieri cleaned it, a good lab might still find blood traces. The clarinet and your statement will go to the papers after you die. Penelope deserves that much-to have the cloud of suspicion taken away from her. And I’ll have to tell her and Lotty.”

  His eyes were shiny. “You don’t know how awful it’s been, Vic. I was so mad with rage that it was like nothing to break Paul’s neck. But then, after that, I couldn’t play anymore. So you are wrong: even if I had gone to Joliet I would still never have played.”

  I couldn’t bear the naked anguish in his face. I left without saying anything, but it was weeks before I slept without seeing his black eyes weeping onto me.

[bombshell23]

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[acollectionofficsandshit]

If anyone’s interested, this picture just single handedly sent @lightsovermonaco in a tailspin 💀💀💀

#cobalt race suit #metallic helmet #HANDS #neck brace #SO MANY NICHE BOXES TICKED

[lightsovermonaco]

His Good Sweater: Chapter 3 (NSFW)

Masterlist

As always, beta read by @acollectionofficsandshit thank you for putting up with my ramblings!

Word Count: 3.7k

Recommended listening: "Pierre Gasly" by Feldaleaf & APM Boy

Your alarm went off at 8 am, and you groaned. You’d slept fitfully for the few hours you were able to, bed seemingly empty without Pierre’s warmth beside you. It didn’t help that he had insisted on facetiming you at ten pm. He talked excitedly about qualifying, how he’d been impressed with the pace of the Alpha. He may have eventually fallen asleep on the call, but you hadn’t. You were up long after you whispered wishes of sweet dreams and hung up, head filled with how cute he had looked with his head lulled to the side, lips parted and snoring softly.

You let your thoughts wander to Pierre for a few minutes before dragging yourself out from under the covers, shuffling blearily to the shower. You cranked it up, sighing when the steaming water hit your skin.

Your mind had been on Pierre all weekend. You hadn’t been able to pay a lick of attention in your thermodynamics lecture on Friday knowing that he was flying around the track at Silverstone. He distracted you from the fluid mechanics homework you desperately tried to work on Saturday, unable to finish more than a single problem as your thoughts inevitably turned to him stripping out of his sweat-damp race suit after qualifying. And Saturday night, you’d been too busy staring at your phone, waiting for his name to flash across the screen. The shower was a welcome reset, letting you focus on the day ahead.

Refreshed, you stepped out and slipped into leggings and a navy AlphaTauri shirt, the scuderia logo emblazoned across the chest. Pierre’s number was on the back, leaving no doubt to where your support lay.

Since the weekend you met, Pierre had shoved team propaganda at you. First it was hoodies and hats in Torro Rosso cobalt and crimson, then in the navy and white scheme of Alpha Tauri. You protested each time he insisted on sending you the latest merch, concerned about the cost. But every time the packages came, you tore them open like a kid on Christmas morning. You wore his colors proudly, his number or last name always splashed on the sleeve or across your chest. 

Time dragged on. When you couldn’t stand waiting anymore, you sent him a text.

Only three hours until I can see you again.

Breakfast was oatmeal and berries with a healthy serving of black coffee. You’d finished eating and washed the few dishes before his reply came through.

I know. I’ve been counting down the seconds. Wish this driver’s briefing would hurry up. 

You smile, typing a quick reply. Tell Max I said hi.

You grab your keys and double check that you have your wallet and paddock pass before heading down to the parking garage. You’d just started the engine when a picture of a smiling Max came through, accompanied by an angry emoji from Pierre.

You like him better than me, don't you?

You couldn't help but laugh. Max had become another close friend when Pierre had been at Red Bull. He’d been an excellent mentor for Pierre, teaching him plenty of little tricks to help him improve as a driver. And when he’d swapped seats with Alex and gone back to AlphaTauri, Max had been there to offer support.

The two hour drive to Silverstone had you giddy with excitement, unable to think of anything else besides cornering Pierre in his trailer. How had you gone this long without knowing how his lips felt? Now that you had tasted him, it was an addiction. You needed his skin on yours, fingers dancing over his stubbled jaw while your tongue slid against his.

Pulling up to the circuit, you flashed your VIP pass and were let into the private lot. You found a parking spot and practically lept from the car, biting your lip to rein in the dumb smile, pausing only long enough to breathe in the familair smell of rubber and race fuel. You checked your watch; you were early, but that only meant you’d probably beat Pierre to the trailer.

You ran into Max outside of Red Bull, stopping quick to chat. You were still plenty early.

"How have you been?" He asked, throwing an arm around your shoulders as you walked. "Haven't seen you since winter break, when we were all in Monaco."

"It’s been awhile," You agree, "Uni's been kicking my ass. And it’s harder to sneak away for a grand prix weekend now that I'm in London instead of France." Your class schedule was spread out over four days, and by the time you’d be able to hop on a flight, you’d barely be able to spend half a day at the track before needing to turn around and fly back. It was less stressful to watch the race livestream and catch up with your friends after the fact. 

"Understandable. At least you're here this weekend!" You laugh, nodding in agreement. The Dutchman's enthusiasm was infectious, as always. "I gotta get to the garage, but cheer for me, okay?"

"Sure," You say sarcastically. "I'll make sure to do that."

Max waves before jogging back to Red Bull. You navigate your way to the Alpha building with ease, the layout of trackside buildings here similar to the one at the French Grand Prix. You spent a significant amount of your early college years at tracks, whether it be your home circuit or the Red Bull ring on off weekends. In a way, you were part of the team; everyone knew you.

As promised, the familiar bulk of James, Alpha’s head of security, waited outside to check passes before letting anyone in.

“James!”

The big man’s broad smile warms your heart. Though he was intimidating, he was the epitome of a teddy bear. He scoops you up in a bone crushing hug. “Been too long since I’ve seen you. Uni keeping you busy, huh?”

You nod. “Third year has been a doozy so far. No time to travel like I used to.”

“One day,” He says, waving you inside. “Don’t bother pulling out the pass. Haven’t seen Pierre yet, but I’ll let him know you’re here when I do. You know the way.”

“Thanks!” Heart pounding, you politely greet anyone who recognizes you as you wind your way through the swarm of people prepping for race day. Their zeal mingled with your own, and the snippets of conversation you overheard made you smile so wide your cheeks hurt.

Everyone believed in Pierre. Everyone thought he had a chance at a podium, at becoming a world champ some day. His team had become his family, and you knew their support meant the world to Pierre. You would never be able to thank them properly for how much that lifted him. 

Following a mechanic, you snuck out the locked door leading to the trailers. Pierre’s wasn’t hard to find, what with the navy ‘10’ painted three feet high on the side. You let yourself in, noting the subtle touches of him.

The sheets on the twin bed were askew, suggesting he woke up late from a nap and didn’t have time to make it, as usual. Pictures of his family occupied what little wallspace there was, along with one of the two of you. It was cozy, knowing that this trailer was a tiny slice of his life, but he still managed to squeeze you into it.

You sunk onto the couch to wait for him, pulling out your phone. Your feed was flooded with pictures of him arriving on track this morning. You had to restrain yourself from liking every single one. His beauty was superior to that of the ancient Greek gods. You could stare at him all day and get lost in him without hesitation. 

At 10:02, you texted him.

You look good in that Alpha polo

Not three minutes later there was a knock on the trailer. You sit up, heart skipping a beat. “Yeah?”

Pierre pokes his head in, grinning like an idiot. “Didn’t want to startle you. I look good in this, huh?”

You're up before he finishes speaking, crossing the small space easily. You crash into him, throwing your arms around his neck and kissing him hungrily. It feels like so much longer than two days since you’d last seen him, the newness making you ache for him.

“I’m sorry to say it,” He starts, arm snaking around your waist just as you start to fall into him completely, “But I have to change and head right to the garage. Engineers have some last minute stuff they wanna go over.”

Your lower lip comes out in a pout, and you hug him a little tighter. You never want to let him go, but know you have to. "Okay."

He presses a kiss to the top of your head. "I know you said I look good in the polo, but let's see how you feel about me without it." He smirks, grabbing the back and pulling it over his head in a single motion.

You blink, hands immediately sliding over the planes of his torso. He knew exactly what sort of effect his bare skin held over you. "Yeah, this is better. No question."

His chest shakes with laughter, muscles rippling beneath your fingers as he grabs the white fireproofs off the counter. "Mind grabbing my suit from the closet?"

Reluctantly, you drop your hands and spin on your heel to retrieve it. The weight surprises you; you expected it to be much heavier than it was. It made sense though, with the tight weight restrictions the FIA placed on the cars and drivers. The lighter the gear, the more fluctuation Pierre could have in his body weight. Unlike Max, who complained about his stockyness every time you went out and flaunted cheesy appetizers in his face.

By the time you turn around, Pieree had already changed into the underlayer. "I missed the best part," You complain, handing him the suit. Honestly, the fireproofs were almost as good as bare skin, clinging to every curve of hard muscle. He tugs the suit up his legs, zipping it just enough so it stays put around his waist.

"No you didn't. This is the best part." He takes your face in his hands, tipping it up so he can kiss you. His tongue darts over your lips, already parting for him. Kissing him was still an other worldly experience. In the years you’d been friends, you had imagined it more times than you could count, but it wasn’t the same. Nothing could compare to the velvet of his lips on yours. 

You let out a content sigh, butterflies flitting in your stomach when he pulls back. "I'll see you in the garage before the race. I'll try to keep my hands to myself." You survey him from head to toe. White really was his color. You made a mental note to thank the Alpha team designer.

"I'll be looking for you," He promises, giving you one more peck on the cheek before exiting the trailer.

"Put up a fight!" You yell after him, and he turns to grin at you and give you a thumbs up. After a quick glance to make sure no one is watching, he blows you a kiss. Grinning like a love struck idiot, you mime catching it, tucking it close to your heart.

**********

Pierre was an entirely different person when it came to racing. Gone was the kind, big hearted man you saw behind closed doors. Sweetness morphed into relentlessness, softness turned to concentrated focus. There were no cute glances thrown your way in the garage, no stolen touches. He had his blinders on, no room for distraction.  The moment that reflective visor was flipped down, he was in the zone.

You'd be lying if you said the intensity simmering in his eyes when he fitted himself into the car didn't turn you on. Engineers were too busy flitting around double checking tire temps and specs to pay you any heed. You stay tucked in your little corner, doing your best to keep out of their way. You were a mere observer of the hive of worker bees swarming about making last minute adjustments.

Pierre's lack of attention was probably for the best. If he had so much as glanced at you, you would have lost it. You had no idea where the sudden lust had come from; you had been able to keep a lid on it in the past. Now that you both admitted your mutual feelings, undressing him was the only thought occupying your mind. Standing in the garage, you kept circling back to what he said earlier that week, his voice stuck in a loop in your head.

"Then pick your favorite."

"Mmm. Can't do that, it's not race day."

"Oh?"

"Quickie in the trailer after a win, of course."

All you could think about was peeling him out of that race suit as the cars went out for the formation lap. You would take your sweet time doing it, letting him writhe under your touch until he begged for it. The thought stuck with you when he lined up on the grid and the lights went out and the cars sped away to the first corner.

Pierre’s driving oozed confidence. The car was an extension of himself as he threw it around corners, gaining places left and right and executing overtakes that Hamilton would've been jealous of. 

By lap 40, he was in third. It was no miracle; he was driving with more skill and precision than you'd ever seen. His crew was in tip top shape too, both his pit stops were sub 2.5 seconds.

Lady luck shone down on Pierre when he outbroke Max in lap 43, and subsequently when Mercedes stumbled in a last minute pit stop and cost Hamilton the lead. The entire garage erupts when Hamilton returns to the track in seventh. With nine laps left, Pierre held a second and a half lead over Verstappen, and there was no way Lewis could claw his way back to the top in such a short time.

"Come on baby," You whisper, praying he could keep Max out of DRS range. The Dutchman wouldn’t be happy about second place, but he would get over it quickly. The garage was near silent the last few laps, as if one toe out of place by any of them could collapse Pierre's lead.

When the checkered flag waves, it's Pierre who reaches it first. The screams from his team are unlike anything you had ever experienced. Crew members hug you and slap you on the back, smiles splitting their faces. You get swept up in them as they thunder to the podium, and you were right in front when Pierre got there. He rips off his harness and helmet, joining in the jubilation. 

No words could describe how overwhelmingly proud you were; it had been the drive of his life. This was the moment he dreamed of and worked his entire life to achieve. You choke back the tears that blur your vision. Your chest is set to burst as he points to the sky, for Anthoine, as always. 

He spots you immediately after and wraps you in a hug, lifting you off your feet and lingering a moment longer than what would have been considered friendly.

"Trailer," He murmurs in your ear, the promise of it making you shiver. You simply nod against his shoulder, arms tightening around his neck before letting go.

You didn't stay for the champagne, slipping away before the anthems were finished and nearly running back to the trailer. The podium celebration would take ten minutes, post race interviews twenty. If Tost didn't keep him longer, that meant only thirty minutes until he'd join you. It was thirty minutes longer than you would have liked, but you'd have to trust that he'd get away as soon as possible.

It takes a few minutes for someone to exit the Alpha building to the trailers, but when they finally do you catch the door before it closes and sprint to his trailer. Anticipation builds in your limbs, so light you'd swear a gust of wind could knock you over. 

You pace long enough that you fear you're wearing down the plush carpet. You decide to shower, if only to give you something to do. Peeling off your slightly sweaty clothes, you step into the shower and let the warm water slow your racing heart.

Fuck, you couldn’t wait for him to get here and fuck you with that same intensity he’d shown on the track. You couldn’t stop imagining it as you turned off the water, deciding against putting the sweaty Alpha polo and leggings back on. Instead, you wrapped a towel around yourself and went to his tiny closet, selecting a plain white shirt. It barely reached your mid thigh, but you knew Pierre wouldn't mind. Honestly, you hoped seeing you in nothing but his shirt sent him into a frenzy.

You flopped on the bed and pulled up the F1 app on your phone. The post race interviews were already posted, and you clicked on it to watch the replay.

Pierre’s smile was wide enough to split his face in half. He couldn't focus on the interview, too busy soaking up every detail of the podium like he might never get the chance again. Most would assume the distraction was because of the euphoria of the win. You were the only soul that knew the underlying cause. 

Someone asked what he was going to do now that he was a two time Grand Prix winner, and his grin somehow got wider.

“I’ll be honest, I can’t wait to get out of here and celebrate. I’m sure I’ve got people waiting for this to be done so I can share my success with them, too.”

Your toes curled, reading between the lines. He couldn't just come out and say that you were waiting for him, because that meant outing your brand new relationship. So he did the next best thing, knowing you’d understand what he meant.

“We won’t keep you-”

The trailer door bangs open, revealing a panting Pierre. Fucking finally. You launch yourself off the bed, giggling as you leap into his waiting arms. He catches you and crushes you in a hug, spinning in place. You could get drunk on his joyful laughter.

“You did it,” You say, hooking your ankles around his waist. “You won at Silverstone.”

“Only because of you.” He pauses, drawing back slightly to observe you. “And look at you. Stealing from me again, hey?” 

“I didn’t intend to keep it. I just didn’t wanna put my sweaty clothes back on. It’s hot out there, you know.”

“I am aware,” He murmurs, the sweat soaked body pressed against you evidence enough of his knowledge. “It’s about to get hot as hell in here too.”

His instantaneous shift from heart-meltingly adorable to core-throbbingly sexy had wetness pooling between your legs. Instead of carrying you to the bed like you expected, he pins you to the wall. You let out a little yelp, jaw dropping. The answer he offers is a savage grin, eyes dipping to your mouth.

“You’re gonna have to be quiet,” He whispers. “Can you handle that?”

You nod, eyes wide. “Scouts honor.”

“Good,” He purrs, supporting your weight with one hand on your bare ass as he unzips his jeans. The head of his cock brushed your entrance. You have to bite your lip to keep back your moan as he thrusts his hips, the gentleness of your first time completely forgotten.

He fucks you like you’re his prize for winning. It’s hard and sloppy, the urgency not lost on you as he didn’t even bother to strip off his clothes. When you squeak out a moan, his hand clamps over your mouth.

“Said- quiet-” He breathes out between thrusts, wholly focused on where your bodies join. Your orgasm barrels through you without warning, eyes squeezing shut at the intensity as it blasts through you, your cunt tightening around his cock. You let out a tiny whimper that he doesn’t seem to hear. His movements speed up until you’re sure anyone passing by would see the trailer rocking. He doesn’t slow until you feel his hips stutter a moment before he makes to pull out.

You shake your head. You bite his hand hard enough for him to lift it, only to whisper, “Safe.”

The word makes him snap, slamming his cock into you before he cums. “Fuck,” He breathes, lowering you onto shaky legs. “I have… Uh, I have a…“

“More interviews,” You supply, raking a hand through your still damp hair. “Like, now.”

“Yeah, that.” He cleans himself up in the bathroom, returning to you with another huge smile. Your head is still spinning, and you're positive his is too, but he's better at hiding it. “That was everything I imagined it would be and more.”

“I agree,” You tell him, leaning in for a kiss. “Guess I should have waited for a shower though.”

Pierre checks his appearance in the mirror. Other than the flushed cheeks, nothing was out of place. “Are you coming out with us tonight? Max, Charles, Dan and I are gonna grab drinks. You don’t have class tomorrow, right?”

“No class on Mondays,” You confirm. “I’ll be there, wouldn't miss it for the world.”

Pierre hesitates at the door. “You can wait here, or at the hotel. Your choice.”

“I’ll wait here for you guys.” He still doesn’t move, like he’s afraid once he does you’ll disappear. You wouldn’t leave, not when everything you would ever need was standing right in front of you.

“I’m not going anywhere,” You assure him. “Now shoo, before you get in trouble.”

He reaches to give your hand a grateful squeeze. “I’ll see you in a couple hours.”

#my writing #pierre gasly #formula 1 #f1 #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 fantasy #formula 1 fanfiction #pierre gasly fanfiction #pierre gasly x reader #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 fanfiction #f1 fic #f1 fantasy #f1 imagine #formula 1 rpf #f1 rpf #pierre gasly imagine

[prurientpuddlejumper]

Don’t Look! [Part 4]

<- Part 3 | Part 5 ->

Frederick Chilton x Reader

@we-are-all-just-a-bit-crazy’s lovecraftian horror AU, with a bit of my own twist on the origin story. Emotional hurt/comfort. Body horror. Hugging your body-horror monster boyfriend. 

3,386 words

Once upon a time, there lived a man who had everything: great wealth (built on the backs of exploited workers), a grand estate, a beautiful wife, and many mistresses waiting in the wings. Yet after years of trying, he failed to produce an heir. Determined that his money could buy anything, the man scoured the world, searching for a solution. One day, his extensive resources brought him to an ancient castle in Lithuania, where the last descendants of a noble bloodline offered him a devil’s bargain—a book, a summoning ritual. He did not ask questions. His wife was finally with child.

The Chilton legacy was secure.

The moment Frederick was born, the life was sucked from his mother—a human sacrifice for his soul crossing into this world. That was what his father told him, at least. Frederick had no memory of clawing his way through the veil between worlds, of being anything other than an ordinary child with a distant father, a young, blonde stepmother, and nannies instead of friends. Until the changes began. Allison (or was it Kayla at the time?) fainted in the living room when he staggered in, screaming as smoke boiled from his skin, begging for help. His father only wrinkled his nose with disgust and calmly explained what he was.

“You must learn to hide this, Frederick. Never let anyone see you this way, or it will destroy the family name.”

And so, he learned the transformation’s schedule. Prepared for it. Knew how to hide it away and never let anyone get close enough to see the real him. But it wasn’t good enough. Try as he might, nothing Frederick ever did met his father’s expectations for the perfect son he had gone through so much trouble to produce.

Frederick grew into a bitter and lonely man with no one to care about, or who cared about him. He kept the world at a distance, hiding his shame behind expensive suits and lavish decoration.

Never once did he consider that he was not alone in this world at all.

 ***

I see him as one of those pitiful things sometimes born in hospitals. They feed it, keep it warm, but they don’t put it on the machines. They let it die. But he doesn’t die. He looks normal. Nobody can tell what he is.

This is how Will Graham describes the Chesapeake Ripper.

Every therapy session with Graham, every conversation overhead, the puzzle became clearer. At first, Chilton merely believed that Dr. Lecter was guilty of unethical practices—manipulating Mr. Graham in the same way he had manipulated Gideon. He felt such kinship with Hannibal. Learning a bit of dirt on him brought the ever-so-superior doctor down to his level, gave him something to lord over him—a little implied blackmail to strengthen their friendship.

They both had secrets to hide.

Dr. Chilton never would have guessed the final puzzle piece to convince him fully that Hannibal was the Chesapeake Ripper would be the one everyone else laughed at.

“I brought you here to bear witness,” Graham said to Gideon through their adjoining cells.

“To tell Jack Crawford that I sat in Hannibal Lecter’s cobalt blue dining room? An ostentatious herb garden, Leda and the Swan over the fireplace. And you, having a fit in the corner.”

Chilton perked up and quickly shared the audio feed to one of the junior therapists assisting him. You were reliable at editing his audio files, clipping and exporting segments he wanted to keep, but he was avoiding you at the moment. This was proof—irrefutable proof that Gideon had met Hannibal Lecter the night he went searching for the Ripper.

After his conversation with Graham concluded, an assistant was sent down to coax more information from him while Chilton’s research team listened in, keenly taking notes.

Gideon was not finished dropping bombshells.

With a casual lilt to his voice as if talking to a friend over dinner, he began to describe the Chesapeake Ripper. Skin like volcanic ash, reflecting no light. A red glow to his eyes. Black claws as long as steak knives. Antlers breaking through the inside of his skull, punching through the skin. All black as night—a form that shifted in the shadows, ever tricking the eye, unwilling to be known.

He’s the Devil, Mr. Graham. He’s smoke.

“Great. Gideon is delusional,” one therapist snorted. “On the bright side, this completely undercuts his malpractice case against you.” She patted Chilton’s shoulder. Chilton flinched.

“We should start him on antipsychotics. What do you think? Doctor?”

Chilton’s face turned ashen white. “Y-yes, certainly,” he muttered, staggering to his feet.

He moved for the door, but crumbled halfway there, pain ripping through his leg as sharp thorns grew beneath the skin. It was daylight. No. No! The transformation should not be starting for hours—he had plenty of time! He gasped out as another shock tore through him, barely containing a cry. His body convulsed.

“Doctor!” A therapist and a guard rushed in to help him to his feet. “Where does it hurt? If this is a complication from your surgery, we need to get you into intensive care right away.”

“No,” he brushed them off. “Only… psychosomatic. I need to— ah!” He gritted his teeth, mind racing to the one person he did not want to turn to, but the only one he could, and barked, “Get my secretary!”

 ***

Smoke was rising off of his burning skin by the time you rushed into Chilton’s vacated office. His eyes were wide with panic, but greeted you when you entered with—not relief, perhaps, because he was every bit as terrified as before, but with the anticipation of being rescued. His eyes pleaded.

“H-help. I cannot make it stop.”

You managed to get him into your car. The sun’s orange rays seemed to chase the beast away, clearing his skin and stopping his wracking convulsions long enough to cross the employee parking lot without drawing stares. He insisted on taking the back seat so he could hide—and to put more distance between you in case he lost control.

His chest rose and fell like a rabbit in a cat’s mouth.

“The way he described Dr. Lecter—anyone would think it was a metaphor! That he was crazy!” Chilton’s breath was raspy as you drove, glancing back at him through the rearview mirror. He kept trembling, small patches of scaly skin appearing at random then swirling back inside. One pupil was a pinprick. His tongue occasionally became serpentine and got in the way as he frantically spoke. “But it was too specific, the details. Familiar. I always knew there was a connection between Dr. Lecter and me—a reason we were friends. It all makes sense now!”

“Hey, it’s OK,” you said, trying to sound soothing, though you had no idea what he was talking about.

“Don’t you understand? Lecter is like me!”

“That’s good, isn’t it? That means you’re not alone.”

“Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper!” he shouted, and a spine tore through a seat cushion. “A cannibal, if Will Graham is to be believed, and loathe as I am to admit it, Graham is an excellent profiler. If the Ripper and I are the same… then that means I—”

“You are nothing like that!” Forgetting the damage his demonic tantrum was doing to your faux-leather interior, you had faith in him. He was a little withdrawn and more than a little vain, and it had garnered him an icy reputation around the hospital, but now you understood why. He wasn’t evil or malicious. He was frightened.

“God help me,” he murmured.

 ***

As soon as the garage door closed behind you, he scrambled from the car (scratching the handle), and retreated inside. He didn’t invite you to follow him home. But he didn’t forbid it, either, and you wanted to be there. All you had were panic-scrambled memories from the first time that made his transformation worse in hindsight than it was. Or maybe better. You didn’t know, and you wouldn’t know until you saw it again with clear eyes.

The electric kettle rumbled on its stand, hissing steam as you searched through Frederick Chilton’s surprisingly extensive tea collection for something herbal and soothing. Chamomile, you thought. With honey. Surely that must be good for demon-monster-werewolf things?

The sun was about to set and he was still reeling over Hannibal, and just as much from the premature transformation the revelation had triggered. And every time he cried, “This is not possible. How can this be possible?” the next convulsion was more intense.

He would probably just burn himself on tea.

A painful whimper came from somewhere in the house, and you followed it to a tiny panic room that opened behind a bookshelf. It was only about seven by nine feet with concrete walls and floors, bare except for deep scratches of varying age, like an animal trying to escape. The few chairs inside were metal. Difficult to break. Frederick faced away from you, staring at a hand that was too large for the rest of his body, capped with long black claws.

“Oh no, this will not do at all,” you tutted, shaking your head at the barren space. “How about I bring in some blankets? Let’s get you comfortable.”

His whole body shook. “You should go.”

“No. No way, not after seeing this prison cell. I am not leaving you like this.”

“I do not want to hurt you.” His shoulder jerked. A spike tore through his shirt.

“You won’t.”

“Seeing it again… will not be therapeutic for you,” he hissed, another spike breaking through. “Go before it is too late.”

“No!”

“Damn it! I am a monster—there is proof of that now! The FBI has no idea what it is dealing with!” Chilton began to pace the small cell, thoughts racing, features morphing into something grotesque and alien. “Does Hannibal know about me? Can he sense it? Is that why he confided in me? I always thought it was professional respect—hah! God, what if he…” A painful convulsion halted his pacing and brought him to one knee, gripping his side. His attention snapped back to you. “This is… dangerous,” he warned, then hacked violently. Fleshy, snake-like projections spewed from his mouth, and he quickly turned away again, hiding his face. “You should… you should be nowhere near all of this! You should not be here! Why did I let you inside?!”

A roar of anguish ripped through the air with enough force to push you back through the panic room door, just in time to avoid being impaled on half a dozen spines as they shot from Chilton’s body like lances. Chips of concrete clattered to the ground as they penetrated the walls. He screamed again, writhing to get free, but found himself trapped by his own violent transformation. Like an animal, he struggled and clawed at himself as if his rational mind had been overtaken by raw, volatile emotion.

“Take it easy. You’re going to hurt yourself,” you tried to calm him, but you couldn’t stop your voice from shaking.

This was worse than last time. You were sure his spines weren’t half as long when you saw him in his office—even Chilton seemed surprised to be pinned.

You lifted your hands, palms toward him in a steadying gesture, and took a step back into the concrete room.

“Stay back!” he howled, thrashing. “Get away!”

It was tempting. Every muscle in your body wanted to follow his advice and run far away from the indescribable horror before you. But his eyes were still green. Were still terrified. And you had an inkling of why it was worse this time. Maybe he would hate you later for imposing, but it seemed more important right now not to leave him feeling… like a monster.

“It’s OK.” You took another step closer.

“No!”

“You’re not going to hurt me. I trust you. Shh, shh… I’m not afraid, see?”

Rigid spines sprayed from his back and shoulders in a 180-degree arc, leaving only his front accessible. You ducked under one and followed its trajectory to where it met the wall. It wasn’t just pinned by pressure—it had struck the wall with enough force to dig into it like an iron rod. Sawing through might be the only option for getting him unstuck. You wondered if that would hurt. Were there nerves in his spines? You stepped over the next one as you drew nearer.

“You should be afraid! I am just like him!” Chilton tried to turn his head away as you traversed his network of thorns and stood in front of him.

His face was almost entirely inhuman. Tentacles cascaded down from where a nose should have been, and when he opened his mouth in a snarl, they parted like wriggling eels—each with a life of its own—to reveal a jaw that split his face open vertically, crowded with rows of sharp white teeth. The more agitated Chilton became, the more dramatic the effect. Each time he spoke, you caught a flash of teeth that sent shivers racing down your spine. But you continued to move closer anyway, within snapping range.

“Hannibal and I… we are the same. Please—I do not want to become him. Do not let me hurt you!”

“You are not the same. You’re not a killer.”

Chilton let out a choking cry that was all too human. “I killed that nurse,” he said. Concrete groaned as his spines grew longer. A crooked horn sprouted from his head. “I killed Elizabeth Shell.”

“You… you didn’t kill her.”

His breath quickened again. Tentacles sprouted and died and resprouted from his face in a constant fevered motion. “I knew Gideon would kill! I lowered security! I knew what would happen—what I needed to happen to prove that he was the Ripper! I may as well have plucked her eyes out with my own hands and… and feasted on her organs. God… I am the Ripper,” he wailed.

“No…” It never occurred to you that Dr. Chilton would have done such a thing knowingly. Maybe there was something dark inside him that this creature was reflecting. It hurt to acknowledge, and yet maybe you both needed to. “You made a mistake. You did a bad thing, but… Gideon was already a killer. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I drove him to it, manipulated him… I am just as responsible as he is. I am a monster.”

“A monster wouldn’t feel this guilty! You made a mistake, but you won��t make it again, will you?”

Tentacles and spines stopped sprouting. His form stabilized as his wet eyes looked off thoughtfully. He seemed so pathetic… so innocent, almost. Despite the intimating spines and claws that added danger and height to his appearance, his body had the same mass—leaving his frame gaunt and frail, with ribs sticking out prominently. Hollow.

You wanted to protect him.

You knew that was your job at BSHCI. You knew that was why Dr. Chilton suddenly needed a personal secretary when he never had before. Someone to sit outside his door, take his calls, and warn him when visitors wanted to see him. You’d never met the doctor before he was attacked by one of his patients, but you recognized the signs of trauma—the way he flinched easily, avoided contact at first, then the way he clung to you when you earned his trust. The awkward little smiles. The way his cheeks turned bright red when his fingers brushed yours as you delivered his coffee. You couldn’t help feeling protective. Falling in love, even.

Though it was closed for the moment, his mouth was a dangerous black hole with alien arms ready to pull prey inside. It seemed impossible to get close without being dragged into its teeth by instinct. You couldn’t imagine putting your face anywhere near it.

Another step, and your forehead touched his.

“I... I do not want to hurt you,” he pleaded.

“You won’t.”

You leaned into his arms, a hand reaching up to stroke the side of his face. It was covered in fine scales that glistened as if they should be slimy, but were smooth to the touch, like a snake. Sharper thorns sprouting from his skin seemed to retreat before your caress.

He trembled with inner turmoil, hot breath puffing against your chin. Your eyes darted toward the motion of one of his claws rising behind you, and all you could focus on were the way each sharp talon caught the light. You couldn’t be sure what he was thinking—if he was going to return your embrace, or prove to you that he was a monster. Would he slash you just to drive you away?

“I smell your fear,” his voice hissed accusingly.

For some reason, of all the reactions you could have had, you started to laugh. It was nervous and tight at first, but then building in confidence at the ridiculousness of the situation.

“You’ve got giant claws! Of course I’m afraid! But I’m not running, am I?”

You slid your hand from his cheek and trailed it over his bony neck and the ridges and spines of his shoulders, finding a path for your arms to twine around him. Cuddling closer, you nuzzled into the crook of his neck, hardly bothered by the writhing tentacles that draped down over you.

“I know you would never hurt me. You’re just going to have to keep showing me there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Shuddering, he breathed in your scent. All his senses were heightened by this form, and he was surrounded by you—your pheromones, your electric field, the radiant heat of your skin. It was like sinking into a warm bath with a glass of fine wine in his hand. He opened his palm and let his predator’s hand sweep harmlessly down your back, holding you close. He could sense the fluttering of your heart in his embrace. It was slower than a creature in terror—slowing the longer he held you. You were not afraid. And he could not imagine hurting you. Whatever he had been worried might happen, whatever awful things he might be capable of, he could never imagine hurting you. You were right. You didn’t have anything to fear.

He exhaled a long, steady breath of surrender. The long spines retracted, pulling out of the walls as they returned to their usual size. He could move again, but didn’t. Not for a long time.

“It’s OK. It’s OK,” you sighed. The scent of your hair was intoxicating.

Eventually, you had to part. Chilton’s eyes darted away as you did—the inky scales on his face emitted a soft bluish starlight, which you were certain was blushing. You could not coax him to leave his concrete prison cell, but he told you where to find some blankets he could live with damaging—linen closet, second floor, third door on the right—and let you make a cozy nest on the bare floors. You made tea, and only cringed a little at his attempts to drink it. It was late, then. You were sleepy, and he was exhausted. Emotionally drained. His mind still raced over everything, still not certain of your presence and inexplicable kindness. You sat in the pile of blankets and had him rest his head in your lap.

“Give me your hand,” you asked, extending yours.

A clawed, scaly hand slid tentatively along the floor. You took it. Held it gently, first observing the long talons protruding like daggers from each finger before slotting yours between them—nothing sharp there. You let out a long sigh and leaned back against the concrete wall. His breath hitched.

He’d never had his hand held in this form, you assumed.

He’d never had his hand held at all, in fact. Not in many years.

It had to be a trap, he thought. No one had ever loved him before. No one could—not like this. Yet, as he fell asleep to your fingers massaging his temple and the soft murmuring of your voice, he let himself believe it. You were always there, protecting him. Smiling at him in the morning.

When you woke up, Frederick was human again, still fast asleep in your arms.

#Frederick Chilton x reader #my writing

[obutsuwrites]

salt water (seamonster!shiggy x f!reader)

summary:  “Of course not! I like talking to you.” Inky black tentacles twitched under the curtain of waves. ‘She’d cower. Make herself as small as she needed to be; pathetic and crawling.’ Tenko grinned at the thought. She was nothing more than meat on a slab.  xxx or the time i write monster shiggy ft. ocean imagery warnings: dubcon, drowning, mind control, tentacle sexey times, vore, smut, oviposition word count: 4,468 taglist: @kaccatus @sadjealouswhore @tenaciousgothstudentauthor masterlist | tipjar | twitter | commission info

The ocean lapped against her knees in gentle waves. It was refreshing and cool; a morning breeze she wanted to submerge herself in and never leave. This was her sanctuary, her home. The ocean -- in its inky blackness -- was almost like a lover. The waves were little arms that entangled around her ankles and upper calves. Simple, harmless flirting until the woman finally took the plunge and allowed the ocean to swallow her whole. She would only tread lightly; growing up in a little sea-side shack carried the reality of her lover; silent waves could shift and evolve into violent tides. 

She squinted as the afternoon sun pierced her eyes. It sat high in the cloudless, cobalt sky. An orange giant that radiated such intense heat, despite the forecast claiming otherwise. The sun was hot against the small of her back; skin exposed and soft. The woman allowed her body to sink further into the salty brine. She shivered at the chill, but it was a welcome distraction from the humidity. As she waded further into the deep, bits of seaweed danced around her legs. Slimy and unpleasant. The woman shoved down her discomfort, it was only temporary. 

She swam apathetic laps. Her body was now accustomed to the chill. In the benign quiet, the woman’s mind began to wander. The sea allowed for more than just cooling off; peaceful and cerebral. After several soft loops, she rescinded herself to float atop the navy sea surf. The woman’s lazy gaze was glued to the sky. Her body was delicately rocked, a lullaby she wanted to submerge herself into for eternity. Sometimes, she wondered if the ocean was capable of violence. To her, it was nothing but serenity and placidity. The woman knew tales of drownings and bizarre, awful sea creatures… However, she had experienced neither within her rather mundane life. Fingers grasped at the azure water, eyes shifting to stare into the great abyss. Despite squinting, the woman couldn’t see to the bottom. She wondered if it was so deep that light simply didn’t refract. 

A crackle sounded off in the distance; the beginning of a storm, she noted. Storms were something she knew all too well. Humidity and the frigid ocean mixed together often to form thunderous, dark clouds that beat against her shack. Angry and fierce.  Eventually, the waves would pick up, as if to respond with equal force to the storm, like two lovers fighting. 

Reluctantly, she began her trek back to shore. Perhaps, she could watch the rain beat on her windows. The wind picked up; the smell of the sea working its way into her nose. Salty and fresh. However, seaweed was strong and wrapped around her ankles. This wasn’t unusual for the woman; the sea could be a difficult lover. The shore was still far away, not even within her reach. Her feet hadn’t even touched the smooth surface of rocks. Slight panic wove into her chest, the sensation tight and heavy. Kicking her legs, the woman tried to swim past the monstrous clump of plant matter. She had done this before. Seaweed wasn’t thick like this and despite her best efforts, her legs were still knotted in the dense foliage. 

The woman continued to kick her legs, the movements morphing into desperation and anxiety. This was foreign to her. The sea wasn’t a maze of fear and panic, yet here she was, arms flailing and face red. 

“H-help!” It was a futile scream; the beach today was empty and she was alone. The sea was going to swallow her and she was alone. Her mind raced with images of her barren skeleton nestled between dead plants and sunken ships. A bleak resting place. 

The sky twisted into a dark caricature of itself; bleak with clouds hiding the sun. Her terror was tangible now as sea foam bubbles seeped into her mouth. Coughs and spit erupted from the woman. Static portraits of her life played like a macabre theater. ‘No! Please no! I don’t wanna die!’ The ocean was a lover scorn; waves began to pick up. The woman feared her body would disappear beneath the current, but the seaweed kept her anchored. Safe. 

Her throat grew dry with cries that fell on deaf ears. This is how she would die; crushed beneath azure crests with an angry sky. She gave up and became complacent in her fate. Tears flowed freely down puffy, coral cheeks. 

Suddenly, she felt a long tendril wrap around her thigh. This material wasn’t seaweed, it was different. Spongey. Organic. The coil traveled down her leg and freed her lower form. 

Breath caught in her throat expanded into the salty, swampy air. “T-thank you!” 

Xx

Fire crackled and the air was balmy; the woman was determined to expunge any cold. Overcast clouds brought in a certain chill, which was only compacted by her waterlogged clothing. Her brassiere had started the slow process of becoming solid again; a fuzzy towel wrapped around jittery shoulders. She believed the suction cup lined tentacle was an octopus. 

“They can be quite helpful. Suction cups are made for -- for sticking.” Truthfully, the sentence was tangible and real for a simple reason; it felt more real. It was far too horrible to believe sea monsters had invaded her paradise. 

Xx

She awoke with a start. Electricity already burning obnoxiously in her veins. The thought was a joke at first; throw out food to the anonymous ocean critter that had rescued her. It was fair. She wanted to repay the kindness. No animal was suited for her sea excursionist. Her love was the ocean firstly; everything came in violent crashes next. Purely no room for animals. However, this being -- this animal. She needed to remind herself it was an animal. Animals can just be smart.

xx

“Like octopi. Or maybe -- maybe a squid.” ‘Octopi’ was a new word; something the woman picked up from long study sessions in the town library. The building was a crypt, dusty and decrepit. Relics from before the second war, chalky volumes of history and academics… but they held the most beautiful anatomical drawings. Precise lines formed into a web of a body on delicate paper. She wanted to rip them from their pages and exhibit the art upon her walls. It was a guilty feeling the woman had to bury. Deep.

Octopi were carnivores, which meant they ate meat. Things like fish, sharks -- even birds. On occasion, the invertebrate would drown their prey. She loathed the vulgar imagery of an octopus immersing a bird into her sea -- into the great blue only to disappear under murky depths. The mental painting seemed so far off -- so  distant from her benevolent savior. 

Xx

There was a certain click in her step, her movements jovial and careless. Her limbs were wire and ethereal. After a masochistic study session, the woman felt confident enough to pursue the octopus. The plan itself was half-baked, but she was… hopeful. Her wallet wouldn’t survive otherwise; she was too naive, trusting and allowed a butcher to sell her a suspiciously warm steak. Little flashes of the overripe meat squirming with maggots skipped through her mind. 

“I hope you like this!” 

She threw the steak into the ocean. A smile had eased onto her face. 

After several minutes a bitter call echoed from the sea. “Not this, stupid.” The voice was scratchy and harsh; like a sweater. Goosebumps developed and her lungs burned. 

‘What an unfortunate sound.’

Xx

Tenko wasn’t a beast per se. He was merely acting on instinct, but he wasn’t all bad. That idiot woman carried a delicious fragrance; her pores were just leaking it. His primal instincts demanded Tenko to clamp his beak over her clavicle. He wanted to peak at her flesh until only ribbons clung to her skeleton… but he was lonely. Tenko was lonely and needed a friend -- needed her. The woman’s cries seemed so inviting. She made pathetic little sounds that were like music to him. He decided to play along, in the hopes of revealing in her fear again. 

Women weren’t unknown to Tenko; they were little sacks of meat that nourished him. However, this wench was something entirely different. She didn’t belong within the predetermined hierarchy and Tenko absolutely fucking hated her for it. Her gestures were carefree and swaying; large hips on full display. The woman wench deserved to know her place. 

‘No one else would do it. It has to be me.’

Xx

An uncomfortable silence inched between them, the steak long gone. The realization wasn’t kind to her. This wasn’t an octopus; this was something worse. Something bad that could speak. Her skin felt slimy and dirty now. She rubbed at her ankles. Waiting for a response was becoming a real experience -- complete with the bells and whistles of anxiety. The woman’s back was on the sea. She refused to greet the monstrosity. 

“I’m… sorry. It’s been so long since I had company.” A soft reflection was in the voice; gentle regret. How could she resist? Tenko was being vulnerable now, if not a little sad. But it was necessary. Feigning humanity would lead his prey in with wide, innocent eyes. 

With a back turned, the woman took a step away from the benign waves. “You talk?” She didn’t want to ask anymore -- she didn’t want to engage the abnormality any further. 

A low whistle crept across the oceanic landscape. 

“Yes. Can we be f… friends?” 

Xx

‘Her little brain must weigh nothing,’ Tenko thought, ‘A stupid broad like her is lucky to even be alive.’ The mortal was braindead enough to put trust in him, he didn’t even have to beg. Well, he didn’t have to beg as much as he anticipated. Her vibrating fear could be felt even within the depths of his domain. Tenko found it pathetic, in all honesty, but saliva pooled at the thought of her. Naked. Afraid. All primed and ready to be devoured… ‘Such a delicate body. It’s really a shame I’ll leave blemishes.’ 

Xx

Within a week’s time, the raspy, sea-salt coated voice was the woman’s dearest friend. Her only friend. It was unnatural at first. The ocean wasn’t sentient, it couldn’t have a soul, and yet something would respond to her questions and ramblings. Always patient and kind hearted. She was curious if the voice was even a sea creature.

‘What if you’re the sea?’

Her mouth opened and closed, mimicking a question. She was curious if the voice had a name. There was certainly nothing offered up; the voice had demanded the woman never swim again -- never look into the great depths. At her sheepish request, the voice shook with rage that trembled and quaked in their words. It was the first time the woman remembered that this voice wasn’t human and maybe it didn’t -- maybe they didn’t function by the natural laws of man. 

A wave bumped against the beachfront. Her name carried off of the breeze, followed by a pause, and then, “What was your question?”

“It’s… uh, it’s stupid, really,” she replied, eyes stuck on her modest shack. Confidence was lacking in her voice; the woman now shrinking before Tenko.

The stench of her was in the water now; Tenko scrunched his face in response. Focusing on her was a part of the plan. His desire for the broad would be found eventually, but he needed to bite down any residual lust that floated around. Her smell was so pungent that it made Tenko’s stomach burn and twist. Like a heated wrench. 

He was growing bored. Impatient. Hunting was never a show like this. Hunting was hunting -- killing and eating with bits of flesh mixing with crimson. The sea looked best like that; bloody, a massacre of sin. Tenko should have eaten her a week before. She was stupid and within his grasp… but he let her go. A mistake he wouldn’t make twice. 

“Of course not! I like talking to you.” Inky black tentacles twitched under the curtain of waves. ‘She’d cower. Make herself as small as she needed to be; pathetic and crawling.’ Tenko grinned at the thought. She was nothing more than meat on a slab. 

His words of encouragement were like a shock to the system. Something was in those words, something the woman craved. Her chest tightened and words washed upon shore, “Can… can I see you?” 

It was a simple question, and yet Tenko hated it. He knew this day would come, but he prepared little in the way of comfort. His face twisted into a scowl as little angry bubbles surfaced. 

“Why? Aren’t you afraid? I can feel your tremors from here.” Tenko wanted to squash her curiosity. This game of cat and mouse shouldn’t end so abruptly. He wanted more play time with his food. Fear was a seasoning that couldn’t be wasted. A precious resource only for him. 

The ocean was quiet now, its rage worn down and tired. The woman looked out into the azure water and tried to gather her remaining courage. Tenko’s voice was unlike the kind tone she was accustomed to; his response was harsh and laced with seafoam. This wasn’t her disembodied companion. This was a creature.

“N-no,” she hesitated. Her words were anchored in her belly. She looked away from the azure abyss, fear creeping into her chest. The woman knew nothing of her companion -- only that he saved her. Surely, he couldn’t be some monstrous bundle of tentacles and eyes. He had to be more… human. 

Silence sat between them. Tenko began to impulsively curl his tentacles. He found the quiet annoying and somehow a little frightening. Perhaps his meal was reconsidering their arrangement. ‘You couldn’t,’ Tenko thought while the sun shrunk behind a cloud, ‘you’re too stupid.’ Befriending him -- feeling sorry for such a gluttonous horror was a fool’s mistake. His heart hummed at the thought of her bare and bloodied. 

The death of their conversation was awkward, if not heavy. Truthfully, the woman blamed herself for it. Feet nestled in warm sand; her mind straying back to Tenko. She knew he was beneath the oceanic canvas. Hidden away. ‘Hiding from me.’ Mournful eyes watched the sea. The day was dreary. No clouds. Sun scorned and resting. The sky held a drab palette; rainbows of blacks and grays formed into being. She wondered if the ocean was ever this ugly. 

Tenko came to his great conclusion; ‘I can eat your pea-sized brain now, can’t I? You’re probably stinking with guilt. So worried about your only friend.’ Slowly, Tenko lifted the tip of his beak into the air. Her pungent rot was like driftwood; moldy and earthy. She sickened him, but his body and mind weren’t one. Two muddled pieces that ached for both devouring her whole, and filling her disgusting guts with him. Tenko wanted to breed her -- watch his mewling little mortal stretch with his eggs.

Tenko’s stomach growled. 

“What -- what’s your name?”

His beak quickly retracted back into the salty brine. In his chest was a heart pounding against his rib cage. She was so close. She was so close. ‘Stupid and trustworthy. You’d do anything for a friend. You’d do anything… for me.’ Tenko realizes this and seizes his dinner bell, “T-Tenko. Can you come into the water?” Saliva pools at the back of his throat, “I’m lonely.”

The voice was heartbroken. His Tenko’s vocal cords were raspy, as if he gorged himself on salt water. A certain note of despair lingered in his sentence. The woman gave one last look into the vast blue before plunging her toes into saline waters.

It was as cold as the grave. Yet the coolness of it was relaxing. Hypnotizing. The ocean was calling out to her, its wet claws draped around her ankles, pleading with her to stay. She thought her ears caught a whisper from the depths; “Don’t go.” 

Everything was falling into his lap. First, she decided to trust him. Then she found comfort. Now, she belongs to him. Every chunk of flesh, every spec of marrow -- all his. He would suck her bones dry and drain her. ‘I’m going to devour you in the worst way.’

Her voice trembled with an alien sort of fear, “Tenko…” Water soaked into her dress, the cotton sticking to her shivering form. “Tenko, I’m scared.” Salt water was plugged into her nostrils. The strong scent was almost nauseating. There was a dull twinge in her heart. ‘Magical octopi,’ she chanted, ‘enchanted animal that speaks!’ Despite her conviction, salivation was unheard. The icy water rested just under her collarbone. Its gentle current nipped at her skin. She suppressed a shiver, keeping her legs kicking. The woman waited until something spongy -- familiar -- grabbed her calf. 

“You’re here.” The woman released a forgotten breath. Her chest was unraveling; the feeling of him was… comforting. This was her friend. ‘He wouldn’t hurt me.’ Her salt stained lips pitched into a grin.

Tenko envisioned violently dragging her squirming body. Little bubbles trailing behind, her last breaths. Gentle face painted into horror. He wondered if she would fight back; maybe pitifully grab at his tentacles? Tenko’s eyes widened in excitement, her legs sending waves. ‘Finally you made it, moron girl.’

His words were like a haunting chorus, “It’s okay,” her name was honey in the air, “Can… can you swim to me?” Tenko sounded cautious, ‘He’s worried about me.’ Her one friend -- her one true friend was concerned about her! The woman’s eyes were bright and alive. A smile played on her lips. Tiny butterflies felt like they were gathering in her chest. Tenko needed her. Needed his friend. The loneliness seemed to melt off while her legs worked against the sea, water splashing in every direction. Her body was numb; skin nothing more than drenched. She noted her dress was slowing her down. Tenko was leagues away -- almost impossible. Yet she persisted. 

His tentacle was the thread guiding her home -- to him. The rubbery flesh was a trail behind her. It was a reminder that Tenko was close, somehow obscured under blankets of briny water. Looking into the blue void made her stomach tangle together in a mess of anxiety. There was an unknown factor -- a certain fear to the ocean now.

Tenko held a delicate grip. ‘I can’t squeeze you to death just yet.’ He hoped the woman’s death rattles were soft, nothing like a dying creature. Tenko knew she would struggle and seafoam would kick into her lungs, but a part of him wanted her to coo at him. Make little creamy pleas. Stuck in his mirth, Tenko began to pull. The sensation was lost on his meal; her mind too preoccupied with determination. Her feet no longer tapped against slimy seaweed. Instead, the abyss greeted her. Negative space gathered. Nothing to keep the woman afloat except for her own flailing limbs.

A rather thrashing limb caught Tenko in the beak. Instinct took over as he yanked the woman. Aggressive and without tolerance. His beak was strong enough for her kick, but the accidental assault felt purposeful. Her lungs filled only once; to scream. Blue fluttered into her line of sight while bubbles erupted into view. Water rushed into her lungs. She managed a cough, salt in her nose. 

The woman fought against the pull. Waterlogged fingers slipping. She clawed at the tentacle as her expression froze in open-mouthed terror. Tenko wished he could see it, but the vibrations of her panicking body would have to do. He wanted to eat her panic. Swallow her whole and stare into the bloody waters she’d create. 

“St-stop… struggling so d-damn much,” forming a sentence was hard. This woman -- this squishy little mortal -- continued to fight. Tenko wished she would claw at scratch at him, fear added a certain spice to his meals, but her insensent kicking must stop.

Tenko releases the woman, her little head shooting up and bobbling amongst the current. Greedy lungs sucked in sour sea air. The saline burned down her throat, but she was relieved. ‘I was going to die. Tenko… Tenko wanted to kill me!’ The realization hits like a sandbag. She has to leave now. This creature, no, this monster was nothing but death. 

Before she can will her tired body, a melody drifts into her mind.

“Please don’t go.” He sounded so mournful. Grief laced into every word. 

She looks into the great blue before responding, “I have to.” Tears brim her eyes, making the world glassy. This was her only friend and yet he wanted to harm her. There was something dangerous to this creature. 

Tenko grew impatient. She should simply accept him as he is. This doesn’t need to be unnecessarily difficult… but she was making it difficult. Couldn’t this broad see Tenko only wanted to fill her half eaten, frail body with eggs? It’s a compliment, an implied attraction, and she just had to ruin it. Her little brain cannot even begin to comprehend the damage she’s done. 

With great effort, Tenko continued his heartbreaking colloquy, “I’m sorry. I… I didn’t m-mean it.” It’s burdensome to speak such lies, even more of a bother to project them into such an idiot. However, Tenko knew this woman had kindness tucked into her heart. She had no other choice but to forgive. “You want to see me, don’t you? The curiosity must be suffocating.”

She did… She had wondered what Tenko looked like; her mind’s eye wasn’t content with a mermaid. The woman had to see him in all of his glory. His voice was mesmerizing, like sharp ocean currents beating against rock. Her heart slowed to an acceptable pace. The organ no longer hammered into her. Her pulse wasn’t in her ears and the only thing in her stomach was an airy bit of hope. ‘Tenko probably hasn’t had any visitors before. I’m -- I’m his first.’ There was a strange comfort in being Tenko’s only friend. 

Something hard bumped against her leg. “Tenko?” She asked, voice small and soft. A vortex of salt water swirled underneath her as a head peaked from beneath a crest of waves. Tenko wasn’t quite as she imagined; her friend resembled a kraken more than a man. His beak was half-way submerged, stringy white hair clung to his worn face. He wore a gentle expression. Her eyes softened at his humanity. Tenko was so close she could smell him. The sharp scent of brine and seaweed permeated the air. A certain warmth settled into her belly. 

“Can I… touch you?” 

The woman nodded. His tentacle -- slimy now -- interlocked around her arm. The appendage was spongy and its suction cups held onto her with care. She melted into his touch while Tenko guided her into his bare chest. She looked up at him, big doe eyes that held nothing but admiration for the monster. ‘A pity,’ Tenko thought, ‘You didn’t really struggle, did you? You want to be full of my eggs.’ Tenko asserted this belief as another tentacle found the small of her back. Another snaked up her waist and landed on a clothed breast. She shivered in his embrace, the frigid water now soaked into her bones.

Ancient words danced in her mind, “Give yourself to me.” No emotion was behind her eyes, no hint of a human. Instead she steeled herself -- perfect and waiting for Tenko. She was a gift for him. Roughly, his tentacles roamed her body. His suction cups latched and unlatched onto bits of sodden flesh. She was mushy and delicate, like algae. Tenko could break apart her body, bone by bone, until she was dust stuck in his suction cups. A hushed mewl fell from her lips once Tenko brushed against a sensitive nipple. Her face was flushed and glistening. There was a crinkle in her eyes; a foreign ecstasy. The woman’s body hadn’t experienced such a fiery, electric sensation before.

“Don’t…” She buries her face in his chest, “don’t stop, Tenko.” It was too mortifying to allow such a divine creature see her like this. Body peppered with pink and chest heaving against him. She leaned into his touch. He kneaded her skin, spongy suction cups tweaking her nubs. Tenko could feel himself begin to swell, tentacles fat and aching. He looked down at her, drool trailing down his beak. 

An eager tentacle harshly grabbed her drenched garment and quickly discarded it to the sea. The woman’s body instinctively shivered, nerves still tender. “Stay still,” Tenko commanded as a tentacle slithered down her stomach, stopping at her waistband. 

“Please.” Her eyes are like saucers, innocent and begging. Tenko indulged and a tentacle stroked her wet cunt. The sloppy noise mixed with her insensent moans. It was a chorus of vulgarity. Tenko, however, made no sound. His vocal chords vibrated with animalistic grunts as he explored her body. Another obscene groan finally encouraged the beast; a single tentacle slipped between her thighs. 

Her pudgy walls gripped his swollen tentacle like a vice. “S-slow down, Tenko.” The woman felt violated. Tenko was going too fast, not allowing for rest. His tentacle plunged into her, prodding her womb. “Stop! It hurts!” The woman grit her teeth while trying to stifle a cry. 

“Quit whining,” Tenko sneered, sharp beak biting down on her collarbone. Iron flooded Tenko’s mouth and a whine played on his lips. She was sweeter than anything -- anyone he had tasted before. Her tainted scent was nothing compared to the meat before him. A piercing yelp sounded from the woman. The shrillness of it only spurred Tenko; his beak gnawing at her open wound. 

An orgy of violence and bliss swirled in her mind, twisting into one. Divinity itself was biting into her and marking her as his own. His fat tentacle stretched her to an almost inhuman degree; her face sweaty and mouth open. Drool pooled into her wound and mixed with Tenko’s spit. She wanted to reach up and touch it, feel the feral brand he left. She adjusted to his size, an unfamiliar hotness gathering between her legs. 

“F-faster, please.” 

Another ethereal voice called to her, carried from the breeze, “You want me to fill you with eggs, don’t you? Say it.”

Dribble spat from her mouth, “Tenko, I want -- please make me fat with your eggs! Breed me!” Painfully, Tenko hammered into her doused cunt, pushing against her cervix, the spongy flesh almost like a pillow. Welcoming. Warming. Wanting him. Her pussy fit perfectly around his engorged tentacle, milking him for every bit of slimy pre-cum. 

“Take my eggs, broad,” Tenko growls as a miry egg sloshes into her womb. 

A cry permeates the air. “Too big, Tenko. Too big,” the woman heaves. Her mind swimming with one simple phrase; “You’ll be such a good moma.”

#shigiraki x reader #tenko x reader #yandere bnha #smut