Warning(s): Some sexual content and mature language.

x-x-x-x-x

- I -

Transparent

Some would call it obsession. Others might label it infatuation.

But he referred to it as captivation.

Not necessarily with her features. Her beauty could have existed once, had it not been for the way her right eye puckered halfway shut, the angry scar tissue of badly healed chemical burns stretching from her hairline to her cheekbone over that side of her face, and the premature gray streak that ran down the left part of her long auburn hair. Coupled with a bony, malnourished body, her appearance left much to be desired at first, second, and even third glance.

However, Swank never claimed to care about any of those things.

He watched her in the way she moved, the way she smiled, her perfectly shaped lips erasing all physical imperfections in his eyes. An innocence lingered about her despite her background, and he would have paid all his caps in one go if she'd ever agreed to tell him more than a single sentence at a time about herself. He sated his carnal needs inside her, but no matter the number of sessions, his curiosity still hungered.

One by one, she revealed snippets of her story, the details so vague that he may as well hadn't bothered to ask.

The scars on her face? "A client got angry."

The early gray hair? "Thyroid hormone imbalance."

The skeletal physique? "Look around; prostitutes get chems, not food."

And yet she differed from the others. Whether she fared better or worse was subjective, but he'd learned enough to know that the Omerta leader singled her out, kept her segregated from the rest. Her room sat at the far balcony overlooking the Gomorrah courtyard, locked during her working hours and accessible only by a special key given to select VIP clients. As Benny's right-hand man and the co-owner of the Tops, Swank was one of the few who had that privilege. Even those sadistic brutes Cachino and Canden never had access to her, and he preferred it that way.

Throughout the Strip, no one understood why Nero treated her like a prized possession. Given her looks, limited availability, and high price, clients weren't exactly lining up when cheaper and more attractive whores strutted around the casino floors. And if he were honest, he'd had better lays out in the Wastes back before the Boot Riders became the Chairmen.

But something about her had ensnared him from the beginning, the thousand-yard stare of her good eye luring him in the instant he first set foot in Gomorrah. An impulsive decision to ease his pent-up tension turned into a dire mission to meet her, touch her, have her. And when she'd turned to wander back to her secluded walls, he saw the two long scars carved vertically between her shoulder blades.

From that moment on, Swank spent a significant amount of his time and salary pursuing the truth behind the scarred angel that had fallen in their midst.

On this particular day, he marched into Gomorrah, attempting to shake off his tempestuous mood. Recent developments at the Tops—centering on clashes with Benny over administration and his constant "business-related" departures—left Swank's nerves frazzled and his body eager to blow off steam. He ambled up to the receptionist, slapping a handful of caps on the counter.

"Is she free?"

The jaded woman sent him a blank look. "Again? Ever thought about trying out any of the others? Joana and Dazzle are our best—"

"Save the sales pitch because she's the only reason I'm even a recurring customer at this grimy joint, you dig?"

Sighing, the receptionist counted the caps and signed him in on the notepad next to her terminal before handing him the key. "Fine, but it's going to be a bit of a wait. Nero has her for another half hour to an hour."

Swank paused, a wave of displeasure and surprise washing over him at the news. "Nero? Ain't this a first."

"Oh, honey, no it's not. She's his favorite by far; probably the only one he's ever 'partaken' in," the receptionist surmised. "Why do you think he keeps her under lock and key from the masses? You're lucky he's even willing to share with you."

"Yeah… I guess that makes sense," he replied, taking the key as he frowned over at the doorway leading to the main floor. "Didn't think he'd take up her time when she was on the clock, though."

"Well the boss seems to be under a lot of pressure lately, always muttering about Gabriel this, Gabriel that. He needed some fast relief, and she was his only choice."

Swank quirked an eyebrow at the unfamiliar name. "Who's Gabriel?"

She shrugged. "No one outside the original family actually knows. Word is, Gabriel was supposed to be the next leader of the Slither Kin, but Nero took over when they became the Omertas. I'm guessing he's worried Gabriel will be back to settle the score."

He nodded, quickly losing interest in the Omerta history lesson. "Yeah, great. I'm gonna head over to the courtyard. Knowing him, she's going to need a pair of tender arms after he roughs her up."

The woman on the other side of the front desk watched him for several seconds. "Hey, Swank, word of advice. Don't get too attached. Bottom line is she's a hooker, and whatever you think you have with her, just remember: you're nothing but her job."

He gritted his teeth at that and stalked out of the lobby without answering. Any fool with a working brain could recognize his hopelessness in that regard. What else explained his frequent visits to this filthy pit of debauchery and vice? Only she made the establishment bearable to wade through, tugging his heart on a string that kept him coming back. Even knowing of his own ill-fated fixation, he always complied with the will of the siren, only too happy to succumb to the sin.

The perpetual smell of sex, smoke, and alcohol wafted through the entire ground level of the casino. Swank passed by the roulette tables and slot machines, where several compulsive gamblers sat like drooling zombies as their caps dwindled away to nothing. He shook his head at the sight. The Tops had its share of risk-taking drones, but none so far gone and out of touch with reality that they ended up like the regulars here. He loosened the tie of his beige pinstripe suit while proceeding past the blazing inferno in the center, casting his disparaging gaze around the gaudy neo-Persian décor. Once again, less than five minutes spent in this place validated his opinion of Gomorrah's status as the closest thing to hell on the Strip.

In fitting progression, his short elevator ride took him to Brimstone, the premier club featuring an abundance of jiggling tits and shaking asses. Occasionally, a male stripper would whip out his dick just to switch things up, and Swank found himself the unwilling audience of one such occasion as he walked past the stage of pole dancers and nearly got himself thwacked on the head by a daring ghoul's abnormally long shaft. Hurrying through the stifling and pungent room, he pushed past the riled up crowd and made it to the doors to the courtyard.

Fresh—well, fresher—air greeted him as soon as he stepped outside. The orange streaks of the late afternoon sky reflected in the central pool, lending a certain alluring beauty to the surrounding architecture of Gomorrah's brothel section. Huts lined the perimeter on the ground, some of them occupied while others remained available for use. He ignored the propositions of the prostitutes who spotted him, making his way to the stairs on the right to climb up to the balcony level. A number of patrons sat with their selected company on the benches and cushions against the walls. They paid him no heed as he strode by, and eventually he reached her door at the far end of the premises, a steel-bolted construct that stood out from the rest.

Swank leaned back against the nearby railing, tuning out the chatter and customary noises of gratification around the area. He ran his fingers through his pompadour hairstyle as he waited for close to an hour, the knowledge of the activity inside only straining his temper. He had known from the start that she serviced other people, but as time went on in this fictitious dance of courtship, he'd grown less tolerant of the facts and verities comprising her profession. His possessiveness aside, she deserved better than this.

And had it been up to him, he would have taken her away from this life.

He lit a cigarette to take his mind off the mounting stress, but his attention snapped to her door when a loud thump resounded from within. The bolt released not ten seconds later, and it swung open, emitting the heavy scent of musk. Nero appeared in the doorway, zipping up his fly and straightening his blazer. He caught sight of Swank immediately, and his typical scowl deepened as he trudged by.

"Figured you'd show up today. Is anyone even running that bore of a place next door with you always here and Benny always out of town?" Nero asked in his gruff timbre, sizing up the other man.

Swank kept his cool as he straightened, blowing a cloud of smoke into the Omerta leader's face. "You let me worry about my joint. I'm just here for her."

A menacing quality flickered across Nero's expression. "Better watch yourself on my turf, Chairman. One wrong move, and I'll have Big Sal rip off your balls and chuck 'em across the street to the Lucky 38. Just a friendly reminder."

Swank flicked his cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his shoe. "Like you mobster finks scare me. I'm the king of high rollers, pal. And I'm callin' that bluff."

The temperature dropped to frigid levels between them, their mutual antagonism increasing in the span of an instant.

Nero held his glower for a tense minute before snickering. "All right, tough guy. Count your lucky fucking stars you have the means to back up that smart mouth. You get a pass, but only because you're basically forking over half your casino's caps to me. Just for one girl." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder to the open doorway, a sneer stretching his lips. "She's gonna take a bit to pull herself together. I did a hell of a number on her, but don't worry; she's a professional and won't let a little soreness hinder her performance."

Swank's jaw tightened as Nero let out a harsh bark of laughter and sauntered away. Pushing the encounter from his mind, he entered the room and shut the door behind him, locking it. As his vision adjusted to the dim interior, the soft tunes of a classic song drifted to his ears from the radio on the bedside table. One window on the opposite wall filtered in the fading light, allowing him to survey the small space. Clothes and empty wine bottles littered the floor, the various surfaces splintered and in disrepair. He continued to peer around until a sound from the bathroom drew him in that direction.

Stepping around the mess, he headed over and found her in front of the cracked mirror hanging above the sink, the two red scars on her back contrasting against the pallor of her complexion.

She wore nothing, giving him an unhindered view of the ribs and hip bones sticking out prominently beneath her skin. For several moments, he gazed at the stiffness in her posture as she ran a brush through her straight auburn hair, the streak of gray catching the room's luminescence. A nasty bruise covered a good portion of her lower back, and only when he uttered a sound of indignation did she notice his reflection in the fractured glass.

"Swank!" she exclaimed, brightening and setting down the brush. Moving her long bangs to cover the disfigured portion of her face, she pivoted and flew into his waiting arms. "I didn't think you'd be back so soon."

Her melodic voice soothed his ire at once, and he held her close as he caught the fragrance of something floral on her tresses. "What can I say? There's just no staying away from you, doll." He tried to lift her chin, but she turned her head to the side, as usual. "Come on, I haven't seen you in two whole days. Look at me?"

"The lights first," she said, using her palm to keep her bangs in place.

"How many times do I gotta say it?" Swank demanded as he brought up a hand to move hers away from her cheek. Although she put up little resistance, she flinched when he brushed his thumb along the puckered lid of her right eye. "You don't have to hide. Not from me."

"But—"

A small gasp left her throat when he pressed his lips to the harsh scar tissue over her temple. Kissing a sweet trail to her cheekbone, he wished he could erase the insecurities she tried to keep discreet. While she never complained about her looks or conditions, her self-consciousness was evident in the way she carried herself. He found it both endearing and sad, the fragile balance that defined her character in this unforgiving world.

Her muscles relaxed little by little as he showed her exactly what she meant to him, his fingertips tracing the prominent hypertrophic scarring between her shoulder blades. They intrigued him, those scars, resembling the aftermath of wings that had been ripped out of her body. An unlikely explanation, he realized, but the truth remained a mystery.

"You ever going to tell me the story behind these?" he murmured against her ear, tapping the raised flesh on her back.

She went rigid again and pulled away, but then hesitated, something churning in her deep brown eyes. "Maybe. There isn't much of a story, though."

"Just tell me you're an angel that dropped from heaven and get it over with," he quipped. "That's my guess and I'm willing to believe it."

A few beats went by as she studied him. "Not exactly, but it's a pretty fitting comparison."

Growing somber, Swank regarded her in the subsequent quiet, linking the allusion to a more viable reality. She stared back at him in turn, the weariness and hardship written all over her features. If only she really could sprout wings and leave this cage. Instead, she seemed to have accepted her demise within it.

He stroked a gentle finger along her jawline. "Why won't you let me take you away from this place?" he asked for possibly the hundredth time since they'd met.

She had never given him a reason, and he expected this instance to be no different.

But suddenly, the response came forth.

"I owe a debt. A big one," she said, taking him aback with her new willingness to discuss her circumstances. A haunted expression appeared for a fleeting moment, but vanished once he blinked. "Not to Nero, even if he's the one collecting. It's to… someone else."

Swank's eyebrows shot up as he processed the new information. "What, you owe money? Is that it? Is that why… wait."

It clicked. His stomach dropped as the dots connected. The price and availability Nero had assigned to her despite her limited marketability. The restrictions placed upon her clientele. The imposed seclusion and isolation. In order to hamper her income? Keep her from paying off the debt?

Keep her trapped here?

She read the conclusion on his face. "It's more than just money, but yeah. This is why someone like me gets the VIP clients. The ones who would even want me, anyway."

A flash of anger struck through him, and he released her as he whirled toward the exit. "Well, fuck that bastard. Damn it, Nero," he seethed. "I don't care what the balance is. I'll pay it off, and then we're getting you the hell outta here—"

Her hand gripped his sleeve, halting him in his tracks. "It's more than just money," she repeated with a note of desperation. "It's a punishment, an example of our consequences, a reminder of the family's power. And I've put up with it. I've put up with it for years, but…"

He turned back, straining to hear the rest of her murmured, anguished sentence.

"Enough is enough."

The uncharacteristic inflection of her pitch gave him pause. He detected it, the change in the air. An undefinable element had seeped into the premises, compressing the shifting atmosphere, starting the clock.

An unspoken countdown had begun.

Swank gazed at her as unease and sympathy mingled in his gut. "What did you even do that got you into this?"

But she had closed off again, standing there like a nude statue. And when she next spoke, her voice carried a dark undertone. "You wanted to know about the scars?"

Rotating, she moved her hair aside to give him an unhindered view of the marks on her back. Their color seared against her skin, beckoning him forward in want of his touch. But as he approached to heed the call, her next words wove through his mind, binding and grasping in their fervent wake.

"They were a message from Nero. To tell the world that I will never fly free."

A taut sensation formed in his chest. He witnessed her burden in the slump of her shoulders, understood the symbolism of the figurative clipped wings. More questions replaced the ones answered, such as why she would lie down and willingly resign herself to Nero's mercy (or rather, lack thereof). Whether guilt or responsibility played a part and led her to believe she deserved it for whatever she'd done, the fact remained that nothing warranted this dismal fate.

And he intended to liberate her someday, but for now, he would offer the only thing he could.

Closing in, he embraced her from behind and brought his lips to her neck. She started, but then sank against him, sighing when he dragged his palms up over her waist. He buried his nose in her hair while cupping her bare breasts, listening to her moan as he whispered again and again that he was here, he would help her, he would save her…

Because he loved her.

She spun around in his arms and grabbed his tie to tug him toward the worn mattress. He followed eagerly, allowing her to shove him down on his back while she climbed atop and straddled him. His body reacted at once to her lead, and he groaned when she rubbed at the hardening bulge in his pants.

"Treat this like it's the last time," she told him, unbuckling his belt. "It'll be more passionate that way."

Although he thought the request peculiar, he reached up to skim his knuckles over her cheek. "Well, if it's passion you want, how about finally telling me your name so I can call it out when you get me off?"

She stopped at the half-joked inquiry. "I was given my name for its meaning, but calling it out might be weird."

Swank chuckled as he tucked her hair behind her ear. "Come on, it can't be that bad. Why, what's the meaning?"

He inhaled sharply when her fingers dove into his boxers to grip him.

"I was named after one of the four archangels. It means 'The Messenger,'" she replied, stroking him and smirking while he struggled to maintain his concentration.

Most people would shut the hell up by this point, but her rare openness in disclosing these details kept him talking.

"So you really are one of them angels, then," he grunted through clenched teeth, his blunt nails digging into her thighs as she continued her ministrations. "Fuck…"

"Not so much, but you can call me Brie for short."

"Brie? Sure thing," he gasped when she bent down, and he felt her warm breath on his cock. "W-what's it short for?"

She ceased all movement, leaving his libido crying for release. The air shifted again, and slowly, she raised her head.

Her good eye peered up at him, somehow no longer Omerta, but Slither Kin.

"Gabriel."

He remembered it.

He remembered it even as he groaned out the short nickname minutes later.

Even after she went missing that same night.

Even when Nero went on a rampage, sending his minions to track her down.

But she had disappeared.

She and her transparent wings.

She'd never needed him to save her, having been three steps ahead to escape on her own terms. He had missed the foreshadowing, paid too little attention to the signs. And now he had no choice but to move on without her.

Because in the years that followed, "Brie" never returned.

x-x-x-x-x

A/N: Fill for the kink meme, although I'm extending it on FFN and AO3. This is projected to be three chapters long, and it's one story I can guarantee will be completed during the summer. Thanks for reading!