Warning: dystopian, oppression, poverty, power imbalance, noncon, and other dark elements. Please heed these warnings.
Summary: you do what you must to survive a cruel world, but sometimes that just isn’t enough. (Dictator August Walker)
The photo inspired me a while ago and I took this opportunity to write up the intro.
Hi! Please please please reblog and leave some feedback if you read! I love you 💕
The vehicle slows. You stiffen and try to see out the tinted windows. You clasp your hands tightly. Something tickles the back of your head and you look, only to have a wet nose meet your temple. You touch the slobber left on your skin as the Legate hums and scratches Lupa’s nose.
“Back,” he commands gently. You doubt he is the same way with his men.
The dog obeys but keeps her nose slightly over the back of the seat. You try not to be obvious as you observe the path of the vehicle. The gates that open before the bumper and the uniformed men guarding them.
Then there’s the house. A mansion. Not the boxy crumbling facade of the colony barracks but a lavish exterior with lush hedges shaped and trimmed and ornaments in the vein of Roman art. It’s like a dream, something that no longer exists, but you know it can only be a nightmare.
The Legate undoes his seatbelt as the vehicle draws to a stop. You look over but not at him. His door opens from the outside and he’s greeted by a man with an optio’s badge. The soldier keeps his eyes averted as The Legate does not move.
“Her first. She is a lady.” He insists.
The man’s eyes flick to you and his gaze narrows before retreating. “Apologies, Noble Legate–”
“What was that?” Legate Augustus seizes the man’s jaw with his large hand. “What was that look you gave her?”
“Noble Legate, I did not–”
“No, I saw it. I did not miss the way your brow moved. How you judged. Her? You do not know her.” He squeezes so that the man squirms. “I do not ask you to judge. I command you to obey without thought.”
You quickly look down and stare at your hands as you grip them together even tighter. Lupa lets out a low growl behind you. The Legate’s weight leaves the car and the man grunts, his body hitting the ground with a thump.
“Optio, you have earned a new assignment. I hear the drought land requires further oversight.”
“Noble Legate,” the man pleads.
“Do not make me send you to the south.” The Legate warns and the man grunts again, the impact of something blunt forcing his breath from his chest.
The door closes and a shadow moves around the vehicle. The door on your side opens and you wince. You bring your clasped hands up.
“Noble Legate,” you see the sigil on the ring on his hairy knuckle. “Forgive my inaction.”
“Do not. You do not require my forgiveness.” He reaches to undo your seatbelt. “Come.”
He offers his hand. You don’t hesitate, even as your mind and body fracture in fear. You put your hand in his and he helps you step down.
“Bos,” he booms as he signals with his other hand.
Another man appears. Another optio, this one with a ribbon next to his badge. He opens the hatch to let out Lupa. The dog comes to your side sniffs your loose hand.
“I’ve had a long day. As you have.” The Legate waves you forward, clinging to you as he falls into step. “Rest is in order.”
“As you bid, Noble Legate. I will heed.” You can barely speak. Lupa licks your palm.
“She senses your unease. I unsettle you.” He says.
You swallow. “Noble Legate, I only… abide my rank.”
“Forget that.” He demands. “If you were still a pleb, you would remain in the colony.”
His words confuse you. If that is not what you are, then what are you? What is his intent? You know better than to think it could be anything good.
“Understood, Noble Legate.”
He exhales as you approach a set of curved steps that stretch before a set of double doors. Immunes stand at the top and open the door as the Legate guides you upward. He squeezes your hand.
“I have told you what to call me.” He says.
You trip over your toes. You steady yourself as he turns to catch your other shoulder. You stare at his jacket.
“And I’ve told you to look at me,” he warns.
Your brain is on fire. Every instinct is wailing in alert. You have to listen but you can’t. It’s all wrong.
You slowly lift your head and look at him. “I apologise… Au… gust.”
His head tilts and his blue eyes linger on yours. He lets go of your shoulder and gently brushes his knuckles along your chin. “That is good.”
He slowly angles his hand around to cup your chin. You tremble and he once more squeezes your hand. “I have not hurt you and do not mean to. No need to be afraid.” He drops his hand but keeps yours in his other. “Lupa likes you. I can rarely deny her what she wants.”
He turns and drags you along. You don’t let yourself fall behind. Lupa is close, rubbing her head into her head. You pet her, if only to calm yourself.
The Legate leads you up the centre staircase which divides two curving arms around the edge of the foyer. Everything about this place is a startling contrast to the colony’s desolate degradation. It makes you sick to your stomach.
He leads you up to the second floor and along a hallway. Lupa slips ahead of you as you turn the corner and stops at a set of doors at the very end. When you catch up, The Legate opens the right door. He lets go of your hand and trails his touch up your arm, nudging you inside.
The room is as immaculate as the rest of this place. Above the large mouth of a marble fireplace is a portrait of the man behind you. Stoic, stern, all-seeing. The furniture is polished and perfect. The carpet ivory with a deep crimson pattern.
The walls are lined with tall arched windows, one a set of glass doors that open out onto a stone balcony. Across from the fireplace is another door; thick, white wood. You assume there must be a bedroom or something behind it.
The Legate shuts the door and strides around the room. Lupa sits on your feet as you hug yourself and sway. You glance over at the sharp and sudden clink of glass. Legate Augustus pours amber liquor from a decanter into crystal glasses. He puts the cap in place and sets down the square bodied vessel.
“Come and drink. It will help you.” He says. “Lupa can sense your energy.”
You swallow. “Yes, Noble– August.” You correct yourself and cross the room. He holds out a glass and you reach for it. He doesn’t let go right away, clinging to it until you look at him in the face. “Thank you.” You say.
“Drink.” He takes his own glass and swigs. “You earned it.”
Warning: dystopian, oppression, poverty, power imbalance, noncon, and other dark elements. Please heed these warnings.
Summary: you do what you must to survive a cruel world, but sometimes that just isn’t enough. (Dictator August Walker)
The photo inspired me a while ago and I took this opportunity to write up the intro.
Hi! Please please please reblog and leave some feedback if you read! I love you 💕
You watch the Legate's feet. You don't dare look any higher. You mirror his gate, slow and patient. It makes you restless. If you're not in a hurry, you're in trouble.
The dog is at your other side, your hand in her fur as each time you draw away, she circles back for more. She's comforting but nothing can dissipate the anxiety, the fear, this man inspires. You notice how the soldier, decanus, immunes, even centurion, salute then shy away. You remain unseen as the men only see him; only care about him.
“I suppose an introduction would be redundant.” He says.
“Noble Legate.” You bow your head deeper.
He hums. “The hours were not lost. My men have inspected this place, top to bottom. A habit they tend to slack on.”
You remain quiet. You know better than to speak without purpose or permission. Besides, what can you say to him that would ever mean anything?
“So… that was my day,” he puts his large hands behind him. “And you were away? At market again?”
You hesitate. You cannot ignore a question but you find it difficult to find your voice. “Noble Legate, my assignment was the drought land.”
He hums again. He mulls your answer.
“Doing what, exactly?”
Your hand shakes and Lupa licks it. You swallow and exhale slowly. “Digging. Bunds.” You eke out the words crisply. “Noble Legate.”
He sighs and brings his arms forward, crossing them over his chest. He walks on. His shoes are dusty but you can tell they aren’t well-worn. Not like your peeling soles.
“We are having a conversation. August is acceptable.” He states.
“Noble…” your voice drifts off. You wouldn’t dare say his name. You match his stride and languish in silence.
“And you?”
You bite down. You don’t know what he means.
“What is your name?” He asks.
Your heart pumps fast. You remember it but it doesn’t feel real. It feels like something you made up. You don’t own anything, not even a name. You have a number and a pair of boots.
“8E15.” You recite.
He sniffs. “Not that. Your real name. The one from before.”
Before? Before was long ago. You were sixteen when the world changed. Now, you’re not sure. You’re older and just as scared. You just know how to control it. How to keep it inside.
Subconsciously, your hand travels to your lower stomach, that place where hot metal seared. Then you pull away and hang your arms stiffly again. Lupa once more nuzzles into your hand.
“8E15–”
“Name. Not number.” He insists bluntly.
You trip at the tenor of his voice. He’s quick to catch you. You gasp and wrench away from him. He lets you go and you raise your hands in fright. You tremble as you show your palms and drop to your knees.
“Forgive me. I was not expecting–” You choke on your plea. Begging never got you anywhere. You put your palms up and extend your arms. Don’t whine, just take the punishment.
Nothing happens. You stare at the dirt and wait. The Legate stands across from you and his dog pokes her head up between your arms and licks your cheeks.
“Lupa,” he calls her.
He grabs your wrist and tugs. You stand. He pulls you right in front of him, the dog still between you.
“I want your name.” He says.
You stare at the dog’s fur. You can’t. You can feel the familiar thing in the back of your mind but you can’t latch on.
“I don’t know. They call me by my number.” You quaver out. “Noble Legate, call me what you will.”
He lets you go and pushes back his jacket to grip his hips. You shrink down. He clicks his tongue.
“If you will not tell me your name, you will look at me.” He commands.
Your hands ball up to fists and you pin them to your sides. Your shoulders rise with tension and your knees wobble. If you look at a decanus in the face, they use the club. An Optio might even use a knife for the offense.
But to disobey, someone as powerful as the Legate, would be far worse. You must. He has given an order. Even if it feels wrong, you have no choice.
You lift your chin as your eyes stay downward. You hold your breath and force your gaze up. You see him; dark hair, a curl over his forehead, a thick straight mustache, dark stubbles; a thick neck beneath his high collar and broad shoulders that speak the power behind his title. A quick flick of your irises before you give in to instinct and look down again.
His finger taps on his belt then he drops his hands. Lupa turns and sits, resting her head against your stomach as she stares up at you. Her tail sweeps the ground as it wags incessantly.
“She won’t let me go without you.” He says.
You don’t move. What does he mean?
He leans in and reaches for you. He takes your hand and moves your stiff arm. He puts your hand on the dog. He guides you to pet her then lets go. You scratch behind her ear as she groans in delight.
“We will retrieve your possessions and you will be removed from the camp roster.” He says.
You focus on the dog. His words are too frightening to fathom. You’ve seen people leave one of two ways; for the pits where they will die or dead in the back of a truck.
“You do not ask why? Or where you will go?” He challenges.
“No, Noble Legate. I obey.” You recite, that twinge that comes each time you surrender still flickering in your gut.
“Take me to your quarters. It is late already.” He commands.
“Yes, Noble Legate.”
He growls in his throat. “Lupa, back up. Come.”
The dog relents and stands at his heels. You feel him watching, waiting. You turn back and lead him through the camp. The soldiers watch and greet him with proper salutes and stances. Others like you scatter and hide before they can meet rebuke.
You stop at your block. Legate Augustus examines the bricks.
“Inside.” He prompts.
You’re surprised. You didn’t think he meant so far. You take him inside, the decanus at the door addressing him with respect.
“Upstairs. The second floor, Noble Legate.” You dare not walk ahead of him.
“You first.” He insists.
“Yes, Noble Legate.” You utter.
You go upstairs, innately aware of him behind you. You take him down the corridor to your shared quarters. He follows you inside. Those in their cots nearly tip them as they quickly get to their knees and bow their heads.
You don’t have much. You would have said so but it’s best not to say more than he asks. You open your locker and take out your can of peanuts, a sleeve with only three crackers, a head scarf, and the needle stuck into the remaining length of leather cord.
You turn back to the legate. He startles you as his large hands cradles yours. He takes the canister of peanuts and shakes it. He makes a gritty noise and gives it back.
“That all?” He asks.
It’s more than some have.
“Yes, Noble Legate.”
He drops his hands. Lupa sniffs around the room as the other occupants cower away from her. You grip your things tight.
“Let’s go.”
The Legate turns and strides to the door, not a single glance to his audience. You follow and peek over. Your cot mate stares at you in concern. You’ve never seen an ounce of emotion from them before. That unsettles you more.
You go with the legate back outside. Lupa stays close to you. He takes you through the camp to the gates. The large black vehicles wait in a line, centurions and immunes milling around restlessly until they see the Legate.
“Past time we leave,” he addresses a centurion in their red jacket.
The centurion walks with him to one of the boxy SUVs and opens the back door. Before you can react, the Legate turns and grabs your arm. He as good as lifts you and puts you inside. He quickly spins to stop Lupa from following.
“Ah, you know better,” he tuts and points her away.
The centurion approaches. Lupa growls but her master commands her to go with him. The hatch behind you opens and she hops inside, poking her head over the seat to sniff you. The Legate climbs in. He closes the door and pushes down a button. A screen rises between the back and front seats.
“You had a long day. You may rest. It will be a long drive.” He says flatly.
Your eye flits over at the movement of his hand. He grips above his knee, his middle finger dragging up and down. You shove what you can in your pockets and keep the canister in your lap. You close your eyes.
It isn’t possible to pretend none of this is happening, but you don’t have to sit and stare at your reality.
Warning: dystopian, oppression, poverty, power imbalance, noncon, and other dark elements. Please heed these warnings.
Summary: you do what you must to survive a cruel world, but sometimes that just isn’t enough. (Dictator August Walker)
The photo inspired me a while ago and I took this opportunity to write up the intro.
Hi! Please please please reblog and leave some feedback if you read! I love you 💕
Colony 814. Southeast of the capital. Right between the drought land and the man-made lake, Aqulum, managed my engineers with Immunes blue epaulettes.
You sit on the floor as 8KH1 sleeps on the cot. The morning rises slowly from the tepid night. You count out five nuts from the tin and eat them slow. You don't know your assignment for the day, you never do. It will be grueling whatever it is.
It doesn’t matter. You can barely remember what you did yesterday, let alone week ago. Yet, your last day at the market sticks. The thief, dog, the Legate. You dream about it. More and more, it feels like that’s all it was.
You pick at the sole of your boot where it once more separates from the rest. You traded a can of sour beets for a needle and leather cord to fix it. It only held for a month. Now you're hungry and your shoe is too.
The first bell rings. A horrible refashioned metal thing from a school house. There’s one in the hallway outside the cramped room you share with a dozen others. And others mounted on walls across the colony. There’s even one on the pole that marks the centre of the court yard.
8KH1 rolls off the cot. They pull on their sock-like cap and tuck in their ratty ends. You lock up your peanuts in the small locker with your number on it. You each get one. Enough to fit your boots at most, but those stay on your feet. You’d never get enough to fill it up anyhow.
You file out with the rest. Roll call. The Decanus soldiers with their silver buttons count the bodies standing in slumping blocks of eight by eight. Each block is called up and designated to their daily tasks.
It’s not market day for the quadrant. You’ll be headed to the drought land to dig bunds for rain water. If it ever rains. The work is tedious but better than staying in camp and tending to the rusting pipes under block 58S.
You shuffle into the back of a truck with the rest of your block. There are no seats. You stand, crammed into the canvas covered bed, and try not to tip into the person beside, behind, or in front of you.
You face the back, just able to see between the shoulders ahead of you and through the rustling flaps. A rumble of engine sound from ahead of the truck's bumper. A convoy comes into sight. Black tactical vehicles on high axles and heavily treaded tires. They disappear into a cloud of dust.
“Shut the fuck up. I’m not getting lashes for you.” The shusher hisses.
You stare out at the sun beaten road. Those vehicles were headed for 814; or so it looked like. Why? They didn’t look like a work sentry or even a delivery.
Soon enough, you forget them. You get to a strip in the drought land and disembark with a long shovel. You’ll dig a half circle pit along the peaks of the dried out earth. Crushing work that already has your back achy.
You work with M5PL, a squat older man turning red from the heat. You throw the dirt out of the pit as you carve out the crumbly dirt. It blows back at you, sticking to the sweat on your face and soaking through your clothing.
You dig until the air cools. It would be easier work to start in the evening but by then, you’re rounded up and put on the truck. M5PL cries out as he tries to climb up over the bumper. He clutches his chest and falls back, landing flat on the ground. He gets a kick from a Decanus. When he just writhes and whines, the step over him and close the short door to the bed of the truck.
“Vultures will take him where he needs to go.” They march around the truck and the doors creak loudly.
M5PL twitches as the truck takes off. You look down at the shadows around your feet. One day, it’ll be you. Not if, when. He isn’t the first, they’ll never be the last.
Back at the camp, the truck honks at the gates. It’s unusual. Usually, the sentries will open them on sight.
“Business?” A raspy voice demands.
“The fuck you mean,” the Decanus in the driver’s seat huffs. “We’re stationed here.”
“Watch your tone.” The other man retorts. “Can you read?”
“The hell kinda question–”
“Use your eyes, dick,” the snarl crackles in the man’s throat.
“Centurion?” The driver sputters.
“Good boy. Get inside before I have you boarded.”
The truck lurches forward as you hear the doors parting on their immense hinges. Those around you exchange looks but don’t dare speak. What is a centurion doing in 814?
You traipse out with the rest. You lean on the truck until you get the feeling back in your feet and lift your knees as you try to get the tightness out. You grip your hips as your lower back knots up. You turn in your shovel and collect your ration card.
“Half?” Another snorts. “Half a ration?”
“Did you say something, pleb?” The decanus barks.
No response. You all tuck away the orange half-ration ticket and shuffle away. You keep your head down and pull up your jacket to hide a yawn. You drop your hands and nearly cry out as something cold meets your palm. You learned long ago not to react.
You turn as the sniffing wet nose brushes your jacket’s hem. The same black and white dog nuzzles the bottom of your stomach. You show your palms and watch helplessly. Other pass by, side stepping the beast nervously.
“Hey, go on. Get to your quarters.” The decanus stomps over. “The hell are you up to?” The dog turns around and growls at the man. He stops and scowls. “You shouldn’t fuck with that dog. It’s–”
“Lupa,” the name rolls through the air, followed by a whistle.
The decanus turns and presses his fist to his heart. He lowers his head as the Legate approaches. That explains the centurion, yet doesn’t. Why are they here?
You get to your knees and the dog, Lupa, circles you. She sits beside you as her owner approaches and rests her snout on your shoulder. You stare at the ground and rest your fists above your knees.
“Decanus. Dismissed. Go away.” The Legate snips. The Decanus flees without hesitation.
“8E15.” The Legate recites your number.
You dip your head even lower. You can’t speak. Any plebian that speaks out of turn won’t always be able to ever again.
“You can stand.” He permits.
You shake and lean forward slowly. You lift yourself on your knees, set one foot at a time, and stand. You keep your head down.
The dog circles you again then presses her head against your hip as she sits close. She prods your hand with your nose. You let her.
“And you may pet her. She doesn’t always ask so nicely.” He girds.
You open your hand and turn it out. You pet the dog cautiously. The Legate inches closer.
“My men have been searching all day.” He states.
You flinch.
“The Optio told me himself you didn’t exist. I should have his left eye.”
You gulp and instinctively look up in shock, just as quickly dropping your gaze again.
“You see, the E looks like an F.” He stops in front of you and points to your jacket, almost touching you. “But I knew you were real.” Lupa rubs her face on your hand. “She’s been restless for you.”
You scratch Lupa’s ear.
“Will you walk with her?” He pushes his shoulders wide. “And me?”
You stare at Lupa as he licks your hand. It’s not a question, not from him, it’s a command.
Warning: dystopian, oppression, poverty, power imbalance, noncon, and other dark elements. Please heed these warnings.
Summary: you do what you must to survive a cruel world, but sometimes that just isn't enough. (Dictator August Walker)
The photo inspired me a while ago and I took this opportunity to write up the intro.
Hi! Please please please reblog and leave some feedback if you read! I love you 💕
The smell of grain, even stale, has your stomach growling. You put the wooden crate on the table and 5D14 pulls it across the wood. He turns and trades the half-loaves one at a time for ration cards. Beside him, 8A90, examines one of the green tickets closely. The overseer, Celer, approaches to take a closer look.
You grab another crate. You quickly count the inventory. Not a piece short or it will be on you. You place it on the table and it’s once more dragged across. Celer signals with a fist then a V between his index and middle finger. There’s a stir as the crowd shifts around Optio Ursus, the commander of the quadrant.
The green ration card is passed back and forth. Two soldiers, Immunes with their blue epaulettes their jackets stand behind the man on the other side of the table. His eyes flick back and forth nervously. The number sewn into his canvas jacket is faded. Your own isn’t in much better shape. Like you, they don’t have a name. Just a number.
“Counterfeit,” Ursus proclaims sternly. “Arrest this fraud. This thief.”
You back up and watch the nervous still break into chaos. The Immunes seize the man and he hollers. “It’s not. It’s real, it’s real!”
“Insect!” Ursus pulls the club from his belt and swings across the table, striking the maan in his temple. “I did not permit you to speak.” The Optio wags his club. “Upstart peasants. Do you know the consequence for thievery?”
You do. You’ve seen it. The woman you trade out your cot with every other night bears that mark. She is not permitted on placements outside the colony. She must stay and make due trading scrap.
The Immuness wrestle the man as he struggles dizzily against them. A crate of loaves is dumped uncaringly onto the ground, flipped to pin his arm to as he begs and sobs.
“It is real. It was allotted by Optio Aquila.” He snivels. “Please, please.”
“Be quiet or your tongue shall be lopped off too!” Ursus snarls and slings his club from his belt, feeling around until he grips the dagger there. “You’ll want to be still lest I cut the whole arm.”
The Optio snickers as those around gape or pretend not to see. Most stare at their feet. The Immunes keep the man trapped.
Ursus lifts his arm. There is a murmur before he can descend. He pauses and looks toward the snakish roil in the crowd. More blue epaulettes appear and Immuness divide the crowd. A pathway clears for a man in a long black jacket, his collar high and stiff, his boots leather and shining. A chain dangles across the open front of his coat, two large sapphires pinned to his lapels.
Those with numbers on their chests, get to their knees. You too. You’ve never been in the presence of a Legate but you know one on sight. The sapphires, the clothing, the posture. It’s plain even before Ursus greets him by name.
“Legate Augustus.” His voice nearly quavers. “When did you arrive? I was not informed you’d be attending the market.”
“And why should I tend to the masses?” The Legate’s deep voice sends a chill through you despite the dusty warmth of the pending noon. “As any man of the people might.”
“Certainly, Legate, I do not question your purpose. Only I am surprised at your presence.” Ursus panders.
“And what is this scene you make? I see wasted bread and terrified people.” The Legate rebukes. “This is not the order I read of in your report.”
“Legate, this man is a thief. It is him who has brought chaos–”
“So you would raise a furor? Startle those come for their rations?” The Legate interjects. “Criminals are to be detained and tried. Not beaten and mauled as animals.”
You stare at the ground. The tension in the air is suffocating. His words are not so noble as he pretends. Every person there has witnessed or perpetrated the contrary. A hand severed is far from the worst of atrocities in the colonies.
“Take this man to be heard by a praetor and determine if he will wear the thieves mark.” The legate commands. “Ursus, you will balance this loss from your own ledger.”
Your eyes peek up through your lashes as the Legate gets to a knee and gathers up the overturned stock. He piles it in and lifts it easily, shoving it at Ursus. “People, to your feet, to work.”
At once, you rise with the others on assignment. You fall back into action as those in line move up and hand over their green tickets. Your stomach growls again. You’ll get a full loaf for the assignment but not until the day is done.
As you turn again and place a crate out, you’re surprised by the gleam of light that singes your vision. You stare down the camera lens, shocked. The man behind it holds down the shutter and you hide in your work, back to the photographer.
You notice him move to the other side of the stall and aim his lens again. You peek over briefly. The legate shakes hands with Celer. It must be some sort of act. They are staging those in line, giving them commands.
An Immunes grabs the crate in your hands. You cling to it then let go. They put it back on the stack and seize your arm. They turn you then shove you back.
“Not her.”
They march away and grab another woman, P0L14. They examine her and drag her over. They pull you out of the way and put her by the stack of crates. Another camera emerges from the crowd.
Ceres smacks your shoulder. “To work.” You look at him then the Immunes and P0L14. “Go work on the truck, dumb woman.”
You evade his hand a second time and hurry off towards the cargo lot. You help unload the heads of cabbage and hand them off for inspection. The work is slow as heads crane to observe the market scene.
“... Augustus…” a whisper repeats across lips.
“...telling more lies…” one dares to suggest.
You keep your head down. You put cabbages into crates; rotting and slightly less rotting. One hits the corner and rolls over the edge of the table. Darn it.
You bend down to retrieve it but before you can, it moves. A set of fangs sink into the leafy ball. You hold out your hands but hesitate to wrestle the cabbage away from the large dog. Their fur is longer and fluffy, pointed ears, a black head and white around its stomach, legs, and chest. Their eyes are dark and menacing.
A head of cabbage could cost you yours. You go to grab it and the dog dodges away. No! You crawl under the table and stagger to your feet on the other side to follow them. You rush by several other workers and behind one of the canvas covered trucks.
“Hey, hey, doggy,” you call after the dog. You squint to get a good look. “Hey, girl. Please, can I have that back?”
You reach out, palm up, and walk forward cautiously as the dog stops and stares at you.
“You don’t want that. It’s bitter and grimy.” You plead with her, knowing she can’t understand. “Please…”
The dog drops the cabbage and rushes back toward you. You freeze in panic and watch wide-eyed as she charges. You close your eyes and brace for your demise.
The coolness in your hand makes you squeak. You look nervously through the slits of your eyelid. The dog nuzzles your hand then rubs her face into your palm.
“Oh, you… want pets?” You feel along her soft fur. She can’t be feral. She’s too well fed and groomed. You scratch behind her ear and she leans into your hand.
You offer your other and she lets you pet her with both. That knot around your heart slowly loosens. You can’t remember the last time you met anyone or anything friendly. The corners of your lips curve up, just a little.
“That’s it, girl. You’re a good girl. I wish I could give you something. Even that rotten cabbage.” You coo at her.
“Lupa.” A deep voice booms over you.
You turn as your expression falls back to neutral. It’s him. Legate Augustus. You get only a glimpse before you drop your eyes and get down to your knees. As you lower yourself, the dog licks your cheek and tries to sit in your lap, much too big to do so. She knocks you over onto your but and you land on your back in the dirt.
“Lupa,” the Legate calls again as he stomps up to you. Your heart is pounding. “Off.” The dog relents. “Sit.”
The dog obeys. You push yourself up and the Legate offers his hand. You stare at his thick fingers. Only for a second then you once more make yourself familiar with the dirt.
“Noble Legate,” you get up to your knees on your own and cower, hands on your thighs as you grip tight.
He rescinds his hand slowly, his shadow sighing beside you. You feel his gaze but don’t dare look up to check if he really is watching. You only look as far as his boots.
“She doesn’t usually make friends.” He says. “Consider yourself lucky to be alive.” He backs up and snaps his fingers. “Lupa, to me.”
She stands and sniffs you then goes to him. He turns and marches away. You don’t move, not until you’re sure he’s gone. You just hope no one else noticed your folly.
A Dystopian AU. Please don’t ask how much there’s gonna be. I’m not sure. But I might add more characters/readers if there’s interest.
Warnings: Violence, dark elements, tags to be added as we progress, tags will not be exhaustive so be wary.
Summary: A part of the underground, you fall into the hands of the authority you seek to derail.
Character: Bucky Barnes
Note: I always love feedback in any form so don’t be shy. Thank you for reading and for all your support. 💗
Inspired by the LEWK.
Your head pounds with the thumping against the side of the truck. Your breath puffs a cloud into the cold air of the compartment, the chatter in your teeth rattling down your spine. Now the wheels have stilled, you can get your feet under you, using the wall to push yourself up.
A Dystopian AU. Please don’t ask how much there’s gonna be. I’m not sure. But I might add more characters/readers if there’s interest.
Warnings: Violence, dark elements, tags to be added as we progress, tags will not be exhaustive so be wary.
Summary: A part of the underground, you fall into the hands of the authority you seek to derail.
Character: Bucky Barnes
Note: I always love feedback in any form so don’t be shy. Thank you for reading and for all your support. 💗
Inspire by the LEWK.
“I don’t understand,” Sparrow whispers, “they should’ve signaled by now.”
You put your finger to your lips, urging patience as a slat of moonlight shines down your face. She frowns, the way she does when she has something to say. Hound moves quietly around her, placing a hand on your shoulder. He taps in code. ‘Five and we go.’
Warning: possible adultery, neglect, angry men, dark elements….
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Character: August Walker, side of Andrew Barber
Summary: You find a cold reception at your new job, but it’s not much better than your home life.
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️
You stand at the fridge and stare at the two containers. One for today and one for tomorrow. Or maybe, take it home for dinner. You haven’t really been eating. You’re always alone at night; it’s hard to find an appetite or any motivation.
Footsteps approach and you stiffen. You’ve run into a few agents here or there. They don’t really acknowledge you. Although a security guard asked to verify your badge.
The button on the microwave depresses and the door pops open. The growl in return assures you of the shadow in your peripheral’s identity. You glance over as Agent Walker examines the stuffed oxen.
“Hm.” He huffs and flips it over. “How long does this go for?”
“Oh, uh… ninety seconds. You can add thirty if it doesn’t warm enough.” You guide him, not thinking as you cross and punch in the numbers yourself.
“Great.” He puts the ox on the glass plate and shuts the door. You back up as he taps start. “Thanks.”
“Meeting went okay?” You ask.
His brow arches. He tilts his head and looks at you from the edge of his eye. “You’re on lunch.”
“Uh, yeah, sorry.” You back up. “Speaking of… I had a bit too much so if you’re hungry…” you open the fridge and take out a container. “I made some quinoa and salmon. You don’t even need to warm it up.”
He stares at the tupperware. You feel ready to melt. You’re doing too much. You set it on the counter.
“If you don’t, just… put it back in the fridge.” You shrug and grab the other from the middle shelf of the fridge.
He exhales but doesn’t say anything. That’s probably the best response you can hope for. You leave him and opt to find somewhere to eat outside. You stare at all the luxury electric cars and their handleless doors as you eat without tasting.
Walker, Andy. You feel like you’re hanging by a string with both. Each sliver of progress is met immediately with backslide. You stir the last few bites and scoop them up from the tilted container. You put the lid back on and delay your return with a stroll around the grounds.
“That’s prohibited.” A holler startles you. You stop and spin to face the man jabbing his finger at you. “What are you doing here? How’d a civilian get in here?” He snarls.
“No, I’m not– I work here. I was only going for a walk,” you fumble for your badge as you keep the container under your arm. “See.”
You approach the man as he sneers down his nose. He squints at your photo. “You don’t have the clearance level, ma’am.”
“Redfield,” A timbre rumbles from behind the large man. “Leave her be. She’s with me.”
The man, Redfield, juts out his chin and clucks. He turns slowly. “Walker.”
“Sunny as rainstorm.” Walker retorts as he approaches. “I told her to take her break. This place ever think of working on amenities?”
“Can’t remember the last time I saw you outside your office.” Redfield snorts.
“I’ve been cleared for field work so… we shouldn’t see much of each other. Thankfully.” August gestures you past the other man. “Don’t talk to my PA like that again.”
“Don’t let her wander where she doesn’t belong.”
“And what are you doing? Got nothing better to do than lurk?” Walker scoffs. “Come on, sweetheart.”
He beckons to you again. You obey. You try not to notice that word he used. Not ma’am, not lady, sweetheart? Hell, when’s the last time Andy used that word with you? Well, it’s probably not a good thing. If anything it’s condescending, demeaning. This is a workplace after all.
He turns and walks beside you. The other man grumbles. You chafe and grip the container between your hands.
“Sorry, I didn’t meant to–”
“Don’t worry about it. Chris always finds a reason.” He assures.
“Okay, um… yeah but I don’t wanna break the rules.”
“You didn’t. Worry about my rules.” He insists.
“Uh huh…” you hum uncertainly. Silence festers around you. “Your shoulder feel better?”
“Sure. It doesn’t feel like a nails lodge behind it. Was tryna stretch…” he trails off. “Not your worry.”
“Well… it kinda is. I’m your PA.”
“My shoulder isn’t CIA business.”
“Fair,” you accept.
He’s quiet again. You approach the doors and he swipes his badge first. He opens the door for you. He waits and follows you in. You cross the lobby to the elevators. He taps his badge again.
You step onto the elevator and stand beside him. He seems bigger in here. You teeter on your heels.
“Can you do me another favour?” He asks.
“Sure. That’s my job.” You chime.
“Cancel that meeting with Fowler. I don’t got the energy.”
💔
“Sending a girl to tell me to fuck myself, huh?” Fowler slaps the screen of the coffee machine. “Does he really think I want to deal with him either?”
“Maybe tomorrow–”
“Fuck it. I’ll send an email. He can read, right?” He chuckles.
“Sir.”
“Jesus. I feel bad for you. Guy’s a prick. Specially since that thing in Vienna.” He hits start on the machine.
You look at his hand and something else catches your attention. The container you offered Walker is empty, washed out, and set neatly against the wall, labelled with your name on a post-it. Well, at least someone enjoyed lunch.
“Right. I’ll have him check his mailbox.”
“Sure, honey. I know he’ll get right on it.” He pushes his jacket back as he grips his hips. He glances over at you. “Didn’t peg you as his type.”
You frown. “The director hired me–”
He laughs again. “Go. I don’t like my coffee with stress.”
You do just that. Most of the agents have that bluntness. That lack of patience. If it’s not urgent, it doesn’t matter.
You knock before you enter Walker’s office. He sits back sharply from holding his forehead. You don’t acknowledge it.
“Done. Meeting off.” You confirm as you near your chair and pull out your phone. There it is. An email already. Oh, it’s not from Nick.
You sit and squint at the screen. It’s not easy to read the layout on the small phone.
‘Confidential. Mission Brief.’
You have to put in your employee number just to view it. You review the information, much of it in lingo you don’t really understand. You sit up and find Walker looking at you.
“You’re going to Paris?” You say.
He taps his fingers on his armrest.
“You need a tablet. Or laptop.” He says.
You nod. “Thank you, sir. It would be helpful, but… Paris.”
“I’ll show you how to do the expense report. You can book the travel.” He stands up and checks his watch.
“Uh, okay, yes, sir.”
“Make sure you get two tickets. Business.” He insists as he marches to the door.
“Two?” You wonder as you watch him strut to the door.
“Can’t do much here when I’m there.” He grabs the handle and twists it.
He leaves and you watch the door close behind him. Huh. You wonder what Andy will think of that. Will he care? Or even notice?
Warning: possible adultery, neglect, angry men, dark elements….
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Character: August Walker, side of Andrew Barber
Summary: You find a cold reception at your new job, but it’s not much better than your home life.
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️
Maybe you're more optimistic than you give yourself credit for. You expect to come home to an empty house, Andy's always home late but you still had hope of maybe a call, or just a text. When you do get one, it's the standard message. He must have it pre-programmed; working late.
It's strange to think that while your day has been completely atypical, his is just as it always is. Well, some things remain. You still have responsibilities. Lunch for tomorrow and dinner tonight. You'll make some for him too. Maybe this time he'll eat it.
By the time you're sitting and eating, you're barely hungry. You're exhausted and have another long day ahead of you. You eat slowly and tidy up before heading up for a shower and bed.
One thing remains starkly unaffected. The loneliness. Somehow you convinced yourself getting a job, getting an income, bringing something tangible to the marriage would change what you can never change; your husband. Why did you believe that?
But maybe it can change you. Maybe there's some meaning you can find beyond desperately wanting and trying to make Andy happy. You thought you had when you said I do but that was fleeting, that was a fantasy.
For the first time in a long time, you have no problem falling asleep. You usually toss and turn until you relent and end up on the couch watching mindless television until you doze off. Andy sneaks in past you and you wake up to get him his coffee in the morning.
It’s not exactly how you pictured marriage.
Andy wakes you up that night. Another abnormality. He rolls into bed with a sigh and jostles you as he tries to get comfortable. You get a waft of something. Like a candle? It’s not a bad scent, just unfamiliar.
“Hey,” you grumble sleepily. “How was work?”
“Long.” He growls and tugs the blanket.
You wait. He doesn’t ask you the same. He’s probably tired…
You go silent and that restlessness returns. You’re wide awake now. His presence is oppressive. You almost feel like you’re crowding him. Like he’s disappointed to find you there.
You wait until he’s snoring to leave the bed. It’s all in your head. You just need to talk to him. That’s the problem. You never just get to sit and talk and connect.
You piece together a few hours of sleep before your alarm goes off. You make Andy’s coffee and your own. He comes down, already half-dressed, less his tie and jacket. He tastes his coffee.
“When’s the last time you descaled the machine?” He asks.
“Last week.” You say as you stir your own.
“You still putting sugar in yours?” He wonders.
Well, at least he’s chatty.
“No, just cream.”
“Hm,” he hums. Right, wrong answer.
“I made caesar salad for your lunch.” You point to the set of containers you pulled out; one for each of you.
“Caesar? You should try kale.” He says.
“I’ll add it to the list,” you say.
He sighs. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“To the grocery list…” you realise how sarcastic that might have come off. “I’ll go after work on Friday–”
He grumbles again and takes another gulp of coffee. He puts the mug down and curls his lip. “I’ll stop by Brown’s on my way.”
He leaves you in the kitchen. You cling to the mention of the coffee shop. It’s just coffee. There’s nothing wrong with it. He never complained before.
You finish yours and rinse out the cup. He doesn’t come back for his. You go out as he’s at the front door, bag by his feet as he adjusts his tie in the entryway mirror. You approach him.
“Well, have a good day,” you say as you near him.
He flinches as you touch his sleeve. You hesitate. He looks at you, a harsh flicker in his eye.
“I just wanted to give you a kiss goodbye.” You say.
“Right. Sorry. Big case.” He exhales and bends. He offers his cheek. Oh.
You peck it and pull back. “Love you.”
He goes back to tugging at his tie. “You think you can find me a new one in this colour.” He asks as he gives up. “Thanks.”
He grabs his bag and heads for the door. You stand dumbfounded. Did he not hear you?
You stare at the door as you listen to him go down the porch steps and get in his SUV. He drives off. You don’t have time to worry about him. It’s your second day and you can’t be late.
You go back to the kitchen to empty his unfinished coffee. You notice the containers. He didn’t take his. Is he doing this on purpose or is he really that distracted by work?
Well, you won’t let your efforts go to waste. You won’t have to make your lunch for tomorrow. You put one of the salads back in the fridge and go to put the other in your bag. You stare at the lid before you seal the zipper. He’s right, you should go for vinaigrette and kale. It’s less fat.
You’re not stupid. You know you’ve softened a bit around the middle and your thighs since your wedding. You don’t know that you could even lace up your gown anymore. You noticed you just hoped he hadn’t.
Well, now that you’re working, you’ll have a better routine. You’ll be moving more and won’t have as much time to snack out of boredom. Or at least, you don’t think Mr. Walker would be impressed by you standing around munching on your favourite sweets.
You need to switch gears. You’ll worry about Andy later. Right now, you have another man to cater to.
Warning: possible adultery, neglect, angry men, dark elements….
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Character: August Walker, side of Andrew Barber
Summary: You find a cold reception at your new job, but it’s not much better than your home life.
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️
He's doing it again. The man's jaw is so square it's hard to notice but you can tell. Andy does the same thing. Gritting his teeth.
Mr. Walker clenches yet again but there's something different to the way he does it. He winces and his head tilts ever so slightly to one side before he straightens up. He wiggles his thick fingers and his shoulders dip slightly.
You don't mention it. You focus on not making a move. You're afraid to shatter the stillness. You feel as if you've become a part of the wall. An invisibility you know well.
He hasn't said a word. Hasn't even looked in your direction. He huffs at his screen, maybe growls in his chest. You can't help but assume you've been forced on him.
He sits back in his chair. The frame creaks beneath his burly figure. He really is a large man. He brushes his fingers over his stubble; you swear you can hear it in the silence.
His eyes drift up and he clucks. "Forgot about you..."
You have no response for that. It wouldn't be the first time. You shift on your soles.
"Anything I can do? Get some water? File something?" You offer.
His cheek dimples. He shakes his head. "It's not rocket science."
He pulls his screen closer again. He heaves a dark breath and his jaw pinches down. His lashes flutter and he taps the edge of the desk.
He brings his hand up a d wags it.
"One thing." He says and reaches to the draw at the front of his desk. He presses his thumb and it clicks. "Bring this to Fowler."
He takes out a small square... Thing. He places it on the corner of the desk. You slowly approach as slide it off the glass between your fingers.
"Fowler." You repeat.
"Upstairs." He says and pivots back to the screen.
Right. You let the item slip into the palm of your hand and close your fist. You turn and walk out of the room.
You suspect he might just be trying to get a break from you. It's awkward just standing there. He has one shadow, he doesn't need another... That's something Andy likes to say.
You shake off that thought. He can't be the only thing going on in your life. This should help, right? You won't feel so needy and he won't feel so needed.
You stop at the elevators. You check the app. You can't look anything up in the directory. All access is denied.
You go down to the main floor and back to the front desk. Sandy perks up and greets you. She remembers your name.
"Um, could you tell me where I can find Fowler?"
You ask.
"Agent Fowler? Well, sure." She smiles. She types on her slim keyboard. "He just got out of a briefing so hopefully he's in his office. 56-F0."
You memorise the number and thank her. She wishes you luck. Again. You'll take all you can get.
You flash your badge and keep it in your hand to swipe at the elevator. You go to the sixth floor this time. Makes sense.
You clip the card to your blazer again and slowly walk the halls. You take in every door plate, reciting the office number under your breath. You stop in front of 56-F0.
"Now, who's sending me pretty women?" A man drawls as he struts up from the other end of the hall.
You face him and blanch. It's flattering but not entirely appropriate. You squirm and bring your fist up.
"Are you Fowler?"
"Woah, if you're here to swing on me, better set your feet first." He scoffs as he nears. He stops right in front of you and crosses his arms, casually leaning on the wall.
"No, uh. Agent Walker." You turn your hand and open your fingers.
He peers down at the flat square and presses a wide fingertips onto it. He slips it from your palm and examines it. He sucks his teeth.
"Typical. Can't be bothered to get off his ox-sized ass." He pinches the square between his fingers. "But I'll take your pretty face over his."
You try not to show your discomfort. You don't think your hideous but the compliments feel so out of place; for more than the context. It's just not something you hear a lot.
"Well, um, there you go." You back up and drop your arm.
"So, why are you running around for August?" He asks.
It takes a moment to register who he means. A. Walker. August.
"Coordinating assistant." You answer plainly.
"Ah. Bringer of coffee." He grins. "They finally put a babysitter on his ass."
You shrug then cringe. You can hear Andy chiding you. When you do that, you look like a child.
"I'm there to support." You say.
He laughs again. "Cute. Well how about you go hold his hand and tell him I got the chip. I'll take care of it."
"Erm. Okay, thank you."
You spin awkwardly and walk away beneath his scrutiny. You exhale only as you turn the corner out of sight and get to the elevator. You tap your card and bounce on your feet.
You take your phone out on your single-floor descent. Nothing. No 'how's your first day?', no 'thinking of you'. Well, things can't change over night.
You find your way back to Walker's office door. You stand in front of it. Your phone buzzes in your blazer pocket. You slip it out.
It's the security app. Tracking in progess? You unlock your phone as the notification expands. Supervisory scan requested. You see a dot on a map. Right by 41-B6.
You lower your phone and knock.
"Get in here." Walker snarls from inside.
You enter and tuck your phone away. He puts his own face down. He glances at you then back at his monitor.
"Sir. I handed the chip over to Agent Fowler."
"One floor up. Shouldn't take that long." He girds.
"Understood." You accept. It probably shouldn't have.
You resume your post by the wall. He clears his throat. You fidget.
"Did you want any water?" You offer again.
He taps the screen, dragging his touch over it, and shifts in his seat.
"Water's fine."
You take the directive. It's not exactly enthusiastic but it's better than nothing. You're not sure you can take much more of playing statue.
Warnings: noncon sexual acts (sexual intercourse); unplanned pregnancy; cheating.
This is dark!Bucky and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
(Fair warning, this is very depressing and rough)
Summary: You and Bucky had the perfect marriage until you didn’t.
Based on this prompt:
‘Shadow of what I once was.’ -Chance the Rapper
for @honeyhan-123‘s One Year Anniversary Challenge
Supplemental Lyrics:
Where did you go?
Why would you stay?
You must have lost your marbles
You always were so forgetful
In a hurry, don’t wait up
I was too late, I was too late
Note: So this was kinda impromptu and out of nowhere. I haven’t done a legit one shot if forever so here ya go!
Hope you enjoy it. Thank you. Love you guys!
Please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3
Your feet ached. Even in the low heels, you felt as if you’d been standing on nails all night. Your round stomach made it hard to balance without the added challenge of your shoes. The dainty lilac silk was taut across your middle and your swollen breasts were barely contained by the off the shoulder bodice. You were told you were glowing but you felt anything but.
Warnings: this fic contains suggestions of criminal activity and neglect. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
18+ only, explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is the next June fic! (It’s late. Sorry)
Walter Marshall + “Let me kiss you. Just once.”
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
The pounding on the door startles you away. The whole trailer shakes with the force of it. Your head spins as your eyes snap open and reality slowly pieces together, though not all of it fits.
You’re on the fold out bed that converts to a table in daylight. Your brother sleeps on the couch and your dad gets the only private room in the cluttered trailer. You sit up groggily as the hammering knock comes again; at the top right of the door.
“Police, open up. Now!” A voice barks.
Your feet tangle in the blanket as you scramble to obey. You nearly tip over the edge as you leave the ratty comforter hanging down to the floor. You garble dumbly as you try to straighten up yourself and your vision.
You look around. The couch is empty and your dad’s bedroom door is shut.
“Dad? Ricky?” You call out. Your voice is crisp not only from sleep but disuse. You can’t remember the last time you spoke so loudly. “Hey!”
No answer.
You stagger into the door and lean on it as you slide back the latch. It quakes as once more a fist batters at it. “PD. Open up now. Show your hands.”
You twist the latch and the door pushes open from the other side. You stumble as a light shines in your face. “Hands up. Show your hands. Palm out.”
You shakily do as you’re told. You don’t know what’s going on. The police come around but your dad or brother deals with them. You usually just hide. That’s all you ever do.
“Against the wall.” An officer grabs you and spins you into the closest wall. You whimper as he pins you there with his knee against the back of your legs and his elbow in your back.
Other shadows march in, aiming lights and barrels all around. The strip the foldout bed and flip it up roughly. You quiver as you try to see over your shoulder.
“Head forward.” The officer commands. “I’m searching the suspect in custody.”
You whine. Suspect?
The man gruffly grabs at your, hooking his arm around to claw at your shirt, down your chest across the back of your shoulders, down your sides. He kicks your feet apart as he searches for pockets and anything hidden in your stained jogging pants. Just three days of your sweat.
“She’s not one of them,” Another officer says. “Take it easy.”
“How do you know?”
“She’s fucking one or related,” another responds. “She’ll be questioned but no need for all tht.”
You shy away at the former suggestion. You would never. As pathetic as you are, still living with your family, you’re not that. No, no man ever wanted that from you.
“Grinton,” a taller officer approaches, “join in. I’ll take the witness.”
“Fine.”
“You find anything good, you’re welcome,” the second officer says. “I’ll write the commendation myself.”
“Pfft, whatever,” the man pushes off you and you whimper again. “Fucking desk jockeys.”
The first officer stomps away as the other lingers. “Hey, miss, let’s step outside, okay?”
He gestures you to the door aas the police continue to ransack the trailer. You descend the three steps to the ground in your bare feet. The officer follows you out.
“Come on, we’ll go by my vehicle.” He nudges you gently.
You nod and follow his thick finger to a big grey truck. He walks you over and directs you to stand by the side of the hood. He holsters his gun and goes to the back passenger door. He opens it to grab something then returns to you.
“Water,” he offers the bottle. You take it and murmur, “thank you.”
“No problem. Not a very peaceful awakening, huh?” He asks.
You shake your head as you try to uncap the water. Your mouth is gritty and dry. You can’t get a grip as you tremble. Your eyes drift over to the officers streaming in and out of the trailer.
“I’m Detective Marshall. I’m leading this investigation. You’re not under arrest right now but I am going to question you.” He pauses and watches you struggle with the bottle. He opens his hand. “Here.”
You hand it over. He cracks the seal easily and hands it back with the cap loosened. You take it off and drink slowly.
“I’m going to tell you your rights. Make sure you listen, miss.”
You nod and put the cap back on, hands unsteadily twisting it.
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to talk to a lawyer for advice before we ask you any questions.” He stops and watches you. You nod again. “You have the right to have a lawyer with you during questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed for you before any questioning if you wish. If you decide to answer questions now without a lawyer present, you have the right to stop answering at any time.
“Knowing your rights, are you willing to answer my questions?”
You rock slightly then stop yourself. You don’t understand. Sure, your dad and Ricky get into some shady stuff; pot, drinking, and their scummy friends, but they never hurt no one.
“Uh, yes. I understand. Um, but I don’t know anything.” You utter.
He leans in, a curl falling forward. He’s tall and wide. He wears a black shirt under a black jacket, a holster across his shoulders and on his belt. His badge hangs around his neck. His blue eyes shine in the moonlight.
“Miss, you’re going to have to speak up. There’s a lot going on right now.” He girds.
“Ahm, sorry,” you clear your throat. “Um, um,” you squeeze the bottle and the lid pops off, water splashing out.
“Alright, miss, let’s get you sitting down.” He offers.
He motions you along the truck and opens the back passenger door. You see the case of bottles on the floor. He points you to the seat. You climb up awkwardly and sit sideways to face him, his hand on your elbow as he helps you.
“I… I understand. I can answer… try to.” You say louder but not more confident.
“Alright,” he says. “Everything is being recorded for your safety and mine,” he taps his chest and you notice the box attached to his gun harness.
“Ok…” you sip again. His eyes follow the movement.
“What’s your name?” He asks. You answer barely, choking on the syllables. “How do you know Carlo….” he says your last name.
You blink. “He’s…” your lip trembles. “My dad…. Is he okay?”
He hums. “And Ricky….”
You bite your lip. You frown. “My brother,” you eke out.
“You reside here with them?”
“Yes, sir.” You gulp. “I… I clean up and I cook when I can. I just… I stay inside. I don’t… are they hurt?”
“We’ll get to that. Now, miss, I need you to focus on my questions. Can you do that?” He adds on your name, like he knows you.
“Yes, I’m trying. I’m sorry. I’m scared.”
“You don’t have to be scared, alright?” He assures. “When’s the last time you saw your dad or your brother?”
You shudder and sway. “This morning. Or… yes… I made coffee and Ricky didn’t like it. And dad, he… he was in a real bad mood. He didn’t even want his.” You bring a hand up to shakily rub your cheek. “Are they in trouble?”
“Miss, you answer my questions, okay?”
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” you cower at the stone in his voice. “I didn’t mean to. I promise.”
He stares at you, his brow twitching. He takes a deep breath. Your eyes twinge with the heat of tears ready to spill over.
“No need for sorry. I’m not mad. These questions are for your safety. No one’s trying to hurt you or get you in trouble.”
You nod and gulp. “I just… I just… dad said not to talk to the police.”
“I’m sure he did,” he scoffs. “Alright. I think that’s enough for now. We’ll get you to the precinct and wrap this up there.”
“Oh? Am I… being arrested?” Your voice cracks.
“Detained. For further questioning.” He explains evenly. “I’m just gonna keep you out here in my truck, okay? You want the heat on? Some music?”
“I… I am a little cold,” you chatter and hug yourself. “Thank you, sir. Uh, Detective.”
🚨
You’re put in a room alone. It’s cold. You’re sat at a table. No shoes, no coat, still in your jogging pants and your dad’s old hole-pocked Budweiser shirt. You shiver and rub your arms.
The door opens and jars you. You hunch as you try to warm yourself. You don’t have a bra on. You hid your nipples behind your crossed arms.
Detective Marshall greets you by name. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” He comes in. “No one offered you a blanket?”
You glance over at him and shake your head.
“Christ.” He growls. He’s just a grizzly in the light. Thick hair, thick beard, thick shoulders. He doesn’t have his holsters or his guns now. That’s a little reassuring. “Alright, I’ll go get that. You want coffee or something?”
“No thank you. I don’t like coffee?”
“More water? Tea?” He suggests.
“Sir, I… I’m fine. Just cold. Thank you.”
“Alright. I’ll be back.”
He’s quick. As promised, he returns with a blanket. He drape it over your shoulders and you pull it snug around you. He sits across from you as he puts down a notebook and pen, alongside his phone.
“Alright. So, I think we shouldn’t have much more to go over tonight. You’ve been super helpful already. Really just looking to understand what your brother and dad have been up to the last few days.” He begins.
“Right, um, I don’t know much. I stay… home.” You slant your lips.
“You work?” He prompts. You shake your head and look down.
“But you said you do stuff at home. Sounds like you do put in work.”
“Yeah, that’s… that’s chore. No one else’ll do em.” You shrug.
“I’m not gonna sit here and beat around the bush with you, sweetie. Be very honest with me, do you know of any illegal activity your dad and brother might be involved with?” He asks.
You stare at the table. You push your thumbs together under the blanket. You don’t want to get them in trouble.
“I know you’re a good girl, huh?” He leans in, gripping the pen in his hand. His large hand with thick fingers, coarse hair on his knuckles. “You don’t want them to get hurt. I’m not looking to do that. We need to find them to help them.” He sniffs. “So you be honest because if you’re not, that’s an obstruction charge.”
“What? No, I…”
“Can’t be so quiet, sweetie.” He chides.
You sit up and look at him. Your cheeks pinch as you fight back tears.
“I know they smoke… uh pot. But I don’t know anything else.” You confess. “I hate the smell and… They tell me go out back when they got friends over.”
He scribbles on the paper.
“You know any of these friends names?” He asks.
You purse your lips and nod. You just want to go home. So you’ll answer his questions. Pot isn’t so bad. Certainly it could be worse.
🚨
“I think that’s about it.” Detective Marshall states. “We’ll just have you sign your statement and you’re free to go.” He closes the notebook. “It’ll take a couple to get it printed out but you can go wait in the hall.”
You nod and stand up. You look down and let the blanket fall off your shoulders. You fold it up and offer it to him. He stares at you, eyes scaling up and down.
“No shoes?” He drawls.
“No uh… no.”
“Hm, I can get you some sandals before you go. Jail issue but they’ll do you.” He says. “Keep the blanket. It’s frigid out.”
You dip your chin again. He leads you out and puts you in one of the chairs along the wall. You cling to the blanket and wait. You listen to the chatter of the officers, the printer skimming, and the snorts and coughs of other people waiting for questioning.
Marshall comes back and gives you a pair of socks and rubber grey sandals. “Sorry we don’t go anything else. They’re probably a bit big on ya.”
“That’s okay.” You stare at your knees.
“Alright, come up to the counter to sign your statement when you’re ready.” He leaves them in your lap.
You put on the socks and sandles, then flop up to the counter. You sign the printed statement as Marshall looms on the other side.
“You need a ride somewhere? It’s late.”
“Um… home?” You say. “If it’s not too much, I… I don’t got no money.”
“Home? You can’t go home. It’s an active crime scene.” He says.
Your eyes go wide. “What? I don’t got no where else.” You pout.
“No mom? Family?”
You shake your head.
“Friends?”
You bat your lashes as panic and fear floods your chest.
“Alright, alright, we can help you out. How about I call the shelter, see if they got any beds? If not, we’ll figure something out for the night, alright?”
“I… I… I’m sorry,” you rock as you squeeze the folded blanket. “I… I don’t know what to do.”
“Just go sit down and I’ll get it sorted for you,” he assures.
“Okay.” You sniffle and turn to shuffle back to the hard plastic chair.
“Walter, you’re such a sweet old teddy bear,” one of the officer says to him, getting only a growl in return.
🚨
“No beds,” Marshall stands in front of you as you get up. “But I got a place you can stay the night.”
“Oh, uh… I’m…”
“Sorry? Come on. You’re not the one who made this mess.” He tuts. “Here.” He offers you his jacket, the big black heavy one. “You’re tired. So am I.”
“I… thank you.” You hang your head.
He puts the jacket over your shoulders. He nudges you and ushers you along the fluorescent tinted hallways. A few times he has to scan his badge to get you through.
You come out into the cold night, your breath pluming frostily from your lips. He takes you to the same gray truck. Your sandal slips on the step as you try to get in and he catches you. He gets you in the seat and buckles you in. You press yourself away from him as you watch.
He chuckles. “Sorry, habit. I’m used to buckling people in.”
He backs up and shuts the door. You lay the blanket on your lap, your hands lost in the lengths of his sleeves. He gets in the driver’s side and turns the engine.
“You can close your eyes. It’s not far.”
You don’t. You watch the cones of the street lights and the black street. He makes a few turns and pulls into a town house. You peer around curiously.
“You’ll have to be quiet. Faye’ll be sleeping.” He says.
You look at him.
“My daughter. It’s ok. You’ll crash in my bed and I’ll take the couch so she’s not surprised.”
You nod. “Thank you, Detective. It’s… too nice.”
“Walter. This isn’t an interrogation,” he reaches to squeeze your shoulder. Before he pulls away, he pets your cheek softly. “Come on. Let’s get you in bed.”
He gets out and comes around to open your door. He brings you up the walkway and guides you inside. He uses his flashlight to take you through the dark into a bedroom at the end of the downstairs hallway.
He offers you some clean clothes; his. Made for a man bigger than most. He leaves them for you and suggest the shower in the bathroom attached to the room. You thank him and he leaves.
Alone, you don’t know what to you. You’re embarrassed. You’re lost. What do you do now? What’s going on with Ricky and your dad?
You change into his clothes and slip into bed. Despite your displacement, you drift off easily. You dream of the precinct and the cold walls and metal table.
You wake to humming sound. You can smell pine. A soapy scent. Your lashes flutter as you lift your head. The bathroom door is slightly open.
The thrumming stop as metal cranks. You listen to the soft noises that come after. The door opens with a puff of steam.
Detective Marshall, no, Walter, steps out. He has only a towel around his waist, the curls on his head shiny with dampness, and the hair on his body too. It’s thick and dark and goes from chest to stomach…
“Oh, sorry, did I wake you? I was trying not to.” He grips the towel tighter. It’s too small for him. “I’ll just grab some clothes and scram. I gotta get Faye to school.”
“I’m sorry. I can go.” You sit up. “What time is it?”
He shakes his head. “Early. Stay. We need to talk when I get back.”
“Oh, okay. Sorry.”
You lay back down and roll so your back is too him. You feel like you’ve seen something you shouldn’t and when you close your eyes, you see his body. Yikes.
🚨
When you hear Walter go, you get up. You change back into your own clothes and bring his out with you. The place is empty. It’s nice. A lot nicer than the trailer.
You sit by the front door, on the bench with the cubbies for shoes under it. You hear his truck and his footsteps before he enters. He grunts in surprise as he sees you. His hands are full; a tray of paper cups and a paper bag balanced in one.
“You’re awake.” He says. “I brought breakfast.”
“Oh, you don’t gotta… that’s… a lot.”
“Just BLTs. Little place the detectives love.” He says casually. “Come on, can’t let you go on an empty stomach.”
“I… thank you.”
You wring your hands. You don’t have a plan. You don’t have anywhere to go. So you won’t insist too much.
“I can take that stuff.” You offer.
“Sure, just through there to the right. We’ll eat at the table.” He hands over the food and drinks.
He comes in shortly after, sans his puffer coat and boots. He sits beside you. That’s close.
“Um, Mr… sir. Walter.” You say. “When can I go home?”
He puts a cup in front of you. “Hot chocolate.” He sifts in the paper bag. “You like cheese on your BLT? I got cheddar.”
“Walter?” You urge.
He sighs. “Not anytime soon. I’m sorry. But, I’ve been thinking it over. We can make room here.”
“You said something about a shelter–”
“You ever been to one?” He asks.
You shake your head.
“Even if you get a bed, you won’t get any sleep. Trust me. It’s not safe. Especially for someone like you.”
He unwraps the bagel sandwich and puts it in front of you.
“But…” you begin but have no true argument.
“Look. I know you're not involved in whatever your family got themselves into. Shit happens. Wrong place, wrong time. I talk to all sorts and I know when someone's lying.” He taps his finger on the wrapper. “I know you're not.” He slowly drags his hand away. “And I know you should eat.”
“I… thank you.” You sit back and look at the sandwich. It looks and smells so good.
“I saw the food in that place. Lack of.” He mutters. “You won't go hungry here.”
You say nothing. Ashamed.
“But one thing in return.” He glanced over and you shyly return his gaze. “Don't tell Faye how we know each other. Just tell her… you're an old friend.”
🚨
Faye is nice. Fifteen years old. Sarcastic to her father. Curious with you.
She asks who you are. You recite the lie but tell her your real name. She asks why you're friends with someone as crusty as her dad. You shrug. She laughs. He doesn't react.
She tells you about her friends and all the drama at her school. It's a good distraction. When you were her age, you did your best to stay out of that stuff. When it came your way, you were always the butt of the joke.
It’s a week and you’re still not sure. About where you’ll go next. About yourself. You still feel like an intruder in Walter’s life.
You make up for it by cleaning and cooking. You never asked and he never did either. You just started doing it to feel less lost.
Faye helps you that night with a simple dish. Pasta and chicken. The ingredients here are much nicer than at home. Is it still your home?
“So, I guess, I’m confused because I really like this person and they seem to like me too,” Faye says as she stirs the sauce. “I don’t know. What if I’m misreading?”
You give a gentle smile as you check the noodles. “Um, sorry, Faye, I… I wouldn’t be the best for… to know…” She leans in a little. You raise your voice. It’s a bad habit. Mumbling. “Um, I never really, you now, had a boyfriend or whatever…”
“No? Well, she wouldn’t be a boyfriend.” Faye says. You look at her, surprised. She hesitates. “Sorry, I said too much–”
“No, no. That’s great!” You assure her. “Is she pretty?”
“The prettiest,” she says. “And so bubbly but what if I’m too much of a bitch? What if I’m too sarcastic.”
“You never know unless you try, right?”
She quiet for a moment, tapping the wooden spoon to get the excess sauce off before putting it down. “But you never did. You said so.”
You shrug and look away. “Guess I never really had the… opportunity.”
“I’m… I didn’t mean, I–” she stammers.
“It’s okay. Really. It’s a choice.” You lie. Is it a choice when no one ever wanted you?
Another lull rises. The water spits as it boils around the noodles. You turn it down.
“Ladies,” Walter startles you. “Smells good in here.”
“Dad.” Faye spins. “You’re early.”
“I am?” He checks his watch. “I guess.”
“Hi,” you say quietly as you grab a strainer.
“Faye, why don’t you go chill. I’ll help finish up.” He insists.
“Sure. I gotta text Hera.” She slits out. You wonder if that’s the girl she told you about.
“Here,” Walter approaches and takes the strainer. “I’ll hold, you pour.”
He goes to the sink. You grab the pot of noodles and carefully approach. You pour out the steaming water to drain the pasta. You press against Walter as you do.
He dumps the dry noodles back into the pot and you put it back on the unlit burner. You stir the sauce as he sidles up next to you.
“Almost done. Think I can handle it.” You say.
He leans in. Oh, you’re mumbling again.
“No, it’s okay. You and Faye, seems like you’re getting along.”
You nod.
“That’s good. You know, her mom left when she was real young so…”
“I’m sorry for her.” You say.
“I think I do a good job. Or try to.” He says as he turns to watch you. You focus on the sauce, wondering if you should add more seasoning.
“So um, I overheard a little. Just you know, I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“Oh?” You blanch.
“I’m happy she could tell you that. I guess I’m too much of an asshole for her to trust me like that.” He snorts.
“No, you’re not. You’re a good dad. A good guy.”
“I… can be,” he says. “But uh… were you just saying all that to make her feel better or…”
“What… do you mean?”
“You never… had a boyfriend?”
You sweat and not because of the stove. You shake your head.
“Never?” He asks again.
You put your face down and shake your head more vehemently.
“How’s that? As pretty as you are.”
“Walter,” you babble and put the spoon down. You turn away from him. “It’s not… you don’t have to…”
You try to walk away and he catches your arm. He pulls you back to face him. You hit his chest and look up at him. You squeak.
He stares down at you, hands firm around your arms. His breath plumes from his nose. He leans down.
“Let me kiss you. Just once.” He says quietly. “Then you can say you have.”
You gape at him. You don’t know what to do? If you say no, it would be so awkward, but what about if you say yes? What does it mean? Just once?
“Please,” his voice quivers. “Let me kiss you, sweetie.”
You squirm and swallow. “I don’t… I don’t know how.”
“Let me show you,” he leans down until you feel the graze of his lips. “It’s just a kiss.”
Just a kiss. That’s it. Don’t think too much.
“Okay…” you whisper.
He presses his lips to yours. You squeak. His tongue flicks across your lips and you twitch. He pokes and you let him in. You stand there dumbly as he smothers you, his hands squeezing tighter and tighter.
He pulls away at last. You’re both breathless. You put your head down and wipe his saliva away with the back of your hand. He rubs up and down your arms.
“Was it good?” He asks.
“Walter…” you croak and look up. You chew the hem of your sleeve, trying to hide behind it. “When can I go home?”
His eyes flash and his jaw tenses. His nostrils flare just a little.
“We haven’t found your family yet so… not today.” He drops his hands. He turns and grabs the wooden spoon to stir the sauce himself. “You don’t like it here?”
You frown. “No, I didn’t say but… I don’t belong.”
His cheek dimples. “Who said that?”
“No one, I just…” You trail off.
“If you asked, I’d tell you you do.” He says quietly. He turns off the burn and adds the sauce to the noodles. “You know where you don’t belong. In that dirty old trailer with criminals.” He snarls as he mixes the pasta. “I think I’ve taken damn good care of you.” He drops the spoon against the side of the pot and faces you. “Wouldn’t you say so?”
You look down.
“No, look at me. Tell me.” He commands.
You lift your head and peer up at him. “Yes, I… I like it here. You’ve been so nice and… I’m sorry.”
He sighs. “I’m not sorry. But I will be when… if you leave.” He reaches for you and traces a line down your throat. “You don’t have to, sweetie. I don’t want you to.”
Got himself a ready to install wifey hahahah. Walter is abusing his power by acting like a saviour when he's really putting reader in a powerless position. Even if she wanted to say no, she really can't.
Warning: power imbalance, dark content, obsession, and all around sexiness.
Summary: Powerful director Nick takes interest in a new project; you. (director!Nick Fowler, plus!reader)
I always see this gif and wanna write something so here we go.
Hi! Please please please reblog and leave some feedback if you read! I love you 💕
“That was… wow.” You utter breathily as the credits drift down the screen. You rub your eyes then drag your hands over your head. “Amazing. So… beautiful.” You suppress a yawn and flutter your lashes. “I really…”
You look over at Nick. He’s slack against the back of the couch. You stare at him in the dim glow of the screen. His chest rises and falls evenly.
“Oh…” you smile to yourself. He must be exhausted. People say he’s in first and gone last. “Sorry.” You whisper and slide carefully to the edge of the couch. “Good night, sir.”
You stand and he suddenly snorts. He lurches forward and latches onto your wrist. You squeak in surprise.
“Ah, oh, sorry!” You eke out. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“What….” his voice grits in his throat. “Why… Where are you going?”
“Um, sir… Nick,” you gently touch his knuckles. “You were sleeping and… the movies over.”
He clears his throat and sits forward. “I didn’t mean to…” He sniffs and keeps hold of you. “You’re just very… calming.”
You chuckle nervously. “Thank you, s–Nick. But you’re tired.” You brush the back of his hand. He lets you go.
“It’s late. You must be too.” He insists.
“A little.” You blink heavily. “I should head home. Get to bed.”
He turns his head until his neck cracks softly. He reaches over and picks up his phone. “It’s too late.”
“What? Traffic will be nothing–”
“When did you wake up?” He asks.
“What?”
“Today… yesterday? What time did you wake up?”
“Well, um… about seven-thirty or so.” You shrug.
“You know, they say it’s as dangerous to drive while overtired as it is to be under the influence.” He stands and you lean back on your heels.
“Well, erm, it’s very nice of you to worry but I’m okay.”
“I won’t be. I’ll worry.” He counters.
You laugh again. “That’s sweet.”
“It’s true.” He looks down at his phone. He presses his thumb to the screen and it unlocks. “Put your number in.” He flicks to an app and turns the cell to you.
“Um… okay.” You take the phone, your hand brushing his. You doubt he’ll ever need your number.
“Good.” He takes it back. “Now, lay down and get some sleep.”
You sway and pout. “Nick. I have my car– And it probably has a big ticket right on it.”
“Let me worry about that.” He grabs your shoulders and gently turns, guiding you around so your back is to the couch. “I kept you up. I appreciate you humouring my freshman film but you need sleep.”
“But…” you stop yourself as his grip on you tightens. You have to remind yourself who he is. “Okay. Thank you. I’ll…” you slip free of his grasp and sit lightly. “Try.”
“I got a blanket around here…” he turns and pulls out a rolled up blanket, still bound up in a paper sheath. You’ve seen a few around set with the studio’s logo on it.
“What about you? You need to sleep.” You say as he unfolds the blanket.
He snorts and spreads the throw over you. You twitch as he brushes your cheek with his fingertips and hums. “Don’t worry about me.” He cups your face. “Lay down. I am telling you to do this as the director on set. Now.”
You nod and slowly lean away from his touch. You lower yourself onto the couch and exhale. He lingers, looming over you as he checks his phone again.
“I got rewrites…” he mutters and drags his feet away. “I’ll check on you in a bit.”
You nod and hug yourself under the blanket. Despite the weight in your eyelids, you’re not sure you’ll sleep. You’re all frazzled by his demands.
“Thank you, Nick.” You murmur as he crosses the trailer.
He stops right by the table and peers back at you. “Need anything, ask.”
🎥
A bang wakes you with a start. You sit up and nearly throw yourself right off the couch. You look around, disoriented as you struggle to recall where you are. As it slowly comes back to you, you rub your temples as another thud comes, shaking the trailer.
Outside the curtains, the lot is lit up. You stand up and search around for your things. Your bag is where you left it. You sift around inside and flip it over. No! It’s almost noon!
Your heart jumps into your throat and you haul up the strap of your bag. Your shoes… You’ll just have to work in your day old clothes. Maybe no one will notice.
You pause and feel your face and hair. They might notice that. You back up and unlock your phone.
No one called. Maybe they just assumed you’re running behind. It’s all good.
You turn to the door and it opens as you reach for it. You almost grab right onto Nick’s shirts as he steps inside. He stops himself before he can collide with you.
“Morning,” he grins, as he lingers in the doorway.
“Sir. Nick!” You babble. “I… I’m late for work. I have to go find Leon–”
“I told him you’re taking the day.” He steps inside and you back up.
“What?” You utter.
Nick’s blue eyes flash and his brows lower, just a little. He pulls the door shut behind him and his cheek dimples.
“Sure. You need it. You were sleeping so heavy, I figured…”
“But… I can’t miss work. I need to pay my rent and my car payment and–”
“I’ll take care of it.” He says. “I got them to tear up the ticket on your windshield too.”
“You… did?” You blink and tip your chin slightly. “Thanks but… no, I should help–”
“I said I’ll take care of it.” His eyes narrow. He steps further inside and you back up. “Feels like you’re running away. Like… there’s something else. Someone else?”
You furrow your brows and shake your head. “Huh? I don’t know what you mean. I just… I would be in your way. I mean, you needa be on set–”
“We just finished the morning. Break time.” He herds you backwards into the trailer. “Lunch should be here soon.”
“Oh, I should let you eat. At least I should go home and change out of these.” You look down at the gravy stain on your shirt.
He taps your arm and points you to the table. You look past him and he moves into your view. You gulp and look up at him.
“Sit.” He orders.
You hesitate, only for a moment, then relent. He’s only being nice but it feels so… controlling. He’s just worried and you can’t fault him for that.
“I got something…” he goes into the next room as you sit at the table. He returns and hands you a shirt. A bluish grey button up. “Should do.”
“Oh, Nick, thanks. That’s… kind.”
“Don’t say but to me right now.” He warns.
You take the shirt and nod. A knock comes at the door before the silence can grow tense. He sits.
“Get in here.” He calls out.
His assistant enters with a tray, one of your coworkers behind her with another. They near and put down the food. Nick snaps his fingers and shooes them away. You thank them as they scurry out the door.
You look at him as he watches you. You glance down then up again. “Thanks, um, you didn’t have to… uh…”
“Do me a favour, don’t make me eat alone.” He says. “I’ve been doing that for years.”
Prompt: “Let them say we’re crazy, what do they know?”
I know it’s short but please let me know your thoughts and reblog. Also, would love to discuss any ideas these little snippets inspire!
Love you! 💞
“Steve… do you think maybe we should go back?” You ask quietly.
He’s silent. His hand is firmly on your arm as he marches you between the trees. The moonlight flickers behind the branches. You shiver and hug yourself.
“Almost there.” He says.
You nod and crane to see over your shoulder. He yanks you so you trip but don’t fall. He doesn’t slow, doesn’t stop.
“Where are w–”
“Let them say we’re crazy, what do they know?” He mutters.
What is he talking about? Your teeth chatter as your sneaks crunch through twigs and slip over moss.
“Steve,” you say his name again. “Are you okay?”
“Fine. I’m fine,” he growls. “Almost there. I told you.”
You peek over at him. The moonlight catches his cowl and limns his silhouette briefly. His jaw is set and his eyes are deep pools of darkness. You shiver again but not from the dark.
“Almost… where?” You ask.
“Home.” He replies bluntly.
The smell of oil clings to your denim jacket. He left the motorcycle back on the highway in a heap before he carried you off into the forest. There were people after you. His friends… or maybe once were.
You pull your arms apart and touch your wrist. It still hurts, just like your head. The crash was scary. He kept you hidden from the shrapnel behind his shield, cushioned you with his own body. It could have been worse. It can still get worse.
He stops and cracks his neck. He stretches his arm across your shoulders and points. “Right up there.”
Just ahead there’s a house draped in shadows. It’s out of place among the crooked trees, as if plunked there out of the sky. It doesn’t belong there and neither do you.
Warnings: This will include dark elements such as noncon, power imbalance, age gap, and depression. Please do not read if these elements or any dark elements make you uncomfortable.
Character: August Walker
Summary: You live a burdensome life but can’t seem to lift the weight off your shoulders. When your mother brings a coworker home, you find it even harder to bear.
Note: I hope I don’t need to tag Auggy as mean bc that’s what we’re getting.
Please reblog if you enjoy and leave some feedback! Muah 💋
Your anxiety keeps you on edge. Sleep ebbs and flows until your surrender to consciousness. You sit and wait for the uncertain. You know Agent Walker will return but you don’t know when.
You hear your mother leave for the day. She gets up early and you often think it’s because she doesn’t want to be around you. She never takes a day off and when she does, her vacations are somewhere far from you.
You can’t focus on anything. Books aren’t interesting enough to distract you; or Youtube; or games. It’s just you and inevitability.
When the knock comes, the three loud thumps that nearly make you jump on the floor, you’re shaking. You fight to keep control of yourself as your stand. Your knees are buckling. Your steps are slow and unsteady.
You use the wall to stay upright and drag your soles through the house. He knocks again. You don’t want him impatient. Not any more than he already is.
You fumble with the lock and open the door. He pushes from the other side and you stagger back. He steps inside and huffs. Crosses his arms and glares at you.
“Um, sir. Agent Walker,” you eke out. “Hel-lo.”
“The fuck are you doing?” He snarls.
“I… I don’t know. What should I– What do you want–”
“Did you do what I told you?” He asks tersely.
You look down and sway. “Yes, sir.”
“Let’s go.” He points past you.
You shudder and spin away from him. You can’t look at him. You’re too nervous. Too scared. He’s so big and mean, you don’t expect this to be anything but the same.
You go back to your room. He follows. As you get to the door, he grabs the back of your neck and marches you through. He kicks the door shut with his heel.
“You’re not wearing what I got you.” He squeezes then hurls you forward. “You don’t like my gifts? You wasting my money, girl?”
“No, sir. I– no. I didn’t know–”
He snaps his fingers to silence you.
“Shut the fuck up and get to it.”
“Yes, Agent Walker.”
You hurry over to your dresser where you hid the clothes. You hear him sniffing. He grunt.
“Cleaner than last time.” He comments.
“Yes, sir.”
He shushes you. You pull out the drawer and stare. Which one? Oh, who cares. Whatever you do will be wrong. You pull out the fuschia pink set. It’s bright but the butterflies on the straps are kind of pretty.
You face Walker. He paces around, his phone in hand as he squints at the screen. You look at the door. It hardly matters.
You put your back to him and focus on undressing. Your hands are clumsy through the trembling. You have to hold onto the corner of the dresser to lift your legs. You pull on the panties before you take off your shirt. The top is a bit confusing but you manage to untangle the straps.
You hook the back of the lingerie. The fabric is flowy around your stomach while the cups lift your tits high. You glance down at yourself and reach back to touch your naked cheeks.
“Hurry the fuck up,” he sneers.
You look over your shoulder as he tucks his phone in his jacket pocket. You turn all the way and force your arms straight. You hope it’s not that bad.
His eyes trawl up and down lazily. Your skin speckles with goosebumps. He sighs.
“Come here and undress me. Jesus fuck.” He makes the order sound like you should know what he wants.
You go to him but stop short. You hover your hands before him. Where do you start? The idea of touching him is just as terrifying as the reverse.
“Do it.” He pinches your side painfully. “You really are fucking stupid.”
You wince and touch the front of his jacket. He’s a lot bigger up close. You push on the lapels and he stands still as you roll the fabric back on his shoulders. You pull it down one side at a time, feeling the hint of his muscles beneath.
You catch the jacket before it can fall.
“Don’t let my shit touch the floor. It’s expensive.” He growls.
You take the jacket and hang it on your desk chair. You return to him. You look at his chest. You tug his tie and he twitches.
“Don’t fucking choke me.” He swats your cheek. You squeak.
“Sorry, Agent Walker, I never–”
He huffs and flips up his collar. He yanks the tie until it’s loose and lifts it over his head. He tosses it at you. You catch it and put it on your desk.
You go back and unbutton his shirt. It’s more and more difficult as you get lower and lower. As you can see more of him; chest hair, muscle, more dark hair down his stomach…
You find his cuffs too tight to slip over his large hands. You shakily unbutton them and tug down his sleeves. You get his shirt off and try not to look at him.
You drape his shirt over the jacket on the chair and return a third time. You can’t make yourself do more. You stare at his belt then the floor.
He sits suddenly and kicks out his feet. “Shoes, socks, then pants.”
You nod. “Yes, sir.”
You get down to unlace his shoes. Leather and shining. It’s degrading to take them off, then his socks. You don’t feel like it’s beneath you though. This is as useful as you can be.
You stand and he does too. His forearms tense as he opens and closes his fists. His pants are… full. Your breath catches and you cough it out. He grabs your hands and puts them on his belt.
“Hurry the fuck up.”
You clasp onto his belt buckle. You pull and struggle to think your way through it. You finally flick back the stick and slide free the leather. Your hand brushes something hard. He hisses and twitches.
He grabs your jaw suddenly. You whimper and look up at him as you let go of his belt. He brings you to your toes.
“Sorry, Agent Walker. Sorry.” You apologise, thinking you hurt him.
“You got me fucking hard. Nasty little slut.”
You gulp and peer up at him in fright. “I’m sorry–”
“You fucking should be. I gotta train you up. Teach you how to be good.”
You bat your lashes. “What… what do I do, sir?”
“Shhhh,” he hushes you again and brings his other hand up to stroke your lips with his thumb. “Today, we’re gonna start working on obedience. That means I talk, you listen.”
You stare up at him. You can’t nod and you understand; you’re not too speak. He slowly lets you go. He looks down.
You brace yourself and reach for him again. You undo his fly, the button, then the zipper. You’re fingertips are buzzing.
The fabric slackens and your guide it down his thick legs. His boxers are bulging. He steps out of his pants and you put them with the rest of his clothes.
As you return to him, he wiggles his hips subtly, his erection brushing inside the boxers. You latch onto the elastic and try to pull down. They catch on his…dick. Be an adult! You chide yourself as he grunts and catches your wrists.
He guides you to stretch the elastic past his dick. His tip is throbbing and big. You think. It looks big to you. As you peel down the boxers you can’t help but gasp. You’ve been curious, seen things on the internet, but the comments say real men aren’t that long… well…
You tug his boxers to his ankles and once more he lifts his feet. He sits as you retreat to lay them on the desk. When you face him again, he points in front of him. You keep your eyes down.
He hums as you stop in before him. You flinch as he cups your tits and gropes roughly. He bounces them then drags his hands down. He stops at the top of the scalloped panties. He tugs them out and leans forward to look under the lace. He traces the edge along your thighs with his fingertips.
“Smooth.” He remarks. “Good girl.”
He drags his thumbs over the front of your panties then frames your hips with his large hands. He squeezes as you quiver. He chuckles.
“Get down on your knees.” He demands.
You look him in the face. His blue eyes flash. You lower yourself onto your knees and peer up at him. Fear lumps in your throat.
“Open your mouth,” he orders as he wraps his hand around his dick. He pumps it up then down. Tears crest long your eyelids and you open your lips. “Go on. Put it in.”
You lower your eyes and stare at his tip. You lean forward and stretch your lips around him. The saltiness of his skin makes you wince. You force your way past your disgust; not with him, with yourself.
Your eyes rove up his body as you push further. His muscles are thick, his chest is thick and burly, his arms corded. He grabs the back of your head and forces in until he touches your throat.
“You’re gonna stay like this,” he says. “Until I say so.”
Your tears roll out at last and you sniff. He slaps your head lightly.
“Stay,” he growls as he leans back on the heels of his hands and spreads his knees wide. “Or I’ll make you take it all.”
Warnings: This will include dark elements such as noncon, power imbalance, age gap, and depression. Please do not read if these elements or any dark elements make you uncomfortable.
Character: August Walker
Summary: You live a burdensome life but can’t seem to lift the weight off your shoulders. When your mother brings a coworker home, you find it even harder to bear.
Note: I hope I don’t need to tag Auggy as mean bc that’s what we’re getting.
Please reblog if you enjoy and leave some feedback! Muah 💋
Agent Walker pulls up in front of your mother’s house. You stare in confusion. You’re not entirely sure what’s going on. He bought you all these things but he’s just going to drop you off?
He parks against the curb across the street and snaps his fingers. “Out.” He commands.
You flinch and hit the button on the seat belt. You grab the door handle and pull. It doesn’t open. He clears his throat.
“Yes, Agent Walker,” you appease, too scared to look at him.
He jams his finger into a button and the locks click loudly. You open the door and stumble out, nearly tripping over the curb. You steady yourself as he gets out and stops around to the trunk. It’s just a small hatch that blends into the exterior of the sportscar.
He takes out the shopping bags and slams the lid.
“Inside. Now.”
You frown. What the heck?
You flit across the street. He follows at a measured pace. You go up the drive and onto the walk. You lead him to the front door.
He catches up and sighs. “Unlock it.”
You obey. You let him in, shaking with confusion and horror. What would your mother think if she knew?
You enter and take off your shoes out of habit. He doesn’t. He nudges you.
“Where’s your room?” He growls.
You gulp and keep going. The bags rustle. He’s right behind you.
Your hands tremble as you open your door. He shoves you in and snaps it shut behind him. He sniffs as he looks around. Your laundry is on the floor; anywhere but the hamper. And your bookshelves are a clutter of wrappers and misplaced items.
“It’s a fucking pig sty in here.” He snarls.
“Yes, Agent Walker. I’m sorry. I’ll clean it up.”
You bend to gather up some clothes and he catches your shoulder. He pushes you again. You stumble back and stare at him. Your heart hammers behind your ears.
He drops the bags on the lump that is your chair. Beneath a wrinkled duvet and your pajamas, it’s there. You just can’t see it.
“This is how it works. You wash the lingerie. Don’t fucking ruin it. Read the labels. You use everything I got you. I want you clean. I want you to smell human.” He nears and pushes your head. You whimper.
“Get fucking naked.”
You bat your lashes and your eyes fill with tears. “Agent… Walker.” You croak. “I can’t–”
“You can’t do a lot of shit, that much is obvious. You can take off your fucking clothes.” He flicks your cheek. “Trust me that you don’t want me to.”
You wince and nod but it feels more like your head is bobbling. Your tug clumsily at your tee shirt. He turns away and goes to sift through the bags. Your stomach lurches and your throat lumps. You’re going to puke.
You swallow it down and swipe your shirt up over your head. The collar catches and you wrestle free of the cotton. You drop the shirt and look down. Your stomach isn’t like those women in movies. It’s not flat or toned. It’s just there.
You fumble with your fly and your legs buckle. What are you doing? Why is he doing this?
“Hurry the fuck up.” He demands.
You pop the button free and the zipper splits loudly. You push your jeans down and stand dumbly in the pool of denim. He huffs.
“Everything. Off!” He taps your cheek. It stings more than before.
You pull your bralet over your head. Your tits flop and you shiver. You feel him looking at you. As you reach to push down the elastic of your underwear, he palms your chest. You gasp.
“You’re wasting time,” he tweaks your nipple.
You yelp and roll your underwear down. You teeter and untangle from your pants. You strip everything off and choke on your breath. Your chest locks up and your head swells.
He reaches down and touches the hair on your pelvis. You step back and fall onto the bed. He tuts and snaps his fingers.
“Stand up. Feet apart.” He orders.
Your body is heavy and hard to move. Your fear surges and gives you the strength to listen. You get up and shift your feet apart.
He raises his hand and wiggles the small trimming kit in his hand. “I want it tidy. Not gone. Use a razor around the edges. Trim the length.”
You nod. He presses the kit to your chest. You take it. He clucks.
“Good girl,” he pushes a knuckle into your chin. “Trust me when I tell you, you don’t want to be bad.”
▪️
You believe Agent Walker. He leaves as quickly as he arrived. You’re so anxious you can’t sit down. You don’t know what to do but exactly what he says.
Cleaning your space has never been simple. There’s so much to deal with. The clothes, the dishes you forgot to put back, the garbage you tried to hide among the mess. Each layer just reveals how truly messed up you are. There’s something wrong with you to be able to live like this.
Maybe that’s why he’s doing this. Maybe you deserve this.
You hear your mother come home. You don’t usually go out to see her. She doesn’t want to see you. It’s better if she can forget you exist.
You clean through the evening. Even as you hear your mom going through her usual routine. She orders food, eats in front of the television with wine, and showers. After she’s in bed, you’re still working.
Even when the room is presentable, you’re not done. You don’t want to. It takes a whole hour to find your courage but you finally grab one of the bags. You read the labels on the underwear. They need to be hand-washed.
You sneak out as silently as you can and find a basin to use. You lock yourself in the bathroom with the laundry soap and work at each piece. Each swatch of lace or mesh is a reminder of Agent Walker. A harbinger of what’s to come.
You hang it all to dry in your room across the bottom of wire hangers. Then you take out the rest of the stuff. Lotions, soap, even some makeup. You take the trimming kit and examine it reluctantly.
You’re embarrassed. No one ever saw you naked. No one touched you like Walker did, even for those few seconds. And you know he’s going to do more.
You go back to the washroom. This time you turn the shower on. You get in and follow the instructions on the bottles. Then you use the razor. It takes until the water’s cold for you to finish. You think? You’ve never done this before.
You jump as your mom bangs on the door. You crank off the showerhead.
“Go to sleep!” She barks through.
“Sorry, mom,” you call back. You already hear her stomping away.
You get out and dry off. It smells nice but your stomach is roiling. You take everything back to your room. If your mom finds it, she’ll ask questions.
You sit on your bed. You can’t settle down. Is Agent Walker coming back tomorrow? Is he going to wait?
You put your head in your hands. You don’t know what to think because you’re stupid. That’s it. Everything your mom ever said is true. Stupid, lazy, and useless.
