#And she knows he does it - a man of his station maintains his image perfectly and has done so without her input for years -

[reyescarlos]

26, 65 or 74? hurt/comfort? i love ur style of writing and i wanna see where you take these 🥺🥰

this is just the sweetest. you’ve really been making me so happy with all your kudos and comments in this collection! thank you so much! this one kind of ran away from me and is a bit heavier than my previous fics. it comes with trigger warnings so... overdose tw, drugs tw

#26 “How did you find me?”

TK sits with his knees to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs as he looks out across the field. To any passerby this wouldn’t be anything remarkable. It’s nothing more than an expanse of dry grass but this particular vacant spot is arguably one of his favorite places in all of Travis County. This is the field where he allowed himself to dive headfirst into something real with Carlos, the two watching an anomaly in the sky above as something organic bloomed between them.

Austin has been leaving its mark on TK, the new memories and bonds forged here almost enough to eclipse all of the bad he’s left behind.

But there are certain aspects of his past that he can’t quite run from, despite his best efforts to. Life enjoyed playing with him too much to allow good times to last long. TK supposes he may be a touch melodramatic but after the last call he and his team were dispatched to, he can’t shake the idea that the universe likes tossing in harsh reminders of a life he’d rather forget.

The scene they were called to was far too similar to a scenario he had personal experience with. A worried mother stood watch for the crew’s arrival outside the door to her daughter’s apartment, tears in her eyes and she begged and pleaded with them to break down the door and get to her child.

The young woman was unresponsive, passed out on her bathroom floor. Beside her was an empty orange vial and two small clear baggies. It was as if seeing an alternate version of his life. Michelle bustled in, Tim and Nancy flanking her as they worked in tandem to save the woman. Narcan passed from Tim straight to Michelle in the blink of an eye, leaving her to administer the dose in almost no time at all.

TK was vaguely aware of his father’s voice but his ears were ringing too loudly to make out any of the words, let alone any other sound coming from the room. He could see Michelle calling out orders, see her team’s lips moving in response. But the dial was turned down to zero; TK was unable to register any of it. He could recall the touch of his father’s hands on his shoulders and hands, urging him away.

But it was all TK could do to stand there, feet planted like a formidable oak as he watched the young woman’s eyes flutter open, to hold his breath as she emptied out her stomach, her body too weak to even move herself away from the mess she’d made.

“TK,” his father had said a bit more forcefully in his ear, a hand on his elbow to take him away from the threshold.

He stumbled backwards as his father pulled him away, his vision of the apartment blurred as tears filled his eyes. The young woman would be okay but the image of her sprawled out against the tiles, TK knew, would always haunt him, never mind the sheer anguish on her mother’s face.

The ride back to the station was painfully quiet, the team—for his sake, more than anything— not saying a single word. But TK didn’t even feel like he was in the truck at all. His mind was somewhere else entirely, a thousand miles back in New York on his living room floor. It all came rushing back in such stunning clarity.

He’d gone through the motions of showering and dressing once they returned, enduring another quiet ride, this time home with his father.

TK had gone straight to his room though Owen tried getting him to open up and talk about what they’d just seen. His room made him feel like a caged animal as he paced the length of it. Before he could fully register what he was doing, TK was fleeing the house without saying a word to his father, hoping to find someplace where he could be alone and hopefully wind up feeling better.

TK’s top pick would have been Carlos’ condo but the last thing TK wanted to do was burden his boyfriend with this. He’s done his best to shield Carlos from the sordid details of his past, so keen he is these days on maintaining a brighter future.

He closes his eyes, listening to the sound of crickets hidden in blades of grass, feeling the soft evening breeze blow across his skin. This was the perfect place to settle on.

The road his mind wants to travel down is a dangerous one and it takes everything within him to keep on a safer path. The silence of the field helps. He tries to mirror it for himself, an open space and an open mind.

Out here with no one around, the noise in his head dies down long enough for him to steady himself and recalibrate.

His peacefulness is broken about twenty minutes later by the sound of tires approaching. TK scrambles to his feet quickly at the sudden intrusion. The car’s headlights make it hard to see much of anything but as the engine is cut and the lights are as well, TK feels his chest tighten at the sight of Carlos’ Camaro.

He stands frozen in his spot as he waits for Carlos to get out. When he does, his boyfriend’s eyes are locked in on him, his expression unreadable as he comes to a stop in front of him. Carlos doesn’t waste time with a preamble, jumping right into things.

“Your dad told me about the call you guys had today,” Carlos says delicately.

TK looks away, cracking his knuckles. His skin feels stretched too tight around his body. It’s a perfectly cool evening and yet he feels like he’s suffocating, his face and neck suddenly feeling hot.

“He was worried when you left and refused to answer his texts and calls. That’s when he reached out to me, hoping that you were at my place. He was worried sick...as was I.”

“I didn’t mean to make you all worry. I just needed...to breathe.”

Carlos frowns. “I know that call must have been horrible for you but you can’t go AWOL like that, TK,” he says, voice still gentle. “If you needed this time on your own, just say that next time, please. When you disappear, we can’t help but to get scared that you’re hurt or—”

“I didn’t do anything stupid. I didn’t, you know,” he concludes lamely, unable to even bring himself to say the word relapse.

“I didn’t think you would but thank you for telling me. I’m glad you’re hanging in there. I tried calling but it kept going straight to voicemail.”

TK’s brows furrow as he takes his phone out of his pocket. He touches the screen but it remains black. He hadn’t even thought to check on his phone, not that it mattered either way given he was practically in the middle of nowhere. It’s then that Carlos’ appearance really sinks in.

“How did you find me?”

For the first time since he arrived, Carlos smiles faintly.

“There’s a reason I still earn a paycheck every two weeks. You may think you’re a mystery but I know you,” he says, reaching for TK’s hands.

TK lets him hold on, realizing now just how cold his fingertips feel once he’s met with Carlos’ warmth. For as much as he wanted to be alone, TK is glad for Carlos’ presence now. It’s a powerful thing to be seen and loved by someone.

“I figured you’d go somewhere you could be by yourself, that’s nice and remote but also someplace that made you feel comforted as if you weren’t actually alone. That night we spent out here came to mind so I thought I’d check it out first.”

TK huffs out a sound similar to a laugh and shakes his head, looking back out across the field. “Impressive work, officer. But as you can see, I’m doing just fine so you don’t have to worry.”

“I wouldn’t call running away and isolating yourself fine, T. Please, can you talk to me about what you’re feeling right now?”

TK can hear traces of panic in his voice though, to Carlos’ credit, he tries to disguise it. But TK can read the strained look in Carlos’ brown eyes and the set of shoulders. This was precisely what TK was hoping to avoid, making someone he cared for so concerned. But he supposes he brought this on himself. Had he just spoken up when it mattered most, Carlos wouldn’t have had to go tracking him down.

Carlos turns and walks back towards his car, sitting on top of the hood. TK watches him for a moment, the man’s hand outstretched in invitation. This takes him back to that glorious night where there didn’t seem to be any limits to how happy and free he could be.

It feels like such a déjà vu. There may not be northern lights above them now but the stars shine so brightly that it’s captivating all the same. Carlos still looks at him with wonder and care in his eyes, just as he’d done months ago. The car is just the same, the spot beside Carlos empty and waiting for him.

But inside TK feels different. Something has monumentally shifted due to that call. So much of this scenario may feel familiar but he feels a long way off from the guy he was that night.

Something in his expression or body language gives him away; he knows Carlos can see his unease. The man lowers his hand and sits cross legged, just staring at him patiently.

It’s just one of the many things TK appreciates in Carlos. He never forces him to speak if he isn’t ready. He’s simply just there and that counts for so much more than TK can even say. It’s more than he deserves, of that he’s certain. But it’s exactly what he needs so he’s grateful.

After another moment, TK’s legs finally begin moving forward, the soles of his shoes crunching against the dried grass. He slides upwards onto the hood of the car, laying back wordlessly against the windshield. Beside him, Carlos follows his lead, reaching for his hand again. He brings it to his lips to kiss each of TK’s knuckles before resting his hand against his chest.

TK stays quiet for a beat, taking just a moment to relish in Carlos’ touch. A conversation is inevitable but before they get underway, he knows he needs to contact his father and attempt to put the man at ease. He dreads the thought alone but it’s the least he owes his dad now for bailing like he did.

“I should probably borrow your phone and give my dad a call. Let him know that I’m okay.”

“I sent him a text before I got out of the car. He knows you’re with me.”

A ghost of a smile plays at TK’s lips at the implication of that last sentence. Being with Carlos amounts to the same thing as safe.

TK pulls in a breath, trying to collect his thoughts but everything in his head is a wreck. He plucks out one thought and goes from there, just needing to get something off his chest so he could breathe a bit easier.

“Being on that call today, seeing that girl’s mom absolutely lose it....,” he trails off, closing his eyes to the memory but the images still flood him anyway. “It just made me think about my dad finding me when he did. If he’d come over to my place even five or ten minutes later, I likely wouldn’t even be sitting here right now.”

He has to stop short there, swallowing hard past the lump in his throat.

“I’ve put him through so much and I don’t ever want to do that again, cause even a fraction of the fear that woman had. Her daughter looked so helpless and all I could think about was ‘what if this girl doesn’t make it?’ Her mom wouldn’t have been able to survive that. And I thought back to New York, my dad being there, saving me. I’ve been doing well now but this thing is always going to be in me, no matter what and I hate that more than anything. One setback could undo everything. It’s happened to me before and I barely made it through that time.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “Sometimes it seems like it’d be safer not to let people in just in case I relapse again. I don’t want to drag anyone else down this road. My dad, you, the family I’ve made here. You all are so important to me and nothing terrifies me more than the thought of losing you guys, one way or another.”

Carlos sits up at this and from his periphery TK can see that his boyfriend is looking at him but TK can’t bear to look back. Instead he keeps his eyes trained on the stars just wishing he could trade places with them now, be light years away from the troubles of this world.

“Hey, no. The people you have in your corner are going to be there for life. We all love you so much and will always stand with you.”

There’s such conviction in his words that leaves no doubt about his sincerity and commitment. TK can’t help the tears that fall from the corners of his eyes and race back to his hairline as he keeps vigilant watch on the sky. He knows that if he looks at Carlos now, the little bit of restraint he’s been clinging to will break. Carlos continues speaking, undeterred, or perhaps motivated, by TK’s silence.

“I’m not in the business of giving up on people. Serve and protect, right? If I can care deeply for perfectly good strangers every day, why on earth wouldn’t I be able to do the same for you, the man I’m so incredibly in love with? You couldn’t push me or anyone else who loves you away. You and I agreed, right on this very spot, months ago that we were a team. I have every intention to hold up my end of that promise.”

TK lowers his gaze, finally letting his eyes land on Carlos. The man’s face is flushed, beautiful brown eyes tinted pink from unshed tears but there’s a fierceness in them despite the sadness.

TK sits up and draws nearer, resting his head against Carlos’ shoulder. TK’s wrapped up in the man’s embrace instantly, those steady hands rubbing soothing circles along his back.

He lets himself be cared for, ignoring how weak he feels now. Carlos, he knows, is strong enough for the both of them at this moment. There’s no judgement or shame to be felt, not with Carlos.

“You’re so much stronger than you even know,” Carlos murmurs against the shell of his ear. “There’s nothing you can’t get through and there’s definitely nothing we can’t do together. You’re so loved, TK. You are so loved and needed. Always.”

[newnitz]

Howl's Moving Castle & the Power Narrative Holds Over Reality

Like most 90s borns, my first anime was Pokémon. I watched the first three seasons diligently, and my tooth fairy gifts were always VHSs of memorable episodes. But like most Millennials and even Gen-X before us, my first real entryway to Japanese culture was Hayao Miyazaki. On the tiny TV screen, behind even for 2002, where my mother would watch her TV shows as she worked out, I watched Spirited Away. Chihiro/Sen's coming-of-age story and the movie's numerous themes deserves their own essay, and one I think better bloggers, vloggers and ordinary people have written before me. But after such a masterpiece, I jumped at the chance to see the next Studio Ghibli movie, Howl's Moving Castle. I rushed to the local library to read the book before it aired in the nearby city's bus station mall's small cinema. 18 years later, too nauseous for schoolwork and mooching off of my dad's Netflix account, I decided to rewatch this film. ***Spoiler alert for both book AND film*** The film itself is a staunch anti-war message, released around the same time as the invasion of Iraq, informed by Miyazaki's own childhood in the final years of Imperial Japan and the horrors inflicted on his home country to set the stage of the Cold War. The exposition includes a bombing of Sophie's hometown with...banners. The citizens of Ingary are terrified of the flying machines descending upon their skies, they expect bombs and destruction and untold death and unspeakable horrors. So when they instead get rained down paper pieces with pictures and words we are never privy to, they treat it with suspicion. They refuse to so much as touch them, since it's of the enemy. And the day after, when Ingary soldiers distribute their own country's propaganda banners, they drink it down without a second thought. Again, we are never privy to what they say. Perhaps it was meaningless. Perhaps, to the common contemporary viewer, the content would be incomprehensible. But for me, it got me thinking: What if this was the "enemy" spreading missing posters of their prince? What if this was a warning for the townspeople to evacuate, as they expect to take point there? And if it was, what the hell did it accomplish, outside of everything BUT what it tried to? The people are too scared. They see it as psychological warfare, whether intentional or not, and therefore the papers become a terrorizing presence, whether they were filled with graphic threats or pleas for cooperation, all it ended up doing is scaring the population into a deeper layer of hatred. I personally disagree with the film's apparent message, but I agree with how much of war is the matter of spinning the truth. No character represents a better allegory for spinning the truth than Sophie Hatter, the main character of the movie. The first thing we notice about her is how intricate and colorful all her creations are, while she sticks to a plain hat with minimal detail. We see her displeasure with her own appearance even when trying it on in front of the mirror. She dresses plainly for she thinks herself plain - wearing a mousy dress in both the source book and the film adaption. The book elaborates on this narrative and its subversion: In Ingary, fairytale tropes are accepted as divine truths. Sophie and her sister Lettie have had their mother die as toddlers, so when their father remarried and produced a third sister(briefly referenced in the film), Martha, Sophie and Lettie were doomed to be wicked, hideous stepsisters. But not only did their stepmother raised them as her own, but both all the Hatters were stated to be beautiful, with Lettie in particular having the entire town's male population vying for her affection in both book and film. In fact, the cunning one is the designated "Cinderella", Martha, who uses her guile to warn her half-sisters. See, another trope specific to Ingary was that the firstborn of three siblings will never find their luck - if they ever dare try, they will encounter disaster after misfortune and end up poor and miserable. According to Martha, her mother wanted to enjoy a life of luxury, so she sent Lettie to work in a bakery where she will surely find a man of her liking to start a life with, and shipped her own daughter off to be a magic apprentice far far away from her. Sophie is the only one she kept close, because she knew she buys into the tropes and will make her fortune for her, preferring the safety of her late father's shop to the dangers of the unlucky life of a firstborn. But in both film and book, this blissful avoidance of any exploration is torn away in a chance encounter Sophie has with the notorious wizard Howl. While her sister(s) are terrified for her safety, Sophie has no fear of the 'heart-eating monster' as "he only eats the hearts of beautiful girls", believing her plainness protected her. But oh, how she was wrong. Or was she? In both book and film, the Witch of the Wastes barges into the hat shop. In the book, she seeks Lettie whom Howl is taken with(like literally every man in town) and enters the shop where an overworked Sophie loses her temper at her, and mistaking the hatter for her sister, she curses the girl to become old. In the film, she's explicitly exacting revenge on Sophie, whom Howl is interested in, and follows her and invades her shop after closing time, cursing her to be ninety years old. This is supposed to devastate Sophie - rob her of her youth, beauty and health, ending her life before she started them. But in both versions, Sophie acclimates to the change rather well, constantly noticing the perks of living as an old lady - she can mumble to herself and be seen as normal, she can be assertive and commanding without being inappropriate and/or bossy, and since she has nothing to lose, she might as well go exploring the world, if only to lift the curse. To revisit this as someone who didn’t expect to have the option of growing old, this is an empowering message on its own - growing old is what you make of it. But despite subverting the Witch's narrative, Sophie remains a helpless victim of her own narrative. Book Sophie is explicitly said to be a powerful sorceress unaware of her own powers, even enchanting her hats into the client's shape with her words alone, while in the film it's only implied. But in both versions she Unconsciously Maintains Her Own Curse: She reverts to the eighteen year old in her sleep, or when something silences her insecurities enough. In the film, she's explicitly shown to de-age as she gains confidence in herself under the role of the household maid, going from the frail ninety-year-old into someone who looks and acts as a woman just past middle age - I don't think this is incidental, as many women are at their most confident at that age, when they no longer feel pressured to worry about trivial matters such as beauty and childrearing, and retreat back into the original cursed form when Howl calls her beautiful - a compliment she can never accept. In the book, Howl eventually comes to the conclusion that she likes being old and gives up trying to guide her out of it. The book takes narrative subversion even further. Remember cunning Martha? Turns out, the Hatters didn't conform to their mother's narrative either - Martha was bored by wizardry while Lettie craved it. The two concocted a plan to glamour as one another, which of course the mentor witch saw right though, and preferred Lettie's genuine interest to Martha ghosting the craft. This stings extra once Fanny is shown to be a caring mother who attacks who he thought cursed her stepdaughter - perhaps she fell for the same sort of thinking Sophie did, and wanted her stepdaughter to have the best life possible for someone doomed to fail, thought extroverted Lettie enjoyed the attention and choice of men and wanted Martha to be a powerful, self-sufficient young woman who led a life more glamorous than she did, as someone who lacked magic? That Fanny was a real parent - a well-intentioned woman who completely misjudged her children and their future? Is it possible Martha’s own narrative has poisoned her relationship with her mother, perhaps beyond repair? As for Sophie, in the book she breaks her own curse by breaking the contract between Calcifer and Howl. But the film gives it more nuance - Calcifer and Howl are clearly in a codependent relationship: In both versions Howl gave Calcifer his heart in exchange for magical powers (as well as saving the fallen star's life, depending on your interpretation of the character), but by the time Sophie employs herself at the Castle, Calcifer feels more like a slave than a powerful demon. Howl himself has his own internal struggles, and many online have made convincing cases for BPD being among them. Calcifer is an essential part of his support system. Each one of them believes that if Calcifer isn't fed properly, or gets dunked with water, they'll both die. And once Sophie does so to stop the wizened, depowered Witch of the Wastes from literally being consumed by her obsessive desire for Howl, she too believes to have killed them both with her rash actions. But they live, because Sophie's part in a time loop led her to think otherwise and refuse to give up on them. Within the film’s universe, this ties into Sophie’s innate magical powers talking reality into her perception. But I know real-life, ordinary people who’s own narratives have changed grim fates.  Now, I don’t live in Ingary. I don’t believe the world around me has literal, reality-warping magic. I’m not a spiritual person. But this is precisely why Howl’s Moving Castle appealed to me - because the characters’ thoughts don’t perfectly dictate reality, but the way they act on their perceptions does. I know a man who is alive because his (now ex-)wife changed the narrative of his deathbed to one of optimism and efficacy. When I stopped trying to have my self-image reflected in the eyes of others, I transformed into a more confident, capable person practically overnight. I’m not delusional - I’m well aware of the Dunning-Krueger effect, of how reality exists whether you live in it or not. I’d like to think I live strictly within the boundaries of what is proven beyond reasonable doubt to be real. 

But your spin on reality dictates your life. It can dictate parts of the lives of your close ones. But the message isn’t one of just changing your own view of a situation around you to become happy, oh no. Lettie and Martha didn’t just choose to be happy in apprenticeships they had no passion for. Sophie didn’t just relocate to some quaint cottage to live the few years that weren’t stolen from her as an old hermit. They acted to transform the existent reality within their means, but they could only do so because they felt empowered enough to question their life’s narratives. 

[artificialqueens]

Taste of a Poison Paradise, Chapter 1 (Multi) - Joley

a/n: there were too many ships to fit into the title but the ones in this fic are crygi, lemyanka, sportsdoll, jaidie, and branjie/kamjie

Lemon let out a whiny groan as her alarm went off. Unlike the average alarm, hers was set to 6:30 at night, leaving her just enough time to get up and ready for her shift. She sat up and looked over, then gave Priyanka’s shoulder a light shove. “Rise and shine,” she mumbled as she got out of bed and grabbed the lingerie she’d laid out that morning and covered it with sweats and Priyanka’s flannel shirt.

“Every day I have to wake up and participate in society,” Priyanka lamented as she got out of bed. Her uniform consisted of a simple black t-shirt and jeans, making her routine much shorter than Lemon’s, who had to get all dolled up. “Gonna make coffee,” she decided, shuffling into the kitchen.

While Priyanka was making coffee, Jan came out of the other bedroom. “We carpooling tonight, Pri?” she asked, propping her elbows up on the counter and resting her chin on her hands.

“Yeah, if y’all aren’t planning on hanging out once the shift ends,” she answered, a slight stiffness in her tone. “Can’t stick around.”

Jan knew she needn’t say anything else. “Gotcha,” she nodded before grabbing her sweatshirt off the couch.

The three of them arrived at the club and clocked in on time, much like they always did. Priyanka went to get her station set up while Jan and Lemon joined the other girls in the dressing room to finish their makeup.

“Brooke Lynn told me she’s bringing in a friend of hers tonight,” Vanessa remarked as she swiped highlighter along her cheek. “Met at a convention or some shit in France and this is her welcoming celebration ‘cause she just moved out here.”

“Rich and French?” Jan’s brow quirked with interest and she strummed her fingers together, acting as if she were ‘scheming’. “Damn, I’m glad I just got my hair done.”

“But what if she tips you in euros?” Gigi chuckled.

“Actually,” Jaida chimed in, “the euro is worth like, twenty percent more than the dollar. So, it’d be a better gig if she did.” She tilted her head when the rest of the girls looked at her with either surprised or perplexed expressions. “What? I can know shit too.”

Jackie poked her head into the dressing room, then leaned against the doorframe. “I come in and you guys are talking about economics? I never cease to be amazed at this place. Anyway, just letting all of you know that the new security guard is starting tonight. I expect you all to be nice to her.”

“We’re always nice,” Jan cooed and batted her lashes. “Aren’t we, girls?”

“Speak for yourself, I’ve got an image to maintain,” Lemon retorted.

Just as Jackie was about to turn and leave, she heard footsteps and turned around. “Oh good, Kameron, you’re here. Come say hi to the girls,” she said, excitedly gesturing her over.

A muscled, tattooed blonde made her way over, stopping just a step into the dressing room. She seemed very aware of all the eyes on her, and perhaps a bit shy because of it. “Hey,” she greeted with an awkward wave.

Jackie went down the line introducing the girls. “This is Lemon, Jan, Gigi, Jaida, and Vanessa. Don’t worry, they don’t bite.”

“I make no promises,” Vanessa chimed in, twirling her hair around her finger as she looked Kameron over.

Jaida chuckled and tapped Vanessa’s thigh. “Down, girl. Sit. Stay.” Then she looked back up and warned Kameron, “Vanjie likes blondes.”

“Behave,” Jackie jokingly chastised, though she knew it would fall on deaf ears. “I’m gonna go get Kameron set up out front,” she said before the two of them left.

Once they’d left, Gigi leaned over to talk to Vanessa. “How’s your girlfriend gonna feel about you giving bedroom eyes to the new recruit, huh?”

“Relax, I just looked at her, not like I tried to eat her pussy or somethin’,” she retorted. “And you can’t say shit about girlfriends when your ass can’t even ask Crystal out on a date.” She got a chorus of ‘ooooh’ from the other girls at that and made Gigi turn red.

——

“Gigi, Jaida, and I are gonna hit up that new diner two blocks over after work, you in?” Crystal asked during a slow point in their shift.

Priyanka sighed and looked down at the empty glasses she was clearing off from the bar. “Can’t,” she mumbled, then reluctantly added, “I told Mark I’d pick him up from the airport.”

“I should’ve recognized that pain face,” she mused with a sympathetic nod. “Does your girlfriend know your boyfriend’s back in town?” she asked, cocking her head to the stage Lemon was dancing on.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Priyanka caught the defensiveness in her tone, so she tried to playfully follow it up with “she’s my mistress.”

Crystal chuckled, dividing her attention between her coworker and the customers that came up to the bar. “Whatever you gotta call it. At least he’s out of town like, what, forty weeks out of the year?”

“And yet it never feels like enough.”

The other bartender shook her head. “Remind me again why you’re still with him.”

“He’s… my safety blanket. No one asks me too many questions if they know I’m still with him. I can be normal and not have to worry about my family disowning me,” she explained.

“Oh, right, I forgot how far in the closet you are. Which is easy to do when you consider… every other aspect of your personality.” Crystal looked over and spotted Brooke Lynn approaching with a dark-haired woman at her side. “Who’s your friend, Brooke?”

“This is Nicky, she just moved here from Paris. Had to give her the proper welcome, you know?” Brooke explained. “I ran it by Jackie, gonna have her set up in the VIP room once she picks who she wants to-”

“Her.” Nicky had only turned away for a moment when her eyes locked on one of the dancers. “I have decided. I want that one.”

Brooke looked over, amused at the promptness in her decision. “Jan? Good choice. Crystal, set Nicky up with a cognac while I go let Jackie know to get her set up,” she explained as she got up. “If I don’t come back, assume Vanjie’s got me captive and don’t send for help.”

Priyanka watched as Brooke left. “God, that bitch has her whole life together and then some. Like, actual life goals, you know?”

“Priyanka also aspires to be a rich businesswoman that gets to rail a stripper on the regular,” Crystal explained to Nicky as she handed her the drink.

Nicky lifted her glass to her in approval. “Aim high, love,” she said and took a sip. “So, tell me about this girl I’ve picked, Jan, yes?”

“Oh, Jan’s great,” Crystal told her. “She’s a real sweetheart, you know? Like, the type to accidentally make customers fall in love with her because she just radiates that warm energy. Even had to ruin the illusion by outing herself a couple of times.”

“Yeah, but that was when that guy proposed to her, remember?” Priyanka chimed in. “Nice guy, stupid as all fuck.”

Nicky listened with amusement to the anecdotes the bartenders went on about until she spotted Jan coming her way, instantly tuning out everything around her to focus on the scantily clad woman.

Jan smiled and held her hand out. “Follow me, I’ll take you to the VIP room.”

“Then, by all means, lead the way,” she purred and followed her as they weaved through the club, to a room behind velvet ropes.

The room itself was designed to look even more expensive than it was with its red and gold color scheme and velvety fabrics. There was a plush couch, a table with champagne in an ice bucket, and a basket containing various sexual accessories – fuzzy handcuffs, lube, things of that nature. It was also perfectly spotless, which was easy to maintain with how rarely it was used. For the most part, it was up to the dancers to decide if they even wanted to confirm the existence of VIP rooms, let alone bring anyone into that space.

But Jan seemed thrilled to have Nicky in there with her. Especially since she knew she wouldn’t have to keep up her professional pretenses – Nicky came in with Brooke, after all. “So, I’m sure Brooke probably told you, but we make up whatever rules we want based on the client. But since this is your big American welcome present, I’m cool with following your lead.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Nicky cupped Jan’s face. “I don’t know if you want to give me that much power. There’s just far too much I’d like to do to you.”

Jan felt a chill go up her spine. The intensity of Nicky’s gaze paired with the coolness in her voice had her entranced on the spot. “Even better. Nothing’s sexier than a powerful woman.”

“As if I had any doubt on what a bottom you are,” she lightly teased as she sat down on the couch. She leaned back, admiring the beautiful woman she had all to herself. “Purple is your color,” she observed, admiring the way the violet lingerie fit her body, how it framed her perfectly while still begging to be ripped off.

“Why thank you, it’s my favorite,” Jan hummed, making her way over and straddling Nicky’s lap. She wasn’t used to having any sort of banter on the clock. Normally, a customer’s brain would short circuit as soon as they saw her tits, and that was how she liked it – the best man was a silent man as far as she was concerned.

But even Nicky seemed to have had enough with the talking, having moved on to kissing along Jan’s neck while her hands wandered her body. Eventually, she let them rest on Jan’s ass, which she groped and slapped while the two of them made out.

Jan let out a pleased sigh against Nicky’s lips. She rolled her hips slowly at first, arching towards Nicky’s touch and threading her fingers through her hair. “God, you’re fucking gorgeous,” she murmured as she undid her new client’s top.

“So are you, angel,” Nicky purred as she unhooked Jan’s bra and let it drop to the floor. She could tell she had caught Jan a bit off guard – normally the client would never undress the stripper. But it was clear Jan didn’t take issue, so she continued, kissing down her neck and chest, between her breasts, then teasingly swiping her tongue over both nipples. While she licked and sucked at her breasts, Nicky moved her hands back down, lightly snapping Jan’s panties against her and peeling them off once Jan lifted her hips up to let her.

It was so rare for Jan to be able to give up control at work. Her true submissive preferences were reserved exclusively for her personal life, lest anyone get the wrong idea. But Nicky had her under her thumb without even trying, and honestly, Jan found that even hotter. She wanted Nicky as badly as Nicky wanted her, and she didn’t make any attempt to hide it, going right to undressing Nicky once she was naked herself.

“So eager,” Nicky couldn’t help but call her out. “You must be so desperate to get fucked after teasing ugly men all night, hm?” She moved her hand between Jan’s thighs and traced her fingers along her slit. “You’re wet already, you little whore.” She then tapped her thigh lightly to redirect her. “On your knees,” she instructed, “you know what to do.”

Of course she did, Jan had just been eagerly awaiting her command. She got on her knees in front of Nicky, pulling her trousers and panties down to her ankles before situating herself between her thighs. She licked a stripe up her slit, then eased her tongue in, alternating between slow and fast, deep and shallow licks and thrusts.

Nicky tilted her head back and let out a deep moan. “Fuck, good girl,” she grunted. Her hand moved to the back of Jan’s head, holding her head in place with just a bit of firmness to keep her going.

Not that Jan would’ve stopped even if her life depended on it. Every time Nicky bucked her hips up or pushed down on her head, it turned her on and encouraged her all the more. Her hands gripped onto Nicky’s waist to hold her close and not let up until she was certain she had came, then pulled back with a bright, hopeful expression.

And Nicky knew exactly how to react, she could tell right away that Jan was the type that thrived on praise and positive reinforcement. “You did so well, babygirl,” she cooed and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Get up and sit on my face, Mama’s gonna make you feel good.”

Jan nearly tripped over herself with how quickly she scrambled to her feet. She waited for Nicky to lay down on the couch before straddling her face and gripping the arm of the couch, then let out a breathy moan when she felt Nicky’s tongue inside her. “Fuck…”

Nicky held onto Jan’s ass as she thrust her tongue steadily. She smirked to herself when she heard how desperate and needy the younger woman’s moans were. This was not going to be their last encounter, that she was certain of, and by the time she had made Jan come, she was already thinking about the next time.

“Oh my fucking god,” Jan was still trembling when she got off of Nicky, sitting down to catch her breath. “Is that what French kissing really is?”

“I like to think so,” Nicky chuckled, sitting up and getting dressed. “Either way, that was just the welcome I had hoped for, and I will certainly be coming back for you. I’d take you home if I could.”

“Who’s to say you can’t?” Jan batted her lashes and twirled her hair around her finger.

——

“You know, with the way Nicky pounced on Jan, you might not be getting her back tonight,” Brooke warned. She was sitting in Jackie’s office with Vanessa sitting on her lap, though Vanessa had more or less checked out while Brooke and Jackie caught up.

Jackie laughed softly. “If I know Jan, and I tend to think I do, she won’t mind in the slightest,” she assured. “Though sometimes I worry you’re gonna keep bringing your friends in and pairing off all my girls.”

“What can I say? I’ve found my niche,” she hummed. “And it’s all good as long as you keep up those profit margins, right?”

“Oh god, are y’all just gonna talk business and shit all night?” Vanessa whined.

Brooke arched her brow at her girlfriend. “We’re not making you stay here, babe. You can go do a set or hang out in the dressing room,” she suggested. “You know, considering this is still your job,” she added.

“You can just get Kameron to babysit her,” Jackie remarked offhandedly, oblivious to the way Vanessa had suddenly tensed and sat upright or the way she was glaring a hole into her head.

And Brooke hadn’t picked up on it either, just coming off as confused. “Who’s Kameron? Another dancer?”

Vanessa had started to answer. “No, she ain’t nobody, she just-”

“She’s the new security guard,” Jackie explained. “I like her, she seems nice, really funny once she warms up to you, a little quiet otherwise.”

“Is she…you know…”

“Gay? Yeah, she a fitness dyke, I can tell,” Vanessa chimed in.

Jackie cleared her throat awkwardly. “I mean, I didn’t want to assume.”

Brooke arched her brow. “You, the woman who has managed to employ five lesbian strippers and two lesbian bartenders, didn’t want to assume? Like, you want us to believe that was purely coincidental and not your full intention?” While she had meant it lightheartedly, she noticed Jackie start to curl into herself. “Jackie… do you think we don’t know?”

Jackie swallowed thickly. “Vanjie, do you think you could give me a minute with Brooke?” she asked softly, then waited for Vanessa to leave before she redirected her attention to completely focus on Brooke. “I-I don’t know what you mean. What are you talking about?”

Brooke’s expression became more concerned. Her brows furrowed as she leaned closer and spoke in a hushed tone. “Do you… wait… are you not out?”

“Out of what?” she bristled, sitting upright and pointedly averting her gaze. “There’s nothing for me to be ‘out’ of. Because I’m not. I’m not.”

“Jackie…” she reached out and took her hand. She knew what a delicate subject this could be, but she also knew she would be remiss if she ignored it. “If there was ever a safe space…”

Jackie shook her head, suddenly getting up and pacing back and forth across the room. “You don’t understand. Firstly, my family, they… they just wouldn’t get it. They still think I own a restaurant.” She sighed heavily, finally stopping and leaning against her desk. “Besides, acknowledging my attraction to girls in a place like this… it’s just asking for trouble, you know? Priyanka is the only person that knows, and that’s just because she’s in the same boat.”

Brooke nodded as she listened. “But even still, Pri’s out to everyone here. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

“Pri’s out to everyone here so she can fuck Lemon in peace,” she retorted with a dry laugh. “I mean, it’s not like I haven’t thought about… like I wouldn’t…”

“You’re afraid of catching feelings for one of the girls.”

“No,” Jackie squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, everything she had spent so long burying was pushing through all at once. It made her feel dizzy and nauseous and faced with the realization that telling the truth was the only thing that could relieve that sense of unease. “I’m afraid I already have.”

[threeminutesoflife]

Manipulation Station

Pairings: Snowpiercer Dark!Curtis x Dark!Reader

Warnings: 18+, Snowpiercer movie (movie line*) spoilers, unprotected sex, poisoning.

Summary: Curtis accepts Wilford's offer to lead the train and selects the Reader, the resident executioner for the first class criminals, as he wife.

Written for @jtargaryen18​ Dark Curtis Holiday Challenge. The way she writes is an absolute favorite. Read and enjoy her pieces- she's a gifted lady!

Prompt: “I don’t owe you patience or trust.”

Word Count: 10.5k

“Do you think you’ll be safe when I’m gone, dear girl?”

“I can take care of myself, Wilford. I have most of my life.”

“Yes, but you’ll need to sleep sometime.”

Wilford rose from the chair and made his way to the rolling drink cart along the office wall, “You’re great at what you do. You’re an investment to order.” He smiled proudly at you before turning his back to mix a dirty martini. “But when I’m gone, there may be family members looking for revenge. That worries and saddens me deeply. To think I can no longer protect you. Especially after everything you’ve done and all those times you’ve kept order on our sacred engine.”

One.

Two.

Three olives plopped into the glass.

You bit the inside of your cheek at his words, remembering how many past punishments and executions you carried out in Wilford’s name. The many times you were requested to maintain control for him and administer repercussions on the first and second-class passengers.

You were good at it. Maybe too good. Without Wilford’s protection, you’d have to be on constant watch until someone relieved you from your executing position permanently.

“This may not even come to pass, but if it does- I need to know you’ll agree. I need you. He’ll need you. Between you and me, Gilliam reassures me you’re a shoo-in. And I don’t doubt you for a moment, dear,” Wilford raised his glass to toast you before sipping the drink. “Curtis’ll want you on the spot. You’re an extremely important tool. Trust me. You’re more his type than even he realizes.”

“I do trust you,” you replied automatically. “I always have. You’ve protected me and allowed me the pleasure of administering your final word to those ungrateful, sir.”

“Exactly, dear girl. You understand my picture,” Wilford patted your shoulder as he passed by to take a seat. “Our picture. I need you to keep being that important tool. Keep the train on the right track, so to speak.”

He winked at you before biting into an olive.

Lifting a silver dome cover off the platter, Wilford offered you a warm chocolate chip cookie.

“You, my girl,” he said while waggling his selected cookie in air, “know the right kind of structure. And that kind of structure is our right kind of order. Things must remain as they are, the order must remain as it is. But most importantly, you respect it. You’ll teach Curtis to do the same. I need you at his side. Connected in all ways.”

“But marriage? I don’t understand the purpose, Wilford. It seems unnecessary, we’re forever on this train-”

“He’ll have too much power if he makes to the front. I need you to harness your husband, show him how good things are up here. Let him see what he’s been missing, let him feel like you and him are a united front. You two will be the face of what structure must be, an example and reminder of what was and should be. To keep the structure, you must be structured.”

You coughed slightly around the cookie locked between your lips. Working with someone upon Wilford’s request was one thing, but annexing yourself to another person… What was the purpose of that? But there was a small voice growing louder in your head, reminding you that you needed to be on Curtis’ side if you wanted to survive longer than Wilford’s burial rites. Still, having to give up your freedom completely…

“Why marriage when I can simply work for him- like I do for you, sir?”

“Call me old fashion or an engineer of the future,” Wilford explained further, chucking regally at his choice of words. “Either way, I want you both devoted to each other and the train. Standards and images must be upheld, dear girl. You two will be married and form a united front- for generations to come. We need a little more Norman Rockwell than Kathe Kollwitz.”

Only receiving your silence to his humor, Wilford could tell you were not entirely on board with the marriage role. Why would useless established legalities of marriage be necessary in the confines of a wayward world? It wouldn’t.

Yes, he could easily weave the loom to have you aligned with Curtis as a business partner, but Wilford always liked a bit of extra flair. One extra churn from the pepper grinder for his food. You giving in and agreeing to an unnecessary marriage to Curtis, especially forgoing all reluctance to do so, would reassure Wilford of your loyalty to the train even when he’d no longer be in charge.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

He was determined to present the marriage to you in a way you wouldn’t be able to refuse for long. And fear was always a great motivator.

Classics were classic for a reason.

Wilford needed you linked with Curtis. He needed you alive. You were the key; one easy twist in a locked situation that would open resolution. Wilford needed to reward Curtis’ efforts for his revolt and still ensure his ideal vision of the train remained steadfast. You would be the soothing balm to both their burns.

Making sure you were taken care of when Wilford retired was not an act of deep affection or fatherly love, but rather an earned promotion.

A reward for your years of service and delivery of results. Your safety and success would be ensured if you remained in a powerful position. With you safe, you would continue to reap and sow order throughout the train. Your results exponential.

Wilford knew everyone’s history aboard his train. It was his way to keep all things in place, all order- organized and properly named.

Before Wilford gave you passage on the train, you were a gifted student winning science awards and scholarships; catching Wilford’s attention with your potential by winning one of his sponsored grants. Years later when he reviewed your file, the idea of an executioner position bloomed in his brain. He knew you would do perfectly, a vixen face with a delight for mixing chemicals.

Wilford knew human nature had its moments of people falling back to their more animalistic tendencies. But he thought the front end-ers still deserved a more humane and posh way of dealing with crime. Executions did not have to be so graphically unappealing.

Imagine is everything, and who better to administer those punishments than a charming lady? Afterall, the first-class passengers did pay an absorbent amount of money for the privileged to ride his train. Fine taste should be given and enjoyed- even until the final stop.

“Dear girl, this inconvenient uprising may not even become too successful. More than likely, it will end shortly after it’s begun, or when the tallies add up to the necessary sum. However, if there’s a hail mary of achievement, I need to know you agree. When you do, I’ll tell him to allow you to keep your position as executioner. That your role is needed as a giver of dignified death. Besides, I know you, dear girl. I know how much you need that outlet. How that power sings to you and helps ease your cabin fever. That hobby allows you to slip away for a moment- I don’t want you to be denied that peace in the future. Besides, a gift like yours? A gift like you? It would hard for Curtis to deny you much.”

“Is that all though?” Frowning at your cookie and picking away at a chip, smearing and streaking the soft chocolate across the pristine plate. “To keep-”

“You’ve known about the train’s unique replacement parts and protein bars. The careful balance needed to keep the wheels running on this godforsaken frozen track. The balance needed to be kept order between the tail and front ends. You see how kronole is supplied to keep residents distracted. You’re the someone who knows what really goes on, and most importantly, you’ve always reacted positively to my orders and vision. Don’t let me lose you, I want to keep you safe. I need you to do this for me, my dear girl. Agree and marry Curtis. If he makes it- you are my backup plan, my little piece of salvation. Protect him, so I can in turn protect you when I’ve retired. Humor an old man with his old ways.”

“Why not Claude?”

“She’s not the right choice for this. He won’t choose her, especially since she’s the one who measures the parts. You’re my ace in the hole, dear girl. Gilliam and I both agree. Curtis is going to favor you out of the others.”

You took a moment to think of Wilford’s proposition. Keep the order, help steer the new conductor- do what you’re always enjoyed. After all, Wilford just wants you to remain safe. There was a part of you still unsure about the arranged marriage. The idea of it being legal or not, it was unnecessary but you knew Wilford liked to make a show of things. You were tempted to ask more questions, but then you looked Wilford in the eyes.

This was your protector.

His benevolence and care saved you. His vision kept you alive.

Wiping your hand across the linen napkin, you agreed, “I’ll do it. I owe you my life and safety. You’ve allowed me to test my poisons and feed my creativity, sir. The train will remain balanced. First-class shall remain proper, even in their deaths as you’ve always said.”

Wilford winked at you before biting into the soft treat, “Excellent. We shouldn’t be savages to our own, dear girl.”

~~~

When rumors of the impending revolt drew closer, Wilford reminded you of your role in the contingency plan.

When the revolt birthed as fact, Claude collected you with a bit of blood still on her face as she told you Wilford needed to discuss what was happening immediately.

There were no warm chocolate chip cookies offered this time as you asked what spurred the revolt on quicker than what was anticipated, “Why now?”

Claude scoffed behind you, “Idiot. As if animals need a reason.”

The two of you always were odd acquaintances; a mutual honor among thieves that was heavily seasoned with mutual dislike. Stiffening in your seat and gathering your tolerance in with a deep breath, you waited for Wilford’s answer.

“It escalated when Claude went to measure and retrieve a new part.”

“So, he claims ownership of the part?” You quickly inquired. You didn’t think to ask Wilford earlier if Curtis had family of his own before you agreed to all this.

Wilford’s smile stretched broadly at your phrasing, claiming ownership. Yes, he was very pleased you had the right mentality.

Claude’s eyes darted between you and Wilford, hating how he viewed you a blue ribbon breeding bitch for his soon-to-be prized stud.

Trying to regain ground and favor, Claude chimed in confidently, “They are nothing, they own nothing. Wilford is the sole owner.”

Intrigued to see where this potential debate may lead, Wilford picked up his spoon and returned to enjoying the decadent chocolate mousse he started before your arrival.

Dinner theatre, he mused to himself. How he missed attending those outings.

Not bothering to correct or address Claude to her face, you stared straight ahead in Wilford’s direction, “They are not nothing, Claude. They have a role and a purpose. Perhaps, they have even more importance than a glorified bed warmer? Or even a polite poisoner? Without them fucking like animals, as you said, we wouldn’t have replacement pieces. Without their role and purpose, the sacred engine would fail and we would perish.”

Her silence gave you a small satisfaction.

Turning in your seat, you looked at her now, “Tell me Claude. If the sacred engine ever stops due to lack of replacement parts and you’re frozen, when your vagina’s as cold as your heart, who’s bed could you possibly warm then?”

Claude shot out of her seat, fully intending to warm the surface of table by smashing the side of your face down onto it as she stalked over towards your direction.

“Sit down, Claude!” Wilford pulled the silver spoon of his mouth and pointed it at her.

“But she-“

Wilford steamrolled over Claude’s protest, “Better yet, make better use of yourself. Get me and my guest another serving of dessert. Wait in the kitchen until I phone for you.”

Silence hung in the air as you felt Claude’s stare burn into the back of your head.

Finishing off the last bit of dessert, Wilford gave her another pointed look as the spoon knocked against the glass bowl, “Kitchen, Claude.”

With every stomp echoing out the boxcar, you knew she was plotting your demise.

“I’m almost looking forward to retirement. Refereeing you two is a task in itself.”

“Sorry, Wilford.”

“Nevermind about that, just remember our deal.”

“Always, sir.”

“You never did ask what he looks like,” Wilford stated.

You quirked an eyebrow, “Who?”

“Curtis, Mrs. Everett.” Wilford supplied with a wink.

“Loyalty’s blind. It doesn’t matter, I’ll do what you asked.”

“Hmm, love is also blind, dear girl,” Wilford pulled a piece of paper out from his coat pocket and slid it across the table. “Had this sketched for you, but details aren’t the best with it being done over the broadcast screen. Meet your husband.”

Unfolding the paper, you held no expectations. Hope was a stranger in a make-believe land at this point. But your hands stilled at attempting to flatten the page’s creases as you looked down at a pair of fierce, cutting eyes.

So this was Curtis Everett. The artist drew him in several different poses. Some standing and talking, while in other sketches he was sitting and silently watching. Each piece displayed an attractive man with an air of determination and raw intensity. Albeit a bit broken.

Nodding a thank you to Wilford, you refolded the sketches and placed them in your lap.

~~~

As Curtis began his venture to the head of the train, you and six uniquely different women were gathered in a designated boxcar to wait and see if the Curtis Revolution proved to be successful.

“You’ll remain here until further notice,” Claude informed the women in her care. “Don’t think about leaving. If something happens to you, you’re on your own.” Claude held her gaze on you specifically with that last part. “Wilford had the seamstress supply fancier dresses, pick one from the racks to wear later if things progress. Here are your numbers, pin them on yourself when the time comes. We’ll need to differentiate you somehow.”

“Because names wouldn’t help with that?” you asked dryly.

“Be quiet,” Claude hissed back.

Number Six squeezed her paper namesake with excitement, “Oh, new clothes. Magnifique! Look at how luxurious those evening gowns are. Oh, so dreamy! It’ll be like we’re on the red carpet for an awards show.”

You looked at Six in disbelief, how were you supposed to survive being cramped in this small room with people like her?

Hurry up, Curtis. Win or lose- make it quick.

“Red carpet?” asked number Three, the only train baby of the group.

“Be quiet, I don’t have time for stupid questions and even dumber people,” said Claude.

“Always so pleasant to be around you, Claude.”

“Shut up,” she sneered back at you as the other ladies silently slipped away.

You weren’t sure if the other women ignored your exchange with Claude because everyone was familiar to the open hostility between you two, or if they simply weren’t interested in anything that didn’t concern them directly. With the upper class mentality, you assumed it was the latter.

Blowing a kiss at Claude, you picked up one of the books that were put out beside the drinks and cheese tray.

Everything you’ve known for the last seventeen years hung in the balance, and the six other ladies didn’t have a single fret line across their foreheads. Here you were, waiting to see what the train’s fate might be and the others couldn’t tear themselves away from the servings of special occasion Gouda. Perhaps you weren’t much better, you thought as you ran your hand along the book’s embossed hardcover.

Boiling at the air kiss you threw, Claude cut through the racks of delivered dresses. Kicking an extra box of high heels out of her way, she ripped the book out of your hand.

“My, my, Claude. I see you’ve been working out. Manhandling baby-sized parts really improved your strength,” you antagonized while sitting down and crossing your legs.

Openly laughing at Claude’s temper only set her anger off more as she spat out her next words, “You’re a fucking bitch. I can’t wait to see him fail. When he doesn’t make it, you’ll be left behind right where you are. A discarded napkin on top a dirty pile of dinner plates. Stuck to remain a polite poisoner until you’re ended.”

Mocking your earlier words to her, she smirked at you for what she deemed a clever line. With your nose in the air, you blatantly eyed her from head to toe without responding. You slowly uncrossed your legs and gracefully leaned forward, a look of predatory smugness to your features when you saw her tense up. Suddenly, you snatched the book back out of her hands. Keeping your eyes locked on her, you opened the book and cracked the book spine into submission. Slowly, steadily you raised the book from your lap until it fully covered your chin, then your nose, and then your eyes from her view.

Behind the book’s binding you called out, “Claude, why do you continue to test me when you’re fully aware of how potent my poisons can be- and how well I can mix them into your meals? Don’t make me poison you at your next tea party.”

Claude was about to deliver a counter-threat when the phone hidden behind the wall seal rang. You both knew Wilford was watching, he always was.

“Ah, that ringing bell would be for you, dear Claude. Try not to slip on your saliva when you run to answer your master’s call, little dog,” you teased behind a copy of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

As Claude left, you listened to the other women gossip around the snack table. Wilford enjoyed keeping certain cards to his chest and your competition was a hand he didn’t want to show entirely. He said you’d be Curtis’ pick, so why give away unimportant details?

But you liked to be more practical. Knowing details, even little ones, helped you aim for the artery when plotting.

As they conferenced around the snack platter, you overheard why they agreed to participate in Wilford’s selection game and become a tail end-er’s wife. Some needed to repay their family’s debts or their own, others wanted to climb up in rank and gain as much power as possible. A shared answered was wanting a change of scenery on this limited-option train.

They were all lovely women in their own right. If Curtis ran the gauntlet successfully, he’d be rewarded with choosing one of you seven, shiny-eyed brides-to-be.

But as you looked over the options, you couldn’t help but think that your train deserved better. Especially since their only concern at the moment was to consume more Gouda.

The sounds of guards rushing down the aisle of the waiting car snapped you out of your dairy assessment. There was a part of you hoping Curtis would be successful. A small side tempted by the curiosity of what it meant to have a new conductor responsible for the sacred engine. But you were more worried on how a new conductor might not have the same vision as Wilford.

Wilford assured you Curtis would view the world as he did. Wilford believed Curtis to be his successor. So you reminded yourself: Trust in Wilford, so you can trust in Curtis.

But with your curiosity peeked, you left the room of selected women to check-in with the closest guard post. Frowning when you found the post empty, you were about to return to the waiting room when the monitor screen caught your eye. Figures on the grainy monitors showed guards wearing tactical attire as the train barreled to the bridge and into a new year. Masks covered their faces, minimizing human features so their anonymity would be more threatening.

The broadcast feed was not the best quality but you saw a tall man in the middle of the rebel pack on the other monitor. He matched Wilford’s sketch. The size of the group by him was much larger than you expected. Knowing the outcomes of the earlier revolts and rebellions, you thought this revolution would be another failure. Even with those determined, intense eyes of his. Internally scoffing at the idea you would become a widow before you were even married.

Honestly, despite Wilford’s backup plan for Curtis, you didn’t actually think it’d be possible for a tail end-er to make it this far. But there on the screen showed a massive number of rebels. How many more backend boarders were there?

Even with soil and blood-encrusted on him, the man was an attractive leader. You couldn’t help to grin slightly at the feral look plastered across Curtis’ face. Perhaps you had more in common with the third-class revolutionist than you realized.

Leaning into the screen as the attack played out, your breath fogged the monitor as you watched Curtis decide between obtaining his goal to capture Mason or save a fellow man. At the end of the slaughtering and witnessing Curtis’ choice of fatality, you were content with your agreement to Wilford’s chess game of marriage.

Turning away from the monitors, you slipped back into the waiting room to enjoy some Gouda.

Time seemed to pass slowly until Claude dropped off another tray of fruit and ordered everyone to get ready immediately, “Don’t leave this room. It’s too late to stop what’s happened, and now it’s your turn to help the train. I’ll be back shortly to lead you to the selection.”

The sound of the door closing behind her was like a gun sounding the start of a race. Six ladies frantically ran around the room crashing into one another, ripping garments off hangers and knocking items on the ground.

Rolling your eyes at the costume change commotion, you slipped out the door in hopes to eavesdrop on Wilford. After seeing Curtis on the monitor, you fantasized how or if he would accept his new role. Would he be curious and interested in the idea of being able to select a wife, or would he decline it?

---

“��…hold a woman with both arms…*’” Wilford jested.

Curtis looked so broken, nerves and bones exposed. The look of pain filling his eyes and the wordless shock of betrayal and disbelief across his face was not how you pictured this moment for him. Well, you pictured there would be shock, but not this level of absolute destruction.

Something happened to you then as you absentmindedly rubbed your breastbone, a dull ache starting to grow. This man, who was glorious and furious only a short time ago, now looked lost and lifeless. The dull pain continued along your bone and you could almost ignore the pain until he looked over at the wall you were spying behind. It felt like he knew you were there, pinning you in place with his agony as your own discomfort bloomed in your chest. The longer his eyes were in your direction, the more your chest hurt.

But that was crazy, you thought, of course he couldn’t see you. None of them knew you were there listening. Turning away from the hiding spot, you continued to rub your sternum as you made the way back to the ladies.

Reentering the room and seeing the group of potential wives was surreal; how the state of him and his clothes compared to the state of this self-indulgent mock harem. You knew Curtis’ story from Wilford’s files and the small-time you saw his takeover on screen. But to see the vast difference and pain of someone you might align yourself with while they stood before your own eyes- that was somewhat stomach-churning. Even for you.

Normally, you would capitalize on weakness. But Curtis’ pain had the opposite effect on you. Instead of the urge to squeeze, you wanted to hold.

Sitting down before the vanity, you observed the girls behind you in the mirror. Only two looked anxious about the upcoming selection. The other numbers looked like they were having an afternoon away, a short reprieve from the pressures of planning a charity fundraiser.

Number four looked high, kronole you suspected. Thank goodness she was wearing slip-ons. The state she was in you weren’t sure if she’d able to tie her own laces.

Looking at the candidates and remembering Curtis’ grief, your chest dully ached again. For a moment, you thought perhaps the two anxious girls understood the weight of the situation. But the longer everyone stayed in the waiting room, the more you overheard that their nervous whispers were only reservations in having to be in close quarters with a tail end-er.

None of these “I’ll write you a check” girls would do. They wouldn’t last against how feral and pained Curtis seemed. The train wouldn’t benefit with any of them by his side.

You clutched the lipstick case tighter in your hands as your thoughts swirled- none of these lunching ladies could steer Curtis the way the sacred engine deserved.

Despite Wilford’s promise of the selection being in your favor, seeing what Curtis could possibly select instead filled you with enormous dread for the train’s future. These women’s lack of ability and influence over Curtis would never do. They wouldn’t be able to protect him, wouldn’t be able to keep order on the train; Wilford’s vision would flatline.

You were not going to let one of these girls take your place with Curtis and squander the responsibility to keep the train stable. If Wilford believed there was something special about Curtis- that was enough for you to believe, too.

Looking over the inadequate girls, you selected Curtis for yourself.

Wilford reassured you were already Curtis’ type through Gilliam’s late-night chats and catching Curtis’ eye would easy, but you knew holding Curtis’ attention was another matter entirely. A man covered in filth day-in and day-out with limited choices and harsh conditions. You couldn’t imagine how overwhelming everything new must be to him. How everything shiny couldn’t be trusted.

Squinting at your appearance in the mirror, you pondered and planned. Reevaluating the competition, you examined yourself- clothes pressed, hair styled, makeup freshly painted- just like them.

Dropping your lipstick, you wiped your lips harshly and removed your eye makeup. Wetting a towel you wiped your neck, freeing your skin from the perfume. Fresh and clean-faced, you were slightly different than the other artistically painted ladies. Perhaps more approachable? You changed into the most modest evening gown you could find.

Claude opened the door and called for the seven of you to line up.

Taking the fifth spot in line, you waited for her next instructions. Claude surveyed over the seven offerings she was about to bring Wilford and stopped when seeing you. Running her eyes over you, she pursed her lips together.

Spinning on her heels, she called out while leaving the room, “Follow me, hurry up.”

~~~

When you floated in single file into the boxcar and lined up before Wilford, Curtis noticed you immediately. Weak from the fight, or from seeing you- a reminder of a life before the snow and ice, he stumbled slightly when stepping forward. You embodied the type of woman he fantasized about before CW-7 wiped out the world. And he began to feel an attraction he didn’t think he’d feel again.

As he walked closer to the numbered selection, Curtis stopped in front and looked each woman in the eye to see how they’d react to a lowly, dirty, tail end-er. A tail end-er who was now demanding respect. Counting the beats, he stared them down and waited to see if their movements gave way to any hints of judgment.

Option One seemed to be uncomfortable in her own skin, nervously rubbing the long sleeves of her dress. Was she nervous about the situation or him? Regardless, she wouldn’t do.

Number two was not his type, although she did hold her head high and make eye contact with him for the full time. Perhaps she’d be a civil option.

Three’s nostrils flared as soon as Curtis leaned into her view. Eliminated.

Four, well, he wasn’t sure if Four even knew what day it was, let alone where or why she was here. Discounted.

Five, Curtis tried to remind himself not to show how he already favored you from across the boxcar. Because up close, he wasn’t sure he could remain stoic in front of you for long. An odd feeling of being lost and found was stirring around his gut at the moment.

This foreign, mixed feeling made Curtis frown slightly before he was able to school his features. Seeing Curtis’ frowned reaction to you, Wilford made a small step forward towards the lineup. His own worry slightly showing before he was able to place back his mask for benevolent indifference. Claude gripped the gun in her pocket tighter, gleeful that you might fail Wilford and not gain a higher position.

Curtis never had any use for poetry but here you were right in front of him, something so incredibly unattainable that was now so easily in his grasp. The accessibility to having you made him unsure of himself. He was drawn to you when you entered the room, but having you so close, he knew he’d choose you. Fresh-faced and different from the others, you quirked an eyebrow and tilted your head slightly at him as if you ask, “yes?”

Curtis bit the inside of his cheek, trying to ground himself and not give away his interest. As he did with the earlier numbers, he crowded into your personal space and stared, hard.

His mistake, because that was the instant a voice whispered in his head, mine.

That forgotten feeling of sexual possessiveness slowly started infecting Curtis. At least that was how he related this estranged desire, an infection. A limb waking after being denied blood flow for too long, pins and needles racing across his skin. A drop in the middle of a pond, causing ripples to fold out to opposite sides of the banks. Seeing you from afar and now smelling your light, teasing scent sent a sensation of twists and turns to his stomach making him light-headed and his cock twitch.

He became lost in the thought of you laying next to him. Your lips bruised from kissing and your scent on his clothes as he’d tell you to dip your hands inside your panties for him. He’d praise you as you’d moan next him, watching you pleasure yourself.

You were drawing Curtis in deeper into the web of the sacred, eternal engine. And Wilford looked on you both like a proud matchmaker and smug creator.

Stepping away from you reluctantly, Curtis moved to number Six and looked her in the eyes as well. From the corner of his vision, he watched your reaction as he brought his hand up to fix the strap of Six’s dress. Uninterested in Six’s hitch in breath, he concentrated on how you kept yourself facing straight ahead but narrowing your eyes in annoyance. Satisfied on seeing a reaction from you when he touched another, he moved to number Seven and repeated his action by fixing her shawl.

Turning away from Seven, Curtis never looked back at you or the other candidates. Instead, he made his way to the chair he sat in before you entered.

After Claude escorted your group back into the waiting car, Wilford sat down across from Curtis and pulled out seven numbered files, “I’ll let you review.”

“Five,” Curtis stated without touching any of the folders.

Nodding at Curtis’ choice, Wilford fixed the lapels of his robe and leaned forward to rest his clasped hands on top of the desk. “Excellent choice, dear boy. But in the sense of honor and one passing the so-called baton, you’ll need to know your soon-to-be wife’s job aboard our, well, your sacred engine.”

Wilford watched Curtis’ reactions closely as he explained how you helped maintain order and delivered a well-mannered serving of absolute punishment to any upper class rule breakers.

Wilford spoke poetically; Curtis listened intensely.

“I’ll give you a moment to think it over. But remember what I said, it is a marriage. The contract between you both will be followed because we need structure, social form. There’s an image to uphold. Once you select who you want, that’s it. They’ve all agreed to this.”

“So why did she?” Curtis asked before he could think better not to.

Wilford knew this question had been bouncing around in Curt’s busy little head for a while, “She enjoys her job and she enjoys your train. She knows how people are.”

“She likes to murder and punish.”

Wilford tsked and rolled his eyes, “Stop being dramatic, Curtis. She enjoys order and knows responsibilities. She is a good person to have on your side, especially in our high position of power.”

“So you want me to use her as protection?”

“She is structure. Besides, you can’t deny she’s more than easy on the eyes. More importantly, dear boy, she’s someone you can trust. And it’s sad to see you without anyone to trust nowadays.”

Curtis cut a sharp glare at Wilford, “And who the hell played me the whole way?!”

Sighing noisily, Wilford rose from the table and came around to Curtis’ chair.

“I understand you’re upset about Gilliam. But she didn’t have anything to do with his choices. If anything, choose something in the opposite direction of what I’m offering then. Number Four seems like an easy girl to mold,” Wilford patted Curtis’ shoulder ready to leave and allow him some time to think alone. “Is number Four the type you want to be saddled with? Do you have enough kronole?”

Curtis ignored Wilford’s baiting question as he read your file history and achievements. “Why is she the executioner?”

“'It’s easier for someone to survive on this train, if they have some level of insanity,*’” Wilford shrugged casually.

Curtis frowned slightly at that understandable line, absentmindedly rubbing the scar on his arm.

“Think it over, Curtis. You two would be amazing together. You went with your gut and made it to the front end. You went with your gut and picked the best girl out of the seven. Make the best choice for yourself and your sacred engine. Would you like some water while you decide?”

Curtis ignored Wilford’s question. He looked at your old photo from when you boarded and a more recent sketch of you now. Running a dirty finger across your detailed sketch, his cock twitched in his pants again as he traced your painted lips.

Wilford set the tall glass of water down in front of Curtis, and with a flare that only Wilford possessed, dropped a single ice cube in the drink.

“Are you fucking serious?” Curtis growled after seeing a bullet frozen in the cube.

“Take your time to think it over. Read the note. The choice is yours, my dear boy. I’ll be back after it melts.”

The door closed behind Wilford and Curtis’ breath hitched in his chest.

Alone, quiet.

Curtis tried to compose himself in the eerie solitude. When locked in the tail section, he prayed for solitary confinement. A moment of silence. Now alone, he wasn’t sure what was worse.

Curtis raised the water glass up to the light and watched the prism paint the walls, choking out an uncomfortable laugh deep within. Gulping down the water, he spat the ice cube into his palm. Dirt began to run and channel along the lines of his palm.

Having enough of Wilford’s games, Curtis threw the ice cube on the floor and stomped on it.

He twisted the bullet casing apart and stilled his hands for a moment before unrolling the note to read the message.

Blank.

Asshole.

Curtis looked over at Wilford as he came back into the room. He didn’t say anything about the blank message, determined not to give him any more entertainment.

“Number Five,” Curtis stated, pushing the closed folder back across the table. Your pictures safely tucked inside his pocket.

“Excellent! Wise choice. Wait here and I’ll call Claude to show you to your new living quarters, there’s a private bath and a large bed for the soon-to-be-married couple. You’ll find out soon enough, but your soon-to-be misses and Claude aren’t the best-,” Wilford chuckled at the memories. “-Well, you’ll find out that detail out for yourself. What’s the fun in hearing everything secondhand?”

Curtis ran his hands over his face, not sure what to make of all that’s happened within these last days aboard the eternal engine.

Wilford snapped his fingers, making a show as if he forgot something and patting the pockets of his robe, “A piece of marital advice, dear boy. Your soon-to-be wife is more clever at making you feel welcomed than you know.”

Wilford pulled a tube of lipstick out of his pocket and rolled it across the desk. Curtis eyed the cylinder, trying to understand what Wilford was hinting at.

And then he knew.

Your sketch burning a hole in his pocket with your painted lips. Tapping the end of the lipstick on the table, it was that small detail he favored about you over the others. You were the only fresh-faced lady in the bunch.

---

The soft, classical music became a white noise as you looked out the dining car window and allowed yourself to relax. White noise, whiter scenery.

Dabbing the crisp linen napkin to the corner of your soft mouth, you arched a sleek eyebrow in anticipation.

Across the table, the slumped body finally lost to gravity and fell hard against the lace tablecloth as the train jostled and creaked itself out of a turn. The heavy weight of the fresh corpse shook the table causing a melody to play out on the fine China, vibrating a song of disturbance.

Huffing softly at your former dinner companion’s poor manners for falling face-first into his plate, you placed your hands on the table to settle the dinnerware’s rattling tantrum. Taking in the accomplished sight of your fresh kill, you gracefully held the teacup and saucer and brought the warm liquid up to the cold smirk on your lips.

Before settling back into the plush chair, you grabbed a cookie and closed your eyes to enjoy a moment of unsupervised silence.

“What did I tell you the last time you asked to do this?”

Shit.

Opening your eyes, you saw Curtis slide the dining car door close behind him, locking both doors on the keypad. His boots echoing loudly with each step as his eyes pinned you in place. His barely concealed anger immediately caused irritation to run down your spine.

“I don’t recall, please be more specific,” you couldn’t help but douse your words in annoyance before taking another sip of tea.

Why did he have to visit the dining car so soon? He was supposed to be having meetings with the security and maintenance departments. Swirling the remnants of tea, you couldn’t help but feel cheated that Curtis walked in and stole a bit of your alone time away.

The more you thought about the peace and quiet now lost, you rolled your eyes in the direction of the slowly chilling body across from you. Why did he always have to ask questions to obvious answers? Anyone would have known what you were doing here, the dead body gave it away for christ's sake. There was not much to deduce. He had always known what your tastes were like when he selected you- that was part of the deal. So for him to keep stifling your gifts over the last several weeks had become unacceptable. Looking over at the dead man’s ruffled hair you couldn’t help but snicker how things finally came to a head, so to speak.

Curtis narrowed his eyes at the sound of your soft laughter, “Watch yourself.”

Keeping in a sigh of vexation, you placed down your teacup and crossed your arms over your chest. Maybe if you restrained yourself, you could keep the displeasure you felt with Curtis about his lack of action concerning the poisoned body in front of you.

And then the thought dawned on you, “Seems your meetings ended earlier than I anticipated.”

Curtis shook his head at your blasé attitude of being caught doing something he specifically told you not to do.

“So sorry to interrupt your time with such a wonderful conversationalist,” he mocked, waving a disinterested hand at the body, “Things worked out better than you anticipated?”

“No, not as well as I anticipated,” you added back, giving him a pointed look. “Obviously didn’t have enough time to move the body before you found me.”

“I’ll always find you what you’re doing, you’re mine. My responsibility,” Curtis stated seriously.

Before you had time to enjoy the way his claim warmed you, he moved on and mentioned how Claude was currently overseeing the maintenance meeting.

You realized then Claude must have known what you had planned for your dead dinner guest, Vardo, and squealed to Curtis.

Seizing a bread roll from the basket, you roughly tore off a chunk between your sharp teeth. The longer you pictured Claude’s face, the harder you chewed. Your resentment for the woman mixed itself in with the taste of butter and sesame.

Claude liked to be an accessory to anyone with power. She only remained loyal to a person with sturdy purse strings, climbing the social ladder within the front end until she was able to get close enough to catch Wilford’s eye. You remembered how Wilford’s open position for a parts measurer was between her and another woman, Livia. Claude received the promotion and Livia avoided everyone for the next two weeks.

Shy and quiet, Livia didn’t speak a lot. Which seemed like a winning trait for someone who would measure humans to fill the role of replacement parts to the grand machine. But the reality of how the train was able to still run after these long 17 years was too much for Livia.

Upon finding out, she suffered hysterics and refuse to eat; crying for hours and mumbling incoherently about locks and gears, tumblers and bolts, little bodies and broken bones. Wilford was becoming increasingly agitated that her outbursts might happen in public and upset others. He said something needed to be done to ensure the grand secret of the sacred engine would not be revealed. During all this, Claude was increasingly delighted how Livia’s breakdown worsened each day.

Before the end of the second week and with Wilford’s concerns in mind, you convinced Livia to visit the club car and have a girls night with you. In between dancing, she told you how Claude was leaving notes with measurements and little tools on the food trays she brought to Livia’s room. Becoming so upset, she wouldn’t be able to eat. Even high on kronole, she didn’t give away details of what she saw or had to do during the job interview.

But her fate was all too late.

She mumbled once too much wine, “Never sanitize soul, not clean.”

Frowning at her jumbled words, you poured her more wine, “You’ll find peace soon, dear girl.”

The poison took her mercifully quick.

The bread roll circled and wobbled around your plate after you tossed it aside. You would never allow Claude to get too close to Curtis. You did care for Curtis, probably more than you were comfortable to admit. Besides, there was limited space for suggestions in Curtis’ head. Your voice held residency along with Wilford’s, and even Gilliam’s, words. You weren’t about to give any elbow room for Claude to whisper ideas to Curtis also.

When the train first started its maiden voyage, you tried to remain civil to Claude but she always gave off an air of unearned self-righteousness. And after what Livia told you, civility was barely hanging on.

Growling at your stubbornness, Curtis came closer to your side of the table. “I told you to give me time. Trust me like you trusted in Wilford. I would have given you what wanted soon enough.”

The memory of Livia still fresh in your mind, you snapped back at him, “Loyalty is what you were promised, but I don’t owe you patience or trust.”

Curtis narrowed his eyes at your attitude. He knew he overindulged your unique desires, but disrespect was something he would not allow. “Knock it off, dear wife. Act like a loving spouse and not a mediocre black widow.”

“Mediocre,” you scoffed at his comparison, “I could knock you off, you know. But what good would that do me, Curtis? I’m not sure I have enough poison for everyone on this train. At the moment.”

“You’re acting like a damn brat,” he muttered, annoyed and bitter at the thought you were still only with him for protection.

“I’m not the one continually breaking promises and then asking for the other spouse to keep believing in them,” you countered back, stomping your feet under the table and crossing your arms over your chest again.

“What, did Claude scurry over to you and rat me out?” You slapped your hands on the table and pitched your voice nasally high to mock, “'Oh, I’ll help you great and powerful ruler. I’ll run the meetings for you.‘”

Sneering at what you imagined Claude’s words might have been to him.

“I took out the garbage for you, Curtis. Vardo’s rumors would have hurt you. You could thank me instead of reprimanding me on how you didn’t sign off on this.”

You truly were a murderous brat.

Most passengers didn’t bother to recognize or question that the shiny new conductor next to you was also the dirty blood-covered rebel monster, who smashed through their glasshouse.

Truthfully, most didn’t care as long as their food was warm and their shit was flushed. Some believed so much in Wilford’s vision, they’d never question Wilford’s prophetic news that Curtis was their new conductor.

But some others did want to question. However, they knew better than to ask; except one, your dead dinner companion, Vardo.

Most believed the revolution was squashed and the rebels snuffed out. That the rebellious end-ers were tagged and placed back in their cages.

So when your freshly deceased guest started making inappropriate advances and asking too many questions at too many tables, you invited him to sup at yours.

Because if there was something you knew how to do, it was to tie up loose ends with a soft smile and a kind offer of something to drink. Every time you asked Curtis if you could take Vardo out for dinner, he would only reply- 'Soon.’

You finally got tired of waiting for Curtis’ permission and listening to Vardo’s rumors about the lack of skills the new conductor possessed.

And Curtis’ current lack of thankfulness towards you was pissing you off, “If you want out of the marriage, let me know.”

Curtis frowned at your obscene words, “What are you fucking talking about?”

“I’m not ignorant or daydreamy, Curtis. I know everyone on this train has a purpose and when that purpose or if room runs out, so will my usefulness. Besides, I’m already a shit listener if that dead weight across the table counts for anything. Maybe what I offer isn’t purposeful enough? Maybe we run out of room on the train again and I don’t make it past the cutoff number? Sure I could be safe if the number was 73% like last time. But there’s so many hypothetical questions. Wait, what was that deduction percent again?”

“74.” Curtis answered without a thought but then immediately looked harder at you.

Smirking slightly you carried on, “Ah yes, that’s correct. 74%. See, there wouldn’t be enough room for me. And the inevitable would happen again for Wilford’s wish of order to remain.”

Curtis’ jaw shifted at your words, he knew you were damn well aware the number was 74%. You were always off to prove a fucking point, but he wasn’t about to entertain the idea of you not being by his side. The notion that you could be separated from him brought a jab to his stomach he wouldn’t ignore.

He was owed this companionship, he was owed you.

He owned you.

He knew there was more to you that day during the selection. No hesitation or disdain when he leaned into your proximity. The silent challenge you gave him. There was something behind your expression, something he was still curious about exploring.

When Wilford revealed to him what your role was on the train, Curtis knew he found the connection, a shared portion of darkness. You offered a safe harbor to him for what he had done in the past and an understanding of what he’d have to do in the future.

He swore he wouldn’t lose you to any conflict- mathematical, mechanical, or man.

Curtis called your name as he calmly stacked the dishes in front of you and moved them aside.

He looked too calm to you, especially after walking in on you with a dead body. His features were cool as he nodded for you to give him the teacup sitting out of his reach.

As he continued to pile the dishes down the table towards Vardo’s body, you remembered how well acquainted Curtis was with death. Surviving all those years in the end section and massacring his way up to the front, one mere non-bloodied body wouldn’t give him much pause. It was you not waiting for his permission concerning the execution that soured his mood.

“I want an answer. Why did you do this, when I denied you my approval?”

“There was nothing to approve, I didn’t ask for your consent… this time,” you grumbled softly with admission.

“Oh, I know that dear wife,” he clicked his tongue at your retort. “You’ve been a goddamn worm in my ear about him for weeks but suddenly go radio silent about him? I knew you were up to something.”

“How did you even know I was here working?”

“A few things. The first, Claude mentioned you were having an intimate dinner with someone who wasn’t your husband.”

“Busy-bodied bitch,” you mumbled. “Hardly intimate. As you can see, it was work.”

Leaning forward and removing a sugar cube from the bowl, you tossed it at your dead dinner guest.

Watching it land down the back of his collar, you continued, “It’s been riveting conversation, too. What were the other few things?”

“She isn’t the only busy body here. Don’t waste food,” Curtis picked the sugar cube out of the man’s collar and tossed it in the air, catching it in his mouth.

“It looks like it was plenty intimate to him,” Curtis kicked Vardo’s chair leg with his heavy boot. “Asshole’s sporting a fucking death erection.”

“What?” Sliding your gaze under the table, you saw Vardo’s pants tented. “Pft. That’s just the poison, not the conversation.”

“I still don’t fucking like it, y/n.” Curtis stated darkly.

You shifted in the chair suddenly uncomfortable on where this conversation may lead, especially with the tone he just used. Recalling what he said shortly ago, you tried to move on, “What did you mean about Claude not being the only busy body?”

“I find it surprising you have to ask that, especially when you’re so busy keeping such thorough records of everyone’s conduct.”

Surprised by his discovery, you tried to figure out when he may have found your notebooks. You knew you never mentioned the records you kept concerning the passengers to him, the scorecards on who should receive punishment when they tallied up too many transgressions.

“Wilford told me. Relax, I can hear the gears moving in your head so loudly, they’re drowning out the sound of the train’s.”

“...Why did he?”

“You already know how Wilford explained what your job was to me before I was allowed to pick you. But he told me other things I didn’t mention to you. He said you’d record events, a little homicide journaling. He described it as a dear death diary on why you wanted someone removed. But more fucking importantly, dear wife- he said you always ran punishments by him before carrying them out. But this one, you didn’t run by me.”

Not yet ready for Curtis to know how sincerely you cared for him, you opted for a vague reply, “This was because of personal reasons.”

“Yes, murders usually happen due to those.”

Huffing at his dry reply, you couldn’t help but feel exposed after hearing Curtis read your records. “When did you find them?”

“Two months ago, after Wilford’s death,” he smirked down at you. “I can keep secretes, too. Glad you finally did Vardo in. Took you long enough though.”

“What?” Your head snapped up from shock.

“I read about the inappropriate comments he made to the men and women in the working section. How he made similar comments to you. How they were increasing, making others more uncomfortable. I was pissed to read the fucking things he said to you, but even more when you didn’t come to your husband and say what was happening.”

“Nothing happened, this was work. Trash removal.”

“Oh, I know that dear wife,” Curtis ran his finger down the column of your neck and over your shoulder.

You could feel yourself respond to his touch, goosebumps and tingles.

Curtis leaned into the shell of your ear as he confessed against your skin, “I made sure to encourage him.”

Breaking out of the soft lull his touch put you in, you slapped his hand away and stood. “What are talking about, encouraging? What did you do?”

“I encouraged Vardo to pursue you. Told him to spread the rumors and concerns about me. Told him if he was able to get my wife to cheat on me and expose your lack of loyalty, I’d reward him for exposing the snake in the garden,” Curtis stepped in closer to you, moving his hand back to your neck and tracing the length of your soft throat with this thumb, “He was the snake. Not you, never you.”

You couldn’t believe what Curtis was admitting. “Why would you do that? I haven’t given you any reason to think I’d break my marital agreement to you, Curtis.”

“Not for that reason.”

“Then what reason?!”

“A wedding present.”

“What.”

“You enjoy doing what you do, so I let you, dear wife. Everything you do, I let you do. I read how little you could stand him. Anyone could tell how much you disliked Vardo, except Vardo.” Curtis watched your shock take over as you tried to process everything. “Vardo was stupid. Stupid enough to think he’d gain anything by going after us. After you. I told him to spread the rumors, prove to me how my dear wife wasn’t faithful. He objected, in the beginning, believed it was a trap. But when I offered him the chance to sleep with you- he agreed greedily.”

“…You set him up to see if he would sleep with me?”

“No, sweetheart. I set you up... to see how loyal you’d be to me.”

Snarling at his words, you smacked his hold on you, “Aren’t you just fucking splitting hairs, husband?”

Moving his hand tighter around your neck, you felt his thumb press into your windpipe. “Mind that bratty attitude. Vardo was fucking stupid, not knowing how tail end-ers are possessive. No one gets to covet my wife.”

As he pushed his thumb harder in your skin, you dipped your head back to gain a breath to speak, “You orchestrated all this?”

“You’re welcome,” Curtis lifted his thumb, relieving the pressure on your windpipe as he dropped his lips to your clavicle.

His touch and confession slammed into your core. Gasping at the feel of his lips, your hands wrapped around his wrists, squeezing them to encourage him to keep the pressure on your throat. Lowly moaning when he did.

Curtis knocked his knee between your legs and grazed your center with his thigh. Moving his thigh back and forth against your clothed clit, you bit your lip when you heard him say, “Rub.”

Rolling your hips against him, Curtis chuckled at your pleasure.

“Good girl.”

He dipped you back against the table as he sucked your neck harder between little sharp bites and kisses, “How wet are you, sweetheart? Grinding that pretty pussy against my thigh. I want to see how desperate you are.”

Your hips jolted up, lost in the smooth and steady twisting of his words.

“Fuck,” you gasped out.

Freeing a hand from your neck, Curtis ran his touch down along your body. Sliding his hand under your skirt, he bunched the material up your hips and licked his lips when he saw the large wet spot on your panties. Moving the damp material aside, he grazed his finger along your slick folds.

Your breath hitched at the contact and the darkness in his eyes.

Curtis teasingly twirled his fingers around your inner thighs, lightly circling your clit. “Can you purr?”

Not waiting for an answer, Curtis kissed you and dipped a finger into your pussy.

He bit your lip and hungrily moved to swirl his tongue over yours. Everything was vibrating in you, a fight of dominance and battle for acceptance.

“Come on, sweetheart. Let some of that tension go,” he encouraged, sliding a second finger into you.

Your resistance weakening, the grazing of his thumb circling your clit- you wanted to melt for him.

Bringing a leg up off the table, you hooked it around his waist and mewled at the sensations he was creating in you by the furious rate his fingers worked you.

Curtis began to slowly scissor you, only pausing his kisses to see your reaction better, “Fuck. You’re so beautiful. That’s it, sweetheart, squeeze my fucking fingers.”

“Please,” you whimpered, extending your other leg out as you tried to gain more friction.

He held your hips down against the table, “Look at you, so beautiful and wet. All fucking mine. My fucking reward.”

“I’m going to cum,” you squeezed the words out past your lips as your walls tightened around Curtis’ fingers.

“No, you’re not. Not yet.” Pulling his fingers away from your pussy, Curtis chuckled deeply at your forlorn expression. “I want to be inside you when you do.”

Bringing his wet fingers up to his mouth, he groaned in pleasure from the taste of you before pulling you off the table.

Kissing you possessively, Curtis’ tongue willed for access to your mouth again. You could taste yourself as you feverishly returned his kiss.

Without warning, he turned you around and bent you over the table. Your stomach seizing from the cold surface while your ass was fully on display in the air.

Yelping in surprise you felt Curtis kick your legs farther apart. Stepping between your soft thighs, Curtis grabbed your legs off the floor as your torso warmed the table underneath your skin. You heard him free himself from his pants and groan deeply.

He ran his hands up and down your legs unable to touch enough of you as he moved your knees back. Praising and kneading your ass cheeks, your heels hovered over your bottom as Curtis locked your folded legs underneath each of his arms. You felt his tip run along your slit, the head of his cock parting your wet lips. Grabbing your hips and with one strong thrust without warning, Curtis buried himself into you.

The table shook with every claiming thrust as Vardo’s body rocked against the fine china on the other side of the table. Curtis pinned his eyes on the corpse before dropping his gaze on your back.

Curtis railed into you harder, “Say you’re mine.”

Moaning at his command and losing yourself in him, you only whimpered in reply. You never felt like this before. You moved your hand behind yourself, trying to feel his hips, his hands, anything.

“No.” Curtis grabbed your blindly-reaching hand and covered his over yours, bring them down on the table. Locking you in place again, his stomach brushed against your back. The sounds of his balls slapping against you echoed throughout the dining car. Perched over you with more leverage, Curtis moved faster in and out of your tight cunt.

“Say it,” another snap of his hips, another long hard drag of his cock along your pussy. “Fucking say you’re mine!”

“Yours,” you finally panted out, your face flattened against the tablecloth that was crumpled in your fists. “Always.”

Curtis almost lost himself when he felt you squeeze your walls around his cock, throwing his hard thrusting off.

“Cum for me, sweetheart. Cum right that fuck now. Fucking milk my cock.” His soft-toned, harsh words made you close your eyes as you screamed his name out in release.

Feeling your pussy tighten and flutter around his cock made Curtis bit his lip and drop your legs. Smacking his hands down on either side of your head, he encased your body with his grunts. All you could focus on when you opened your eyes were the muscles of his forearms flexing in your view as he rutted into you.

The sounds of Curtis fucking and using you to chase his release caused your body to tighten up again. Dropping his weight on top of your back, he snapped and slammed his hips into you. His primal moans set a ripple through you, your eyes rolling back as another orgasm took over causing your tight count to flutter around him again.

Growling out your name, he coated your walls, “Mine. You’re mine.”

Opening your eyes with sigh, you laughed softly at the window you and Curtis managed to fog up next to the table.

After catching his breath, Curtis propped his weight onto his forearms and kept himself within you. He wasn’t ready to pull out and let you go just yet.

The cool air hit your skin when slightly move off your back. Bowing down gently, Curtis kissed your sweaty shoulders making you shudder when he rocked against your sensitive core.

Basking in the aftermath of Curtis slowly softening within you, you realized how much you were willing to do to protect your husband. It was no longer just about the train.

“No more secrets between us. Understood, dear wife?”

“Understood, dear husband.”

“Good. It might be time to invite Claude for dinner,” Curtis said before kissing the back of your neck.

[bitsandbobsandstuff]

Safe with me (8)

Summary: When an unknown threat enters your life, protection is offered at the highest level. As Bucky Barnes comes into your life, the game changes, and you realise falling for the man tasked with keeping you safe is the last thing you expected.    

Characters: Bodyguard!Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Bad language. Descriptions of stalking, violence.

A/N: I watched ‘The Vampire Diaries’ religiously, through good times and bad, and it always seemed to abide by one specific rule: plan a dance, everything goes to shit. This chapter follows that pattern. Also, we finally get the song that inspired this entire story. You can hear it HERE.

FYI. I’ll keep trying to post every weekend, but may skip next week – I want proper time to make sure these chapters are perfect rather than just finished, and life is busy. Hopefully I’ll surprise myself. 

Tags for this story are CLOSED Link here for posting schedule

SAFE WITH ME MASTERLIST PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Previously...

The cut-out letters appear to glow bright red, before Bucky understands the red is nothing more than the raging fire burning behind his eyes.

SHE LOOKS SO PRETTY IN BLUE, SERGEANT. I’M HAPPY SHE PICKED THIS ONE, I CAN’T WAIT TO SEE HER IN IT.

YOU REALLY SHOULD PAY MORE ATTENTION.

Bucky picks up the two photographs, his hands now shaking so hard the images seem blurry.

You, in a blue dress, looking down at your hands.

You, in a blue dress, laughing.

No. He can’t breathe.

Plaster rains down on the floor when he spins around with a snarl, and slams a metal fist through the wall.

*****

Standing at your open closet, you eye the blue dress with a small smile. Fingering the delicate lace, tracing the soft ruffles of the skirt, loving the way the silky fabric slides through your fingers. Peeling it off the hanger, you step carefully into it, maneuvering your arms into the intricate lace sleeves, easily connecting the tiny hook and eye clasp at the waist, below the deep open back.

Adding a pair of pearl drop earrings, you stand in front of the full-length mirror attached to your closet door, examining the effect. The rhythmic beat of your heart skips a beat at the thought of the night to come, of lavish decorations and dancing, of champagne and caviar, of smoky laughter and bright blue eyes.

Padding barefoot into the kitchen, you drop your heels on the sofa, and pull a half-empty bottle of wine from the refrigerator, tipping a healthy pour into a crystal glass. Wandering to the window, you contemplate the fading light, waiting patiently for Bucky to arrive.

*****

Bucky stands in front of his bedroom mirror, normally deft fingers fumbling at his neck, before he rips apart the bowtie with a vicious swear. Clenching the slippery fabric in his fist, he closes his eyes and goes still, inhaling slow breaths through his nose, fighting for composure. When he looks again, the anxiety has bled away, leaving his features smooth and clear. With steady hands, he drapes the cloth around his neck, and whips through the motions one more time, a perfect bow appearing in a flash.

Moving into autopilot, he drops to the edge of his bed, picks up two skin-tight, neoprene knife sheaths and straps one to each ankle. Sliding a blade into each, he tugs to make sure they're secure, before standing to let the trousers fall. Buckling his black leather belt, he attaches two gun holsters to the side, positioning one on each hip. Picking up the Glock from his dresser, he checks the chamber, slides it into the holster, selects a second gun and does the same.

Lifting the tuxedo jacket from his bed, he shrugs into it, and stands in front of his mirror. His mind drifts, and Bucky focuses on wiping it clean, allowing only his one single task for the night - keeping you safe - to dominate his thoughts.

*****

The man stands at his window, watching the shadows lengthen, creeping and crawling into the city. Lifting a glass to his lips, he hears the gentle clink of ice and takes a savoring breath, appreciating the sharp, piney scent of vodka.

He's dressed formally, a crisp white button-up tucked into the silk band of perfectly tailored trousers. The black bow-tie hangs loose around his neck, one hand tucked casually into his pocket, while he gazes into the coming darkness. When the sun is finally gone, he notices his reflection staring back from the window, sees an unopened blue pill bottle sitting on the kitchen counter behind him.

He smiles and takes another sip.

*****

NEW YORK POST Sightings | Page Six

"Accompanied by his date, New York's favorite broody brunette, Sergeant Bucky Barnes, attends Tony Stark's 'Stern verdict celebration party'

*****

"I genuinely, sincerely, with all my heart and soul hate paparazzi," Bucky mutters under his breath, as flashbulbs click and snap around you. He spares them one look of pure and total loathing, before facing forward and ignoring everything, his hand tight on your elbow as he steers you past the shouting voices.

There are certainly perks to attending this event on the arm of an Avenger, and walking straight through security and into their private elevator bank is one of them. Bucky seems unusually sombre tonight, his posture tense and his eyes locked on his shoes, as the elevator doors close and you begin to rise.

"Everything okay?" Reaching over, you give his sleeve a tug to get his attention and he looks up at the request, giving you a brief smile.

"All good. Long week I guess," the smile fades a little, turns tight.

"We don't have to stay long," you promise. "Couple drinks, a few hellos, and whenever you want to leave, just say. Okay?"

The tightness around his mouth loosens, a genuine smile blossoming across his lips, and he nods, looking back to his feet. He lets a beat go by, before he clears his throat quietly, and looks up at you.

"You look – really nice tonight. I, uh, I didn't mention it earlier."

His words are spoken with such simple sincerity, it sends pleasant surprise flushing warm across your skin.

"Um, thank you. You look pretty dashing yourself, not everyone can pull off a black on black tuxedo, it's a good look. Keeps that dark and angry image of yours well intact."

Bucky finally laughs for the first time that day, when you give him a cheeky wink, the ball of anxiety in his chest melting just a little.

"Well, I do have a reputation to maintain."

*****

The first time you met Tony Stark, you knew immediately he was the type who would never half-ass any task he put his mind to. He later confirmed he was a "full ass or no ass" kind of guy, which you could probably take to mean a variety of things, but ultimately you got the drift.

It's crystal clear that when Tony Stark throws a party, he goes "full ass."

Exiting the elevator, the brilliant lights and brassy bang of trumpets immediately smash into you. The party's in full-swing, a 12-piece band stationed in front of the massive floor-to-ceiling windows on one side, a dazzling backlit bar taking up the entirety of the wall opposite. Chandeliers line the ceiling, throwing streams of fragmented light flickering through the room. TV screens line the walls, playing a loop of breaking news headlines announcing the verdict, interspersed with snippets of Tony's session with the SAS committee, his laughing face blowing kisses at Stern before strolling away.

Even the servers are dressed for the occasion, wearing black and white striped tuxedos, while the bartenders are dressed in form fitting orange jumpsuits.

Yes, full ass indeed.

The sea of faces blends together, but Bucky searches out the familiar blond head, finally finding him near the bar. Nudging you, he points toward Steve and steers you forward, the crowd parting quickly before his hard expression.

"Hello!" Steve booms out, giving you a gigantic hug, nearly lifting you off your feet. You're surprised by the boisterous reception, he always plays the serious Captain in all your interactions, but then you catch a whiff of the thick amber liquid sloshing in his glass, and nearly gag.

"Steve Rogers, you fucking lightweight. I thought you couldn't get drunk?"

Steve graces you with a dopey smile, while Bucky peers into his glass, before giving a heavy sigh. "Asgardian? You remember what happened last time Steve, don't be that guy. Nobody likes that guy."

"I'm fine," Steve insists. "Just a little lubrication before I hit the dance floor."

He laughs loudly, slapping his knee and you can't stop the laughter that follows. The sight of Captain America roaring at his own dirty innuendo may be the best thing you've seen all week.

Bucky fights back a grin as he turns to the bar, waving the bartender over to request champagne for you, water for him. When he returns, he finds Steve's transformed back to his crotchety old-man phase, and Bucky rolls his eyes, silently handing you a champagne flute.

"I just don't know why the music has to be so damn loud," Steve’s complaining, gesturing toward the dance floor.

"Steve, calm your tits, it's fine," his poker face perfectly intact, Bucky raises his glass to cheers you, taking a long drink. Smacking his lips, he looks so intensely smug with himself for using your line, you choke on the champagne, snorting bubbles up your nose.

"What does that even – alright, whatever. You guys are hilarious," Steve shrugs.

Bucky's still grinning when the scent hits.

It floods his nostrils, a sweetly acidic tang, immediately sucking the smile from his face. His heart gives an enormous leap in his chest, before resuming in double-time, the rest of his body going bracing for attack.

Steve feels the imperceptible shift in mannerisms, and turns his head slightly, the silly smile fading when he sees Bucky, notices the tense set of his jaw, and he's instantly at attention. Wordless communication is their speciality, so when Bucky gives a tiny jerk of his head toward the bar, it dawns on Steve and he turns nonchalantly, causally searching the bodies behind the counter.

The smell ebbs and flows, puffs of lemon bursting in the air, and Bucky zeroes in on a tall man at the far end of the bar, his light brown hair falling into his eyes. He prods Steve's foot, motioning with his eyes. When Steve turns, both men notice it at the same time.

Pouring liquid from a metal shaker into a crystal tumbler, the man reaches below, glancing up to the crowd in front of him, hands scrabbling under the counter...

...before he returns with two thick slices of lemon, garnishing the drink with a flourish and delivering it to a woman in a dazzling red gown. She gives him a sultry wink and saunters away, a seductive sway in her hips.

Bucky lets out a silent, shaky breath.

Still sipping your glass of champagne as you stare into the crowd of people, their interaction goes completely unnoticed.

*****

"It's my boss," you stage whisper later that evening. "Everybody run, he never shuts up."

Jack shakes his head good-naturedly at the ribbing, but there's a tense edge to his expression.

"Everything okay?" you ask curiously, setting the joking aside.

"All good," he affirms, giving your arm a quick squeeze. "Barnes, could I get a word?"

There's a loaded silence following the request, and Steve scrambles to fill it, turning to you with a hang-dog face and asking for a dance. You hesitate, looking to Bucky to make sure he's okay, and he gives you a brief smile.

"Better get him now, before the liquor sets in. I've seen his moves, they're even worse when he's sober."

Steve huffs in mock outrage, promptly outlining a defense for himself, while he guides you toward the dance floor.

Jack's expression remains pleasant as you walk away, but the moment you're out of earshot, the smile turns cold and he glares at Bucky.

"What the fucking hell happened yesterday," he hammers roughly, all trace of friendliness gone. "I brought you in to fucking find this guy, and you let him get so god damn close he took photos of her? Are you even trying to find him? Or are you too busy flirting with her to figure it out?"

He should have expected this, Bucky thinks to himself. Half of him wants to knock Jack flat on his ass for even questioning Bucky's commitment to you, but the other half figures he deserves the verbal flogging, and much, much more.

There's literally no one more pissed at Bucky Barnes, than Bucky Barnes.

"Yeah, I fucked up, I'm well aware. But you saw the report, now I know what I'm looking for, it sure as god damn hell won't happen again. He comes near her, I'll get him."

Jack scowls fiercely, biting his tongue to stem the flow of angry words he clearly wants to throw in Bucky's direction, before finally settling for a sharp response.

"You fucking better, Barnes. I see the way you look at her, I shouldn't have to remind you to keep your emotions out of this, I thought you were better than that. I want daily updates, I want to know where you're at and what you're doing at all fucking times. And it better be what I hired you to do. And nothing more."

*****

Steve isn't much of a dancer. His best move consists of swaying back and forth, more than a little off-beat. It's disconcerting in its awkwardness, given how graceful he moves during combat.

"How have things been going? With you and Bucky, I mean?" He asks the question lightly, nothing more than mild interest.

"Well, I'm sure he's given you his interpretation of everything," you answer with a grin. "But if you're wanting me to tell tales, you're barking up the wrong tree. He'll take away my taco truck privileges if I say anything bad."

Steve chuckles, moving you in a slow circle. "Nah, I'm just digging for a little gossip, that's all. Buck responds to every damn question with a grunt or an eye roll, he doesn't give me much."

"Well you saw us in the beginning, I was well on my way to murdering him in the first five minutes," you muse, thinking back to the conversation in Tony's lab, when Bucky laid down his three golden rules and you laughed in his face. It seems ages ago now. "But we figured out how to make it work."

Steve hums. "So, now you've cracked that famous asshole exterior, what do you think? Of him, I mean?"

"Are you fishing for something Steve?" you ask, puzzled at the direction of his questions and wondering if he's trying to trick you into saying something. His look of 'surprise' solidifies your assertion that Steve Rogers has no future in the world of espionage, because it may be the most obviously fake thing you've ever encountered.

"No, no, not at all. Just making conversation."

"Right," you say slowly, narrowing your eyes. "Well, if you're looking for an honest assessment here, how about this – I think he's a cocky, stubborn, overprotective control freak, with an insane streak of paranoia and terrible taste in ice cream. He drives his motorcycle like a fucking idiot, gets weirdly insane pleasure from me making fun of him, and he sucks ass at sharing pizza."

"Those things are all extremely true," Steve confirms.

Dropping your gaze, you focus on the crooked tilt of Steve's bowtie, hesitating before continuing. He doesn't speak, waiting patiently to hear what else you have to profess.

It goes in a new direction.

"He's also infinitely calm and always reassuring, no matter the situation. He lets me be a sarcastic jerk whenever I want and never gets mad, just dishes it right back. He makes weird faces when he's concentrating on those damn crossword puzzles and he always indulges my terrible coffee habits." The words spill quickly, fast and thick now, with only a small stumble. "He's kind and he's brave, and he's – he makes me feel safe."

Steve is silent at the admission, still bobbing gently to the music, and his silence makes your nerves itch. Defiantly raising your eyes, you expect to see him sneering at the sentimental declaration, but he merely smiles, revealing a softness in those sky-blue eyes. He opens his mouth to reply, but you interrupt.

"And if you tell him I said any of that Steve, and I mean one single word, please rest assured that I will find you and I will dick punch you again. So hard."

Pressing his lips together, he smothers a grin and simply pulls you closer, searching desperately for some semblance of rhythm, clipping your toes with every other step.

*****

Arms crossed, Bucky stares daggers at the door to the women's restroom, waiting for you to reappear. Still seething from the argument with Jack, he replays the words, grinding his teeth irritably.

Keep your god damn emotions out of this.

What the fucking hell was that supposed to mean? Bucky always keeps emotions at bay, he's perfectly professional, never once had a problem. He doesn't understand where this is coming from, first Steve, now Jack, and it's seriously pissing him off.

The sound of quiet rustling reaches his ears as he stands and stews, and from the corner of his eye, he observes a man shuffling down the hall, his head bowed forward. Sandy brown hair swings forward, and he keeps twitching his head to shift it from his eyes. He's dressed formally, a full tuxedo complemented with white gloves, and he holds tightly to a black cloth bag.

Bucky takes in the hunched posture, the slightly awkward, uneasy mannerisms, cycling through a mental list of traits, before deeming him a non-threat, and returning his gaze to the bathroom door.

But then the smell hits him light a truck, overpoweringly sweet and strangely medicinal, clamping down on his brain and Bucky staggers. In the next instant he strides forward with a low growl, shoving the man roughly backward, before slamming him into the wall.

"What the fuck are you doing here? Who are you?" he hisses, taking in the wild eyes, filled with dawning recognition that is quickly replaced with terror. The metal arm whirrs supportively, shifting, clicking, re-calibrating, when Bucky digs his forearm into the man's neck, watching with relish as his face turns red, his throat struggling for oxygen. "Answer me right fucking now you piece of shit, or I swear to god –"

"Bucky what the fuck are you doing?"

Steve is suddenly at his elbow, wrapping an arm around his chest, pushing him hard, breaking his hold. Bucky snarls at the intrusion and rams forward again, before Steve steps in front of the man, catching Bucky before he lands a punch.

"Stop! Bucky, stop, stop! It's not him – you're not – fucking look!"

Fists wrapped in Bucky's jacket, Steve shakes him harshly, forcing him to pay attention. Bucky's entire body is lit with rage, until he looks down at the man's feet, to see a shiny yellow and white plastic bottle spilling from the black bag.

Clorox bathroom disinfectant. Lemon-scented.

Disappointment and relief crash through him, a potent combination of emotion in equal measure, and he's suddenly reeling backward.

"I'm sorry," he rasps. "Jesus Christ, fuck, I'm sorry."

The man is trembling so hard his teeth are chattering, and Steve speaks quietly to him, bending to pick up the bottle and hand it back, his voice friendly and non-threatening. The man focuses panicked eyes on Steve's face and nods shakily, accepting the apology Steve makes on Bucky's behalf. With one last terrified look, he rushes away.

There's a moment of silence, before Steve is rounding on him.

"What the fucking hell are you doing?"

Bucky rubs his hands down his face, shaking his head in disbelief. "Goddammit Steve, shit. I'm going – I'm going fucking insane here," he croaks. "I thought – I smelled it, and I fucking flipped. I thought it was him."

Steve's anger quickly fades when he sees the anxiety in Bucky's face, the clench of his fists, the tight pull of his mouth. "Yeah. Yeah, I kind of got that," he sighs heavily.

"Is everything okay?"

The worry in your simple question breaks through Bucky's panic, instantly easing his nerves. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath, grounding himself in the moment. Straightening his shoulders, he pastes a pleasant expression on his face, before he turns to face you.

"Of course, everything's fine."

*****

It's late in the evening when Sam Wilson sweeps into a low bow and dramatically petitions you for a dance. Responding with equal flair, you give him a mocking curtsy, and accept the proffered arm with much batting of the eyelashes and a silly, breathy giggle.

Sam's an enthusiastic dancer, preferring to whirl you across the floor in wide, crazy circles, ignoring everyone else and occasionally attempting to throw your back out with his overly theatrical dips.

He's also quite the little chatterbox.

"You're looking excessively spectacular tonight darlin’, blue is definitely your color." He throws you away from him and catches your hand to reel you back in.

"And you're looking excessively dapper tonight Mr. Wilson. If James Bond were here, he'd fling himself from the roof in shame."

"You're amazing, I love praise, like man, it's so good for me, and I really deserve it, you know?" Sam replies happily. He stops speaking long enough to push you into a quick double spin, leaving you breathlessly dizzy. "So, we've established you look great and I look great, and we're pretty much owning this dance floor."

"Pretty much," you echo.

"And you know what, I'm willing to spread the love, so I'll throw it out there. You know who else looks okay? Barnes. He cleans up alright, all things considered."

"Bit out of your league, isn't he? You need me to put in a good word for you?"

He lets out a loud guffaw at the sass, and dips you so far back, your head touches the floor.

"I'll have you know, if I were batting for that team, I could totally pull Barnes if I wanted to," Sam announces. "Really, I'm the total package and that bastard'd be lucky to have me. But no, I can get my own dates, thanks. I'm just sourcing opinions, sizing up the competition, you know. Always good to hear what the ladies think."

Blowing an exasperated breath, you roll your eyes. "What the hell's with you and Steve tonight? Is there a point to all these questions?"

Sam just shrugs as he spins you away, holding tight to your fingers. "No point, just making conversation. I'm sure he'd like to know."

Twirling back into his arms, you lay your hand back to his shoulder and squeeze hard, trying to pinch him through the thick fabric of his jacket. "I realize we don't know each that well Sam, but I'll be perfectly honest with you right now. I'm not adverse to punching you in the dick either."

His laughter booms across the dance floor when he spins you again.

*****

Tony watches you bouncing with Sam, a strangely thoughtful look on his face. Taking a slug of whiskey, he debates whether to start this conversation, then decides fuck it.

"So, Toy Soldier, I'm actually surprised you brought her tonight. Assumed you'd have her under lock and key somewhere, banned from interacting with the rest of us mere mortals."

"She really wanted to come." Bucky doesn't even spare him a glance, his eyes fixed where you're clasping Sam's hand as he twirls you in circles. He gives a twitch of annoyance as he watches Sam wrap his arms around you.

"What'd she say when you told her about the drug?"

Bucky takes a long drink, his eyes never leaving you.

"I didn't tell her."

Tony stares at him, the words razor sharp when he responds. "So, what? She doesn't deserve to know what's going on?"

"Not that I need to explain myself to you, but I don't think she needs that hanging over her head, when she can't do a fucking thing about it. That's why I'm here."

"I think you're underestimating her."

"Is it any of your fucking business?" Bucky finally turns, leveling him with an icy glare.

"None at all Barnes, I'm just wondering why you brought her tonight when you couldn't give her the courtesy of sharing the full story."

"Well I sure as fuck can't find this guy if I keep her locked up somewhere."

"So, you decide to trot her out in front of a crowd, so you could what? Use her as fucking bait?" All trace of sarcasm is gone, and outrage flattens Tony's voice.

Bucky takes a step closer, defensive fury in every syllable when he speaks.

"Of course, I didn't want to bring her here tonight, I'd rather lock her away until I wipe this fucker off the face of the earth, but I can't find him, so what would you suggest I do?" He lifts his chin, and his voice drops low, turning breathtakingly cold. "Besides, this party was your idea and this is your place Tony, so if anything happens, I know who I'm coming for."

"You motherfucking candy ass son of a bitch –"

"Enough, both of you." Steve hisses, putting a stern hand on each, cutting them off before the conversation escalates further. Both men eye each other with loathing, Bucky only breaking the stare to look back at the dance floor when he hears Sam's laughter ringing through the room.

*****

There's a confident tap on your shoulder, and a smooth, honeyed voice speaks close to your ear.

"Excuse me, miss."

Swinging at the sound, you find yourself facing a dark-haired man, his green eyes alight with interest as he looks you up and down. He starts to speak, swaggering confidence oozing from every pore, until he catches sight of the man next to you.

Bucky turns from the bar, plucking the straw from his drink and slipping it between his lips. He cocks an eyebrow as he looks at the man, baring his teeth in a wide smile, clearly daring him to ask the question.

"Never mind," the guy says hastily, backing away.

Turning to Bucky, you set your glass on the bar with a sharp click.

"Alright. Are you done marking your territory? You've managed to scare the shit out of every guy who's even considered asking for a dance."

"You've been dancing all night!" He argues, removing the straw and tossing it behind him.

"Um no. I danced once with Steve, who is an adorably graceless buffalo, and once with Sam, who seemed to be auditioning for 'West Side Story'."

"That guy was a douche, you didn't want to dance with him anyway."

"Well Bucky, that's not exactly the point. I like to dance, and everyone here thinks you'll punch them in the face if they ask."

"That's just ridiculous. I always go for the throat, everyone knows that," he deadpans.

Sometimes he makes it impossible to be annoyed, so you sigh dramatically instead and lean against the bar. He falls quiet, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the floor as he surveys the crowd.

"Are you sure you're okay tonight? You seem more weirdly tense than usual. And we both know that's saying something."

He swallows hard, you can see his throat working, while he thinks. You can tell something's wrong, and the only thing you can do now is wait him out, he won't share unless he wants to. You know the moment he comes to a decision, when he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip and takes a deep breath.

"Since I scared everyone else away, do you want to dance with me?"

He freezes, looking completely stunned the moment the words leave his mouth. It was clearly not what he meant to say, but now the words are hanging in the air, so you snatch them before he can retract the offer.

"Well, yes. I'd love to dance with you."

He looks baffled at your response, but ever the gentleman, he recovers quickly. Crooking his elbow and offering his arm, you reach for him and he catches your hand, smoothly laying it over his forearm, and pulling you forward.

The lights are dimming as you walk toward the dance floor, and you see a young woman stepping up to the microphone, dark hair flowing in loose waves at her shoulders, her black evening gown glittering under the chandeliers. There's a pregnant pause as she closes her eyes, letting the delicate piano chords fill the room before her throaty voice begins, lyrics like dark smoke floating through the air.

The city sky's feeling dark tonight We're back to back with our heads down Just look at me, give me more tonight Just give me more of your love now

Bucky stops in the center of the floor and steps back slightly. Glancing to the metal fingers tapping nervously at his side, he blanches when he considers them. His voice is apologetic, barely above a whisper when he raises his hand cautiously.

"If it bothers you, I have a glove I can –"

Without another word, you reach for him, folding your hands together, unbreakable metal and fragile skin. Palm to palm, his eyes close briefly at the contact.

Sliding your hand up his arm, your fingers grasp his shoulder, and there's the silky feel of his dark hair brushing lightly against your knuckles. He curves his other hand slowly around you, wordlessly requesting permission, before letting his warm fingers splay across the bare skin of your back.

Let's set fire to the lonely night You're beautiful when you look at me Let's give love another life

All the appropriate actions have been taken, the standard requirements to engage in a slow dance. The final step is simple, gently swaying back and forth, leaving the space between you open, a friendly distance between two bodies. Internally warring with himself on what to do next, you see the confusion running rampant across his features, before he just – lets go.

His eyes darken, and he tugs you in close, closing the distance and locking his arm tight, molding your body to him, from knee to hip to chest. Leaning his head down, he presses his temple against yours, and you tuck your face into his neck, feeling the rough scratch of stubble against your cheek.

And you begin to dance.

There are no crazy, spinning circles. There are no awkward apologies as your toes are trampled.

There's only Bucky, his breath trailing down your neck, his cool fingers laced with yours, his unconscious hum of contentment in your ear. He moves smoothly, rocking you back and forth, never breaking the tight hold. Pressed flush against him, you know without a doubt, you've never in your life felt safer than you do in this moment. His presence is a morphine drip straight into your veins, soothing and intimate in the security it brings.

You feel your heartbeat thrumming in your chest, so hard you know he must be able to hear it, to feel it through the thin lace, but you can't find it in yourself to be embarrassed. He rubs the tip of his nose against your skin, and your breath shakes.

You remember the words he offered that first night, his promise of protection, a solemn vow you knew he would fight to the death to keep. "You call my name, and I'll run to you. I'll always come for you."

And there you hear it again, words echoing through the room, his promise set to music.

Cause you'll be safe in these arms of mine Just call my name on the edge of the night And I'll run to you, I'll run to you

Bucky thinks of you spitting mad that first day, indignant rage as you shoved him away, fighting desperately to keep your independence. He remembers you arguing with him, trying so hard to spare him the hostile environment of the trial and the way you flew to his defense, ready to tackle anyone who may hurt him. He remembers the feel of you burrowing into his back, arms locked around him as he drove through the city streets. The way you quietly tap your teeth when you're deep in thought.

He thinks of the determination blazing in your eyes when you picked up his gun.

Of the sharp nudge of your elbow, trying to convince him to smile.

Of the sight of you warm and soft, curled fast asleep in his chair.

And it rocks him to his core, understanding roaring in like a freight car knocking him sideways. It cracks the carefully constructed façade down to the foundation of his being, the startling revelation of what everyone around him seemed to see, everyone but him.

Let's let go, let it be the start You know I'm feeling the same thing Let's let go of our broken hearts

You remember Bucky sitting next to you in the courtroom, the slick slide of his sweaty hand gripping yours. The feel of his arm around you, encouraging you to breath, to fight through a panic attack. You think about the way he orients himself so carefully around you, so he can always see your face, even when his eyes are roving everywhere. You remember the raw emotion in his voice when he admitted he couldn't save those little kids, and the pure happiness in his eyes when you declared how much you loved his home.

You think of the lazy way he licks ice cream from his lips.

Of the look in his eyes when he saw you in the blue dress.

Of the heat of his skin, fingers burning like fire pressing into your back.

And there it is, the realization arriving with heart-stopping clarity. After so many years alone, so many years fighting to save yourself, the hard steel of the man in front of you fills the puzzle piece you never knew was missing.

Cause you'll be safe in these arms of mine Just call my name on the edge of the night And I'll run to you, I'll run to you

It was never one single action, but rather a multitude of subtle things layered together. The shift is seismic, all-consuming and overpowering, and suddenly the world tilts. When it resettles, there's no one else, every voice is silenced, the dance floor empty. The only thing that remains, is the iron grip of Bucky's arm around you, the thick muscles of his shoulder under your palm, the intense blue of his eyes, and the shock in them as he looks at you.

Even if it's gonna break me, love I run to you

The final note hangs in the air, time suspended as you stare at each other. The truth is, neither of you saw this coming. Perhaps in its own way, that's what made it all the more devastating.

When the lights go up, applause fills the room, and it's enough to break the spell. Bucky drops your hand quickly and steps away.

*****

From across the room, the man watches the interaction with interest, eyes blazing as he drinks it in.

*****

The evening air is cool when you leave, and you rub your arms automatically, letting the light friction heat your skin. Bucky catches the gesture, abashed that he's unable to meet the proper gentlemanly obligation of giving you his jacket, but the array of weaponry hidden under that jacket is not well suited for the public eye.

Instead, he lays a tentative hand at your back, and weaves a path through the clusters of people lingering out front, guiding you toward the waiting car. His sharp profile is serious as he scans the crowd, searching intently, committing everything he sees to memory. He feels you lean closer, and looks down to find you watching him, a hopeful smile beginning to curve your lips. He feels his mouth move in response, before he suddenly snaps his head up, meeting a pair of nervous hazel eyes.

And for the third time that evening, Bucky Barnes smells the bitter tang of lemons, right before the bomb explodes.

*****

Next Chapter

*****

PERMANENT TAGS: @buckybarnesappreciationsociety @stentorian-lore-n @ihavemymomentsstill @badassbaker @psingh97 @justreadingfics @palaiasaurus64 @4theluvofall @mrshopkirk @lovelynemesis @eve1978 @sebstanchrisevanchickforever19 @whiskeyandwashitape @loverbug1123 @thefridgeismybestie @isaxhorror @the-real-kellymonster @velociraptorscreee @brooklyn-to-battlefields @chameerah @earinafae @moonbeambucky @iamwarrenspeace @caramell0w @a-splash-of-stucky @charlotte-gcwd @mad-girl-without-a-box @vintagepigeon @waywardpumpkin @you-know-whodoesthat-crazypeople @pineapplebooboo @blacwings-and-bucky-barnes @wildefire @tbholland @coal000 @casdoesntunderstandthatreference @erisan @my-drowning-in-time @fireburninsideyoureyes @roselock20 @wingtaken @captainrxgers @qoldmine @theginamariestaytion @creideamhgradochas @just-another-fangirl777 @gallxntdean @avinaris @marmarayi @brieannakeogh

SAFE WITH ME TAGS: @california-grown @barnesdeservestheworld @whyfit-in @evgvillanueva @bilesxbilinskixlahey @teresaoliva20 @inselaire @sumafamouxx @blxcksoulsanddxrkflowers @jenlrose @pure-lif3 @k-nighttt @capkilljoy @marvel-fanfiction @tequilavet @buckysblonde @pizza-whiskey-and-soul-stealing @cuddle-me-muke @katielu-blog @pao-prazz @lachicadelamanzana @feelmyroarrrr @mizzzpink @ilovetardis @affleck40 @marvelrevival @langinator @its-daydreamer23 @part-time-patronus @believe-in-the-unknown @fandomlady-scar @lunacajun @clickyourheelsandaskforseb @buckitybarnes @blu-eyed-devil @lostinspace33 @velvetofyourheart @fridaroland @seems-sosimple @lazinessisalliknow @sanniegirl1214 @stomachfilledwithbutterflies @macaroni-marvel @ficmenow @mns-flower @dani-si @soitmightgetweird @sickenlngdesire @221bshrlocked @rtsglm @10kindsofderp @nenchi-san @flowerswithlove @directionerfae @12jennifer12 @carryonmyswansong @wondergirl556 @becauseicantthink @sgtbarne @teapartydreams @merverner @georgiagrl1990 @tea-with-loki @prettyyoungtragedy @plaanttchildd @thismadkatter @tom-newsie-holland @yourgirlshorty @flamehairedwritings @capandbuck @curiositywillbethedeathofme  @this-is-happening @radrouda @modvinnie @demondeansdomme @incoherent-smiles-deactivated @wintersoldieressiam @jamie-leah @ladymelissastark @katundeadd @scarlettsoldier @ashtonsvoodoodoll @ashesandfire @stargirl-posts @swimmeranxiety @youreahandsomedevil @fannihorvath020 @leila-ds @grey-stardancer @vladsgirl @sebastianst-n @lenakitten02 @notimetoblog @i-seem-fine-but-im-dying @emolordisme @callmebucky-doll @yknott81 @edgyroses @bethanyv10 @libbyjune24 @sweetlydecaf @ruinerofcheese @getbuckylucky @cinema212 @ash-from-the-rainbow @classy-sith-lady @marveloussupernatural

[airadam]

Episode 144 : Multiples Of Twelve

"It ain't f-ing sensible."

- Strategy

I ended up completely changing the selection this month when, taking the lead from a few tracks I was considering, I decided to go with an all-downtempo selection - a continuous unbroken mix once the first lyric hits. That said, there's a serious mix of genres so you get a bunch of variety inside the hour-long show! Get yourself plugged in...

RIP to the legendary Chi Modu - the man responsible for some of the most iconic images in the culture.

Twitter : @airadam13

Twitch : @airadam13

Playlist/Notes

Duett : Video

An extremely short track to open things, just for the flavour! Duett, is a UK synthwave artist (only one person, despite the name) who has released some amazing records channeling that electronic 80s vibe. This one is drawn from the "O U T L I N E S" mini-album from last year - all tracks that were done in a day each - and is a bite-size motif that you could imagine as the sonic logo for a film company or TV station from the VHS era.

Meyhem Lauren ft. Hologram & Big Body Bes : Lexus In The Lobby

I was originally saving this for a future mix, but even though it would have fit perfectly thematically, it's so much slower than pretty much everything else that it may not have ultimately made the cut. This is an absolute gem from the original "Glass" EP, with Harry Fraud on production building an absolute vibe with a quality sample that may be familiar to German listeners and some heavy 808 action. Meyhem Lauren is of course the best MC on the cut but Hologram on the first verse definitely kicks a memorable opening quatrain!

Mikhail Chekalin : As If It Was Not From Here

Going super left-field early for this instrumental bed! Chekalin was a radically-innovative composer from Russia who was not embraced by the Soviet government - they felt his work was too "Western" and while his music was heard by some plugged-in people in the outside world, he wasn't able to tour internationally or release his music outside the USSR. Thankfully for music lovers, times have changed and the "ГАР001: Михаил Чекалин «Экзальтированная Колыбельная 1979 – 1987»" collection (don't even think about asking me to pronounce that) is now available on Bandcamp, and is a great collection of his electronic work - his own take on what could be done with the synths of the time. His sound is a worthy companion to the other greats who were also experimenting at the time, from Jan Hammer to Jean Michel Jarre.

TY ft. Rootz & Deborah Jordan : Eyes Open

It's been a year this month since TY passed and I was glad to find one of his tracks fitting into this pace perfectly, one from his excellent final LP "A Work Of Heart". He was always an excellent MC from the first to the last, and he does himself proud here, spitting thoughtful lyrics with a rapid sharp flow. OG Rootz (formerly Durrty Goodz) is a solid complement, and Deborah Jordan adds a vocal decoration that puts the whole self-produced track over the top. I do like the unexpected switch to French for the hook later in the song too, just *chef's kiss*.

Bumpy Knuckles : Step Up

If you're a real Hip-Hop geek, the highlight on this track might just be the brilliant cuts by DJ Rukas on the hook, not only sharp but incorporating a very clever manipulation of a line from the stone-cold classic "Top Billin'" by Audio Two. Bumpy Knuckles goes in with a quasi-double-time flow in typically rugged fashion over the production of BeatBanga, who gets his only Discogs credit in fine style. You can find this on the "Konexion" album, which is well worth having.

Flatbush Zombies : Laker Paper

It might not be the most conscious track in the world, but it does have the exact type of sonic energy to fit into this spot! Despite the production style (courtesy of Erick Arc Elliott) and the track title, the clue is in the name - this is a trio from Brooklyn who released this cut on their debut mixtape "D.R.U.G.S". They don't try to dazzle with a quick flow on this beat, they stick to their style and settle into it at its native speed.

Samantha James : Come Through

Even for those who might not be into a record like this most of the time, I thought that bassline and the underlying lazy drum break might draw you in! This track was one of the highlights of the 2007 "Rise" LP from LA-based Samantha James. If you like a varied electronic music album, it's one you should check out - a little house, a little broken beat, some singer-songwriter vibes, a showcase for a singer comfortable with working with different production types.

Jake One : Evelen Gravest

We bridge the first and second mixes with a beat from the man Jake One, taken from his free gospel-themed "#PrayerHandsEmoji" beat tape. It'd be worth a purchase, but for zero dinero it's a must-have!

Kano : Ps & Qs

Coming out of East Ham, London, this is one of the early breakthrough grime tracks from a pioneer of the scene. This 2004 debut 12" release was a bit hit on the underground and helped Kano build momentum into the release of his "Home Sweet Home" album. DaVinche's big bombastic beat is an iconic one - a perfect underscoring for Kano, and can still mash up a dance even today.

DJ Quik ft. Hi-C and James DeBarge : Ev'ryday

One of my favourite cuts from Quik's 2002 "Under Tha Influence" LP (which, being a relentless perfectionist, he probably hated the minute he finished it). At the time there really wasn't much, if anything, out that sounded like this, and it was interesting to hear a musician and engineer of his skill level bring that to that double-time style. That stuttering bass and the skipping drum pattern work together brilliantly, and James DeBarge coming through with that hook might just be the vocal highlight.

Strategy : LengBreak

Time flies, and it's already been ten years since the release of the "Pre-Season Training" mixtape from Salford's Strategy, who continued to build his skills in fine style. "Bleep Test" and "Kill 'Em" were the standout tracks for me, and this one kind of passed me - maybe it was my personal taste in beats, maybe it was that I just didn't smoke! I gave it another listen this month and very much deserves a proper airing. One question for those of you who partake - all these years later, how do those prices sound? 🙂

Tobe Nwigwe ft. Royce Da 5'9" and Black Thought : Father Figure

Easily one of the best and most unique MCs to emerge in years, you'll have heard Tobe on this podcast a few times before and his collective have continued to impress and to elevate their profile. This killer is from last year's "Cincoriginals" album, and it's a meeting of heavyweight MCs. The fact that Tobe holds his own against both Royce and Thought, who is widely regarded as the MC's MC, while maintaining his own style, shows that he deserves all the praise he's been getting and more. Nell on production, as always, with the heavy low end for your system.

9th Wonder : Black Album Rejects, Track 15

One more of the instrumentals that 9th Wonder brought to Jay-Z for "The Black Album" that was ditched in favour of the brand-new "Threats" beat that launched him into the consciousness of many. The "rejects" were still dope as anything though.

Children of Zeus : No Love Song

Brand new Zeus! If you know what's good for you you'll be going to place a pre-order for the upcoming "Balance" album, but we've got this as an appetiser for now. Beat Butcha provides the laid-back soulful groove on which Tyler and Konny emphatically don't give you the love song that most other artists would given the same production. If you've been following this podcast, you would have first heard CoZ in the SoundCloud days, and it's been amazing to see this Manchester crew continue to produce great music - and the rest of the world catch up!

Corinne Bailey Rae : Walk On

Representing the city of Leeds lovely, Corinne Bailey Rae is a fine musician who brings the quality every time out. Her third LP, "The Heart Speaks In Whispers", was a worthy follow up to "The Sea", and saw her pairing with Steve Brown on production. This starts with a jazz club reserve and builds from there as she offers inspiration to keep on pushing through difficult circumstances - a message certainly relevant to the current time.

Rae & Christian ft. Lisa Shaw : Should Have Known

I'd somehow forgetten I even had this one! Lisa Shaw is best known for her deep house career, but her sublime voice is a versatile one and she's also on some soulful/downtempo stuff like this Manchester production from the Grand Central Records founding duo. The "Central Heating 2" compilation might be worth owning for this alone.

Zero 7 : Spinning

We finish a coincidentally all-UK segment with a track that didn't make the cut for the original UK release of the "Simple Things" album (twenty years ago!), but I believe was on the US version (plus the recent special edition release) as well as on the B-side of the "I Have Seen" 12". Sophie Barker takes the vocal reins, and it's a beautiful song.

L'indécis x sad toï : Dog Days

For the final instrumental break, we go to the Chillhop label, which specialises in releasing this kind of material - in this case, on the "Chillhop Essentials - Fall 2018" compilation. This track is an all-French connection, with sad toï (sic) alongside Grenoble's L'indécis for a relaxed and partly-acoustic beat that suits a lazy summer day just as much as the autumn.

Scritti Politti : Brushed With Oil, Dusted With Powder

"The day began to decline" - I think many of us can relate to that feeling! One more UK track to close the episode, and this is the one that I think will divide listeners the most. Personally, I love this. It's one of those tunes where no-one seems to agree on the exact meaning of the lyrics, but when Green sings "...some keys they found there"...well, that could be read multiple ways! This was a great close to the "Anomie & Bonhomie" album, with a long instrumental outro to cool us all the way out at the very end of the episode.

Please remember to support the artists you like! The purpose of putting the podcast out and providing the full tracklist is to try and give some light, so do use the songs on each episode as a starting point to search out more material. If you have Spotify in your country it's a great way to explore, but otherwise there's always Youtube and the like. Seeing your favourite artists live is the best way to put money in their pockets, and buy the vinyl/CDs/downloads of the stuff you like the most!

Check out this episode!

[princesssarcastia]

I thought we had more time

The Clone Wars, The Wrong Jedi AU. 

Ventress’s head still ached as she bribed her way onto a freighter and off of Coruscant.  Her lightsabers had been taken from her, and her mask.  Ventress didn’t need to feel the warning pulsing through the Force around her to know she shouldn’t stick around.  Coruscant was a big planet, sure, but it wasn’t that big.  Especially not for a Jedi.

The threat of future violence circled around her neck, whispering Skywalker.  Ventress idly rubbed her throat as the ship initiated its flight sequence: for a man who walked in the light, Anakin Skywalker was full of darkness.   Ventress could barely defeat him on her best day.  Now, with a concussion, no lightsabers, and the anger on his side (yes, yes, Skywalker used his hate; he used it ruthlessly, without regard, in a manner that put even her former master to shame), well.  Never let it be said that Asaaj Ventress didn’t know when to flee.

As the ship broke from Coruscant’s orbit, Ventress shivered as the feeling around her throat faded away, only to be replaced by something…cold.  Empty.  Angry. It sent shivers down her spine, so violently she almost demanded the pilot turn back.

Almost.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Anakin snarled as he watched the security playbacks, the comm station’s image glitching every few seconds from the rough splicing he’d just pulled to get ahold of the footage.

Of course Ventress would flee, coward that she was.  He just hadn’t expected her to flee so far.  Into the depths of Coruscant, he could track her; he could catch her in time, but off world….

No.  He would find her.  He would bring her back, to take Ahsoka’s place.  To pay for what she’d done to his Padawan.  

As he rushed off to the speeder he’d taken to the lower levels, he activated his personal comm.  “Padmé, I found Ventress; she snuck her way onto a ship, headed to the Outer Rim.  I’m on my way to the Jedi hanger bay now, I’ll catch up to her soon.”

Padmé’s voice was quiet, and small.  “Just…hurry. Please.  I don’t– I don’t know.  Something’s not right here, I can feel it.”  She paused.  “I don’t know if I can get her out of this, Ani.  They’ve pulled Tarkin for the prosecution, and given that he has the Chancellor’s favor–“

“Hey, so do I,” Anakin said, ignoring the feeling beginning to pool in his stomach.  “Don’t worry, Padmé, I’ll be back soon with Ventress, and we can put this whole thing behind us.”

I hope you’re right, she doesn’t say, and cuts the link.

The feeling grows stronger, but Anakin ruthlessly pushes it down.  He’ll make it back in time.  He will.

He will.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Padmé stares at Ahsoka as the girl stares off into the distance, her eyes listless.   She fights the urge to reach for her hands, her shoulder; anything to try and comfort the girl who was like a sister to Ani.  (A daughter, a treacherous voice in the back of her mind whispers.  She pushes the thought away, gently.  There isn’t time for that, not now.  Not with the shreds of Ahsoka’s defense drawn around the girl like tattered robes, shielding her from nothing)

“It’s alright to be nervous, Ahsoka, but don’t worry.  We can work with your defense, and Anakin will be back soon.”

Ahsoka slowly pulls her eyes away from the invisible point in the distance, and Padmé feels her chest tighten at the emotions swirling through them.  Sadness.  Anger. Fear.  

Resignation.

Padmé hesitantly reaches out a hand, resting it on her shoulder.  Ahsoka stares at it, her ability to grasp the intent behind it muffled by the roaring in her ears; the roaring in the Force.  Something is coming, it murmured.  Something is coming something is coming something is comingcomingcomingshiftingchangingwrongwrongwrongbalancetotheforcedestorythesithnotjointhemPLEASE–

Her breath hitched as her mind slipped back into the present.  The flash of clairvoyance lasted no more than an instant, yet long enough to force tears to trail down her face, to have Padmé pull her in until her arms were around Ahsoka, holding her so tightly, as if she could protect her from everything that was coming.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Ahsoka whispered as she clutched at Padmé, tears streaming and a heavy weight pressing on her mind.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Obi-wan shifted in his seat as Anakin’s Padawan entered the high court, the overwhelming swirl of the Force around her full of anguish and sadness and a touch of something other, something that had never fully gone away after their visit to Mortis.

“Oh, Ahsoka,” he whispers, letting her emotions push at his mind, pull at his heart, until he can barely stand it.  And then releases them.

He watches with a drawn expression as Padmé steps into the view of the holocamera, her presence a soothing balm of light, and lets his fist tighten ever so slightly as Tarkin does the same, a smirk already fixed upon his face.  

He glances at Plo as a wave of anger crashes through the Force. The man’s face is as impassive as ever, but his presence is full of the slow, deep fury he so rarely allows to build. It’s like the tide, drawing him out until Obi-wan’s own doubts and angers and fears are born anew.

“Divided indeed,” he murmurs quietly, knowing they can all hear him.  Knowing they can all sense the feeling of wrongwrongwrongwrongwrong cutting through him.  The living Force has never been strong within him, but when it calls to him, oh did he listen.  Qui-gon had taught him that much, at least.

Obi-wan feels his fellow council members’ sudden doubts, as similar feelings overtake them, and for a brief moment he hopes they choke on them.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Ahsoka watches distantly as Tarkin tears her future to shreds.

This is important, she knows.  She knows. This is important like Christophsis had been important, like Mortis had been important.  The Force is still, so still; it’s waiting.  Waiting to see which way the wind will blow.  Waiting for the right moment to pounce.  It feels like a reflection of herself, in that moment. A fearful predator. 

Her heart seizes with every word that comes out of the admiral’s mouth.  Her tongue is dry, her hands are shaking, and that feeling presses down even harder on her mind…yet she is empty.  Not calm, no.  Just empty, as if there is nothing left of her. 

She wonders if this is what her teachers mean, when they speak of peace.

She wonders if she cares, anymore.  If it matters.

She watches Padmé defend her, fire in her eyes and justice in her mind, and something clicks.  It’s so blindingly obvious, now.  Of course Anakin loves this woman; how could he not? Her passion, her empathy, her inability to stand by as injustice is done.  

Ahsoka watches her world burn down around her, and occasionally catches glimpses of her face on the screens in front of her, when she dares to look up.  She looks…tired.  She feels tired, she realizes.  The kind of tired that sleep can’t fix.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Padmé feels something in her heart burn as she looks up at Palpatine. It was basic psychological manipulation, reminding people of their personal opinions and hinting at the fact that any vote in favor of Ahsoka could be construed as biased.  Forcing them to over correct in order to appear fair in the eyes of everyone watching.

She’s one of the leaders of the opposition; she isn’t blind to Palpatine’s political machinations. Even when she was Queen, her view of the then-senator had never been as idealistic as Anakin’s was now.  

There are whispers, of course there are whispers.  A man couldn’t shrug off two galactic elections without political consequences. Padmé had never believed them, though, never believed that he could be manipulating the senate into giving him more and more emergency powers.  She had never believed that Palpatine was discouraging peace talks, prolonging the war to cling to the power he’d amassed.  Even now, she didn’t really believe it.  But…still.

There’s something in his eyes.  Something in the lines of his face, the tensing of his hands, as if he were grasping at…

Padmé looks up at Palpatine as he stares down at Ahsoka, who looked so frightened and alone, and recognizes the look in his eyes.

It’s triumph.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 Oh, it was so beautiful when something like this fell into your lap.  An act of providence, delivered to him on the cusp of victory.

 The Republic is crumbling. His apprentice is Falling.  And here is one scared little togruta; framed so nicely that Palpatine would be remiss, really, in not pretending to believe whoever had trapped the girl.

 Who would have thought that the Jedi themselves would so directly bring about their own downfall?  They abandon one of their own at the slightest pressure from Tarkin, abandon her to be punished for crimes she didn’t commit, leave her to die in a way that will shake Skywalker’s trust in the order, in the Republic, in the Light side of the Force, to its very core.  Not even his dear, precious Obi-wan could justify this; not when the man’s own suspicionconfusionsorrowpain clouds the Force around him almost palpably.

 How convenient that there is still just enough power in the Senate’s proceedings to prevent Palpatine from interfering in any lawful way.

 Palpatine maintains his cloaking in the Force and his even expression as he idly weighs the benefits of having the former Padawan executed by clone firing squad.  He knows Commander Fox will be more than happy to carry out the order, and what a delicious irony it will be: a Jedi executed by a clone, without a single order from Palpatine himself.  A faint taste of what’s to come.

 And there would tip Anakin’s trust in the clone army, the soldiers assigned to guard his back.

 He really should thank whichever disillusioned Jedi was responsible.  He himself could not have planned this out more perfectly.

 ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 Rex stares up at the holoscreen, his hands clenching and unclenching as they rest on the table in front of him.

 Fives gave up watching the proceedings almost an hour ago, instead focusing on methodically cleaning the blaster in his hands.  

 The entire torrent company sat around them, along with almost a third of the 212th. There are a few scattered brothers from other battalions on leave, but other than that, they’re alone.

 Cody left the minute Rex switched it over to the trial, his eyes cold.

 Kix glares up at the screen. “They can’t– they can’t believe this poodo.  I mean, Chuchi’s on the jury.  She’ll talk some sense into the rest of them.”

 Murmuring sweeps across the 501st; many of them had been on the Pantoran mission, and still more remember the story Ahsoka had spilled, about her rescue of the Pantoran minister’s daughters.

 “Aren’t those juries supposed to be impartial?” Trapper calls out from the back of the room.

 “Yeah,” Rex says, not taking his eyes off of Ahsoka.  “We all know how that goes.”

 And suddenly the murmuring stops, replaced by a cold anger.  Dogma is still a sore subject with all of them, as is his trial.

 And subsequent execution.

 “What are we going to do about it?” Fives asks, suddenly looking up.  “We can’t just stand by, not again.  This is wrong, and we all know it!”

 Kix runs a hand over his head, then turns to Rex.  “Will Fox–“

 “No; he’s convinced Ahsoka murdered his men.”  Rex flexes his hands again.

 Appo calls out from the back.  “This isn’t the front, either.  We can’t just hold all of Coruscant at gunpoint and demand they hand ‘er over, it’ll never work.  We’ll all get court marshaled, then executed.” Just like Dogma, he doesn’t say, but they all hear him anyway.

 Conversation breaks out again, growing louder and louder and louder until–

 “Ahsoka Tano.”  The Chancellor’s voice rings across the room, freezing every trooper in their place.

 “By an overwhelming count of votes, you are hereby found guilty of possession of illegal explosive devices, resisting arrest, conspiring with enemies of the Republic, sedition against the Republic, and over a dozen counts of murder.”

 Rex swears and pushes away from the table, then stands and kicks his chair, hard.  Jesse barely manages to dodge it, his eyes still glued to the screen.

 “Given the overwhelming evidence and the serious nature of your crimes,”  

 Fives slowly starts to shake his head.  “No, no, they can’t, she’s a Jedi–“

 “Not anymore,” Rex reminds him grimly.

 “This court has no choice but to accede to the demands of the prosecution.  You are to be executed in three days time.”

 Rex’s hands begin to shake as he hangs his head, horrified and resigned cries rising up from his brothers around him.

 “Thank you, senators, for you service to the Republic.  This high court session is adjourned.”

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

As the Chancellor’s finals words fade from hearing, the Force rings like the toll of a bell, clear and bright, centered on the results of the trial.  It demands the attention of every Jedi within range, piercing them with unadulterated sorrow and regret.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 Ahsoka stares stone-faced up at the Chancellor, and wonders distantly if he’ll adhere to military protocol and have her executed by firing squad.  The thought is horrifying enough to clear the fog that had lain across her mind, but it does nothing to shake her deep-seated calm.   The man meets her gaze with his own, however, and the spark of hatred within it is enough to push her away.

 She slowly turns to look at the Jedi Council, sees the regret pulsing through the Force around them, and stares at them hollowly.  Too little, too late.

 ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 Padmé Amidala grasps the bars of the walkway in front of her so tightly her hands begin to creak as righteous fury burns through her.  She imagines her hands wrapping around Palpatine’s throat, around her fellow Senators’; around the Jedi’s.

 It does nothing to satisfy the krayt dragon awakening within her.

 ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 Ventress raises her glass to the holoscreen above the bar.  Her head is ringing with the strength of the Force around her, pushing at her mind, telling her this is all bantha poodo.

Like she didn’t know that already.

 She takes stock of her emotions, slightly puzzled at the amount of regret taking root within. Slowly, she examines it.  Ahsoka had been kind, righteous; a fierce warrior and a powerful ally.

 It almost makes Ventress feel guilty, like she had abandoned the girl as surely as Skywalker had. Like Dooku had abandoned her. (And there’s something else they have in common, now: left for dead by the people they trusted the most)

 Almost.

 ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 Anakin Skywalker growls in rage as the force darkens around him and his ship begins to vibrate, thrumming with the strength of his anger.

 He could tear it all apart, piece by piece, and not so much as twitch.

 Ventress is still hours away from him.

 Ahsoka was abandoned by the Jedi Order.

 Ahsoka is sentenced to die. By the Chancellor.  

 His Padawan wasn’t going to die, she wasn’t.  She wasn’t.

 Anakin won’t let her. He still has time.

 (He ignores the voice inside of him that urges him to turn back now, and stay with her in her final hours. Comfort her.  Hold her like he’d held his mother, too late to save her too, angerfearpainrageNO– kill them, kill them all, slaughter the ones responsible)

 (He doesn’t silence it)

 ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 Obi-wan sits in the gardens at the center of the temple, allowing the Force to roil around him.  Wrong, it whispers, untruthframedinnocentsedition. Slowly, he lets his head fall into his hands, his weight sagging underneath his own regret.

 Somewhere, light years away, he can feel Anakin burning.  Hatred.  Rage. Passion, determination.  Fear.

 His former padawan has always struggled with his emotions, but never with shielding them from everyone else.  Anakin’s mind was a fortress, a Naboo lake, a desert with no end; you could become lost seeking anything from him.  The fact that his mental defenses were so lacking was… well.  It would be surprising if it didn’t add to the weight pressing down on him, pulling him deeper into the horrible feeling that hadn’t left him since the Jedi Temple was bombed.

 Normally there would be dozens of other Jedi in here with him, seeking peace, or solitude, or companionship, or the Force.  Now there is only him.  The war has taken so much from them: masters, history, serenity, purpose, honor. Children.  Children they send into battle with their masters, knowing they won’t come back.  All in service to a Republic Obi-wan is surer with every day, every battle, every death, does not exist anymore.

 Suddenly it all stretches out in front of him, and he knows with wild certainty that if it goes on much longer, the Jedi will cease to exist.  Their number will continue to dwindle, they will continue to compromise their beliefs, their younglings will continue to learn more of war than philosophy or peace, and they will die.  

 He stays on the bench, too tired to be surprised.  Too aware already of what this war means to be surprised.  Somehow it feels like he has always known, from the moment he followed Jango Fett to Kamino, that he would end up here.  Tired, desperate for peace, and alone.

 Grief settles into his heart like an old friend, Anakin burns in the back of his mind, and he knows the Jedi will not survive this.

 ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 Plo Koon settles down next to him, anger gathered around him like the violent storm that ravaged his home world.  “Obi-wan.”

 Obi-wan says nothing, knowing his shields are in tatters.  Every time he tries to release his emotions into the Force, it shoves them back at him, suffocating.

 “You sense it too, then.” His voice is sterner than usual, low enough to be mistaken for a growl.  

 Finally, he looks up, feeling the marks his hands have left on his face.  “We should not have expelled her from the Order.”

 We didn’t, the High Councilor doesn’t say, because that way lies schism.  Something they cannot afford during a war.  “She is innocent in this; that is the one thing the Force is clear on.”

 He straightens suddenly. “How fares your padawan’s search for Ventress?”

 “I’m not sure,” he says, anger still thrumming in the back of his mind, turning darker by the minute. “Badly,” he corrects after a moment, quieter.

 “Anakin will not make it back in time,” Plo says, and his intent strikes Obi-wan suddenly.  Knows that this is an offer, a request for assistance.

 “He might,” he protests uneasily, but it’s token and they both know it.  It’s what he’s supposed to say, as a Jedi Knight of the Republic. “We have a duty to uphold the laws of the Republic,” he tries instead, but that doesn’t feel right either.

 “Our duty is to the Force, and to each other; not the Senate.”

 The Force swirls around them as he tries to balance the scales in his mind.  On one side, Ahsoka, and Anakin, and the Jedi Order.  On the other, the Republic, and the consequences their actions will bring about.  Either way, the Jedi will never be the same.

 In the end, it isn’t even a question.

 ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Ahsoka sits with her knees pulled up to her chest.  Her chest is tight with everything she’s holding inside, fearing the emptiness that had plagued her during the trial.  The master in the Temple would be unhappy, would tell her fear and anger and pain had no place in a Jedi’s heart.

 But I am no Jedi, she thinks bitterly.  Not anymore. So she lets it all fester inside of her as the rest of her life slips through her fingertips.

 Something inside of her is fracturing, shattering; she could withstand battle after battle, death, loss, the dark side, but she cannot withstand this.  The Jedi have abandoned her to die, for something she didn’t do.  

 Ahsoka is innocent. She didn’t do this, how could they think she did this, she’s innocent, innocentinnocentinnocentinnocent–

 Her lungs shrink until she can barely breathe and her chest heaves, desperate for air that’s right in front of her.  Tremors wrack her hands, her limbs, her whole body; her vision becomes clouded with tears, and she curls up even tighter, trying to stitch the gaping wound in her chest back together, but it won’t be contained.

 They were going to kill her. They were going to kill her.  She was going to die, the order has left her to die for something she didn’t do; a firing squad appears before her in her mind, familiar armor and blasters she knows almost as well as her sabers pointed straight at her.

 There’s a dull roar in her ears drowning out the humming of the ray shields that have been her only company for the last two days, and it’s all she can do not to scream as she loses everything.  Grey durasteel walls closed in on her, trapping her, and suddenly she can’t even do that.

 Ahsoka’s throat is raw and her ragged screams tear through the facility around, falling on deaf ears.

 ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

“Chancellor, please, I beg you!  Master Skywalker is still conducting an investigation, if you could–”

 “My dear, I have no authority in this matter.  The Senate’s decision is final, no matter how much I wish I could help.”  Palpatine’s face appears drawn, darkened by grief; Padmé doesn’t believe it for a moment.

 Anger burns through her as it has been since Palpatine sentenced Ahsoka to die.  The image of him triumphant over a vulnerable, innocent sixteen-year old girl haunts her every waking moment.  She knows it would haunt her nightmares if she slept at all.

 She continues on like he hasn’t spoken. “You could petition the Senate for a stay of execution–”

 “Senator Amidala, I am truly sorry, but…there is nothing more I can do.”  His voice is gentle, like he gives a damn, like this grieves him. She wants to throttle him.  He has enough influence with both parties to do exactly what she asks, but he refuses.  The only thing she can’t figure out is why.  There is nothing to gain from his inaction, nothing but the murder of an innocent girl.

 Something in her face must speak to her emotions because he leans forward.  Before he offers more platitudes, she sighs, and forces the anger in her expression to display something more useful.  “Can you at least grant me permission to speak with her?  The guards have been barring my passage, even though I served as her council.”

 He nods, all grandfatherly, paternal concern, and she has to fight to keep her muscles locked in resignation.  “Of course. I will send instructions to the prison straight away.”

 Still too angry for courtesy, she turns on her heel and stalks out of the room.  The disrespect will cost her down the road, she knows. Speaking with him these days is a dance of what is right and what is necessary to retain any of her political clout. More and more senators are flocking to him as the war continues, voting for any measure he supports without hesitation. There are only a little over two thousand systems willing to oppose him anymore.

 Typho, Dormé, and Moteé wait for her in the antechambers.  “My lady,” Typho begins hesitantly, but he stops when he sees her face.

 “I need you to drop me off at the prison, then head back to my apartments and contact Rabé.  Tell her I want to speak with her tonight.”

 Dormé breaths in sharply. Rabé had gone to join the Naboo Intelligence Force after leaving her service; she’ll have contacts that Padmé doesn’t, ones who could help.  All three of them know what she’s suggesting.  

 After a moment, Typho nods his head.  “I imagine you’ll be wanting to return to Naboo soon, my lady.  These are trying times; you deserve a break.”

 Padmé smiles thinly. “Yes, I believe I will.”  They could all use a rest, she knows.  She stops for a moment, squeezes her eyes shut and lets her shoulder sag under the weight she carries.

 A warm hand comes to rest between them, and Moteé is there, something glimmering in her eyes.  “We’ll have your ship ready for departure after…after this is all over, my lady.”

 “Thank you.”  Then she pushes her shoulders back and marches out of the room, suddenly grateful for the wide skirts of her gown.  They allow her to get to Ahsoka that much faster.

 ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 Ventress knows the moment Skywalker’s ship enters the atmosphere; his anger is strong, stronger than anything she has ever felt.  It feels as though the whole planet is suffocating in it, and suddenly those whispers her former master had scoffed at, whispers of twin suns, seem more plausible than ever.

 The future has narrowed down to two paths, neither of them good.  Neither of them certain, for her or anyone else.  One of them is much more likely to end in her death, though, and that is the one where she runs again.

 Precog has never been her talent, but she knows what regret tastes like, with or without the Force. She should have stayed on Coruscant and let him find her there, because the only way this mess ends is in pain. Her pain, Skywalker’s pain, his little apprentice’s pain.  It all felt too much like the way Dooku had abandoned her.

 The Force presses down on her with something like guilt, making her feel small.  Her fear doesn’t help with that; she makes sure to saunter into the landing bay with enough confidence even Kenobi would be fooled.

 Instincts she didn’t know she still had rear up as he exists the ship; primal ones that scream predator and run.  She tilts her head back instead and smirks at him.

 “Well, well, well, look who’s here.  Skywalker, come to beg for my– “

 Her hands fly to her throat as it’s squeezed shut, and she notices wildly that he doesn’t even have to extend a hand to choke the life out of her.  How impressive, she thinks faintly as her lungs cry out for air.

 “I’m sur–prised you’re not– with– your apprentice–” she gasps through the pressure.  Her body is slowly being lifted in the air, and suddenly he’s right in front of her, death on his face.

 “You’re coming with me,” he growls, twitching his hand to yank her closer to him.  “You’re going to go before the Senate and confess to the crimes you framed my padawan for.”

 “Not– your– padawan–anymo–” His grip tightens enough her vocal cords don’t have room to move, and then the panic sets in.  

 Alright.  Even she can admit the banter probably wasn’t a good idea given the circumstances, but old habits die hard.  He starts to drag her toward his ship, still by the throat, and the spots in her vision tell her she won’t last much longer.

 Her own hands flex, using her own power with the force to give herself some breathing room. Skywalker jerks back around, anger surges around them, but before he can kill her– and she knows for certain now that he will– she gasps, “Wasn’t– me!  I wasn’t the– one who– framed her!”

 Everything slows to a crawl, adrenaline speeding up her ability to process to world around her. She feels more than sees the muscles in his flesh hand begin to flex, lives in the space between one heartbeat and the next, and knows it all hinges on Skywalker.

 What a terrifying prospect.

 The moment passes, and his eyes narrow before he abruptly lets go of her.  She collapses on the ground, heaving, and he kneels next to her. His voice is suddenly soft, and all the more chilling for it.

 “Talk.”

 Her glare is a reflex, but the words are harder to force out.  “I heard about your little padawan on the run, and thought she might fetch a large bounty.”  Roughness leaks into her voice, a result of being choked half to death.  When his hand twitches toward his lightsaber she starts again.  “I’ll admit, I was just interested in the money, and maybe a little bit of revenge, but then I realized your fallen padawan and I have a lot in common.”

 The Force sings out a warning two seconds too late, and Skywalker’s anger surges again, so strong she almost chokes on it.  “How dare you compare yourself to Ahsoka.”

 “It’s true!  My master abandoned me, and that’s exactly what you did to her.  You and your precious Jedi Order,” she spits, suddenly disgusted with the lot of them.

 Her muscles seize in fear of another attack, but his eyes widen slightly and she knows she has him.

 “They’re about to execute her, Skywalker, and, where are you? Halfway across the galaxy, instead of by her side.  Pathetic,” she sneers.  

 Despair and desperation pour out of him now, twining with the anger, and she jerks back, not expecting her words to affect him so much.  Ventress catches flashes of what must be his memories– coldsandangergrief, too late, a woman covered in lacerations in his arms– bodies falling to the ground as he howls in rage–

 Her eyes widen as his squeeze shut and he rocks back.  That didn’t feel like something a Jedi would do, not even one who dances on the edge like Skywalker does.  

 “What happened,” he says, and suddenly the anger is gone.  Or at least, it isn’t directed at her anymore.  She’ll take what she can get right now, and puzzle over those memories later.

 She tells him.

 ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 Obi-wan and Plo Koon spent the night pouring over schematics and security measures for Ahsoka’s cell block. It was a daunting prospect; there was little room for error in their plan, and none for surprises.

 Her execution was scheduled to be in twelve hours; it had been two and a half days since the end of her trial.  Obi-wan knew Padmé had been making appeals to the Chancellor, but to no avail.  The senator spent the night with Anakin’s padawan, and left early that morning.  Something about that pulled at him in the Force, but there was no time to puzzle it out.

 No one had stopped them on the way out of the Temple; no one had even run into them, which was suspicious enough.  Perhaps they weren’t the only ones who knew this was wrong, but that almost made it worse.

 They were half-way to the sewer entrance chosen as their entrance when Obi-wan’s comm went off.

 Plo looked at him sharply, but he ignored him.  “Anakin,” he answered quietly.  “Have you found something?”

 His former padawan’s voice is completely wrecked, and if he focuses hard enough he can feel that his mind is completely without shielding now.  “It wasn’t Ventress, master.  It was a Jedi who bombed the Temple.”

 Both of them jerk to a stop at that.  “Who?” Plo demanded, stepping close enough to him to appear in the range of the holoprojector.  

“Bariss Offee,” he says darkly, his features twisted with rage.  “She’ll have Ventress’s lightsabers with her.  Please, Obi-wan,” he says, his voice breaking, “You have to get her before the Chancellor, get her to confess.  Ahsoka doesn’t have much time left.”

 Obi-wan nods slowly, shock twisting up in his mind as he agrees and turns off the comm.  He and Plo turn to face each other, caught up in the hesitationsuspicionmistrust curling around them both.  

 “I don’t… I don’t understand,” he says blankly.  “How could Bariss–“

 “There’s no time,” Plo says harshly, and he’s right.  No time to wonder, and no time to argue.  “I will go to apprehend Bariss; continue on with the mission, and keep them from executing her before I can get to the Chancellor.”

 Obi-wan nods jerkily, still swimming in shock, but then shakes his head.  There’s no time.  He sprints, drawing on the Force to edge him onwards, and Plo heads back the way they came.  He does not envy the fallen Padawan now, he thinks grimly.  The price for her deception will be more painful than she imagines; especially if Anakin arrives in time to help arrest her.

 As he heads into the drainage system, something dark curdles in his gut, something twisted and regretful.

 He’s running out of time.

 ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 Ahsoka pushes herself upwards on her elbow as one of the troopers cancels the ray shields on her cell. Her face has swollen up, and she knows if she tries to speak now her throat won’t be capable of it; she screamed it into oblivion last night, raging into Padmé’s chest until there was nothing left.

 The troopers come forward and bind her hands and feet, dragging her out of the cell with rough hands on her shoulders.  

 ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 Captain Rex marches up the steps of the facility, Kix, Trapper, Fives, Appo, and Jesse flanking him to the right and left.  He checks his pistols one more time, then pulls his helmet on, indistinguishable from the rest of his brothers.

 It was last minute desperation.  The chances of this working were…well.  There were none.  But Rex knew he would never be able to live with himself if he let this happen without trying to save his Commander.  Just last week they had been flying over a battlefield, fighting for the very Republic that was about to murder her in cold blood.  

 The thought struck a chord with him for a moment; fighting for the Republic that had bought him and his brothers, put them under the command of people like Pong Krell, executed Dogma for saving his life.  Even if this did work, even if by some miracle they all got off scott-free… he wasn’t sure he would be able to do that anymore.

 But this wasn’t the time. They had about thirty minutes before someone discovered the troops from Fox’s command he and his men had ambushed and stolen their armor from.  By then, they needed to have Ahsoka and be well into the Coruscant underworld.

 Cody had found them halfway into their frantic planning; it had stopped Rex’s heart dead for a beat or two, because he and Cody were close but Cody was a good soldier through and through.  He followed orders to the letter.  

 He hadn’t said anything, though; just given them a comm number and a name, then walked back out. The fact that it never happened didn’t need to be said, and Rex couldn’t ask any more from him because Cody has given them the one thing they didn’t have: a way to get her off Coruscant.  A besalisk named Dexter Jetsetter had given them transport, no questions asked.

 No fees, either, but when Fives had voiced his suspicions, the man said he was an old friend of Qui-gon Jinn’s.  Rex was the only one who recognized the name, but it was enough.

 They reached the entrance to the prison unchallenged, looking exactly like a shift-change.  Rex only hoped it was enough, but there was a sinking feeling in his stomach that was getting harder and harder to ignore.

 ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 Ahsoka tries to drag her feet, tried to wrench herself from their grip, but she’s still tired, so tired; exhaustion has seeped into her very soul, and her attempts at escape get weaker and weaker each time.  

 Finally, the troopers seem to have enough of her resistance and one of them pulls a stun baton from nowhere, jabbing it into her unprotected side.  Ahsoka cries out, the electricity seizing her body in a way that’s too familiar, but hurts the same as it always does.  

 She sags in their grip, wishing she could collapse on the floor and lie there, pain stiffening her joints, but they haul her up and push her foreword.  

 As they continue on, she quietly collapses inwards.  There’s no escaping this; no last-minute rescue.  All she can think, with each painful step, is that she wants nothing more than to see Anakin one last time.

 ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 Padmé knows what this favor cost Rabé to give her; she owes her friend a bottle of Corellian brandy and a long explanation at the very least, when she makes it out of here with Ahsoka.  There had been no time for any of that last night, when she called her over the most secure channel either of them have; it’s the one she uses with Anakin, when he’s off-world.   Rabé had taken one look at her face and given her everything she needed; Padmé’s not sure she wants to know what she looks like, right now.

 Localized security system blockers cost a fortune; the programming involved was extensive, and it required a backdoor into the system you were circumventing regardless.  Not to mention they were illegal in the Republic. Her senatorial access codes had done the trick, though, and now she was crawling through the ventilation system towards Ahsoka’s cell.  It’s just tight enough that the pistol strapped to her inner thigh is desperately uncomfortable, but she’s done things like this before.

 Gregor and Moteé were waiting on her ship, ready to leave the moment she gets there.  Dormé is in a meeting with Mon and Bail as Senator Amidala, and she trusts her friends to not notice the slight differences in their bone structure and height, to provide an alibi for her when she eventually needs one. Rabé isn’t the only one she owes an explanation to, but they’ll understand.  This– this madness, this terrible injustice had to be stopped. She can barely believe it’s happening herself.

 The Chancellor and the Senate had fallen so far, and Padmé’s faith in both was shaken to its core. She wasn’t sure there was any going back from this, but right now that didn’t matter.  All that mattered was Ahsoka.  As long as Padmé got their before they took her from her cell, they would be in the clear, and there were still ten hours left until she was scheduled for…

 There’s still time. That was all that mattered now: there’s still time.  Padmé will make it there in time.

 She will.

 ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 The distance between her and her death is closing so rapidly Ahsoka can almost feel the individual seconds slipping away from her, step by step.  Her vision narrows until all she sees are her own feet carrying her forward, the achingly familiar sounds of clone armor fading from her mind as her heartbeat echoes through her body.  So few of those left, now.

 She’s teetering on the edge now, between panic and…something.  Something familiar.  A memory blooms in her mind, tinged with sadness because suddenly she knows for certain…

 “It’s called moving meditation, Snips,” Skyguy says, completely relaxed for once.

 She makes a face.  “Moving meditation?  Isn’t that kind’ve a paradox, Master?”

 “Not really,” he chuckles.  “Meditation is about calming the mind, allowing the Force to flow through you.  Not everyone can do that while sitting still; we can’t all be like Obi-wan.”

 “Well, you can’t, anyway,” she grins, and he shakes his head fondly.

 “Did you want to learn how to do it or not, Ahsoka?”

 Ahsoka nods eagerly, and he gives her a real smile this time. “Alright.  Before you so rudely interrupted me,” he says pointedly, “I was using a kata to do it; that’s what most people use, because for Jedi they’re almost as familiar as breathing.  It keeps your mind free of any distractions, but takes just enough focus so you don’t get restless.

 “Of course,” he qualifies, “you can do it with any movement really as long as you take the time to focus, because the Force will always be with you, Snips.

 “Ready to try it with me?”

 “Ready.”

 …she’s never going to see her Master again.  But he taught her well; he taught her everything.  How to meditate, how to use her lightsabers, battle strategies; he taught her how to fly a ship, and how to crash one.  He taught her how to be brave, and she won’t disappoint his teachings now by going to her death in fear.

 Her footsteps jar her body with every step, and she allows the motion to fill her mind until it is all there is.  Breathe in. Step.  Breathe out.  Step.  

 In.

 Step.

 Out.

 Step.

 Everything slows down around her as the Force flows freely through her.  A powerful ally, she thinks distantly, recalling Master Yoda’s teachings from the crèche.  

 Not powerful enough to free her; she knows that for certain now, and releases the panic it would have caused into the Force, allowing its currents to carry away her fear.  What it does is let her See.

 ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Obi-wan creeps through the facility, using the blind spots he memorized last night to remain undetected by the cameras, and the Force to redirect every clone he comes across.  

 He stretches his senses out in the hopes of preventing any catastrophes before they arrive; he knows time is running out faster than it should, but he will not fail here.  All he has to do is stall until Plo can bring Bariss before the Chancellor, and clear her of any wrongdoing.  

 ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 The Force in the Temple trembles as Jedi cross blades for the first time in centuries, clashing with terrible anger as they battle across the halls.  Sparks fly from their lightsabers and leave marks on the walls.

 Guards had come running at the first sign of conflict, but the pair are fighting viciously enough their interference would only spell destruction for one or the other.

 Bariss snarls in desperation as her blades lock with Master Plo Koon’s again, and she heaves desperately against them to give herself room to break through the window and fall to the courtyard below, uncaring of the audience they gain in moving the fight down there.

 Plo nearly snarls back as he jumps after her.  He barely checks his anger as he follows her, knowing if he doesn’t she will die here, from his desperation and her own.

 She comes at him from the side, almost catching him off guard.  He barely gets his sabers up in time, and wonders darkly whether they could be held responsible for the deadly dueling skills a Padawan specializing in healing had. Perhaps they could.  But her actions in framing Ahsoka speak to a deeper, more personal darkness in Master Luminara’s apprentice.

 And there is another mystery to puzzle over, when this ordeal is behind them: why Luminara could not sense Bariss’s intentions before they were all reduced to this.

 He twists his blades around, pushing the hilt of one of Ventress’s lightsabers out of the fallen Padawan’s hand, but she jumps away from him, snatching it back up and turning to face him again.

 As she attacks once more, all he can think is that there is no time left for this; their luck is about to run out.

 ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Padmé pulls herself over Ahsoka’s cell with a muffled groan, pushing through the aches in her arms and shoulders.  She’ll still have to get out of here with Ahsoka, she knows, and it’s the only though that keeps her going.

 The grate leading into the holding sticks for a moment, sending a spike of adrenaline through her, but it slides up and over once she gives it another tug.  She can’t see Ahsoka immediately from this angle, but the cot is still hidden from view.  

 “Ahsoka,” she calls quietly, but there’s no answer.  Something takes root inside her, something tight and aching that makes her breath catch in her throat.

 Her movements become frantic as she lowers herself through the hole in the ceiling and drops neatly into the cell.  As she looks around, her stomach rolls and the world drops out from underneath her.

 Ahsoka isn’t here. She’s gone already; they– they’re executing her ahead of schedule.  The Chancellor must have realized what she was going to do and–

 Padmé slaps a hand over her mouth, shaking her head.  No, no, nonononono– this can’t be happening.  She can’t….

 Her legs give out from underneath her and she collapses on the floor, trying to calm her breathing because if someone finds her here she’ll be arrested on sight.  The moment stretches out into eternity, the weight of Ahsoka’s death on her conscience because she was too late.

 Anakin’s padawan was going to die because she failed; they had all failed, today.  Democracy had failed, condemning an innocent being to death.

 Her eyes squeezed shut and tears began rolling down her face.  She was supposed to have more time! It wasn’t supposed to end like this; it wasn’t supposed to end at all.

 Padmé curls up in the empty cell as her faith in the Republic, in herself, shatters.

 ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 They make it halfway to her cell before Fox’s men catch on; then every step is a battle.

 Fox’s men are good, but they’ve been here on Coruscant for too long; Rex and his men have been on the front lines, serving under the best strategists in the Republic.  Their numbers aren’t an issue, are something closer to an advantage, because with the size of these hallways it’s easier to bottleneck the larger squads they come across.

 The problem is that they’re shooting to stun, and Fox’s men are shooting to kill.  Rex takes a blaster to the shoulder that’s almost blindingly painful, and he thinks he saw Kix take one to the thigh earlier but there hasn’t been time to stop and check, and he’s keeping up well enough.

 They’re almost to the right cell block when he gets an inkling something’s wrong.  There aren’t enough guards here, not for a prisoner as high profile and dangerous as Ahsoka; no for a prisoner who’s already tried to escape once.  

 He ignores it, though, ignores the dread creeping through his body like he had on Umbara before it all went to shit.  Fives can feel it too, he knows; sees it in the way his brother keeps eying every corner like its hiding a trap for them.

 “This is it!” Jesse yells, gesturing to the door.  The ray shields are still active, so they all turn to cover him as he yanks open the panel to splice it open; they weren’t able to get ahold of the new codes in time.

 None of them think to check the cell before it’s open, and Rex feels shock start to kick in as they see who’s inside.

 Senator Amidala, of all people, is collapsed in the middle of the cell with tears streaming down her face, shaking her head.  Rex takes in the stealthwear she’s in, the open grate in the ceiling, the device on her belt, and has an inkling of what’s just happened.

 “She’s… she’s already gone,” the senator gets out, her voice hitching with grief, and Rex closes his eyes in resignation.

 “She could still be in the facility,” Fives says, his tone dull.  

 They’re all silent for a moment, until Trapper calls from outside the cell.  “We’ve got incoming, maybe thirty seconds.  Whatever we’re gonna do, we’ll have to do it fast.”

 It’s Appo who speaks up. “I’m not giving up yet; not without a fight.”  The steel in his voice makes them all straighten their shoulders, and he sees the Senator take a deep breath.

 “Let’s go, then,” she says, pulling herself to her feet and drawing a diplomat’s pistol out of nowhere.

 “Senator,” Rex says haltingly, before seeing the look in her eyes.  

 “We don’t have time for this! If we’re gonna go, it has to be now!” Trapper yells again.

 The senator races out ahead of them and they fall in around her.  Appo memorized the way to the execution site, just in case, but they’d all hoped it wouldn’t be necessary.  They should have known better.  Known it wouldn’t be that easy.

 Fox’s men are two corridors over, waiting for them.  Senator Amidala ducks easily back behind the corner and starts taking shots at them, and they all do the same, but at this point they all know it’s an empty gesture.

 They’re out of time.

 ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 Ahsoka breathes in. Steps. Breathes out.  Steps.  Sees her friends racing to save her, failing, falling.  Love, a voice inside her whispers. Attachment, says another.  

 Unconditional, murmurs the first one, and it sounds like Anakin.  She knows now, she loves him.  Loves all of them, unconditionally, and it hurts so much that for a moment she can’t breathe; she almost loses her focus.

 There is no emotion, there is peace.  She breathes in.  Steps. Breathes out, and releases her emotions into the Force: the fear of dying, the anger at the Order, at the Republic, the pain of losing all of them.  

 Breathes in.

There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.  Ahsoka Sees, she knows; they all tried to come for her, all tried to save her; they did everything they could, and it eases her mind.

 Breathes out.

 There is no passion, there is serenity.  It hurts to let go of this, but it’s easier now than it was before.  She offers her passion for the Republic that failed her, for the people she tried to protect, and for the Order that had been her whole life, to the Force, trusting that none of these will fall without her when she’s gone.  It whisks them away, leaving her mind clearer than before, offering her strength to go on in return.

 Breathes in. Steps.  Breathes out.  Steps.

 There is no chaos, there is harmony. The troopers force her into position in front of the wall and she kneels gracefully, resting her hands on her thighs and feeling the Force settle around her; it swirls as it always does, caught in the gravity of every living thing, before settling into a more solid presence.  Something warm, and comforting; fierce, protective, loving.  Light.

 Ahsoka feels Force binding them all together: Master Plo stands over Bariss, his lightsaber pointed down; Padmé and Rex relentlessly fight to reach her in time; Obi-wan steps into the other side of the execution chamber, close enough to shout to her;

 Anakin, flying as fast as he can to reach her in time.

 Anakin, she thinks.  Skyguy.  I love you, Master.

 Daughter, the Force murmurs to her.  Come with me.

 There is no death, there is the Force.

 ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 Obi-wan reaches his hand out to Ahsoka where she kneels in front of the clones as they prepare to fire.

 “NO!” he shouts, pushing at her executioners with the Force, but he’s too late.  The first shot strikes her right between her ribs; the second in her stomach;

 The third goes through her heart and time slows as she collapses to the ground, her presence in the Force dissipating into nothingness.

 ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Yoda clutches at his chest as the Force screams at him, at all of them.  The younglings around him begin to cry out, confused and hurt, but it is Master Plo who whispers “No,” and collapses to the ground, bracing himself against it.

 Bariss trembles with fear, and anger, and confusion; when Master Plo asks bitterly, “Is this what you wanted, Padawan?”, tears slowly drip down her face.

 “N–no,” she heaves, shaking her head frantically.  “This is what I wanted at all.”

 ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 Ventress feels the Force surge with the anger of a thousand Jedi and bows her head, letting her own join their chorus.

 ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 Padmé rushes into the chamber with the squad of clones behind her and stutters to a halt.

 There are still bodies scattered about the room, unmoving, and Obi-wan sits in the center of it all gently cradling Ahsoka’s head in his lap.  

 She distantly feels her weapon slide out of her hand and onto the floor, but it doesn’t matter. Her footsteps are muffled over the roaring in her ears as she makes her way over to Obi-wan and collapses next to him, reaching out a hand to Ahsoka’s face.

 “We were too late,” Obi-wan says thickly, and Padmé bows her head until it rests on Ahsoka’s chest and sobs.

 ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 Anakin clutches the arms of his chair tightly, letting Artoo pilot back because he doesn’t trust himself, not now.

 Anakin. Ahsoka’s voice sounds in his head like they’re in the same room, like they’re right next to each other, not half a galaxy apart.

 He bolts out of his chair. Ahsoka? He calls back.

 Skyguy, she says, and he feels something in his chest shatter. Snips, he says desperately.  Snips, please.

 I love you, Master.

 I love you, too, so much; just hold on, Ahsoka, hold–

 Their training bond snaps and Anakin collapses, falling to the floor of the ship.  He feels her die, feels something in his heart burn and he screams.  He screams and the Force explodes around him, sending waves of anger through it.

 He screams and the ship begins to vibrate as he loses control, Artoo rolling up behind him to ask what’s wrong before the ship suddenly drops out of hyperspace, unable to withstand his loss of control.

 The ship loses power and Anakin lies there, screaming at the absence in his head where his Padawan used to be.

 I thought we had more time, he thinks blindly.  Ahsoka, please, come back.  I’m sorry, I should have been there, I’m so sorry I–

 I thought we had more time.

[fallout4holmes]

Entry 28

Underneath the Park Street Station is a Vault. Vault 114 was apparently never used for its original purpose, whatever that may have been. Given the deception with which Vault-Tec trapped me, I’m sure it was unpleasant. Now, it’s home to the ironically named Skinny Malone, and his gang. Miss Wright and I fought our way through, though I now question my decision to give such an aggressively confident young woman an automatic rifle. Not that she isn’t perfectly capable, I just find her pride in getting into dangerous situations a touch off-putting. At any rate, we eventually came to the overseer’s office deep inside the Vault where a figure was held within. His silhouette was all that was visible through the window.

I opened the door, and paused to see yellow eyes glow from under the brim of an old fedora. “Mr. Valentine, I presume?”

He lit a cigarette, the match’s flame illuminating the skeletal construction of his right hand, whatever artificial skin might have once covered it long gone. Wiring was visible where skin had torn away in his neck and sides of his skull, his face mottled aged ivory. The detective is a synth.

“Ah, my knight-in-shining-armor,” he said, his accent placing him closer to Chicago than Boston. “But the question is, why does he come all this way, risk life and limb, for an old private eye?”

The entire image was utterly unexpected. I admit, I was taken aback, and stood silent a moment before managing some coherent thought. I told him I need to find someone, but I don’t know where they could be or how long they’ve been gone. It didn’t faze him. “I've done jobs with less. Somehow "nice and simple" never makes it onto the menu in my world.”

I can imagine. He’d been locked up for weeks, the kidnapped daughter he came to find not only not kidnapped, but Skinny Malone’s new flame, and she seems to have quite the mean streak. We hurried out as fast as we could, Malone’s men unpleasantly unwilling to let us simply leave. Mr. Valentine maintained a sarcastic sense of humor as he led the way out, explaining how Malone’s gang took over the abandoned vault after getting forced out of Goodneighbor by larger players. Malone was waiting for us by the Vault’s entrance. He and Valentine know each other from ‘the old neighborhood,’ and the mobster seems to harbor a little sentimentality for him.

The girl, Darla, was something else altogether. A mean streak indeed, but I managed to convince her to go home to her worried family. This did not suit Malone, but he gave us until the “count of 10” to get out. We didn’t linger. Once out, Valentine naturally wanted to know how I knew where to find him. I explained his secretary sent me, to which he responded “I should give her a raise” and we made our way back to his office in Diamond City.

Given Diamond City’s fear of synths, I was surprised at how welcome, or at least not hostile, the residents are toward their local detective. His secretary, Ellie, was pleased to have her employer and friend back. She told me Valentine could use a partner. I was again amused by the surrealistic situation, finding myself of all people in need of a detective. Yet, I simply don’t have the data necessary to find the people responsible, and the synthetic detective sitting before me certainly did.

I sat down, and told him about my wife and son.

The Institute was mentioned as a possible organization behind the kidnapping, unsurprisingly, but what intrigued me more was the fact that Valentine doesn’t remember anything about his origins. He knows he is a prototype of whatever came between the old all-metal models and the latest human-like ones, and that he was ‘tossed out’ but beyond that he remembers nothing. Some sort of security setting locks out memories of the Institute whenever a synth breaks ties with it.

When I described the man who killed my wife, Valentine instantly recognized him. The description matches a man called Kellogg, a professional mercenary. He hasn’t any enemies, because they’re all dead… except me. He bought a house in town some time ago and had a ten year old child with him. They disappeared, but the house is still there.

Valentine and I decided to see if we could find anything of use inside. What we found was a hidden room, with all the comforts of a mercenary’s home. The only identifying piece of information we could find was a unique brand of cigars. Luckily, I happen to know a dog with an excellent sense of smell.

[vminsope-hoes]

crossroads | prologue

kth x reader

genre: angst, fluff, light smut

summary: after being left stranded at the altar by his fiancée, depressed and heartbroken multimillionaire Kim Taehyung sets out on a journey to nowhere, in a desperate attempt to escape reality. You’re a carefree, extra chatty college graduate, with dreams of a perfect future, running behind a train that you’re determined to catch before it departs the station.

a/n: admin rose’s first fic, yay! this au is based off of the bollywood movie jab we met. do drop a like or a reblog if you’re reading xoxo

Dear Taehyungie,

I’m sorry. I know you’ll probably never forgive me for what I’m about to do to you, but I hope that you can find it in your heart to accept my apology someday. I don’t want to beat around the bush too long so I’m going to come out and say it. By the time you’ve gotten this letter, I will have boarded a flight to Europe. I know this must be a shock to you, and you now probably think of me as the worst person you have ever come across, when just yesterday you called me to tell me how much you loved me. I can’t marry you Taehyung, not when I’ve realized that I don’t feel the same way about you. Don’t get me wrong, I have no complaints about you, you’ve been nothing but a gentleman with me, but I just...don’t think I can spend a lifetime with you. A few months ago I met someone else, someone I clicked with instantly. Someone who I could envision a future with. I was going to break up with you as soon as he and I confessed our feelings to each other, but that same night you proposed to me in front of your whole company and I just couldn’t break your heart in front of them. I’m sorry. I honestly don’t have any excuses to make up for the damage I’m doing to you. I’m sorry for not telling you any of this beforehand, I’m sorry I waited till the very last moment and broke your heart like this. I hope that one day, you find it in you to forgive me for my actions.

-Love,

Jiyeon

Taehyung stands at the altar, waiting for the moment when Jiyeon would enter the church doors in her beautiful wedding gown, when she would walk up to altar, all smiles as she would wink at him and whisper that it was all an act, that she loves him and would never leave him like that. 

She’s probably taking her time getting ready, he thinks, in order to make the prank as believable as possible. This has to be a prank. Leave it to Jiyeon to pull something like this on the day of the ceremony.

He sends a smile to the audience, who smile back up at him, yet he spots a few people exchanging glances, then looking up at Taehyung with an odd expression. He tries his best to pay no attention, focusing instead on running through the vows he’s been practicing, the words he will say to Jiyeon before they are officially man and wife.

He waits for an hour and a half, vows perfectly memorized, expression steady.

Jiyeon doesn’t show up.

The audience is whispering amongst themselves now, low hushed whispers that they’re obviously trying to hide from him, but Taehyung understands what they’re thinking. More worried glances turn his way, but he ignores them to the best of his abilities, maintaining a smile on his face. 

Jiyeon wouldn’t actually do something like that to him, she wouldn’t prove the public’s whispers true. Until yesterday night, they had been talking about how their future would look together. She had told him that she loved him. Why would she ever break his heart, that too on the day of their wedding?

She wouldn’t do this to him, he thinks, she just wouldn’t.

It isn’t until Jiyeon’s father shows up in the church hall without his daughter, a downtrodden expression on his face, that Taehyung realizes that this is not a prank.

The audience’s whispers get louder, some are now pointing at Taehyung and shaking their heads. Jiyeon’s father sends an apologetic gaze his way, hands folded in shame, and that one look tells the young man everything.

Taehyung’s heart feels like it’s been shattered into a million pieces.

Now, Taehyung’s not one to break down and cry, nor to shout in anger and cause a scene. As the chairman of the Kim Group of Industries, one of the most respected companies across South Korea, he’s well aware that even the smallest of his actions could be used against him, especially if they were witnessed by the public. His image has already taken enough damage due to, well, Jiyeon’s absence, and Taehyung’s not one to pour gasoline into a blazing fire.

So he does what anyone in his situation would--he quietly walks away. 

Taehyung walks off the stage, eyes trained on the ground in front of him. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even acknowledge the microphones thrusted in his face or the camera shutters going off as he exits the church hall.

He takes out the note from his pocket, and reads over Jiyeon’s handwriting. He feels empty. Hurt.

Hurt that someone so dear to him, could betray him in the worst possible way.

If any tears come to his eyes, he doesn’t let them fall. He crumples the note up, then stows it back away.

After a last glance at the decorated church gates, now a symbol of his broken heart and ruined image, Taehyung walks away from the church, leaving all the reporters and cameras chasing him far behind.

His feet carry him as far from the place as possible, as if they’re on autopilot. He walks across busy streets, annoyed car drivers honking at him as he passes through the lanes. Taehyung pays no attention, maintaining a tight lipped expression as he walks on monotonously.

After an hour or two of aimless walking, the young millionaire finds himself at the Seoul station, where a train has just arrived, and passengers have begun filing into the carriages. He finds himself being swept into the crowd, and ends up boarding the train.

Taehyung doesn’t have a clue as to where he’s going, just knows that he wants to escape, and that this train will give him a chance to do so.

next->

[askthewitchlady]

The Fallen King

((A.N. I promise this is as political as it gets, the rest of the discussions will be held off screen.))

Chapter 10

After watching her Maid Lead Abraxas away Lumina returned her attention to the man before her, gesturing for him to lead on, he nodded.  He was a small jittery man of an age where his salt pepper hair had begun to thin slightly and his face was well etched with lines. She hoped many of them where lines cause by good memories and not strain.

As she stepped into the large dark room where leaning over bowels of water, faces shrouded from site men and woman gazed, studying the outside world. Lumina was led to the center of the room facing a wall that rippled like water watching it a moment she lifted a hand “Open the channel.” She ordered calmly. As her hand settled at her side the wall rippled the sound of water rushing around her energy filling the air with a crackle of power before an image bloomed and The queens faced each other.  Formally Lumina bowed in greeting.

“My greetings to you Your serene highness Izira of Xeris.” She said as she stood, Izira head bowed in reply.

“My return greetings to you Queen Lumina of Aquaria.  It has been a long time.” She said adding the last as she smiled. Lumina nodded “Many years yes. I am pleased to see you in good health, it is regrettable you must approach me as queen under the circumstances.  I grieve the loss of your predecessors, they where good people.” She said formally gesturing to one of her men to ease the force of the channel. It had been a long time since outside communication, they were pushing their power to hard.

“Indeed.  I am here to formally request entrance into your Kingdom, I bring with me three maids for my needs during my visit is this acceptable?” the request was clear and Lumina nodded agreeably shifting slightly she smiled easily “Of course, A selection of my men will meet you at our boarders and escort you to the kingdom.  I shall be pleased to see you soon.” She said Izira nodded and the wall faded.

“Is this a wise decision your majesty? It has been a long while since we have opened our boarders.” The jittery man from before said nervously, “People who have lived and grown accustomed to our closed gate may panic.” He finished but Lumina smiled reassuringly to him

“Yes I believe this is the correct decision, the war is over and it is time our people regained some of their lost freedom.  I will not fully open our boarders, but for now we will welcome this connection.” She instructed “See that it is the royal guard that meets the xerian ship when it arrives.  Ensure they are given our best treatment.  We have kept to ourselves this long but that does not mean we have forgotten our hospitality.” She said strictly. The man nodded and hurried off to see to the arrangements while Lumina left the room with a heavy sigh. Now came the hard part, she’d have to exchange her lighter robes to more formal wear. The mantle of queen was heavy,  and when tending formal requirements that was quiet literal.  The multiple layers of heavy robes was not something she looked forward to.  Her only solace was knowing Izira had similar trouble , the gown she’d worn to speak through the channel had been very ornate heavy with jewels and ornaments meant to show her station.

Slipping through the halls to her room she nodded in greeting to the maids waiting for her. In the time it took for her to be robed, her hair dressed and adorned, makeup carefully applied she wanted to toss it all off and go to bed!  Knowing her duty did not make this aspect of it any more pleasant but she kept her frustrated feeling internal, so as to not worry her maids.  However the sage smile of her oldest and most loyal retainer made her aware she might not have complete control of her annoyance.  Bells softly chimed with each step she took Luminas hand where each held by a maid, mostly to help her keep balance. The Ornamentation in her hair was heavy!

She was sat at the throne but as she had explained to Gramorr previously a spell was set to help her float a few inches above the actual delicate seat. She had no doubt the thing would crumble beneath her in this heavy wear.

Everything was arranged perfectly for the greeting, to ensure perfect and most respectful presentation to her guests. An ambassador would be one thing but for a queen to visit another realm was another things entirely requiring a whole other level of preparations.  The maids moved only just slipping into their places standing either side of her when her chamberlain walked and formally introduced the queen of Xeris.

“Please enter.”

The grand doors opened and Izira stepped inside flanked by two of her maids the third following behind holding up the long heavy train of her own gown.  The two monarchs looked at each other for a moment in silent commiseration before Izira knelt bowing respectfully.  Her maids following suit bowing lower then her.

“Please rise, and know you and yours are welcome in my court.” Lumina spoke formally lifting her hand indicating they were free to stand then turned lightly gesturing to the Chamberlain who stood at the side lines “Please, a chair for our guest, I imagine your gown is just as heavy as my own.” She said lightly her smile easy hoping to break the ice, and succeeding when Izira chuckled nodding.  She thanked the Chamberlain as the chair was arranged for her sitting and sighing obviously relieved to be off her feet, Her maids kneeling on the floor on either side of her.

“Thank you for welcoming me to your lands, Queen Lumina.  It has been long since we have last spoken and I must admit I am not fully sure why that is. It is my hope we may address that as well as my other concerns while here.” She said lightly Lumina nodded. She could only move so much with the heavy layers weighing her down but she managed indicating the room be cleared “Your maids may join mine, I’m sure they would enjoy some of our native fruits.” She said sending them off as well allowing the two women relative privacy.

“Please speak your concerns I shall do my best to address them.” Lumina invited and, after a moment of thought, Izira began to speak,

“Why is it that in the last few years we have not spoken?  I don’t wish to say I forgot about you but it almost feels as if I did, what happened?  Was this a spell the result of Gramorr?” she asked.  Lumina nodded slowly

“In a way, while Gramorr was the reason for the spell he did not cast it.  I chose to ‘erase’ my kingdom, so as to protect it from the war. Understand, we are a small nation, easy pickings and I felt it best for my people to shield us, by removing knowledge of us from the surface.  This was not meant as offense, but it was my decision for the best for my people.” She explained Izira nodded acceptingly. “Aquaria has always maintained a quiet peace. If I remember correctly there is little in the way of military force is this correct?” at her question Lumina again slowly nodded

“Then, I take no offense at your choice to hide your people and keep them shielded from the troubles of our world.” Izira said lightly “I imagine however you where not wholly cut off, as clearly you are aware of the fall of Gramorr?” she asked

“Yes we are aware. The destruction of the Alter was felt even down here in fact.  The magical shockwaves where quiet startling.   We did maintain a small connection to the surface through the water, this allowed us to keep track of the situation and ensure no one stumbled upon us by accident following our removal.” Lumina explained. Izira seemed satisfied again by her answer.  Political dancing was one of the more difficult aspect of her position, words had to be chosen carefully. And while Izira herself was not so easily offended, the meeting was being magically recorded for public viewing afterwards, she had to ensure both her people and those of other nations where not offended by her choices or statements.

“Other leaders are slowly beginning to regain control of their nations, however a new threat has arisen. We have come to believe that Gramorr was not the true threat, but rather the puppet of a greater evil.  With his destruction, the master has moved to a new host.” Izira explained Gravely, Lumina nodded

“We have reached the same conclusion.” She assured “It is my understanding that The Ephidian Heir has returned to Earth along with the princess’ of Xeris and Volta?” Lumina questioned to clarify.

“Yes, as Iris was raised there we determined it would be best to ease her transition back to Ephidia, over time. With the queens return There is no immediate demand for Iris to return and assume the throne at this moment.” Izira paused “My younger sister and The Voltan princess Auriana, stayed briefly in order to reconnect with family but both have also returned to Earth, to aide in teaching Iris.”

“I see.. The princess’ of Calyx and Borealis?” Lumina asked Izira nodded “They will also be assisting, but they will be receiving their own education.  Because of their work in assisting the resistance against Gramorr there studies as heirs have been lax.”

“I see With our pleasantries completed we will move to the state room and begin addressing the concern of the other realms.”  Lumina explained gesturing for assistance as her and Izira stood to leave the grand throne room.  There was relief at that, in the state room it wasn’t as formal, so both her and Izira could remove the burdensome gowns,, unfortunately the lesser formal wear was still irritating, so it was only a small relief.  As she was aided to her room Lumina wondered Where Gramorr was, he’d much rather be talking with him then discussing the politics of returning to the ‘world’

[firebunnylover]

Hannah Watches LOSH - Timber Wolf

So I started to make gifs for the reviews because I found I was taking way to many screenshots in particular scenes in this episode. If anyone knows a good reference/guide on making gifs of parts of an episode with just one program that don’t stutter in tumblr and stay the same duration as the source, and the recomended sizes for images in text posts and, lemme know. I’m probably going to start assembling all images because i love them all and i hate how text posts kill the quality.

And this time I’m including the keep reading option.

Timber Wolf

The way the episodes starts off before the theme is on Rawl, focusing on Dr. Londo, and old man, with his robots, pursuing a werewolf like creature.

From an artistic standpoint, I found the planet’s environment very Halloween like. But here, writing wise, we get a dark glimpse of the show.

After the show’s theme, we cut to what is essentially a space version of the sea cucumber. Lorsax. Not sure how it’s spelled. We’ll just call it Space-Cucumber.

Lightning Lad is still the proud jock we encountered in the previous episode, as he cuts off Superman in mid question.

However, karma kicks in early by proving that Space-Cucumber is immune to lightning, and having a tentacle snag him.

The distress message, Dr. Londo does look panicked and anxious. Easy to believe he is in need if you’ve haven’t already seen this episode.

Oh Saturn Girl named Space-Cucumber Globby. Okay.

And it looks like Superman is coming out of his shell. He snarks back at Lightning Lad the very words he was told earlier playfully. That’s a good sign.

Garth u loser.

Creeping Cat B5.

And we get him insisting that Bouncing Boy used the system that he made to assist him, which results in one of my favorite funny moments.

That results in the ship hyper blasting off. And crashing onto the planet.

While we get our first hint at the Saturn Girl/Lightning Lad ship.

Upon landing, Bouncing Boy and Brainy are holding animosity towards each other judging by the facial expressions.

Lightning Lad seems to have the unquestioned position as the leader given Cosmic Boy isn’t in the picture. Makes sense given he’s a founder, but I think Saturn Girl is better.

Can’t help but smile at the confusion of Superman’s 21st century slang.

When Dr. Londo tells them about the Creature, he says it destroyed everything, including his team. I honestly can’t tell if he’s making that up or not, regarding if he had a team in the first place. More of that in the overall review in the end.

Ok, clearly the picture was several years old, given the hair was still dark for Londo.

Upon meeting Dr. Londo, Saturn Girl seems to be the hesitant one of the group, while the rest bought what he said. Obviously her powers give her an edge on the situation, but she is more observant than the others.

Thus return to more fighting B5 and BB. B5 is a stickler for order and doing things perfectly as much as possible, insisting that since he has a 12th level intelligence he doesn’t need to improvise, while BB is a “wing it” guy, as he will improvise in some way or another. But Brainy is also bad at picking up on social stuff, like Bouncing Boy being upset with him, who proceeds to break a rule Londo had set.

With the other three, Lightning Lad starts to tease Saturn Girl who snaps at him, catching him and Superman by surprise.

When she’s expressing her concern on what’s going on, they get ambushed by robots. When Saturn Girl gets separated from the boys, we see her powers can effect things physically, including robots. This knocks her out, but she is saved, but kidnapped, by the creature we saw in the beginning.

Bouncing Boy enters a restricted area, and is immediately hunted down by robots with guns. Nice welcome.

We then switch back to Saturn Girl, who is in a cave with the creature, groggy from her thought blast. We see her scared, telling, or begging rather, the creature not to eat her.

The creature is a good puppy.

Puppy is doing his best to tell you Saturn Girl.

“Why do I need permission? It’s a monster.”

OW

HIS FACE

DON’T DO THIS TO ME OW

And then Lightning Lad and Superman swoop in, being two well-intentioned dummies. Knocking Saturn Girl out in the process.

PUPPY WAS TRYING TO CHECK ON HER NO SUPERMAN DON’T TOSS HIM

Karma has a stalactite chunk land on Lightning Lad, but he somehow survives??

And after getting his shirt torn and scratched, he then zaps Superman on accident. Which he apologizes for.

However, Superman had to hold Lightning Lad back after puppy is knocked out, although he seems upset about that.

We return to Brainy, who insists he’s not worried about Bouncing Boy… until he finds him held hostage by robots, and proceeds to save him instantly. Saying he improvised.

Well gentlemen, I don’t think this is what you were expecting in his labs, judging by your expressions.

You two are trouble.

Where did they get that net? Did Londo give them it?

LIGHTNING LAD YOU MEANIE TO THE PUPPY. I HOPE SATURN GIRL GAVE YOU AN EARFUL AFTER THE MISSION

The power of improvising. Works well in college.

NO MAH PUPPY.

SATURN GIRL SASS

She went out of her way to make sure Puppy was comfortable before she proceeded. Saturn Girl for queen of the legion please. And Queen of staring down twits.

Okay, time to address one question we all have: WHERE THE HELL DID THOSE BOXERS COME FROM?! I mean I get censorship and that the plot would have been spoiled if Puppy had boxes in full monster form, but COME ONE.

Brainy, don’t poke the Puppy. PET the Puppy.

Dr. Londo. With evil robots and can’t-determine-good-or-bad creatures. An absolutely abusive parent.

Saturn Girl being the friend to help keep Brin from snapping and loosing control. What a good person.

Then this declaration Brin makes.

So. Good. Holding Dr. Londo accountable for the abuse and determined to get away from his abusive parent.

“Take them all.” Dr. Londo, do you really think the rest of the Legion will just forget about them?

And we get some more jelly Lightning Lad. Garth u loser.

FEAR THE GREEN SMART CHILD WITH PERI-COPTER HANDS AND THE ORB OF IMPROVISING.

LIGHTING LAD IS A TSUNDERE. SAY IT WITH ME.

And after Dr. Londo’s animals try to gang up on him but then are scared off, the truly sickening part begins.

Using his own son for research. Against his will. Saying he should have thanked him for making something for battle. The music during this whole part is unsettling, as is the issue. Brin can’t go back to what he was before. The damage that has been done to him, it’s permanent.

Dr. Londo taunts him on how long Brin can maintain control over himself, but Saturn Girl rejects that. Saying that he will have help.

And Dr. Londo? He gets off. Jurisdiction can’t touch him because of where the crime took place.

Brin. He doesn’t get justice. He doesn’t get what he deserves.

To Brin, parents are people who should protect children from harm in the world. But his father didn’t do that. He deliberately harmed him.

Nothing will ever fix that. Ever.

The only thing he can do is destroy what Dr. Londo uses for his projects. And when he’s done.

His final statement to the man who should have protected him.

… Are there a bunch of spare uniforms just lying around? A machine on board that just made the outfit? TELL ME~

Brin expresses fear that Dr. Londo is right, that he will lose control. But this time, Lightning Lad is the one to offer words of comfort. Perhaps he’s seen something similar?

And so, the episode concludes with Brin swearing in as Timber Wolf.

So final thoughts on the episode overall.

OW. THE WRITERS HAVE TAKEN A SPEAR AND JABBED IT THROUGH MY HEART.

Except for a little plothole where they said in the last episode Colossal Boy was on Rawl. Brainy said there wasn’t much else aside from Dr. Londo’s research station. I don’t know how big Rawl is compared to earth, but kinda bothers me this wasn’t addressed. The only explanation I can think of is that his mission took place on the other side of the planet, and/or that the incident was resolved before Brin was transformed. Which leads to two more questions.

How much time did pass between this episode and the last one? And how long had it been since Brin was experimented on?

There has been enough time for Superman to start emerging from his shell clearly.

When I was younger, I didn’t get the significance of this episode. Now I do.

One of the main character has been abused by his father and changed into something he didn’t want any part of. And he doesn’t get justice in the end. Dr. Londo got off.

Let’s look at another infamous abusive Father and his son. Ozai and Zuko. A father who burned his son’s face for standing up in what he believed was right, standing up for others. Zuko still associated Ozai as a father though, as evident by the Freudian slip of “Father Lord”, associating fathers with negative things. But Zuko does have someone for support. Iroh. Who cares so damn much about Zuko it’s literally making me cry while writing this. And Zuko eventually held him accountable. But whether Zuko got justice regarding what his father did is arguable. Ozai got imprisoned, but Zuko still went to see him after the war in the comics. He wasn’t completely freed from him after two years.

Brin, there is no other father figure. No one else for him to lean on automatically during the abuse. But the Legion stepped in. They were going to be his support. They were new, but they were something at least. But he was determined to completely cut Dr. Londo out of his life, and knew fathers shouldn’t be associated with abuse. That’s different from Zuko.

Both are different reactions, but both are understandable.

But hey, Timber Wolf was far luckier than another dog person I know.

Now regarding what Dr. Londo said about Brin destroying his team. Did Dr. Londo kill off his own staff? Did they leave out of their own free will? Or were the staff impassive about what Dr. Londo did to his own son? Because if it’s the latter, there is the chance Brin could have injured/killed them out of anger when he escaped. Hence why Dr. Londo had to get the Legion. The way Brin was, he would have killed him. But if Dr. Londo had killed the staff himself, then he could have set it up to make it look like Brin did it.

Personally, I like the episodes that are on the dark side. I do think cheery episodes are important, but episodes like these? They are important.

Personally, I can’t think of any better way this story could have been carried out.

Characters in this episode:

Superman has clearly started to come out of the shell he was in during the first episode. He has more freedom to be himself. And given just how much my heart was breaking over him the last time, this is good.

Brainiac 5 has more personality this time, other than the gay/bi (going of the comics here; I probably should have addressed he’s canonically bi last time, I apologize, I was very hyped), and little evidence of the crush. This time, we see him as someone who tries to maintain order, and stick to the system as much as possible. But in the end, he is capable of change. We also see he’s not aware of certain social ques.

Bouncing Boy: We see he’s far more relaxed than Brainy, preferring to do things as they come along, and to improvise. He doesn’t let himself get trampled on. Is a happy version of a college student.

Lightning Lad you brat. I love him. Karma has got him several times in today’s episode, and he’s a jealous baby who hates being wrong. Garth u loser. But also nice to see him being nice at the end.

I WANT TO PROTECT TIMBER WOLF SO BAD. I WILL GET ALL THE BLANKETS AND WRAP HIM IN THEM AND GET ALL THE GOOD FOODS FOR HIM. HE DOESN’T DESERVE THE SHORT STICK LIVE HAS GIVEN HIM. But I’m so proud he went to join the team that is meant to help others. That’s a good way to go forward. Kind of sad he doesn’t get any speaking dialogue from him before the transformation though. I would like to see what he was like before the experiment happened.

Remember what I said in the last episode, about the villains needing development? Dr. Londo is a well-developed villain that he leaves us with an impact. He’s manipulative and smart enough so that when he does get caught, he doesn’t go to jail. He doesn’t have any remorse for what he did to his son. I would put the guy in a pit with venomous spiders because of what he’s done. And I would have let him get eaten, like Lightning Lad said.

Well, that’s all from me today! Lemme know if you think I forgot to mention anything, feedback is appreciated! Or if the gifs aren’t working...

[peachhoneii]

the work schedule: IRBB

If life was just a little bit easier. We all did our best, and I’m glad to have been a part of this. I had a wonderful partner in @stacinadia. This is my entry for IRBB 2017, and again, thanks for the fun times! 

AO3

the work schedule

Autumn light dips onto Rukia. It’s warm, easy, just as the weather wants to be, and it’s perfectly timed for the hour. Goosebumps pick from her shoulders down to her forearms, and her gloved fingers curl around her suitcase. The train station is empty except for random strangers. 

Their large, brimmed hats and wide, black sunglass, more like black holes say more about their foreign status. Their laughter combined is deep, guttural, and they wave as they pass by, waving excitedly for no explicit reason. Rukia waves in return without feeling the need, but knowing her manners couldn’t be forgotten.  

Her wrist watch reads forty-five minutes past two. In fifteen minutes the train should arrive with her package, and from there the real work will begin. Her feelings aren’t set in stone for the matter, taking on this job. It makes her feel restless, annoyed, and relieved in one, round ball. 

Anticipation is somewhere down there, she knows, but it’s buried underneath the drive to get the job done before anything can become an issue. Months have passed since her last job. It’s the least, she thinks, she can do. 

Her arm aches, and she shifts the suitcase, staring down the railroad tracks as if the train will magically appear before her.

Time’s concrete nature is painfully misinterpreted. It moves forward, never backwards. It’s estimated, counted in harsh intervals, and arrives at a natural stand point. Rukia isn’t worried. She doesn’t have time to be worried, and she doesn’t have a reason to be worried. The train’s schedule has never been wrong, and for the years she has lived in this town, and outside of it, the train’s call has always been reassuring. Good sense tells her to sit at a bench, read a book, and check her text messages, but she and good sense were never fully compatible. She continues to stand, sharp eyes watching down the way.

Waiting doesn’t help pass the time, but thinking certainly does. The railroad tracks and the surrounding trees don’t fade as she starts to lose focus while maintaining perfect sight. She can still see them as clear as day. The train is coming as she strays in an adjacent direction. A screeching whistle pierces through the silence, the constant roll of a steaming engine charges down the way, and she can move away from it all. Her feet remain firmly planted on the pavement, and she counts the seconds, counting to where it all began.

*****

“You have to make sure you can keep up with me.”

“I know.”

“And you have to make sure you don’t get lost.”

“Rukia,” Hisana sighs at her side, “don’t forget I’m older than you, and I’ve lived in the city too.”

Her sister’s gentle reprimand does little to calm her, but she concedes and slows her pace. Underneath the soles of her shoes she can feel pebbles scratch against each other. Hisana walks patiently behind, a tender smile playing on her lips, and the sun’s rays fall gently on her. It has a way of pronouncing her fragile, plum beauty, and Rukia can’t feel upset at this slight delay. Her fingers twitch at the side, and with a great huff, she turns on her heels without moving forward.

“You know, we can afford to look at the stores before we meet Byakuya,” she offers. It’s an awkward offer, as if Rukia wants to join them on their excursion, but their time together as sisters has lessened since Rukia’s internship. By the way her sister looks at her, violet blue eyes wide with hope, Hisana wants nothing more for Rukia to become better acquainted with her love.

She can’t possibly decline, or throw a slight fuss over this, and she sighs, closing her eyes for three seconds before opening them again, voice firm and kind at once, “Isn’t that why we’re meeting him today? But before we meet Byakuya, I do want to get some shopping done.”

An unearthly glow flourishes on Hisana’s face, “Of course, I wouldn’t have changed that,” she nods her head and takes Rukia’s hand into hers. It’s softer, smaller despite being twelve years older, and she leads Rukia without a second thought, looking back only to give her a sly grin.

“I see you have plans.” Which have not been discussed with her it appears, and Hisana’s grin broadens, “Please, don’t be hasty on my account. I’d rather you don’t spend too much.”

“I wouldn’t think of it.”

Hisana doesn’t reveal the location of their next destination, and Rukia finds her sister’s grip stronger than the last time she could recall. It’s not made of iron, something weaker, but strong all the same. Down the sidewalk they past several shops, most of them clothing, some of them furniture, and a sinking sensation drops in the middle of her stomach. Interior decoration isn’t something Rukia is keen on, and she licks her lips anxiously, keeping pace with her sister’s enthusiasm as they round another right corner.

The city constantly changes. It’s much different from what it used to be when she was a child. Still massive, still endless, still bordered by smaller towns and villages, but so much more now that opportunities existed where they didn’t when she was too small, too weak, to make a difference in her life. Later afternoon light chases after them, and Hisana is breathless as her pace slows, coming to a thoughtful stop in front of a bookshop.

Rukia has seen her fair share of bookstores. It isn’t much. Among the tall, imposing buildings flanked to its left and right, the bookshop seems meager that could use numerous renovations. But it’s a part of its charm, she decides, and Hisana hooks her arm around hers. Her expression is endless, waiting for approval, and seeing Rukia’s skepticism buried underneath her light smile, smiles brightly and pulls her in without a second thought.

“Hisana, what are we doing?”

It smells of steamed rice and dusty pages. It smells like a bookshop should smell, or the preconceived of what a bookshop should smell. Rukia’s nose wrinkles in disgust, and she catches a sneeze ready to blow. Hisana doesn’t smell anything, and if she does, she’s too excited to care. Shelves are stacked side to side, filled with books of all kinds, and she can’t help but wonder how they’re organized. There aren’t any labels attached to the shelves, not on the top, not on the bottom, and this rattles Rukia’s orderly mind.

She tries to pull Hisana’s arm the other way, but feels her sister’s persistence has gotten the best of her.

“I found this lovely place a few weeks ago.” She breathes, “And I think you’re going to love it,” they’re walking towards the register when they see the man standing to the front, “Oh, now, now, please be nice, Rukia, he’s a very nice man, and a very good friend of mine! Mr. Kurosaki!”

At a distance he has the appearance of an old man, but the closer to approach the register, the younger he becomes. The man is facing the wall, digging through old boxes on the shelf, and at the sound of Hisana’s voice he turns around sharply, eyes searching before settling his eyes on the pair of dark-haried women. The grin on his face could kill diseases, and Rukia flinches, forcing herself to swallow her unwillingness.

“Hisana!” He’s taller than most men, matching the man Rukia would come to know as brother, and his ebony stained hair is streaked in silver strands, “And, is this your daughter? No, no, you must be Rukia!”

Rukia flashes a look at Hisana that she shrugs off with ease, and unhooking their arms, she pats Rukia’s shoulder comfortingly and patiently, “Mr. Kurosaki, this is my sister Rukia, and Rukia, this is my dear friend Mr. Kurosaki. He is the owner of this book shop.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you Miss Talent Agent,” his hand stretches out, and Rukia takes it firmly, letting the heaviness trap her in.

“I’m actually working at a publishing company right now.” She fights down the heat of her cheeks even though she can feel the man grinning at her embarrassment without him pulling his lips up, “It’s a short program to better my editing skills.”

Her internship affords her the little things, an apartment and a way to pay for her living finances. It’s better than what she had before, and the memories are bleak enough for her to push back instantly the moment the images of the past begin to stir. Staring at Mr. Kurosaki forces her to smile pleasurably, the same small smile she gives to the people at her office.

“What a stunning job to have.” He beams and returns his attention to Hisana, “Now, what can I help you with, Hisana?”

“Oh!” Snapping back to life, “I wanted to know if you had any new cook books? I’m meeting Byakuya today, and I want to show him some of my favorites. He’s insistent on cooking them for me.”

“Really?”

Hisana nods, “Really.” It’s strange, seeing her sister this way. The majority of her memories of Hisana are of her working tireless hours, eyes strained and buried under heavy eyelids, falling asleep on the sofa instead of their shared bed. When she says, really, she says it not with hope but with conviction, with certainty, and something light in her shines so proudly and happily, lovingly almost.

Her intestines begin to twist, and she carefully unwind their arms, “If it’s alright with you, I’m going to look around, don’t worry, I don’t want to disturb your conversation.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, it’s fine.”

“If you get lost, one of my coworkers will be in the stacks.” Mr. Kurosaki’s grin is mischievous, that of a man twenty years younger than the one she’s looking at, “And if he gives you any trouble, call me, I’ll set him right.”

“Sure.”

Walking down the aisles feels like a maze. In a cramped bookshop like this it amazes Rukia at what it accomplishes, and she finds herself scanning the spines of the books. She presses two fingers on their surfaces, finding them clean and roughly smooth. Her nails scratch, and the sound feels comforting against her ears. The further she goes, the deeper she steps through the less she hears on the other side, but she can still see her sister’s head in the corner of her eye. The owner speaks animatedly with waving hands and a nodding head. Hisana’s easier to appreciate, however, and the slim curve of her lips makes Rukia’s chest light. She seems happy, and that’s more than she could have asked for.

As she maneuvers down the aisles, passing book after book, she doesn’t think of how cluttered it is. She pretends the dust doesn’t irritate her nostrils, and most importantly, she attempt to organized the flimsy order the books appear to be in. From the spines she’s noticed fiction mixed with non-fiction. Horror clashed with romance, and self-help books were put near historical fiction. It’s a mess, Rukia sees, but it isn’t her place to criticize. Her sister likes the man, and it doesn’t do to upset a friend.

At the end of the aisle another shelf of books are aligned with the wall. She touches the spines again and pulls back to inspect her fingers, and she sees no dust has attached itself on her skin. In fact, staring up and down the back shelves, none of the spines are covered in dust. Haunted under the brightest light the shelves are meticulously dusted, leaving a polished gleam on their surface, and Rukia’s mouth scrunches in thought. She supposes this makes sense, as Mr. Kurosaki mentioned a worker, but with the bookshop’s size she anticipates she would have seen them much sooner.

Lost in her thoughts she doesn’t sense the incoming presence coming behind her until she feels a shadow hovering on top of her, and her head snaps around, eyes sharp, body frigid in defense.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

*****

“Hey!” Rukia snaps her fingers in his face, “You’re late! You do know you have a deadline to meet, right?”

He scowls at her but doesn’t say anything. He’s in the middle chewing the last half of his bagel, and his hands are full with luggage. They’re walking down the hall at a brisk space with Rukia leading, and she calms herself quickly, sucking in a steady breath as she counts downwards. The train departs behind them, rushing the next group of people to their destination. Outside the station her car awaits, and she bites down on her irritation, more relieved than angry. He follows behind her silently, letting her blow off steam, but the way his eyes bear down her back, tracing its outline underneath her autumn blouse and jacket sets her on edge.

“Do you have the manuscripts?” She presses on her car remote, and sees the blinking in the distance, “I’ve sent the others to the publishers, and they’re not expecting more after this since you’re going to be on hiatus.”

He keeps pace easily. It takes him no more than two strides to match hers. He’s quiet beside her, more from tiredness than annoyance. Trains aren’t his preferred form of transportation, and unlocking the door, they slip in the car as she lists the various tasks they have for the rest of the day. The engine roars to life as she puts it into drive, and they take an easy way out, moving towards the empty side of town. They pass old shops and playgrounds, very different from what they’re used to, and Rukia wonders if this is the right thing to do.

He doesn’t appear upset. His luggage is loaded in the back seat, some in the trunk, and the ride is oddly pleasant despite the circumstances leading to this change of pace. Rukia obeys the safety laws, tapping her fingers casually on the steering wheel, and when she looks to her side he’s there sitting, staring out the window, a ghost of a smile tugging on his lips.

“Sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for?”

“Making you worry,” he rolls his head to the side to get a better look at her, “because I know how you worry.”

She can’t help herself. She scoffs, “What do you think you’re talking about?”

“Did you think the train crashed or something?”

“Of course not!”

“Would’ve made it more interesting had it, but,” he stretches in his seat, “napping was easier."

Hearing this elevates some of her fears, some of her worries, not that the train crashing and burning was a concern.

“Good to hear it, and now, you can finish the last of this arc.” The drive goes surprisingly quickly, and in less than thirty minutes she driving up the driveway to the vacation house she managed to snag two years ago, “In silence, in peace, in…comfort?”

The vacation home is one purchased at an incredibly reasonable price. Rukia predicts it’s owner motivation overrode her own when dealing with the finances, and they wanted to be rid of the house moreso than she wanted to purchase it. She doesn’t discuss it then as she unbuckles her seat, pressing the button underneath the steering wheel that activated the back trunk. He follows after her quietly, weak but lively, and she watches him out of the corner of her eye. He moves smoothly with ease and comfort. The muscles don’t tense, don’t tighten underneath tanned skin, and she sucks in a breath, counting her steps, making sure each one has intention.

They carry individual duffel bags into house. It's different from this morning she sees. Not that it is ever loud, but the quietness has a fullness Rukia doesn't remember it having earlier. The table stands it did when she left. The salt and pepper holder innocently lies off side at the edge of the corner, a sign of an early breakfast. The air is honeysuckle scented, and she goes to the living room, dropping a pair of duffel bags on the floor. From where she stands she can see the sofa and the soft indention from where she slept the previous night. The television screen is pitch black, the remote still lingering on the edge of the glass table. It’s an empty home. Quiet, undisturbed, the living space's availability is obvious, and now, the chance to fill those vacant spaces, to fill the emptiness that has settled between them has arrived.

He might have wanted to go to the bedroom. He might have wanted to check the back yard. He sits at the kitchen table and stares, letting his shoulders roll tiredly, "It's nice," the lines around her eyes don't recoil, but he feels the cringe the squiggly lines, "I mean it. It's nice. I like it."

"I want you to like it." This doesn't sound right. There's more to it, she realizes, but the words she needs to convey her meaning are lost to her, "You need breathing space, and there's nothing wrong with the country. We can always move back when we're ready."

When he looks at her there is no tiredness, no anger, no sadness. A silent resignation treads dangerously on his lips. He wants to tell her the truth, or tells her why this move was necessary. They know they would have not changed their decisions if they could. There is no reason to smile, not now. The world has not given him a physical reason to smile, but staring at her, staring her flippant yet intrusive stare, hopeful and caring, makes the corners of his lips quirk. Her smile is far more subdued, less noticeable than his, and is hidden underneath the tumbling arch of her eyebrows. It is one of the more distinctive features her face holds, and he pulls his chin up at her.

“Wanna go check out the house?”

The house isn’t a gift. The realtor was an acquaintance of her brother’s, but she had sought the house herself, found it herself. The connection was mere coincidence. They had completed the necessary paperwork. She was meticulous, painfully at some points. He was intimidating. Together, they were ferocious, and the realtor, along with the bank, had been grateful and terrified. The deal closed swiftly and easily, and they walked carefully down the halls, sucking in the whistling silence.

“The bedroom is on the other side of the house,” the bathroom is wider than their shared memory, and she smiles in gratitude, the stiff coolness about the room. It isn’t all white and porcelain mixed with beige and tan, and the ceiling is a rusted red shade she doesn’t find immediately unsettling. Ichigo comes behind her, hands stuffed in his pockets, and he smacks his lips appreciatively. There isn’t much to say about décor when it comes to him. He disappears when it comes to clothes shopping, but is always present for pillow shopping.

The rest of the inspection follows up quickly. It isn’t extraordinary. It isn’t dull. It’s what they expect. A homely domesticity they have yet to grow accustom to. They don’t want to admit the quietness is unnerving. They city can be loud, but it is never overwhelming. It’s the people, they think to themselves. The expectations, and they go down another hall closer to their bedroom. The library smells of iris and jaded leaves, left too long in the sun. It’s a sour and strangely sweet aroma, and they smile at each other, hopeful, as they go in. The door lingers like a forgotten friend, waiting patiently for them to take their fill, and although the room is still bare. Although the room has nothing to fill the empty walls and imaginary shelves, they know this room to be true. It holds more than their future, and seated on the floor, they survey the walls and ceiling, the window with its unpainted borders.

He sat first. His gaze locked on the window, across the roaming hills beyond their home, “Have you called Byakuya?”

“I did before I left for the station.” She sits beside him, close enough to touch him without touching him, “He wanted to make sure the journey went well. Renji called. He sounded worried, but you know him. He didn’t want to sound worried.”

There are other friends waiting for them back at their former home. All have accepted their decision, no questions asked, and they’re grateful in their quiet way. They suspected a bombardment of inquiries, of asking why they chose to leave despite all the good things happening to them. They feared the holes people would try to dig into their lives, not windows, not mirrors so that they may reflect onto them. Their friends proved trustworthy, handing them gifts and sad faces along with their goodbyes, and there were assurances, promises to write and call when they could, when they were ready to accept them.

“I like this room.”

“I knew you would,” she grins, “The moving van will arrive tomorrow. A not so bad schedule.”

He stares down at her, “You planned all of this, didn’t you?”

“Well, yeah, someone had to.” This is wrong to say. It’s truthful, but still wrong. Unfair, and she places a hand on his arm, “You weren’t up for it, and I didn’t want you to worry. You still want to finish this.”

She doesn’t want him to say yes, and she doesn’t want him to say no. It’s a tedious thing to be. In the middle of want and need, not knowing which has more power, or which one is more important. She’s sympathetic, and her soft hand on his arm tells him that. She can wait. She will wait, and there’s time. But there’s guilt, and the pain filling him makes it worse. Because she shouldn’t have to wait. Her life shouldn’t be put on hold, and looking at her, seeing the age starting to draw around her eyes and lips, a similar age to his, saddens him.

“Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Don’t do that.”

*****

Their fifth date makes it official. It feels more official, and he doesn’t know why it’s taken him five dates to realize this. She’s annoying. She’s loud. She doesn’t hold back, and she can be just as mean and surly as he is. She can also be pleasant, quiet, subdued, and filled with more compassion and kindness he ever thought humanly possible. His mother’s compassion is one he cannot compare to another, and he won’t try to compare them, so very different and surreal.

“I’m not doing anything,” she’s lying on her back, face upwards, and she’s covering her nose, now bloodied and bruise, “and you’re not a doctor, so you can’t tell me anything.”

“You’re picking with it.” He states flatly, and she is picking with it. Her pinky finger squeezes through to touch her overtly sensitive nostrils, and the blood seeps freely like a damaged river, on and on through her fingers, “What did I say, stop it.”

He calls his mother. Masaki is a doctor, and a good doctor at that, doing the best she can for her patients. He doesn’t want to call her at this hour, being it’s ten at night, but he knows his mother isn’t sleeping. His mother rarely sleeps at appropriate hours, and when he hears her straggling voice on the other end, meaning her mouth is stuffed with popcorn, he chuckles.

“Did you get into a fight?”

“What!?” He scoffs and puts a hand underneath Rukia’s head, “No, I didn’t get into a fight. Why’d you think I got into a fight?”

He can’t see what she’s doing on the other side of the line, but he senses she’s shrugging, “I dunno. Something tells me you got into a fight, but someone got into a fight. That’s why you’re calling at ten-thirty.”

“Fine.” With as much gentleness he can muster, he pulls Rukia into his arm, and he drags, carries her to a nearby bench. Keeping the phone from the sound of her voice, he smirks at the various obscenities that fly out of her mouth. Another positive in his mind, but he isn’t going to tell her that.

“What’s that sound?” Something roars in the background. His father’s snores are horrendous, “Wow, I haven’t heard that word since I was in college, or since your father stubbed his toy against the kitchen table.”

“It’s Rukia.”

“Rukia?”

“Yeah, she got in a fight with-,”

“I’m on my way. Give me the directions.” Suddenly, the carelessness in his voice dissipates, and she’s all business, no questions about it. It’s the unwavering sharpness to her voice. The potential severity if her demands are not met, and Ichigo provides them readily, following her instructions as he gives directions.

“That asshole,” she murmurs with her eyes closed.

“I know.”

“And she was so scared, and no one was doing anything.” She doesn’t have to explain. He had come two minutes to late just to find her on top of the man, pounding him in the face. He never thought someone so tiny could be so devastating, and she got clocked on the nose—well, it was natural to be angry to see an innocent person get hurt, someone undeserving of pain. He didn’t have to do more than necessary.

“Good thing you did step in.” He tsks anyways, “Make sure you come at him slow, or distract him long enough for a hidden attack.”

She groans, the veins at her temples visibly throbbing, “I know. My brother would be ashamed at how I rushed into it, but I got so angry at that man. The nerve of him! To treat a woman like that! Absolutely revolting, and no one was going to do anything. They wanted to pretend it wasn’t even happening.”

His mother arrives shortly in her car, and she doesn’t scream, doesn’t yell. Rukia sends him a glare, and he shrugs helplessly, not knowing many other doctors in the area. He knows she doesn’t want to go to the hospital, so after a brief examination, Masaki surmises that it’s time for them to go home---with her.

“I’m in your Mom’s car.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m in your Mom’s car with a bloody nose.”

“Yes, you are.” He glares at her, “What’s up with that face?”

The lower half of her face, nose included, is covered with paper towels, and she’s sitting below him on the other side of the back seat, glaring at him, as if he’s done some terrible thing. Masaki’s driving while she hums to a late night radio tune, and Ichigo doesn’t understand why she’s staring at him as if he’s done something wrong. He knows he hasn’t done something wrong. What he’s done is the most practical thing of him to do, only second to him beating the guy the second he noticed something was wrong.

“There are rules to this kind of thing!” She hisses lowly, hoping Masaki can’t hear them, “We haven’t reached six months, not even close, and I’m bleeding through my nose in your mother’s car!”

So that’s what she’s upset with. It’s never crossed him mind that protocols were a thing for her, but it isn’t like she’s tried to hide that side of herself.

He’s thoughtful for a moment, and leans back into his seat, crossing his arms defensively, “My parents normally don’t get to meet my dates,” there’s a slight tinge across his nose, “don’t get a lot of them to stay.”

The anger that rises in her chest simmers into faint annoyance, and it turns to dust. She sits in the back with her hand covering her nose, and the pain still throb but isn’t acute. It’s dark outside. She can’t see the faint blush across his cheeks, but with the way he speaks, the silence developing in the car, she knows. It’s worse for him knowing that she knows. Knowing that his mother knows despite her loud humming and soft tapping on the steering wheel.

Maybe there’s a flush to her cheeks. Maybe there’s something there. She reprimands herself. There shouldn’t be. After all, it’s the fifth date, and there isn’t anything special about the fifth date. The fifth date means the possibility of a sixth, the potential of a seventh. Nothing’s concrete, and she doesn’t like to be left hanging.

Then he grabs her hand. It’s a simple gesture. His fingers lace into hers, and she looks at him with a soft gasp playing on her lips. It’s muffled under the paper towels and dried blood, and he isn’t looking at her. His face remains on the window and the passing buildings, and suddenly, something rises in Rukia, something bright and warm. Something uncontrollable and sustained through his touch.

He doesn’t know why he takes her hand with his mother in the front seat. He doesn’t know why, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever know. It feels right in the moment. He should hold her hand, and so he did. He’s more surprised when her fingers grasp his, folding instinctively without her looking in his direction, or that’s what he tells himself in the back seat. It feels that it’d be worse if she had turned to him, had batted her dark eyelashes, had beckoned him to look at her.

The fluttering in his chest lessens, and coolness takes it place. The drive takes longer than it should, he thinks, and his mother’s humming never decreases in volume, never softens.

*****

“Is Dad taking his medicine?” He nods, turning the stove on a low fire, “Yes, Mom, I made it safely, and yes, Rukia’s doing fine. Yeah, yeah, as soon as we can we’ll right a letter, or Skype, or whatever.”

“Now, you take care of yourself, Ichigo.” Masaki chides gently, “I don’t want the two of you overworking yourselves.”

“Yes, I know, Mom.”

“And make sure you talk to each other.” She nods approvingly, “Communication is the key to-,” a crash behind her makes her pause, and he hears the stomping of annoyed feet, “Isshin, are you okay, what did I tell you about trying to lift heavy shelves?”

The noodles bubble impatiently in the pot, and he stirs them, not waiting to hear what his dad has to say, “Look, it’s getting late, and you two really should be getting to bed,” they’re nearing that age anyways.

Masaki smacks her lips, and he feels the offended pout, “We are doing just fine the way we are, and I will call you later, young man,” but softly, even more tender than the tone she would use when he was a boy, “Ichigo, you take your time. Take all the time you need. You’ve done enough, and we only want what’s best for you.”

It’s something about mothers. It’s something about the unconditional acceptance, reassurance. Even when things aren’t going as planned their reassurances can make you believe it eventually will. He’s never admitted this doubt---that he might fail in this, that he might not get better, and hearing his mother’s voice on the other line makes the trapped feelings inside swell. Hearing her, summer in the midst of a harsh winter, and he tells her he loves. He says it two to three times, and each time his smile softens, deepens on top of the scowl he’s renowned for.

“Take care of yourself, Ichigo,” Masaki murmurs, and the phone ends with a curt click.

Night time comes easier than the afternoon. Afternoon waits and waits to past until evening arrives, and from there, everything descends into place. The house is still empty. There’s much to do to fill it up, and the hills outside stare into their home through the closed curtains. He can see the stars through the curtains, and if he chooses to peak he point their alignments. But he doesn’t intend to go to bed. He’s night owl habits are inherited from his parents, he knows this well, and there’s more of a reason for him to stay awake.

With his noodles he goes into the living room to be where the kitchen table has been moved. His laptop sits on top of it, plugged in, and various papers lie about near it. He eats his noodles sloppily and hungrily while staring at the laptop with its luminescent glow. He has the story planned from beginning to finish. He always had, and now, the finish line is in view. He doesn’t know what has caused this crippling pause---because Ichigo refuses to think of it as anything else but, and it’s so vivid that it pains his heart to think of the end. Also, it’s relieving, and he feels a little bit of shame in it.

At least, there isn’t the pressure. With his bosses leering over his shoulders, moreso than fans would like to think, he could never do anything without alerting them to some crime, and although this will continue despite the distance, it’s not as concrete. A burden has lifted off his shoulders, and as he swallows his noodles, slurping down the heat and meat, he feels less caged. He finishes his meal and sits at his laptop, stares at his notes, and he cracks his fingers, and begins to work.

“I didn’t get shit done.”

Rukia laughs, curled up beside him on the air mattress, “Did you expect to get anything done?”

“Not really.”

“But did you get any work done?” She cocks her eyes at him expectedly, “Any done at all? Because I find it hard to believe that you sat at your laptop for forty-five minutes and did absolutely nothing.”

“I didn’t. I tried a few panels, a few notes, and I deleted them all. I didn’t like how it sounded. None of it.”

Her blinks, “Better than ten months ago.”

He concedes that it is better than it was ten months ago. He wraps an arm around her and pulls her close. The mattress beneath them squeezes in protest. It tells them by morning it will have flattened under their combined weight, and the cold, hard floor will be unpleasant to sleep on. But they don’t care in the now. He pulls her close and looks her in the eye, and they’re just so tired. He doesn’t want to go to sleep, and she can’t find it in her to go to sleep right now, not this exact second.

“I’ve got work in the morning.” She pokes his nose with her thumb and smirks, “And you’ve got to meet with the movers, tell them where to put everything.”

He groans and takes her in his arms completely. He rolls to the side, despite her muffled protests, and he still remembers that night, that night when everything changed. Her nose cracked, broke under the weight of the man’s fists, and she blessed him with a black eye. She smiled at him then. She smiled and groaned, covering her face in embarrassment at how his mother came to pick them up. They were adults, she whispered at the house. They didn’t need to be driven home like a pair of loose tongued teens.

He ran his fingers through her hair. She cupped his face into her hands, and when he ends up on top, squeezing and groaning into her neck, the world collapses around them. There’s heavy petting, soft kisses, deep groans, and bucking, so much bucking. It spins, spins, spins, and he thinks of work. He thinks of how much his work has taken from this, and he’s terrified for a moment in between that he might have forgotten what this has felt like. She pulls him back in quickly, takes him in, and doesn’t let go.

It’s the middle of summer, and the air is thick inside. But coolness always accompany warmth, and he doesn’t want to let it go.

****

“I don’t want children.”

She’s met his mother and father before the six month mark. It doesn’t help that her sister and his father are friends. He’s met her sister and brother-in-law, and he knows he’ll like Hisana far more than he’ll ever like Byakuya.

He rolls on his side and stares, “You don’t.”

“I don’t.” She nods, “My sister has always wanted children, but she can’t have any. I can have them, and I don’t want to. I’m good with children, and I think they’re great,” she buries herself under the bed sheets, suddenly confused on what she should say to make him understand, “they’re not for me.”

Ichigo doesn’t understand. Being raised as the eldest, having two younger sisters and parents who always seemed so sure of what they wanted in their relationship. They wanted to get married, so they got married. They wanted children, so they had children. They wanted careers, so they resumed their education when they could, and they finished.

Seven years have past, and while he has always suspected he’s never heard it until now.

In bed, she weighs his reaction silently. Her right thumb taps the arm closest to her, “Do you want kids, I mean, do you want the whole thing,” everything feels wrong about this, asking him if he wants a family so far in the game, “I don’t want to-,”

“If I wanted kids that badly I would’ve told you by now.” Children are nice. Children can be a handful, and while he can see himself being a father, maybe of one or two, he can easily see himself without them too, still happily, “Kids isn’t something I can’t live without.”

“Oh.”

“What? Disappointed?”

“No, not at all.” And she isn’t. She feels light, and she wants to laugh in his face, then slap him, for making her worry. Right now, she rejoices in the fact that she’s as light as a feather, “I’m glad we’ve had this talk, Ichigo. If it makes your parents happy, they’ve still got Yuzu and Karin.”

His parents are happy either way. They’re not looking forward to being parents, surprisingly enough. He knows his sisters may or may not bless them with the pitter patter of tiny feet. He can’t see it from either sister, despite what their appearances may tell. That’s not worries Ichigo, and that isn’t what Rukia is worried about either.

It’s been seven years. Seven years have passed, and they changed drastically from what they are. She has a meeting. He has more stories to tell. More, more, and much more keeps calling to them, and there isn’t anything they can do about it. They lie in bed together, but soon, they’ll be apart for several more weeks, caught in their schedules.

“We should do something.”

“I don’t have time. “You never have time.”

“Neither do you.”

Five dates turned to six months.  Six months went to seven years, and from there a decade was lived between him and her. He produced constantly, and she worked constantly. Something gave, as it usually does, and the pieces were too many for them to pick up. They decided to leave. A plan was necessary, and they crafted one patiently, putting each slot into its proper place until the moment was right.

It is a wise decision. It is a smart decision to know what is wanted, and what is not. It is safe to know what is needed, and what is not.

Ichigo remembers the conversation as clear as day. He remembers thinking what he could not say. Yes, he can live without children, and live happily at that. Living without Rukia? It is not an option he bares to consider.

*****

Ichigo doesn’t remember a time when he could not breathe, and that is what makes his breakdown so extraordinarily. His breakdown doesn’t suddenly happen, not that it ever does. He crashes down on him all at once, but it is years in the making.

He feels the rain pouring. He feels himself drowning, swept away in the flood. Her hand reaches for him, keeping him afloat, but he refuses to sink her ship. He cannot let himself on her ship until he can ride through the storm.

He knows she’ll refuse to let him ride alone.

“I’m happy, Rukia.”

Noodles again. He promises one of these days they will get off their asses to buy real food, or at least search for a delivery place nearby. The noodles are beef flavor this time, and the texture is a bit rubbery. Their laziness keeps them from complaining, and they’re snuggled on the floor, staring at his laptop. His work is missing. Her work is missing.

“Do you think he’s gonna live?” She asks between bites, and she slurps a long noodle, “I think he’s gonna die. He’s really stupid to go into the mansion.”

“Wouldn’t have a movie if he didn’t go into the mansion.” He turns his nose up at the effects, “But yeah, he’s gonna die.”

She rests in the crook of his neck, breathing softly against him. He can count her heartbeats like the beating wings of a humming bird. His heartbeat is the same, if he doesn’t know, and she doesn’t feel the need to tell him. His hand falls on the top of her head, smoothing down her dark strands, and the scent of her shampoo lingers on the palm of his hand.

“I’m happy, Rukia,” he murmurs against her ear.

She doesn’t move her head from the screen, “You are?”

“Yeah, I am.” He inhales, “I know it doesn’t look it, but I am happy. I am happy with you. You make me happy, and I’m happy to share this life with you. But-,”

“You don’t have to explain,” she doesn’t mean to be rude. She doesn’t mean to cut him short, “I get it, in a round about way, I do. I’m happy to share this life with you, and I know there’s something else going on. Something I tried to ignore, and…I’m sorry for that. I shouldn’t have done that to you.”

Violet hits amber, and he’s falling all over again. He smiles, “You idiot,” and pulls her closer, “don’t you dare apologize.”

There are tears in her eyes, and she rests her head against his chest, sniffling. Someone screams, gurgles, and blood gushes out their mouth as the machete is snatched from their gut, leaving the gaping wound behind.

“Shit, he died.”

“Yeah, he did.”

He rocks side to side in careful motions, “I’ll try again tomorrow, to work, I mean.”

“And if you don’t, that’s okay too.” She says, “It’s a work in progress.”

[kingsofchaos]

So i had an Idea but I can't think of anything past the concept (+ yr writing for this kinda thing is like 200% better than mine) but what if the Lads founded the Fake AH crew and recruited the gents?

Oohthat’s fun – i’ve seen versions where they were two little gangswho combined into the FAHC but the idea of the actual Fake’s startingas the Lads is definitely interesting.Therewere a lot of names tossed around at the start; it’s the part offorming a crew no one really talks about, the vaguely embarrassingperiod of building an image, choosing a name, defining yourselves.Like band names there is a lot of bad before the good. Like bandnames ‘good’ is wildly subjective, particularly when determined by apack of teenage boys. The humour behind ‘Fake Crew’ isn’tparticularly high brow and not a single soul outside the originalfour Lads, including and especially their future members, have anyidea at all what the AH could possibly stand for. Most think itsmysterious, assume something clever or at least meaningful, but theshifty looks the boys shoot each other when pressed tell a differentstory.Still,they’ve made something of a name for themselves in Los Santos – theFAHC, who pull off unbelievable stunts, who lack any semblance ofrespect, dangerous in the way of feral animals, of wildfire. In thefoolhardy way of children, who care far more about making sure youhurt than they do about protecting themselves. It’s enough to keepother gangs wary, to buy themselves a little breathing room withreckless gestures and bared teeth, but not exactly the glory they arelooking for. Not quite the trembling respect they’ve dreamed of.Forthat, it seems, they’re going to have to think bigger, smarter. Beclever not just in the tricks they play and jobs they pull but in theway they twist their image, they way they recruit, build their crew.Just being more won’t do it, added thugs for the sake of numbers; itwould take an astonishing amount to really match the size of some oftheir rivals and the Lads don’t exactly play nice with strangers. No,they have to be strategic, have to select a few choice additions whocan help them rise, and after much discussion they settle on threenames they’d like to pull in; Ramsey, Patillo and the Vagabond. Loftygoals to be sure, but then, delusions of grandeur or not, the Fake’shave always considered themselves to be rather magnificent.Everyonewho’s anyone knows about the Vagabond; none of them will admit it(Ray will admit it, Ray doesn’t give a fuck) but the Lads all havehearts in their eyes every time the Vagabond slinks around, allfollow every rumour, gossip over every job. Something between heroworship and healthy respect, without any of the fear normalself-respecting individuals feel, is the perfect cocktail to have thefour of them plotting outlandish ways to pull in the mercenary.Patillo has an incredibly solid reputation for someone with no realties, invariably thought to be smart, dependable, one of the bestdrivers in the country and definitely not a woman to be trifled with.That she and Ramsey seem to have some kind of relationship, workedtogether back in the day and while going their separate ways don’tappear to have had any kind of blow up, will hopefully work in theLads favour. Last, but certainly not least, there’s Geoff Ramsey; therouge Rooster who’s been traversing the country, constantly on themove and pulling all kinds of jobs from hilariously wacky to darklyperverse. Maybe the Lads are looking a bit outside their paid gradebut with Ramsey reportedly looking to build his own crew they can’tnot try, not after realising that their crew is unfortunately in needof a proper leader.Becausenone of the Lads are leaders, not really, especially not back then.They aren’t incapable, are clearly wildly talented and loyal enoughto one another to defer a certain kind of leadership to whomever hasthe best idea or the most experience with whatever task they’refacing, but no one individual is capable of being the permanent boss.No one individual actually wants that role, not really, they’re alltoo young, too impulsive, too eager to abandon necessary goals at thedrop of a hat.  Ray,who has arguably the least interest in being the boss of all, is lessleader than lone wolf; when he’s taking point a lot of his orderstend to involve stealth, hanging back while he picks off targets,only charging in when long-distance is no longer an option. Necessaryfor particular jobs, and it’s certainly not an easy task keeping theother three in line until it’s their turn to burst into action, butit’s not a method that works for every task.Michaelmakes a magnificent leader, fierce and fearless and unwaveringlyloyal, protective of his crew until the bitter end. He is,unfortunately, utterly devoid of tact, of the patience to put up withany kind of shenanigans from anyone he doesn’t personally like, theability to create and maintain necessary relations with anyoneoutside his crew. Michael himself knows he makes a far betterLieutenant, busy with duties he actually cares about, walking theline between following orders with absolute obedience andunapologetically calling out anything he disagrees with, reliable andrelentless in equal measure.Jeremyis meticulous, when he’s in charge he plots and plans and doublechecks, the very image of the perfect boss except for one flaw; moreoften than not he’s easily swayed. Will put together the perfectstealth plan only to agree when Michael makes a convincing argumentfor the importance of rocket launchers, conduct an ideal heist untilGavin begs to go after something shiny or Ray inquires aboutabandoning the sensible get away car for hilarious motorisedscooters.WhenGavin is on his game he is fucking glorious, a flashbang of recklesslaughter and terrible ideas none of them can resist, the promise thatcome hell or hand-grenades they will all be going home with a story.When Gavin plays leader he needs a lot of faith, needs the others totrust in things that don’t seem remotely feasible, but the payoff isalways worth it. Except for the days when his words are too sharp,his eyes too cold, when he wants nothing more than to pick a fightwith the most dangerous crook in the room, to swagger around theLSPD’s station unmasked, jump from a plane without checking hisparachute; dancing with death just to see if he can. Ifthey’re not careful on those days, if they missed the clues, the restof the Lads would follow him down, unable discern between Gavin’susual absurd genius and those streaks of genuinely aimless apathyuntil they’re all careening towards destruction.So,as grating as it seems, there is an undeniable argument for apermanent leader, someone to keep them all on course, to take theresponsibilities they don’t want, someone who can captain their shipwithout trying to push them all overboard. Still, you can’t just walkup to one of these infamous criminals and hand them an invitation;selling yourself – your dream, your crew, your city – takes time,takes planning, so in the end the FAHC’s first recruitment isn’t evenone of those big three.It’spure luck when Michael meets Lindsay; finds her twirling anail-studded bat in the wreckage of a bar, sipping a cocktail likeshe hadn’t just caved a man’s head in, and really nothing on earthcould have stopped Michael from offering her a place in the crew.From talking them up in a way he’d never really bother with normally,because honestly how could he not. It doesn’t take much to get theother three onboard, Lindsay was a perfect fit, a seamless addition,and with her the FAHC is unquestionably more efficient.Strangelythe Vagabond is actually far easier to get on board than any hadanticipated. After they start actively seeking his attention Ryancan’t help but watch the Lads. Not because their jobs are impressive(they are, actually, but Ryan’s in high demand, so very many crewsout there are impressive enough) but because they are endearingeager; nothing like the pathetic begging of so many others, noattempt to convince Ryan he should be desperate to work withthem, just genuine enthusiasm to prove themselves worthy ofhis time. They’re funny, something akin to a pack of recklesspuppies; certainly capable of outrageous damage but equally likely totrip over their own oversized paws in their excitement, and in thisbusiness Ryan really shouldn’t find it as charming as he does. Theytake to leaving him all kinds of gifts; generally intriguing , oftenamusing and near always utterly gruesome, and after a month or so ofhanging around the city toying with them they manage to get a formerRooster onside to run the show and Ryan’s run out of reasons tosay no.Gavin’sthe one they sent after Geoff, when the Lads decide they’re ready totry to bring the notoriously creative, fortuitouslycrew-seeking man into the FAHC. Gavin’s first approach, full ofdeferential respect playing to Ramsey’s ego, is a complete bust; Geoffthought he was sweet, called him kid, laughed in his face andsent him out the door with a crack about coming back when he was oldenough to drive. The second approach involves pulling a full blownjob on Ramsey, one that starts with the man unknowingly buying Gavina supercar and ends with the priceless tailored suit he’s wearingbeing pinned to the wall with a nail gun, Gavin grinning away like aparticularly bloodthirsty shark, and all of a sudden Geoff can’t sayhe isn’t tempted. Deigns to finally listen to the recruitment spiel,as though he’s got any other choice right now, and despite himself isquickly sold on the whole crew.Jeremygoes out one day and comes back with a handful of people, some they’dbeen discussing as a group, some the others hadn’t heard of, but allperfectly capable of holding their own agains the Lad’s disgruntleddissent. Steffie, who takes a look at their set up, rolls her eyes,then pulls out her phone and starts making a list, talking dealersand bases and possible new hires. Trevor who immediately sets tosoothing ruffled feathers, sidling up to Gavin and gushing about someridiculous theft, questioning Michael about his preference in heavyweaponry, ignoring the way Ray is skulking around behind him. Mattthey’d all agreed on, welcoming the chance to push off allcomputering nonsense onto someone else, and Mica assures them allthat she’s got no interest in sticking around, will work contracts asrequested but isn’t about the stationary crew life. In the end noblood is spilt, no tempers flare too badly, and Jeremy is reasonablysure he isn’t going to wake up with a gun to his temple, so all inall it goes pretty well.The last missing piece, Jack, is actually tracked down by Ray in the end; he wanders off one day andcomes back with a very amused woman in tow, decked out in a hideousHawaiian shirt and driving an obscenely nice Lamborghini. Apparentlyafter finding her, not particularly difficult considering she wasn’ttrying to hide, Ray simply told Jack all about Geoff’s fumblingattempts to simultaneously familiarise himself with the mess that isLos Santos, integrate himself into, and begin to take control of, analready close-knit, functioning crew, and do it all while pretendinghe’s not at all rattled by the Lad’s unwavering fascination with thehorrifically notorious assassin who insists on sticking a strawthrough his mask to pound down a truly irresponsible number of dietcokes. It took a while for her utterly joyous, completelyuncontrollable laughter to die down, but when she finally calmed Jackimmediately started packing.