#Yes All Six Hundred And Eighty Six Chapters

[prophecydungeon]

the thing about hit "big three" shonen jump series Bleach (2001, stylized in all caps as BLEACH) is that it's about experiencing one of the most stylishly done series that will ever exist

[nereidprinc3ss]

do you believe me now? | 4

in which spencer reid and inexperienced fem!reader are interrupted at the most inopportune of times. he calls you on the first night of his case. dirty talk turns into a hard conversation. we get a glimpse into spencer's past, and we finally learn why he's so hesitant to sleep with you.

series masterlist

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: dirty talk, phone sex/mutual masturbation, softdom!spence, obligatory he talks u through it, lots of graphic discussions of sex, established relationship, angst (sorrryyy!) a/n: so remember how i said you'd need the bonus chapter to fully appreciate/understand this part? i was wrong!! it will come in handy probably in the next part tho:) also idk how these parts keep getting so long im sorry! anyway, i love you all so bad. thank you for bearing w/ my craziness. PLEASE let me know your thoughts on this part!! i adore hearing from you!! kisses

(also special thank you to @fliesforeyes who convinced me phone sex w/ spence could be done!! i will link his phone sex blurb here :)) thank u binx!!

“Three million six hundred eighty four thousand three hundred thirty two times fourteen million seven hundred sixty one thousand nine hundred seventy one.”

You’ve lost count of how many stupid math questions you’ve asked your human calculator boyfriend, just to see if he can actually do them. Spencer is silent for a second, and you think you’ve finally stumped him. 

“That one is complicated.”

You sit bolt upright in his bed, looking down at him and pointing an accusatory finger. His brows raise at the manic look in your eye. 

“You don’t know.”

“I do know. I meant it would be hard to explain if you aren’t a math person.”

“Bullshit!” You scoff, “you don’t know!”

“It would display on a calculator as five-point-three-eight-eight-E-thirteen. It’s a really big number.”

“Oh, really big, huh?” you mumble, searching for your phone blindly in the sheets and scrambling to open the calculator app. “Um… what numbers did I say?”

Spencer repeats them back to you and you press the equals sign. 

You look at it. 

And then you set your phone down. 

“I was right, huh?” he smiles up at you, probably reveling in your pouty wrongness. 

Too proud to admit it, you collapse on top of him, burying your face in his shoulder. 

“I don’t like this game anymore. What the fuck even is an e? Why are we doing algebra?”

Spencer laughs, brushing your hair aside. 

“The e stands for exponent. It’s to the power of ten.”

“Ever heard of a rhetorical question?”

“Yes, I have.”

It’s hard not to snort even at his dumbest jokes. 

“You’re annoying. Let’s do something else.”

You roll over onto your back again, letting your head flop over to look at Spencer, whose hair is exactly the right amount of messy after a long day, falling in impossibly soft waves over the perfect lines and contours of his face. Despite lounging, he’s still in his suit from work—he’d left Quantico and immediately picked you up. There were no solid plans for the evening, so after both of you pretended that you wanted to go out for a while, you ended up back at his apartment. 

He looks good. Almost too good. 

“Something like what?” he smiles lazily, reaching over and tracing his fingers over your cheek. 

“Something… naked?”

His grin widens and he shakes his head. 

“Me naked or you naked?”

Pretending to think about it, you roll your bottom lip between your teeth. 

“Mm… why not both?”

“Hm. Why do I feel like I know where this is going?”

The mattress sinks underneath your elbow as you prop yourself up, dropping your head over Spencer’s to kiss him. 

“Because you’re so smart, and you think it’s a great idea.”

He entertains your kiss for a moment. Just a moment.

“You sound sure of yourself.”

“Because I am!” You finally give in to your impulses, tangling your fingers in his hair and looking at him meaningfully. “It doesn’t make any sense for us to have not had sex. I don’t care about any of your weird, cryptic moral reasoning.”

He grabs your wrist carefully. 

“It is not moral,” he scoffs. “We haven’t even talked about it yet.”

“Really? Because I feel like we’ve talked about it a lot.” 

He begins to reply, but you realize you don’t want to get into a debate over whether you’ve technically talked about it yet. “I don’t even care! If that’s all that’s standing in your way, then let’s talk about it. Right now.”

Spencer sighs, his eyes darting between yours as he reaches up to cradle your cheek. 

“Fine. But I have things to say you’re not going to like.”

“So business as usual?”

He rolls his eyes. You allow yourself a tiny self-satisfied smirk, forever relishing in his poorly-hidden soft spot for your constant teasing. Spencer ignores this. Which is probably for the best. 

“I know you probably won’t see it this way, but—sex is different than everything else we’ve done so far. It can be really fun, obviously it feels good, it facilitates deeper feelings of connection—that’s all true. Which is why, in my opinion, it’s incredibly important that you be selective with who you sleep with. Because it’s so easy to do something you regret, and sex is vulnerable. It should always be with someone you trust and—and… care about.”

A pink flush stains his cheeks like watercolor as he stumbles over the last few words. It makes your heart flutter against the confines of your chest.

Maybe best not to think about the absence versus presence of certain four-letter words and what they may or may not mean. You’ll move on to more pressing matters and pretend like it doesn’t ache just a little in your whole body. 

You cover his hand with your own. 

“Are you going to break up with me anytime soon?”

Spencer’s eyes widen, filling with genuine horror and confusion. 

“What? No!”

“Are you going to cheat on me?”

“Absolutely not, I—”

“Then I’m not going to regret it. Issue resolved. Moving on.”

“Honey, I just want you to be 100% sure that I’m what you want.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, flopping onto your back once more. “I have begged you to sleep with me on multiple occasions. We have been dating for months and I liked you even longer before that. I think about it literally every time I see you. I don’t know how to be any surer.”

It’s quiet for a moment as you study the imaginary pattern on the ceiling. The rebuttal you’d been anticipating doesn’t come—instead, the mattress shifts next to you. Spencer enters your field of vision, now leaning over you with a little smile on his face that gives you butterflies. 

“Every time?”

“…yes, every time,” you agree, voice considerably thinner than it had been a moment ago. Spencer glances at your lips as he speaks. 

“Interesting. And what is it that you think about exactly?”

You groan again, attempting to roll facedown, but he pins your shoulder to the bed. The way he’s sweetly kissing down your cheek and jaw is infuriating because you know it’s a false pretense. 

“Ugh, I don’t know! Don’t make me answer that!”

“You said if talking about it was all that was standing in my way, we would talk about it. Now I want to talk about it. Come on,” he says, voice low and cloying against your throat as he attempts to tease the answer out of you. “Tell me what you think about when you think about us having sex.”

You let out a shaky breath at the feeling of his lips skimming your neck, hating how easily he can reduce you to this. 

“I… I always wonder what it will feel like. Sometimes I wonder if it will hurt.”

Spencer sighs, interrogation by way of seduction momentarily forgotten. You silently curse yourself for saying something so un-sexy. 

“It might, sweetheart. That’s one of the reasons we’ve held back. I… really don’t want to hurt you. I don’t even know if I can.”

You grab his face in both hands, forcing him to look at you with more confidence than you feel. 

“Sometimes I worry about it, too. But I like you a lot more than it scares me. I still want to.”

He kisses your palm. 

“You’ll be okay. It doesn’t hurt for everyone, and even if it does, you’re resilient.”

“Exactly. So you have to get over yourself.”

Spencer laughs like he wasn’t expecting to, eyes sparkling as he regards you.  

“Yeah. Yeah, maybe I do.”

He’s smiling again as he leans down and kisses you—a slow, lingering thing which tastes like spearmint as you part your lips for him. 

“Please?” you whisper against him after a long moment. He hums, keeps kissing you. 

“What is it that you think you want? You don’t even know what you’re asking for.”

“Tell me,” you beg, chasing his lips. “Tell me what you’re going to do with me. We can talk about it. This is talking about it.”

Spencer exhales deeply, wedging a thigh between yours. Immediately you clamp around it, trying not to grind against him too overtly. 

“You want to know what I’d do to you?”

“Yes—” you paw at his jacket. Surprisingly, he doesn’t stop you from pushing it off. Your heart pounds. 

“Well… we both know how anxious you get,” he muses, pressing his lips so delicately to your fluttering pulse-point in emphasis, and then back to your mouth. His thigh pushes harder against you to supplant the absence of his lips as he speaks, though he kisses you sporadically and between sentences. “You’re hard to get out of your head when you’re nervous, you know that? I watch it happen. One minute you’re with me, and then you start overthinking, and getting self-conscious. The only thing that seems to relax you is letting me touch you—so first I would touch you like I’ve touched you before. I’d make sure you know how pretty you are and how good you deserve to feel.” You whimper inadvertently at his words, arching into him and grinding against his leg as he pauses to kiss the sensitive soft spot below your jaw. “You’re going to need to be really ready to let me in. Do you know what I mean by that?”

As he asks, he pushes his thigh against you harder. Your body responds immediately, arching into him and seeking more friction. When you squeak, he takes it as a no. 

“I mean I need you relaxed and wet. You’ll excuse my crude language.”

You pull at his tie, breathing heavier now and so turned on it’s almost painful. 

“What are you gonna do after that?”

“What else is there to do but fuck you after that?” he breathes. “You want me to tell you how I’d fuck you?”

Something about it makes you whine salaciously. You’ve heard him curse—you’ve even heard him talk about fucking you. But it feels more real now; when it’s low in your ear and you’re covertly undressing him and he’s pushing your shirt over your stomach promisingly. 

“Yes, please.” 

He hums against your jaw, nipping and brushing his lips over the skin as he considers. Leaves you waiting. 

“I would have to take my time with you. You’ll be overwhelmed. I know you think you won’t, but you will. I’m going to have to be so, so careful with you, angel. It’s going to drive me insane. But it will feel good for you.”

“Why careful? I don’t want that.”

He chuckles. A chill runs down your spine. 

“Yeah, you do. You’re going to want me to be careful when I’m—” he pauses, pressing his thumb to your bare lower tummy and dragging up to a spot below your belly button. He presses down lightly again. “Right here. Approximately.”

The surface of the sun has nothing on the temperature of your skin in this moment, as you writhe underneath him in both arousal and embarrassment. Mostly, burning need. You feel almost sick with it. 

“Please don’t make me wait anymore. Just do it, please, Spencer. I need it to be you, I don’t want it to be anyone else. I promise I’m ready.”

It’s silent for a moment. Your heart quickens. You sense his walls wearing away, his instinct to keep you intact for god knows what reason crumbling. He’s finally going to give you what you’ve been begging for. 

Spencer opens his mouth, eyes glimmering—

And then his phone rings. 

You both freeze—he melts dejectedly before you do, more accustomed to an ill-timed phone call and realizing the finality it can present. 

He’s breathing heavily against your neck, as if maybe whoever it is will just hang up. But the phone keeps ringing. 

“I’m sorry.”

Your stomach sinks as he sits up, grabbing his phone from the side table and rubbing circles on your inner thigh as he answers.

“This is Reid,” he says, lackluster. 

If you wanted, you could hear what Penelope is saying—but you don’t bother listening. It’s going to be a case. Spencer is about to leave. The details are his problem. 

“Okay. I’ll be there in an hour.”

He hangs up, tossing the phone onto the mattress and not speaking for a moment, just continuing to rub your leg apologetically. Watching you almost mournfully—taking in your disheveled hair, your likely blown-out pupils, the shirt pushed almost over your chest. 

“I have to go right now,” he finally manages with a heavy sigh, gently pulling your shirt back into place. 

You sit up, shedding all the hopes that had been building for the evening, and try to sound chipper—though all you feel is bitter disappointment that goes deeper than you understand. 

“I know. Go ahead, I can get a cab home.”

He frowns, running his hand over the back of your hair. 

“I don’t love the idea of you standing on the sidewalk waiting for a car in this part of town so late. Do you just want to stay here for the night and go home tomorrow?”

You force a smile. Great. So you’ll be spending the night in his bed after all—just without him. 

“Sure. Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of you are feeling particularly grateful. 

Soon you’re walking him to his own door. Both of you come to a stop in front. 

“I’m sorry,” he sighs again. 

“Spencer, it’s fine. It’s your job. You don’t need to apologize. You were very clear about this part when we started dating.”

“I know, but… it’s easier in theory than in practice.”

You smile. If Spencer is a reflection of you, it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. His hair is still messy from your fingers running through it and he’s missing his tie. You hope all his coworkers see and feel bad about taking him away from you. 

But it’s not their fault. You just want someone to blame. 

Instead you mould yourself to his body, wrapping around him like you belong there. He returns your embrace, pressing his lips into the crook of your shoulder and rubbing your back in that way he always does with you. 

In that moment, your affection for him becomes so profound it’s like a chemical reaction—everywhere he touches burns and you love him so fucking much it aches in every inch of your body the way your muscles do when you have a bad fever. Love is the most terrible of afflictions, you realize. It is a fever dream. It’s every fiber of your being screaming to tell him how you feel, to beg him on your knees not to go because you love him like a child loves a parent or a bee loves honeysuckle or the ocean loves the horizon. Pared down to your most basic components, the barest version of yourself, you require him. Your soul needs his soul. 

“Spencer?”

“Hm?” 

It’s nothing more than an absentminded hum against your skin. 

“I…”

Should you be looking him in the eye when you say this? Should you say it right before he has to leave? Just because you say it doesn’t change the fact that he’s about to be gone for several long days. Maybe this is a terrible time to admit something that suddenly feels so true and so consequential. 

He senses your internal conflict, pulling back despite your resistance and holding your face between his hands. 

“You what?” He murmurs, soft eyes bouncing back and forth between your own. Fuck—you feel so observed, now. Like he can read your mind. 

“I forget.”

FUUUUUUCK. 

Spencer blinks. Processes. You watch the disbelief crystallizing over his eyes like ice freezing over a lake. 

He knows. 

He knows you didn’t forget, and he probably knows what you were going to say, and he’s going to tell himself he was wrong to spare your dignity. 

Everything hurts when he kisses you. You wonder what regret tastes like. 

“Well, let me know if you remember.”

It’s too gentle and at the same time he can’t hide the edge with all the tenderness in the world. You nod as if in a trance, already looking forward to dissociating as you lie in bed and stare at the dark ceiling.

Two small goodbyes are exchanged, slightly stifled now, as if shared between drunk strangers who have sobered up and are mutually embarrassed about how candidly they’d interacted before. 

You close the door behind him, doing up all the locks, and meticulously flick every light switch in the apartment off before climbing into his bed—though you don’t really feel like you deserve to be there anymore.

But perhaps this is all an overreaction. It’s not like you owe it to him to say I love you, or anything—it was bad timing, anyway. And why can’t he say it? In fact, why hasn’t he said it? 

Maybe you have it all wrong. 

Maybe he doesn’t feel that way about you. 

You fall asleep before you allow these questions to make you sick. 

24 hours go by. 

24 hours go by and you really had meant to leave his apartment—it was just that you woke up late, and your phone was dead so you couldn’t call a car, so you charged it while you made breakfast, and then you ate, and then you decided to take a shower and wash your clothes, and then it was two in the afternoon and you hadn’t left yet and you decided to walk to the store and replenish the groceries you’d used up. 

Maybe you got a bit distracted looking at flowers and other beautiful things at the market and by the time you got home it was 5:00, so you decided to wait until seven to skip rush hour. And then eight, just to be sure. 

Before you know it, it’s midnight, and you’re dozing off in his bed again (teeth cleaned with the brush you’d bought at the store—maybe this whole situation hadn’t been entirely unwitting on your part.)

Throughout the day, you tried to let all your anxiety about the previous night melt away. If it’s something that needs to be addressed, Spencer will address it. Everything will work out in the end. That thought is how you’re able to doze off. 

You’re almost asleep when your phone lights up and begins buzzing on the side table. You wince as your eyes open, not adjusting well to the harsh bright display and unable to discern who’s even calling you at this hour. Stupidly, probably because you’re half asleep, you answer without checking. 

“Hello?”

Your voice is groggy, quiet with sleep. 

“Shit, did I wake you?”

“Spence?” you whisper, stomach flipping at the sound of his voice on the other line. You feel caught, still sleeping in his bed. 

“… yeah,” he chuckles. “Did you not check who was calling before you picked up?”

“I was asleep,” you pout. “Kinda.”

“Okay. Go back to sleep, honey. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

You sit bolt upright, phone balanced between tense fingers and speaking directly into the microphone. 

“No! No, I’m awake. What’s up? Why did you call?”

A longer stretch of silence—you’re too sleepy to comprehend what it might mean, though never too sleepy to worry about it. With a pang of pain, you recall your strange goodbye, the words you hadn’t said. 

“I just needed to hear your voice,” he sighs. You frown, staring at nothing in particular in the pitch black room. 

“Oh. Is everything okay?”

“As much as it can be.”

“Right.”

More quiet. You chew on the inside of your cheek, stricken with a sudden feeling of awkwardness that you haven’t had with Spencer in a while. 

“I’m sorry… I don’t really know what to say.”

“That’s okay,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice which makes you feel a bit better, “why don’t you tell me about your day? Or you can absolutely go back to sleep, if you’re too tired.”

“Don’t ask me about my day,” you whisper, flopping down on the bed once more. Shame seeps into your voice. He laughs. 

“What? Why?”

“Because if I tell you you’re going to think I’m super weird and you’re going to break up with me.”

Laughter tapers off into gentler tones. 

“I already think you’re super weird. It’s actually one of your most attractive qualities.”

Blood rushes to your cheeks. 

“But it’s like… borderline crazy.”

Immediately, he replies, “for better or worse, I also frequently find myself attracted to crazy.”

“Thank you for calling me crazy and super weird,” you grumble. 

“I also called you attractive twice. Tell me.”

When his tone takes on that easy, assertive quality, and it’s sort of raspy and low because it’s late and he’s been talking all day, and you can hear the lazy smile on his face—you imagine him laying on his hotel bed, arm slung over his eyes in the dark as he grins into the microphone—you have a very difficult time saying no. 

“Fine. Guess where I am right now.”

“Um, I would hope you’re in bed?”

You smile to yourself, basking in the victory of successfully throwing him off his game even slightly. 

“Guess whose bed.”

Silence. 

“What an interesting question.” That cocky smile, the low drawling is back, and you chew on your lip, ignoring the shiver that runs down your spine. “If it’s not mine or yours, we’re going to have issues.”

“But if it is yours? You’re not going to call the police on me?”

“Why would I call the police? To tell them there’s a pretty girl in my bed and I don’t want her there?”

“To tell them your psychopathic girlfriend broke into your apartment and might be holding hostages there.”

Spencer laughs; a brittle, drawn out thing, flat and quiet as the desert.

“If you were a psychopath, calling the cops would be a waste of time. I would handle you myself.” The idea of being handled has your thighs clenching. “But—yeah, don’t invite anyone else in.” More humor finds its way into his voice, momentarily relieving some tension that had sneakily begun to build. “Having people in my space makes me anxious.”

“But not me?” Your whisper is half flirtatious, half insecure. Spencer’s reply is soft, as if he’s picking up on this from hundreds of miles away.

“No, not you. You are always the exception.”

“Good,” you say, cheeks aching as you half-bury your warm face into his pillow. “Because I made myself really comfortable. You have a nice shower, by the way.”

Spencer groans. 

“You’re killing me.”

“What? What did I do!”

“Don’t talk to me about my bed and my shower. I might start to think you’re intentionally being a brat.”

“You asked me about my day! I’m just telling you what I did!”

But you’re also intentional teasing him for sure.  After a pause, he sighs in defeat. 

“You’re right. I did do that. Tell me what else happened.”

“Well,” you begin, all too eager, “I had to put my clothes in the dryer after I got out, so I borrowed some of yours. But then they were way comfier than mine, so after I went to the store I put them back on, and—”

“Okay.”

“Okay what?” you frown. 

“Tell me what this is.”

“I—I don’t know what you mean.”

Lying to a profiler is usually pointless. 

“I’m not stupid, sweetheart. Tell me why you keep talking about my shower and my bed and my clothes.”

Caught red-handed. Your skin heats up. 

“I don’t know. I miss you.”

He hums in a way that blurs the line between sympathetic and patronizing. Even through the phone you can feel the bass of it in your bones.  It changes the frequency you’re vibrating at. It’s hypnotic. 

“But that’s not really why you’re being intentionally provocative, is it?”

“No,” you admit quietly. “I’m still upset you had to go last night.”

“So you’re frustrated and you’re taking it out on me?”

Your brow furrows. Well, when he puts it like that…

“I’m not taking anything out on you.”

“I think you are. And I don’t appreciate that, because I’m on your side, honey. Do you think I prefer being in a hotel bed by myself or being in my bed with you?”

Somehow, he makes you feel like a scolded child. But he makes it appealing in ways you don’t understand. 

“Your bed with me,” you murmur, skin prickling with the coldness of his absence even as you curl under the blanket. 

“Right. So why don’t you tell me what I can do for you right now, instead of punishing me for things that are beyond my control?”

“I wasn’t punishing you,” you mutter. 

“No? You weren’t intentionally talking about using my shower and sleeping in my bed and putting on my clothes so that I’d have to think about what I can’t have right now?”

“I—”

“Believe me when I tell you I have been thinking about what I can’t have, all day. Your efforts are entirely redundant and you can’t say anything about yourself that is even close to as dirty as the frankly disrespectful thoughts I’ve been having about you for seventeen hours.”

The lack of air is making you so dizzy your vision goes gray at the edges. 

“What… what thoughts?”

“None that you need to concern yourself with.”

“You can’t just say something like that and then not tell me!” you insist. He’s obviously giving you a taste of your own medicine and it’s fair but it doesn’t mean you have to like it. 

“I can do whatever I want,” Spencer corrects cooly in a way that pisses you off beyond belief because he’s right. It triggers some adolescent immaturity within you—a desire to get back at him, so to speak. He wants intentionally provocative? He can have it. 

“Fine. Then so can I. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it even if I could.”

“Spencer,” you warn. “If you don’t tell me what you were thinking I’m gonna—” you look around the room for ammo. “I’m gonna look through your nightstand!”

“Go ahead. I’ll warn you, it’s not very interesting.”

“Sounds like what someone who has something hide would say,” you mumble, crawling across the mattress through tangled sheets and using your phone flashlight to open the drawer. 

Spencer is patient and silent as you take in its contents—a small blue leather-bound notebook (full of what looks like Russian), a fountain pen, a glasses case, various kinds of vitamins, and—

“Spencer Reid,” you say, dragging out his name and pretending nothing is fluttering in your stomach, “what are these?”

“I don’t know. I can’t see what you’re referring to.”

“Take a wild guess.”

“Oh, I have one. But I’d like to hear you say it.”

You realize you may have gotten yourself in deeper than you meant to by going through his stuff. Well—they don’t say karma is a bitch for nothing. 

“What are you doing with a box of condoms?” 

He chuckles and you feel it in your whole body, warm as you stretch across his mattress and eye the box like it might jump out at you. 

“Those are years old. I’ve used three since I bought them.”

“Don’t tell me that,” you whine. “I don’t wanna think about all the other women you’ve seduced.”

“You wanted them to be for you, huh?” 

You flush. Honestly you hadn’t even thought about that. 

“I… I don’t know. I kind of just assumed…”

It’s silent for a second and you frown, realizing you hadn’t even considered protection when you’d imagined sleeping with him before. 

“You assumed what, honey?” he asks, voice soft. 

“It’s dumb. I can’t tell you.”

“You can tell me anything. I’m not going to think it’s dumb, I promise.”

You chew on your lip, letting your eyes unfocus on the box as you muster the courage to be honest. 

“Whenever I imagined it… we didn’t… use anything.”

The words make you cringe even as you’re saying them. So does the quiet that follows. 

“When you imagine us sleeping together, we don’t use a condom?”

“Ah!” The phone drops to the mattress as you cover your ears and roll onto your side, curling into yourself once more. “You didn’t have to say it! You make me sound so weird!”

“It’s not weird,” he laughs, because he can probably imagine exactly what you just did, “I just wanted to make sure I was understanding you. That said… we would definitely use protection.”

“Do we have to?”

The quiet words take even you by surprise—and they seem to stun Spencer as well. Several false starts are punctuated by a sigh as he gathers his thoughts. 

“We really should, baby. That’s the kind of thing we need to take seriously.”

“But you’re… you’re good, right?”

Thankfully he picks up on your meaning. 

“I am. I wouldn’t touch you if I weren’t.”

“And I’m good. So...”

“Hm. And has anyone ever explained to you where babies come from?”

You groan in frustration. 

“Spencer, I’m being serious! There are ways to negate that.”

“Honey,” he murmurs, “I understand that. But it would be irresponsible of me to say yes. We can talk about it in the future, but—”

“I’m telling you it’s already dealt with. The chances of an accidental pregnancy are slim to none.”

The new information hangs in the air for a moment until Spencer speaks—to your surprise, his voice is low and humorous. 

“That is… good to know. But even so—I’m setting a dangerous precedent if I always let you get exactly what you want.”

“Is it such a bad thing that I just wanna—I wanna know what it feels like? You don’t want that?”

“That’s not what I said. I want to know exactly what you feel like. I’m just hesitant to give in so quickly because it makes me look weak.”

You laugh breathlessly, caught between being turned on by the first part of his sentence and amused by the sarcastic second half. Your thighs clench and your hand absentmindedly wanders between them. 

“You know what I was thinking about?” you ask. Spencer hums curiously. “I was thinking about when you let me, um… when you let me touch you how you touch me.” He hums again, but you can hear the amused curve of a smile in it now.

“When you had your mouth all full of me and you looked so pretty?”

“When I—yeah,” you agree, too caught up to deny his compliment as your fingers brush your most sensitive spot through clothing. “And  how you got me all messy after. And I was wondering what it would feel like… inside me.”

He sucks in a breath. Your legs brush against each other and you twist slightly as you pretend like you’re not touching yourself just a little bit. 

“You want me to come inside you?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, brain short-circuiting at the way those words sound in his voice. 

—

On the other side of the line, Spencer isn’t doing a fantastic job of thinking clearly either. His dick is half-hard already and it’s only getting worse with each little noise you make that you don’t seem to realize you’re making. 

“Really? That would be very messy, baby. I’m surprised that’s what you want.”

“But I really want it,” you breathe. He’s not even looking as he slips his hand under the waistband of his pajamas and palms himself, his other hand rubbing tiredly over his face as his phone rests on his chest. This was not how he intended for this call to go, believe it or not—but he’s here now. 

“Yeah? Is that why you’re touching yourself right now?”

You go silent—which is more or less exactly the reaction Spencer had been expecting. Patiently he waits for you to deny it, in three, two—

“��M not.”

Now, he could explain how he knows that’s a lie. How your breathing pattern changed, and your voice got softer and airier, and how you started speaking with smaller words in fragmented sentences. But he doesn’t feel like explaining any of that. 

“I know that’s not true,” he murmurs. “You know what? It wasn’t fair to get you all worked up last night and then leave. I don’t want you frustrated, honey. I want you to do whatever you need to do.”

You make a little gasping noise, and Spencer can imagine the way your back would arch when you did it. His own hips buck slightly as his dick twitches under his fingers. 

“Where are you touching?”

“Um—over my clothes.”

Cute. 

“Go under them for me. Tell me how it feels when you’re touching yourself like that.”

It takes a moment, in which all he hears is the rustling of fabric, until you’re whispering, “feels… it feels good. I wish you were here.”

He inhales, freeing his cock and squeezing the base. 

“I know. Just listen to my voice, pretty. I’m right here.”

Spencer allows himself a few slow tugs as he imagines what’s happening in his bed. You make a squeaking noise, like a held-back moan, and his eyes screw shut. 

“I need them inside,” you whine, and he knows you’re referring to his fingers—the ones currently stroking his own leaking cock. 

“You can use your own, just give yourself a minute first. Remember what I said about needing to be ready?”

“I am ready—” judging by the surprised chirp you interrupt yourself with, you’ve proven yourself right. What surprises Spencer is the weak sound of disappointment you make next. “Spence, it doesn’t feel the same.”

“We’re different sizes, honey. Your hands aren’t as big as mine. But you can still make it feel good.” 

He almost says, 90% of the nerves in the vaginal canal are located in the lower third—in other words, within approximately 2.36 inches from the opening, which you can most certainly reach—but he refrains. He’s not sure if that’s good dirty talk. 

“You have a really sensitive spot about three inches up, right in front. It’s going to feel a little different than the rest of you when you touch it. I want you to try and find it for me, okay?”

“Okay,” you breathe, ever-eager to please even from a great distance. There’s a quiet moment. “I can’t—I don’t think I can r—oh,”

The moan is so pretty Spencer can’t help speeding up the motion of his hand, hissing slightly as his fingers brush against the angry tip with every pump. 

“Did you find it?”

“Yeah,” you whine, a weak, high-pitched thing. “Oh my god.”

“Be gentle,” he warns with some effort as his own hips jump slightly. “You’re really sensitive there. If you’re not careful you’ll make yourself sore.”

“I don’t care—holy shit—” the way your voice rises and tightens to a squeak at the end has Spencer moaning as he fucks his fist. A black hole forms and warps time, turning every minute into a second and every second into an infinity until he has no idea how much time is going by. He drags his thumb over the tip, smearing precum over his cock and whining as his jaw drops at the feeling. “Oh my god, Spencer,” in that same strained, high voice. “’M gonna—ah!”

He gets the general sentiment. 

“What, baby? You’re gonna make yourself come all over your fingers? Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

“Mhm!”

“Yeah, I bet you are. It feels good, huh?”

“Yes,” you cry. 

“See? You don’t need my fingers to feel good. Mine barely fit, you know that? I have to hold your fucking hips down whenever I put my fingers in you because you can’t stop squirming. I don’t know how you think you’re going to take my cock.”

“Spencer!” 

He knows. 

“Come, baby. Let me hear you.”

The delicate sounds you make as you bring yourself to orgasm tip him over the edge of his own—grunting as he comes all over his fist. 

“Jesus,” he strains under his breath, the word dragging out into two long syllables as his hips buck involuntarily and cum drips down his knuckles. He’s lightheaded and he’s created a mess and it all happened so quickly. “Fuck,” he breathes, a rasping chuckle as he reaches for the towel he’d dropped on the bed after his shower earlier. “You conscious over there?”

“I’m conscious,” you slur, breathing heavily. “I’ve never had an orgasm by myself before.”

“Are you proud of yourself?” Spencer smiles, wiping his hand off and making sure he’s otherwise clean. “You should be. I am.”

He’s barely kidding. 

“I’ll be proud when I can do it without your help,” you tease. 

“But I’ll always want to help you with that.” His already warm face flushes further as he goes over what he’d said. “Sorry I was so vulgar.”

You laugh. He blushes even more. 

“Are you? I think you secretly love being vulgar.”

“I don’t know why! I have no idea where it comes from. I would never speak that way in any other context. I should probably work on that. Sometimes I look back on the things I say and I’m genuinely appalled.”

“Well, don’t stop on my account. Personally I enjoy it.”

“Yeah, I think I’m corrupting you. You probably shouldn’t enjoy it.”

The truth of it weighs heavy on his mind, but he’s pretty sure his voice alone doesn’t betray that and you can’t sense it through the phone. 

“Oh, my god. Do not do that falling on your sword shit. I like being corrupted by you. If you stop I’ll be very upset.”

“Well god forbid you get upset,” he teases gently. Idly he wonders if the reason he’s suddenly feeling so depressed is because his cortisol levels were already high from the case, and then he jarred his system with an orgasm, spiking his dopamine and ultimately causing it to plummet without the oxytocin release that post-coital physical contact would usually provide. 

Or if it was something else. It could also be something else. 

For the millionth time, he wishes he was with you. Part of him also wants to go to sleep. But mostly he wishes he was with you. 

—

A comfortable silence settles over the conversation. In the ditch between words, you’re mapping constellations in the texture of Spencer’s ceiling. If you squeeze your eyes almost shut, you can imagine it really is the night sky. You can imagine he’s really here. 

You think about what he said—his apparently mindless vulgarity. Did it mean anything? Or was he just rambling to get you off?

“Spencer?” you murmur. 

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

He sounds earnest, perhaps a little tired, as he replies, “always,” through the little metal rectangle on your chest. He likes me and my questions are important to him, you repeat to yourself silently as you work up the strength. 

“If Penelope hadn’t called, last night… were you going to have sex with me?” 

Your lip tastes like his toothpaste as you chew it. Spencer sucks in a breath of air like he’s about to speak—and lets it fizzle out like foam on a carbonated drink. 

“I don’t know,” he finally admits, lamely. “That wasn’t my plan, but you can be extremely convincing when you want to be.”

“But why can’t it be your plan?” It’s an almost whine, pouty and childish—but the next words are quiet and pained. “Is it something I’m doing wrong?”

“No, no! It’s not you. You’re perfect. It’s—it’s complicated. It’s a me thing.”

Such trite words—such a ubiquitous, simple excuse sounds almost comical from his mouth when you know he’s capable of all the eloquence in the world. It’s not you, it’s me. It’s ridiculous. 

“Okay. Let me simplify this for you,” you begin with an uncharacteristic assertiveness that surprises even you. “I want to have sex with you. Either we are going to have sex or we’re not. So your future branches in two diverging paths. In one, we have sex, and then we keep having sex. In the other we never have sex ever. If you want to ever have the privilege of fucking me, then we just have to do it. Otherwise it simply will never happen. And I’m not eternally patient, Reid.”

Go me, you think, slightly breathless from your monologue. 

“Watch your mouth,” he says dryly. Something about the chastisement makes your stomach flip and your whole body tingle. “When you talk to me you call me Spencer. I will also accept Doctor Reid.” You wrestle down a smile, refusing to let him change the subject. A delayed sigh from him sobers up the conversation. “You know what I want. I’ve been very clear with you about that. But…”

“But…?”

Another sigh. A deeper, shuddering sigh, like his breath is searching for balance. Like Spencer is in a precarious position for which he was unprepared. 

“But—but to be completely honest… I worry that you’ll regret choosing me. And I know virginity is a social construct and I’m not implying that your worth will somehow be diminished if we have sex but regardless of my views on virginity as a construct, having sex for the first time can be weird and scary and it’s incredibly intimate and I don’t want you to regret your first time like I regret mine because you chose the wrong person.”

The words come at you so rapid-fire it takes you a moment to process them. And aside from all the ways you want to reassure him that you will not regret choosing him—that you could never, ever regret anything about him—one thing stands out. 

“You regret your first time?” 

Something between a scoff and a sigh travels through the line. You can tell he’s not annoyed at you for asking so much as he’s flustered himself with all his own words as he occasionally does. 

“Yeah. Yes. Sometimes I do. The person—she didn’t… like me as much as I liked her. And I was really, really in love with her, and she knew that and she knew she wasn’t in love with me—or maybe she was, I don’t know—but my point is, when one person likes the other more than the other person like them, things get complicated. And however you feel about me—that’s fine. It’s fine. I don’t want you to feel bad if we don’t feel exactly the same way about each other. I understand that this is newer for you, it’s different, I—I just don’t want us to do something we can’t undo because I don’t want to relive that. And I’m not saying it will never happen but I just don’t want you to make this choice when… when right now, I think we’re in different places emotionally. Regardless of that, I want you to choose the right person. I don’t want you to choose me and then find out that we feel differently after we sleep together and leave you feeling like you signed up for something you didn’t understand. I’m sorry. Maybe telling you this is selfish. But I’ve been thinking about it and trying to ignore it and I think I just have to be completely honest.”

Your ears ring like Spencer just fired a blank right into the microphone. Like you just got backhanded across the face and now you have the world’s worst case of whiplash. 

Every finger is numb and your blood is so cold it feels blue as it slithers thick through your veins. 

What you want to do is scream. What you want to do is go back to last night and stop yourself from almost telling him I love you, slap yourself and keep your cards a little closer to your chest. Because now he knows, and he doesn’t feel the same. 

You want to scream bloody murder. 

But when you try, when you unhinge your jaw and part your chapped lips and expect a bellow to come hurdling up the corridor of your throat with so much force it rattles your bones, all that falls out is a small, “oh.”

Maybe that’s worse. 

Spencer doesn’t reply. You hate yourself for feeling obliged to fill the silence. 

“I didn’t realize you…”

I didn’t realize that you don’t love me back. 

I didn’t realize I like you more than you like me. 

I didn’t realize you’d tell me to masturbate in your fucking bed and then drop this not even five minutes later. 

If Spencer Reid was able to talk to you over the phone with the same amount of affection and familiarity as always, like everything was still okay, knowing you love him and he doesn’t love you the whole time, he is not who you thought he was. 

“I’m sorry,” he lamely says again, like it could ever help. 

More silence. Now you can’t bring yourself to speak, so Spencer does. 

“I realize how awkward this is. I really didn’t mean to put you in this position. Especially not over the phone when I—god, I’m stupid. I’m sorry. But can we—can we talk about this in person when I get back? Please?”

Is that what grownups do? Is the proper etiquette for him to take you out to dinner and explain why he’s not in love with you? Is he going to break up with you?

What does one even wear to a breakup date?

“Okay,” you whisper. Your eyes sting, your everything stings, like you’ve been wrapped in a shroud of briar. Sheets that were soft a moment ago feel like sandpaper on open wounds. You feel like an open wound. 

Spencer sighs. It’s a sound of relief that confuses and hurts you even more. 

“Okay. I—okay. Thank you. Um—I’ll let you go back to sleep, now.”

“Okay,” you repeat—as if any of this were okay. But you can’t keep being that stupid girl who feels it all so much harder, who loves easily and begs to be loved in return, too naive to assume that someone who treats her so kindly might not reciprocate her feelings. It has to be okay, because if it’s not, you’re silly and dramatic and you’re just proving him right. 

“Goodnight,” Spencer whispers, and you can’t help but feeling that it’s the last time you’ll ever hear those words from his mouth while you’re in his bed. And he’s not even fucking here.

So you pull the blanket a little higher. You let your tears stain his pillow because they’ll be invisible by the morning. It will be like they were never here. Like you were never here. 

“Goodnight.”

-

part five

[azewritessillystuff]

Illusion in shattered glass 

An: I promise I’m working on reqs but this was already in my drafts so 💙 I need more Mr. Reca content so I decided to make some! He’s a character with alot of potential 🫶🏼

A dream is just a nightmare you do not want to wake up from.

Inspiration: I can’t find the post anymore but there was a post about someone talking about Mr. Reca erasing his darling’s memories every time he confesses that to try to achieve perfection, if you find it plz tell me and I can add the link 💙 

An: I didn’t reread or review it so it might suck, but I did add effort. First few chapter are skip-able ish if your impatient. 

Summary: A picture perfect love story directed by Penacony’s greatest director.

Except it isn’t perfect.

You don’t remember any bit of this so-called ‘story’.

Because you-

—CUT!—

TAKE ONE 

“I love you, y/n.”

     “!?-Mr. Reca-I-do too…”

    Directors notes: Disapproved! Adding a title in the acceptance just makes there seem to be a distance or unfamiliarity!

TAKE TWO

“Ah. Y/n. I do adore you.”

         “-Reca…? In a platonic or a romantical way…?”

Director’s notes: Disapproved! The way in which y/n still must ask the intent of those words making them seem dense whilst they have much more intelligence then most actors.

TAKE THREE

“Y/n. Will you marry me?”

       “Gasp. I-ofcourse, Reca…!”

Directors notes: Mhmm…getting better! But it should be perfect! Therefore disapproved!

TAKE FOUR

Disapproved!

TAKE FIVE

Disapproved!

TAKE SIX

Disapproved!

TAKE SEVEN

——

TAKE EIGHT HUNDRED AND EIGHTY EIGHT

————1—————

Mr. Reca slammed his fist on the table as he re-watched the records for the nth time. “Ugh. Disapproved…disapproved…Y/n deserves only perfection, not this dogwash!” He cried, cupping his face between his hands in frustration, mumbling under his breath. “No…no…no….” He murmured, why was this so hard? He was the greatest director in the world! Why couldn’t he properly direct his own love story,..?

Yes, yes, he had tried all the cliché proposals and confessions, flowers, letters, even using a cat to carry on his letter. So what was missing in his grand vision of this ‘perfect confession’!?

———2———

{{This chapter is to give depth to the reader and extra interactions. Skip it you want though somethings may be a bit confusing 💕}}

“What I think of Mr. Reca…?” You echoed, tilting your head in confusion. This was…not what you had expected your friends to ask you during your truth or dare game. “Yeah! I heard you rejected him before!” They gasped excitedly, one of them bumping your shoulder and giggling, covering their mouth. “No. I never did that. He’s just my boss. Those are just rumors.” You clarify, shaking you head with a shy smile. You’d never reject him. Well, you’d never reject him if he asked! But that was just most likely your brain too full of those telenova romance movies you binge watched over the weekend. You looked down to your hands and shook your head lightly, trying to wipe those thoughts from your brain. “Anytyywwwaaayy…. y/n!” Your friend called, pointing at you, already seemingly forgetting their previous question, “You didn’t answer the last question, so you better answer this one!” They chirped in their usual bubbly manner, happily shaking your shoulder like a needy child. Oh no. They had a mischevious glimmer in their eyes. “Tell the truth…why do you only hang out with us in the dreamscape!?” They demanded, huffing while crossing their arms dramatically. Your pulse unknowingly quickened, but your expression was still positive. “I just am too busy outside of the dreamscape. Nothing secretive. Now….F/N!” You smile and point at your other friend in the same matter as the latter, grinning, “Truth or dare?”

———3———

Mr. Reca sat on his desk, Assistant Director across his lap as he went through script after script after proposal after proposal. How boring. It would be a hundred times more interesting to be spending these wasted hours with you. But oh well. Duty called, much to his chagrin. What an artistic block. Almost all of the scripts these days lacked individuality and creativity.

All but lacking stories with a totally predictable ending, boring characters and poorly suggested visuals. The director eventually ran his patience through, crumpling the paper in his hands and throwing it across the room in absolute irritation.

“Mr. Reca…? Are you alright?” You called, knocking on the door after you had heard his exasperated grunts. “Oh, y/n! Please, please, come in if you wish! of course I am alright!” He called, his mood already being lifted by your prescence and concern. As soon as you opened the door he ushered you in and had you seated on the couch in the far corner of the messy room in a matter of seconds. You glanced across at him akwardly, only given a few moments to settle where you sat before Mr. Reca began talking endlessly about the films he was working on, the potential-less stories and manuscripts he was forced to read and a lot of his day. In truth, most of it went over your head, merely keeping up your part of the conversation with the bare minimum occasionally nodding and throwing out “Mhmm”’s “Er-yes…” and “Totally.”

———4———

“Y/n. How do you feel today?” Mr. Reca smiled, drapping his jacket across your shoulders. Even though the weather in the dreamscape was hardly cold, today felt a bit different. “A bit…cold…” You offer, snuggling into his warm jacket and hunching slightly. You looked up to see Mr. Reca with a sad smile, which surprised you. “Is…something wrong?” You asked, looking at him with a concerned look. Mr. Reca never usually showed sadness, but now his expression also held something you never thought was possible for him.

He looked…in grief?

Before you could open your mouth to ask him again, Mr. Reca looked you straight in the eye, his hands clasping together nervously, “Y/n…I love you.”

Your brain could hardly comprehend that. You stared at him for a while, wide eyed and your mouth half open when you finally remembered to swallow. You looked down and turned to him with a joyful smile, “I do too, Reca.” Mr. Reca returned your smile, though it still seemed like he was thinking of something else. You put a hand carefully on his shoulder and hesitantly kissed his forehead. “Is there…something wrong?” 

You were met with some silence, which seemed incredibly heavy, not something you would expect the atmosphere of a confession to be like. You knew what was wrong. You did. 

But you didn’t remember. 

And you can’t remember why.

“Wrong? No. We are actually following the ‘right’” Mr. Reca finally replied, shaking his head whilst forcing a smile. He pulled you into an unexpected embrace, burying his head into the crook of your neck as his shoulders seemed to sag. “And in the will of fate we can never be together.” 

You stared at him, though you weren’t confused. Yes, because this happened before.

Eight hundred and eighty eight times, to be exact.

This was what the aeons had written in both your destinies.

“Yes…yes…”

“Because you never existed in the first place.”

———5———

Mr. Reca was now hugging his empty jacket, devoid of the warmth it used to hold. 

And he cried.

It had never gotten easier to accept every time that you were a mere memory zone meme.

A fragment of his consciousness and the embodiment of his wish.

Salty tears fell one after the other in a bitter waterfall as Mr. Reca bit his lip, trying to regain his composure as his breath hitched and more tears spilled.

It was an ironic, almost funny thing

The missing piece in his ‘perfect confession’ had always been you.

———

TAKE EIGHT HUNDRED EIGHTY NINE

———

[darklydeliciousdesires]

The Dark Passenger - Chapter Twenty One.

Your weekly fix of Camille and EZ is here, besties! As usual, thank you so much for following this and offering your feedback :) Enjoy!

Previous chapters - One  Two  Three  Four  Five  Six  Seven  Eight  Nine  Ten  Eleven  Twelve  Thirteen  Fourteen  Fifteen  Sixteen  Seventeen  Eighteen  Nineteen  Twenty

Words - 3,262

Warnings - 18+ content throughout, minors DNI!

Tag list - In the comments. Please DM to be added/removed

“So, going forward, after our plan has been executed, it would leave the path clear to instead bring in another income. Nothing says we can’t revert back to the heroin trade at some point in the future, but for now, and especially after having your grievances in my ear for the last few months over the growing rate of dead junkies, we need to cease. Stepping back and shutting down the pipeline as well as the LNG will facilitate that entirely. We have to be smart, save us all seeing the inside of a cell for the next twenty-five years to live. I ain’t about to let that happen.”

The figureheads of the various Mayan charters who sat around the Santo Padre table all nodded, everyone in agreement that EZ’s way forward was preferable to the risks they were taking. Much too much heat was on them, with the government sending far too many pairs of eyes in their direction, in order to uncover the supply of fentanyl cut heroin that was causing junkies to drop like flies. Four hundred and eighty-three inmates within the Californian prison systems alone had died in the previous seventy days. They couldn’t continue on that road, which was now ablaze before them; it was only a matter of time before it burned them to nothing, should they continue to ride along it.

The gavel fell, the men all filing out to retrieve cell phones and weapons, EZ, Bishop and Angel remaining behind at the table, the latter smiling proudly at his brother.  

“This was always the way it was supposed to be.” He lifted his chin, nodding. “The way you’re running this club now, using your intelligence, we’re gonna be alright. It was scary for a minute back there, I can tell you. Me and Bish, you had us all kinds of worried when it was your tumour talking.”

“He’s right, mijo,” Bishop confirmed, sinking his drink. “The only thing keeping me awake at night these days is my wife, which trust me, I’m more than happy with.” His wink had them both laughing, the men standing from the table, a sense of relief tying them back together once more, those broken bonds now restitched. His plan, it was flawless. He just had to hope Charming would be on board, since they were the last cog in the machine to get running smoothly once more.  

EZ revealed it all again to a second and third set of ears, in an arranged sit down between himself, his VP, Chibs Telford and Tig Trager four days later, just them present to hash out the initial details they would then take to a vote at their respective tables. The Sons had returned to Teller-Morrow, the clubhouse rebuilt, Wendy selling the garage to the Telford family prior to her departure from Charming, Abigail overseeing the running of it around her other, less legal career.  

It was with a lot of hope for co-operation in mind that EZ and Bishop entered that very clubhouse, getting down to business immediately with a detailed explanation on a way forward.  

“Ultimately, Chibs, it would mean that we of course stop pushing heroin through your turf, which is what you’ve been pushing back against us over, the route of our war. I just need a way to cut the cartel down. What my VP and I are thinking, is that you’re married to that way.”

Chibs leaned back in his chair, his thumb and forefinger slowly stroking his beard. “Aye, lads. If you want decimation, you’ve come to the right place.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled his cell out, tapping around before holding it to his ear. “Darlin’, I need you in church, if you can come up? Got a wee bit of an explosive proposition for ye.”

A few minutes later, and the iron lady of Charming walked through the doors, eyeing EZ and Bishop suspiciously. Looking to her husband, he glanced at the empty chair to Tig’s right, nodding with a smile. Whereas former presidents of the MC would never even entertain the idea of an old lady having a say in the actions of the club, Chibs Telford was different. He realised what a powerful asset his wife was.  

“So, gentleman,” she began, lifting her chin as she eyed them. “I take it my services in eradication are required?”  

EZ nodded, looking to Bishop, who extended the same. If there was one woman within their world, even one slightly on the fringes of such, who they respected without question, it was Abigail Telford. She made Gemma Teller look like a Care Bear.  

“I do, Abi. What I need is for a cartel to disappear, if you can make that happen for us?” EZ put to her, watching the corners of her mouth upturn. Blowing things up was, after all, notoriously her turn on.  

She reached for the pack of cigarettes in front of her husband, taking one out and lighting up. “Aye, lads. It’ll cost you, but I can most certainly make that happen for you. I’ll need a couple of weeks to pull in a few fellas from across the pond to assist me, but just give me addresses and times, and believe me, your little problem south of the border will be eliminated within a blink.”

“Thank you,” EZ began, grateful to her.

Bishop sank his drink, nodding in her direction. “Never has the saying chip off the old block been more appropriate. I met your dad once. I’ve never been so fucking scared of anyone as I was of Michael. Back when my club were importing cocaine through the same port your weapons were arriving in, he met with us to discuss the heat of such, bartering for the Mayans to move our shipments away from the gun porting. Lady, and I mean with the utmost respect, you are all your father,” he spoke, honestly humbled that such a figurehead was willing to help them extract the club from the cancer that had cut into the heart of them.  

Abi smiled, reaching for the bottle on the table, taking a few glugs. “I appreciate your compliments, but truly, I am not my father. Because if I were my da, I wouldn’t be so magnanimous in what I can offer you in return, to boost my business, keep your club in profit, and the Sons clear of the heroin trade flowing through their areas. As you know, the IRA doesn’t involve itself in drugs, it goes against our code, but we can always be open to furthering our weapon trade.  

“Of course, my husband’s club doesn’t have the reach over the border, but you guys do. Take it to the other cartels, reach out and let them know that the Mayans now primarily are movers of arms for our cause, and I assure you, you’ll receive one hell of a discount, and only deal with me directly.”  

EZ leaned back in his chair, side eyeing his VP with a grin. Abi’s thoughts exactly matched his own. He always enjoyed when a plan came together seamlessly, two sides realising how they could join forces to net a substantial profit. Hell, when he thought about it, he could likely move arms for more of a fair cut than pushing the tainted heroin that was causing way too many news headlines for his comfort.  

Life? It was pretty good for EZ as he continued to discuss the finer details, standing to shake hands with Chibs, Tig and Abi before leaving. All he had to do now was survive surgery. Arriving back in Santo Padre hours later, the first place he called in at was the Luna Lounge, giving his girlfriend a very approving whistle as she hung upside down on the pole, just one leg keeping her on, the other extended back, her hand reached to grab it. Sure, she was in hot pink lace that definitely was not the kind of underwear she preferred, or which he liked to see her in, but she looked so elegant to him up there, with a group of rowdy women throwing a paper storm in her direction.  

“God, what I wouldn’t give to offer her a seat right on my face,” one of the women announced as EZ stood next to her. He looked down at her with a soft chuckle, shaking his head.  

“Take it from me, you’d never be happier.”

Her eyes immediately widened as she swigged back her beer. “Jesus! Sorry, man! I didn’t realise she was your girl!”

“S’okay,” he reassured her with, reaching to pat her shoulder. “She’s a cutie, I get it. Believe me, I know how lucky I am.”

“Hell yeah, you are! I mean, I ain’t into dudes, but I can see from her point of view that she’s the same, lucky with you on your arm. Y’all got any kids? I bet they’re beautiful little things if you have.”

Her friendlily delivered words suddenly made something in his chest pull tight. Kids with Camille; it was the future he dreamed of, one day, but would he survive his impending operation in order to actually see it? No matter how confident Doctor Shepherd was, it of course still played on his mind with such risky surgery, being under anaesthetic with his skull partially opened up for a procedure she anticipated lasting for twelve hours at the very minimum.  

“Nah, no little ones just yet. I think I wanna enjoy it being just me and her for a while longer,” he revealed, the woman nodding knowingly.

“Oh yeah, give yourselves time. My wife and I had been together for ten years before we decided to bring kids into the mix. I carried the first, she the second, and they were twins, so we got our hands full!” she chuckled. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go put a nice little wedge in your girlfriend’s bra.”  

She patted his back, grinning before taking a fifty from her wallet and scurrying over to Camille, pushing the money in and receiving a kiss on the cheek, beaming while she was danced for. He hung back until she exited the stage, passing her a large diet Coke and kissing her forehead. “Just thought I’d call in and say hey on my way home. Charming went well.”

EZ had decided to do as his brother had and let the girl he was with know everything. It was easier that way, and Camille appreciated him for it.  

“Oh, that’s a relief!” she began as they moved to a free table and sat down, Camille taking her wedge out from her thong and bra, stacking the bills neatly. “So, I get to finish earlier tonight since I worked the afternoon shift, meaning I’ll be at your place for about ten thirty. Want me to bring Chinese food with me?”  

His stomach rumbled at the thought of chicken noodles. “Please. Can I have my usual and a Szechuan pork? I’m fucking starving!”

“And some plain beef strips for little one?” Oh, how Sally would be excited to be given that particular treat.  

“I dunno who loves you more, me or the dog.” He headed off soon after, kissing her fleetingly, promising her many more as soon as she arrived. Once she’d finished, Camille was glad she checked her phone, EZ messaging to increase the other by quite a lot, telling her the guys had decided to stay and hang out, and that beer munchies were required, an extra one hundred dollars transferred to her account to cover the expense.  

“Get it while it’s hot!” she announced after kicking the clubhouse door open, her arms full with the large box of takeout containers, being ran at by several very hungry men.

“Oh, I will!” Bella purred, wrapping her arms around her waist and kissing her cheek with a giggle. “How was work, peachy?”

“Tiring! I made a nice little wedge though, so I’ll be well stocked up to spend some serious cash come out little shopping excursion.” In fairness, it was more of a girl’s weekend than anything, her, Amelia, Nala and Tallulah (unfortunately Mai couldn’t swing it) all going up to LA to stay overnight and get some serious shopping done, Bella needing new clothes for her long-overdue honeymoon. Being signed with a record label just three months after she and Angel had eloped, and then so busy for the following two years, they’d put it on the back burner until then, heading off to Brazil for two weeks.

Their honeymoon clashed with the time EZ was set to head to Seattle for his operation, both of them wanting to push it back in light of such, with the former telling them in no uncertain terms that he didn’t want them to cancel. The three weeks between that night and the moment EZ sat down aboard a plane two days before his operation passed by in a blur, reaching for Camille’s hand as they took off. He was a nervous flyer, and she knew too, how much that was impacting him with his nerves over the surgery, gripping his hand as she leaned against his shoulder.  

“I couldn’t do this without you,” he told her once they were in the air and clear of the nerve-jangling turbulence.

“True, since nobody else would allow you to cut off the circulation between their hand and fingers.”

“Shit.” He loosened his grip, Camille flexing her hand a couple of times. “Sorry, baby.”

“You will be,” she winked. “That’s my hand job hand.”

He couldn’t help but laugh, releasing her hand and resting it to her thigh instead. Throughout their flight, they separately read, listened to music, chatted, and quietly laughed at Bella’s Instagram stories, she and Angel visiting Christ the Redeemer (‘We’re going to see big Jesus!’ as Bella had comically put it) and Angel’s utter ire in the wake of someone thinking that Bella was his daughter (‘Yo, that’s my WIFE, dude!’) the many stories giving them a lot of much needed comic relief.  

“Fucking hell,” EZ exclaimed quietly as they entered their hotel room not long after landing. “You didn’t tell me you were choosing something this nice.” Camille had put everything in order, telling him to leave all the travel and hotel arrangements to her, since he had enough to deal with, being silenced when he’d attempted to object.  

“Well, I figured since we’re going to be up here for two weeks, then we might as well be comfortable, if not a little luxurious.” If the surgery went well, then Doctor Shepherd anticipated that he’d be all set for discharge around five days post-surgery, but wanted him to remain close by for check-ups for a few weeks before she gave him the all clear to fly home. “So, what do you want to do? Just relax, or head out?”

EZ had said he wanted to see a few of the local Seattle landmarks while visiting, the obvious of the Space Needle as well as a visit to the beautiful natural beauty site of Snoqualmie Falls, but with two days until he was due to arrive at Grey-Sloan, they had plenty of time. EZ wasn’t keen to waste any of it, though, it would seem.

“Let’s head out now, shall we?” Camille changed out of her comfy sweats into a pair of jeans and Timberland boots, figuring sensible footwear would be the best choice, grabbing her jacket before they left the room.  

“Oh god, oh my...” The little squeak that preceded Camille’s turning to bury her face into EZ’s shoulder had him laughing, wrapping his arms around her. “It’s so high! I knew it would be, but...” She gasped a little, looking back out over Seattle, her little hands grasped onto his hoodie before she turned back to hide her face once more.  

“Look out over the bay, though, baby. It looks incredible,” he suggested, pointing towards the water.

She emerged for all of five seconds. “Oh yeah, beautiful. And return to hibernation.”  

He laughed hard, hugging her, taking pictures with his free hand. “You’re so fucking silly. You made no mention of being afraid of heights before now!”

“I didn’t think I was, but I’ve never been up a tall building. Well, actually that’s untrue. I went to the top of the Empire State Building when I was two, but I don’t remember it. Apparently, I hid in dad’s hair the entire time, so perhaps I should have seen this coming!”  

For her sake, he kept the visit short after snapping a couple more pictures, taking a few cute ones of them up there too before they headed to their next attraction, taking a boat tour across the harbour. Camille was much better on water than she was a few hundred feet off the ground. Keeping with the aquatic theme, they moved onto Seattle aquarium afterwards, EZ warmed by the sight of Camille watching her favourite fish, the puffers, her face alight with delight.  

She couldn’t help but notice, though, the fact that he seemed to be in a hurry to fit in as much as possible into their afternoon, only slowing in pace once they reached the restaurant that had been recommended highly to them by the friendly hotel staff, taking a seat outside in the beautiful, casual surroundings of Un Bein, waiting on their order.  

“Baby, are you alright?” She noticed thar he wasn’t still, his leg bouncing, his hand twitching, motion still running through him even though sat in place.  

“Yeah, yeah I’m good.”  

She knew by that point in their relationship when he was lying. She’d noticed all the little tells that would have given him away back when he was under the duress of his tumour now that he wasn’t, the way his eyes darted around for just a fraction of a moment before he concentrated on her. “EZ, that isn’t true. Come on, tell me the truth. I can’t understand the kind of nerves you must be going through with what you have looming, but I’ve noticed how you’ve been rushing through today, so you need to share that with me.”

He inhaled deeply through his nose, letting the breath out slowly, reaching for her hands. “I’m trying to fit in as many memories as I can for you, just in case the unthinkable happens. In case I go into that OR and die on the table. I didn’t want to say it in as many words, I know you’ve likely considered it a possibility too, should a complication arise. All I want is to fill these two days full of things you can cherish, just in case.”  

Her eyes become glassy in a second, her emotions rocked by his revelation. “Oh my god.”

“And now I’ve got you all upset, and I didn’t want that.” Getting up, he moved around to the empty chair beside her, pulling her into the comfort of his arms as soon as he was seated. “Come on, beautiful. It’s okay.”  

She cried softly against him, her hand curling around his neck, stroking, emerging from his embrace to kiss him. “It is, and it will be okay, but hearing that you’re doing this for me is more touching than I can even begin to explain. I love you so much.”

She didn’t need to explain either. EZ felt it strongly in every single moment that passed with her. He just hoped he would have years ahead of him to experience many, many more.  

[sam--morgan]

𝘀𝗮𝗺'𝘀 𝘄𝗶𝗳𝗲 》𝒔𝒂𝒎 𝒅𝒓𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒙 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 - Chapter six

Sam's wife m/l here !

"Sully, don't worry about him. You know Nate. He's going to survive this." Y/N reassured him and placed her hand on his arm.

"I'm ain't worried about him. I am worried about the fact that the bidding is starting now, and Rafe will get that damn crucifix." Sully said taking a puff of his cigar, and y/n rolled her eyes.

"In a couple of minutes, we will start the bidding." Said the auctioneer and y/n started to bite on her bottom lip. "Come on Nate.." She muttered to herself. Just then she heard crackling on her earpiece and she took a sigh of relief.

"Sam? Sully? Y/N? You there?" he asked.

"God damn it, kid, where the hell have you been?" Sully asked, worried laced in his voice.

"I made it... Had a few close calls but..." He started but he was interrupted by y/n. "You need to cut the power right now. They are literally about to start the bidding."

"All right, well, I'm gonna need a minute before I can reach the panel."

"We don't have a minute, Rafe's about to walk out of here with your cross," Sully stated, which caught Nate's attention.

"Wait, what? Rafe? Rafe is here?"

"Yes, that son of a bitch is here and if he thinks that he is going to get that cross, he's going to..." Y/n started but was cut off by Sam. "Baby not the time. Yes, Rafe is here. And as of right now, he has the highest bid."

"Well outbid him."

"How are we gonna do that when we don't have that type of money?" y/n asked incredulously.

"Y/N, we're stealing it, remember?" Nate reminded them and y/n looked at Sully with a shrug. "He has a point."

"What if he calls our bluff?" Sully defended and Nate sighed

"He won't."

"Guys, if we do not get this cross, I am as good as dead," Sam said over the earpiece.

"Do you need to remind me every time?" Y/N complained and she took a bidding sign. "Screw it. I'll do it. You focus on getting to that panel." Y/N said getting to the floor.

"Since we have no other bids... going once... going twice.." The auctioneer started and y/n puts up her sign-up. "Bene! We have one hundred thousand euros in the room. Thank you do we have any other bids?" The auctioneer asked Rafe stared at her as he slowly raised his sign and y/n smirked back at him.

"We now have one hundred ten thousand euros in the room."

"In for a penny, in for a pound," Sully said, as y/n smirked as she lifted her sign up.

"That bid brings us to one hundred twenty." The auctioneer stated and Nate said, "You'll be out of there in no time."

"Oh take your time. I love seeing the look on Rafe's face." Y/N chimes happily as she saw Rafe's face grow angry with each bid. The bid was getting higher and higher and y/n's blood was running cold.

"Hey man. Starting to sweat bullets here." Sam said over the earpiece and y/n scoffed.

"You? You're not the one who is bidding," she said quietly.

"Yeah gimme a second," Nate said and the bid was up to one hundred eighty thousand.

"All right guys. I'm at the switch. You ready?" Nate said and y/n's sighed in relief.

"As I'll ever be. Victor? Y/n?"

"Just a sec," Y/n said back to him and smiled sweetly, and raised her sign. "The lady's bid: two hundred thousand euros."

"Five hundred thousand! Let's get this show on the road here." Rafe said looking over to her and she smiled at him before making a bowing motion.

"uh.. thank you. We have five hundred thousand euros in the room. Does the lady wish to bid again?" The auctioneer said everyone turned to her and she put her hands up before stepping back.

"Okay, my liege. Go take your throne." Y/N said sarcastically and the crowd chuckled

"Had me worried there for a minute, Y/N? Thought I might have to kill you!" Rafe said in a cheery tone but nothing about that was cheery.

"Over my dead body. He won't even come near you." she heard Sam say.

"Okay. Let's ruin this asshole's evening." Sully said laughing softly and y/n chuckled as well.

"Anyone else? We are going once... going twice... then i shall sell it for five hundred thousand..." She was cut short when the lights turned off and y/n felt someone grab her hand. "Ladies and gentlemen, please remain calm..." She didn't hear the rest because they were trying to make their way out the door where Nate and Sam went previously.

"Sam, tell me you got the cross.." Nate said coming through the earpiece.

"I got Saint Dismas right here, you want to say hi?" Sam joked and moved his arms around y/n's shoulder as they ran outside to the civilians trying to make their way to the front by the roofs.

"Yeah, we've kicked the hornet's nest down here. Ballroom's locked down, security's scrambling."

"Sully where is our getaway?" y/n asked quietly as she avoided the spotlights that the guards were swinging around searching the area.

"Come to the driveway out front... just follow the spotlights. I'll bring the car around." Sully answered as they heard guests in the background panicking.

"You ready sweetie?" Sam asks quietly as he gets a nod in return.

"As I'll ever be. I'm lucky that I'm wearing pumps for this." y/n joked as they saw that the guards moved away and they moved quickly in the shadows making their way toward the front.

That's when they heard gunshots starting to ring out and y/n became paranoid.

"Nathan, what's going on?" Sam asked over the earpiece as it got louder on his end.

"I'm being shot at."

"Told you, we should've brought guns," Sam said in disbelief and y/n hits his arm slightly.

"Ain't nobody thinks that this was going to happen Sam." y/n said rolling her eyes and he looked at her as he said, "We wouldn't be in this situation right now if we can fight back."

"I know, but for right now let's just stick to the sides and away from the flashlights." She said making the first move as she stayed underneath the balcony.

"How are we doing, Nathan?" Sam asked checking on his little brother and y/n smiled.

"I'm on my way... heading to higher ground to get my bearings," Nate said over the earpiece and y/n sighed in relief.

"Stay safe and we'll meet you there," y/n added in.

"All right," Nate said before his earpiece went silent.

The two couple made their way across the rooftops unnoticed but when they were close to the ballroom and the exit they saw three guards standing around and y/n and Sam went up to them and snapped their necks, and took their guns.

"Che cos 'era questo?" They heard another guard say and made their way to where they were standing Sam cursed under his breath before shooting the guard in his head making the other guards notice them.

"So much of that idea.." y/n mumbled as she joined Sam in the gunfight.

"All right, I'm at the car. Where the hell are you guys?" Sully said coming onto our earpiece.

"Ah, just met your friend Nadine Ross. She's lovely." Nate joked and y/n just sighed.

"Yeah? Well, it's chaos out here. They're trying to keep it contained, but everybody's freaking out. I don't wanna rush you, but.... hurry the hell up!"

"Nathan, where are you?!" Sam said after Sully got done explaining and he grabbed y/n's hand moving across the rooftop.

"Good question. You?" He answered back.

"We're by the ballroom. Look for this round sign thing, it's on the way." Y/N answered as they ran into more trouble and started to shoot at the guards.

"Good news is, we got a gun, see you soon." Sam finished for her and they took out the guards and sat behind a plotting bin as they waited for Nate but more guards came and they got out of their covers to start shooting.

Then they heard a crash and even more, guards showed up. They looked up to see Nate on the sign and y/n sighed as she saw that they were shooting at Nate.

"Nathan! What are you doing?" Sam called at him as he started to shoot at the guards along with y/n.

"Oh, you know! He's just hanging around! What's it look like?" y/n said sarcastically as she took down one guard and moved on to the next, but they started to shoot at them.

"Ah, shit! Get down babe!" Sam said grabbing her arm and pulling her down as he stood back up again. "Nathan! Catch!" He said tossing the gun towards Nathan who was far away from them and Nate caught it.

y/n looked at him in shock and noticed that he was a lot of buffer since he was in jail for fifteen years. They took down the guards with the help of Nathan and Sam pulled y/n up gently

"Nice shooting! You all right?" Sam screamed towards Nate as he was still hanging there.

"Yeah. Hanging in there." Nate called back and Sam laughed as y/n shook her head with a sigh.

"The two of you are unbelievable," Y/N commented and Sam looked at her with a smirk.

"You married a Drake hun. What did you think was going to happen?" Sam commented and y/n shrugged her shoulders.

"Something that will give me less grey hair, and something that will keep me up at night. The usual." Y/N said with a laugh and Sam laughed.

"This is why I love you." He said then he looked at Nathan who was making his way down. "We can't get to you from here. You have a way down?"

"Yeah. Yeah, i think so." Nathan said out of breath.

"Okay. We'll meet you at the driveway, just head towards the ballroom." Sam said taking y/n's hand and leading her away.

"All right see you there," Nate called out to them and they made their way toward the ballroom taking some of the guards out along the way.

"Sully, we're kinda stuck here, any ideas?" Y/N called him onto the earpiece.

"Fastest way is through the ballroom."

"You said that the ballroom is locked down." Sam retorted as he headed towards the ballroom.

"Yeah, well now that they know it's you guys, they cleared the place out," Sully said and y/n cursed under her breath for the umpteenth time today.

"Ballroom it is. You get that, Nate?" Y/N asked over the earpiece as they sneakily made their way to the ballroom.

"Yeah.. I'll be there in a second." He said and they got pinned down at the ballroom where there were too many guards.

"Nathan, we're pinned in here! We could use a hand!" Sam panicked which got y/n to panic as well. She never heard Sam panic before.

"On my way right now," Nate said back. They tried to take out as many as they can but more and more came, and Nate swung through the window behind them.

"Jesus Christ! Nate?!" y/n asked as she was behind the covers and lifted her head to look at him.

"Hey. How's it going?" Nate said in disbelief that happened.

"Uh... i think I'm done with this auction, huh?" Sam joked and y/n laughed nervously at that.

"You can say that again," Y/N mumbled and she started to shoot.

"All right boys and girls, change of plan! Too many people trying to leave, the driveway's all jammed up."

"All right Sully. What's your backup?" y/n asked as she was trying to talk over the gunfight and shooting her gun.

"There's that fountain just outside the ballroom. I'll meet you there." Sully suggested and the three of them nodded their heads.

"Got it. Let's go!" Nate said they started to shoot again and they were able to take down all the guards.

They started to make their way to the side doors but more of them showed up.

"You bastards don't know when to give up!" Y/N called out to them as she headshot on guard as they ran out the door and to the steps.

"Sully we're running out of time here!" Nate called out.

"Hold on, kid... nearly there!" Sully said struggling slightly over the earpiece. They shot at the guards that were on the steps and made their way down the steps to the small courtyard where the fountain was at. "Almost there," Sully said coming again through the earpiece.

"Unless you're driving a hearse, you better hurry." Nate joked as he kept shooting. They were able to shoot down some of them until they saw Sully crash through the hedges with a white car.

"Someone call for a limo." He joked as the three made their way to him. They got into the car, Nate was first then y/n was in the middle, and then Sam, and they shut the door.

"Hang on!" Sully screamed as they turned around quickly and tire screeched their way out of there.

time skip

They were all at the table where they stared at the crucifix. Sam puts down his shot and takes a hammer and grabs the crucifix.

"I hope I don't go to hell for this." He joked and y/n rolled her eyes who was already in her casual attire and was standing next to Sam.

He broke the crucifix and looked inside it and his face dropped. "Shit.." he mumbles.

"What?" Nate asked as he sat closer and y/n looked at him worriedly.

"It's empty." He said looking back up at them and they looked shocked.

"What?!" It was now y/n's time to say it, and Sam turned the crucifix around shaking it as a paper fell out they all groaned as y/n punched his arm hard. "Don't do that to me asshole."

"He's your husband," Sully said back.

"Yeah and sometimes i regret marrying him," Y/n stated playfully and she stuck her tongue out at said husband.

"Alright. Skull and crossbones. Very good sign." Nate said getting a good look at the sigil.

"That's Avery's insignia..." Y/N and Sam said together and Sam started to pull away the stamp carefully and unroll it. He examined it and got confused. "What is this? Ah... "Hodie mecum eris in Paradiso," Sam said trying to read it.

"Today you will join me in paradise." Y/N translated and San looked at her with a small smile.

"In paradise... It's what Jesus said to Saint Dismas on the cross, but..." Sam said a little confused. "But what about these numbers here? What do you make of this?" Sam asked turning the paper around and y/n got a closer look.

"Some kind of code? Or a phone number?" Sully joked leaning back as he smoked his cigar.

"C'mon guys. They're dates.." Y/N started and the men looked at her, and y/n pointed it out. "Look. 1659.."

"The year Avery was born," Sam said interrupting her and she placed her hand on his shoulder.

"And 1699. The year he supposedly "died"." Y/N said putting air quotation when she said Sam smiled even bigger at her, and she looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "You talk about the treasure before even in your sleep." She admitted and saw how his cheeks went slightly red.

"Ah... well.." He said shyly and y/n leaned down kissing his cheek, and he looks down at the paper. "That means we have the date of birth, date of death, and "paradise"."

"Which means we're looking for... Avery's grave." Y/N said as Nate looked behind him and then back to them.

"At Saint Dismas' Cathedral," Nate said with a smile, making the two couple smile with him.

"Wait a second... Hasn't Rafe been scouring that site for ages already?" Sully asked as he leaned back.

"Yeah, the cathedral. See these symbols? These are found on old Scottish gravestones. Right?" Nate explained pointing to the symbols then he pulled out a map. "The layout of this place is unusual. Here's the Cathedral..." Nate said pointing to a spot.

"And this is where the graveyard is at... huh." y/n said pointing to another place and y/n hummed.

"Rafe's been focusing on the wrong area," Sam said butting in and Nate smiled as he said. "Exactly."

"Guys. We're going to Scotland." Y/N said getting excited as she hasn't done this for years. y/n moved to stand in between Sam and Nate as they looked at the map.

"All right, all right. Wait.. wait up. You do realize that Rafe knows your coming?" Sully said as he said looking at the downside of this but he has a point.

"Yeah, we can deal with that when we get there," Nate said not caring about Rafe.

"That psycho would like nothing better than for you to show up," Sully said trying to talk them out of it. "Plus he's got Nadine and her whole army to back him up."

"Yeah but he doesn't have this," Y/N said pointing to the clue that they stole. "That rich boy doesn't know what he is doing." she insulted and she high-fived Nate.

"The biggest pirate treasure of all time is within our grasp." Nate finished.

"I thought this was about saving Sam," Sully said pointing to Sam and y/n looked down at the table. He was right and she completely forgot about that because of all of the adrenaline that happened within the past couple of hours.

"It is. But come on, it's both, right? We need the treasure to save Sam." Nate explained.

"How is Elena cool with all this?" Sully asked then looked over to y/n directing the question to her about Mya, and they both stayed quiet. "Oh, Jesus, kids," Sully muttered in disappointment.

"Look, it's just not that simple," Nate said finally.

"With all that you two have been through together..." Sully started but was interrupted by Nate. "She wouldn't understand this." and Sully finished. "You are not giving her enough credit."

"I can't take that chance," Nate said pleadingly and y/n placed her hand on her shoulder.

"Nathan, he's right. I would've told y/n if she wasn't going so she wouldn't be going." Sam said looking at y/n then looked at Nate.

"I would've been shocked if you called me out of nowhere when you should've been dead." She said with a half-hearted chuckle. "But Nate, things are going to get a little dicey out there.. and Elena won't be too happy with a dead husband." y/n said squeezing his shoulder he thought about it before standing up and walking to the balcony as he took out his phone.

Sam grabbed the bottle to pour him some bourbon and then Sully but he pulled his cup away, and Sam sighed.

"Something on your mind, dear?" Sam said as he goes take a drink from his cup, as y/n checked her phone.

"I have to make a call so I'll be right back." She said walking to her room as she checked the contact for her daughter.

The phone ranged a couple of times before her daughter picked up. "Hey, mom!"

"Hi, Mya! How was school today?" She asked glad to hear her voice again. She leaned against the dresser as she listened to what her daughter was telling her putting her input into it.

"That sounds all great, but i miss you," Y/N said with a smile.

"I miss you too mom... When are you coming home and where are you?"

"I don't know hun. Sometime soon hopefully and right now we're in Italy," she said and she heard her daughter gasp.

"Italy?! I always wanted to go!"

"Maybe when I get back we'll make a trip here." She said chuckling and smiling.

"Yay! Oh, Aunt Elena is calling me for school." She heard her daughter rushing with her things.

"Alright. Have a great day at school and i love you, baby. I'll try to contact you when I can."

"I love you too! Bye, mom!" Mya said before hanging up.

Y/N's smile faded and she sighed. She's going to have to tell Sam soon about Mya and she doesn't know how would he react.

She felt a pair of arms wrap around her and she jumped slightly. She felt a pair of lips on her shoulder and the stubbles of a beard.

"Who were you talking to?" She heard Sam's deep voice in her ear and she shivered slightly, and she can also hear the anger slightly in her voice.

"Nobody important.." She hummed softly as she placed her hands on his arms, and she heard him sigh.

"You know... if you moved on, please let me know so i won't get hurt.." Sam said softly as he buried his nose into her shoulder. She widened her eyes slightly and she quickly turned around in his arms cupping his cheeks. If she wanted to move on then she would've over the 15 years that he has been gone.

"Baby.. if i wanted to move on I could've done that by now, but a part of my heart was telling me that you were still alive.. so I didn't.." She explained as she brushed her lips against his softly.

"I know but I'm just afraid that you will leave me... The reason why i got out of jail or even did this in the first place was to see you again." He said tightening his arms around his waist. She felt her heart tighten and she took a shaky breath.

"You're not going to lose me... Not when you need me right now." She said looking into his eyes and he stared back deep into her eyes.

"God i love you so much." He said softly as he placed his forehead against hers.

"I love you too.." she said rubbing her nose against his before kissing him deeply.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Yellow City, Chapter Five

One probable no.

One probable yes.

One vote he has yet to obtain.

Arthur is having a day,, and he may be mad… but at least he isn't in denial.

Yellow City, chapter five. With the first of a couple of cameos.

Not exactly explicit, but there is sexual content and talk.

AO3

-----------

Nobody helped him. Nobody could. It felt like a quest, like proving he meant what he said, showing the world he wasn’t some milquetoast hypocrite. He had a job to do.

The presence of Mama Laveau (Shub-Niggurath, whose very name shook the already-spare sanity quavering in the corners of his mind) pressed him into the earth as he dragged himself toward her.

“Pretty sure he’s not gonna quit,” said Asenath, going on her toes and speaking up, up, up toward Mama Laveau, who was (twenty feet tall a hundred feet tall two thousand feet tall) six inches taller than Asenath.

“We’ll see,” said Mama Laveau. “How often do they do the hard thing, the pricey thing, when they don’t benefit themselves? We’ll see.”

For Faroe—

No. No, it was too late for her, too late for him. This wasn’t about him. This was about everyone else, the innocents, the people who didn’t deserve such a fate, to be fed upon, stolen for entertainment, bred until they died.

Lied to and eaten.

And he wasn’t the right one to fix this, he knew—unworthy, sullied, unclean—but there was no one else. I’m sorry, world, he thought in a doozy way. I’m all you’ve got.

“Do you really believe they’re innocent?” said Mama Laveau over howling wind, her words deep and resonant in spite of the noise of Arthur’s gasps and the scrape of his flesh over suddenly-sharp grasses.

Nobody could hear him over the howling gale, but he answered anyway, dragging, digging his fingers into soft loam filled with sharp and biting roots to pull himself nearer. “Yes.”

“What if I tell you there are no innocent humans, Arthur Lester?” said Mama Laveau, light and conversational, as if his answer didn’t even matter.

Faroe…

Some switch inside him flipped. “I’d ask you what in fuck’s name you think innocent is, because I’ve never met anyone who’s perfect, if that’s what you’re looking for—including you.”

“Yikes, Lester,” Asenath said, making faces as though caught between horror and humor.

Behind him, the wind rose in a strangely bass howl, like a train engine in distress.

“You’ve panicked your owner,” Mama Laveau said, sounding amused.

Owner?

He had a partner, not an owner, and it didn’t matter right now because Hastur wasn’t expected to reach Mama Laveau. “He’s new,” Arthur said.

To his confusion, Mama Laveau laughed.

Whatever that meant. It had no bearing, so Arthur kept coming, through the metal-screaming storm-howling grass-scraping pain, through the actual blades slicing his whole body to ribbons as he pulled.

(Vaguely, so vaguely, heard his partner bellowing, but it was so far behind and surely Hastur was just urging him on?)

His breath was thick and wet, bubbling red past his lips, like that moment when he’d saved the (frogs) children from that sinking boat and slid under the water. Drowning?

Hastur wouldn’t let him drown, so Arthur kept going.

It would be fine. He’d run out of blood eventually and stop smearing it all along his snail-trail path and making his chin so sticky. He’d had worse, anyway, though usually it ended in an orgasm.

She was so close.

#

The last six feet took eighty-four years.

Time didn’t mean things here, or so Asenath said, but enough of it passed (or seemed to) that Arthur no longer remembered why he made this journey.

He knew he needed to reach Mama Laveau. He knew she would stop something bad. He couldn’t remember what, but that was okay. He could wing it. Arthur was good at winging it.

He reached out (shaking, bones peeking through fingertip-flesh) and gently touched Mama Laveau’s foot. “Got you,” he wheezed.

“I’d say you did,” said Mama Laveau, and suddenly, it all stopped.

Arthur wasn’t shredded. The grass was grass, soft and wet, and the worst damage done was the dew soaking through his flimsy yellow clothes, which he’d smeared quite green.

(And a tiny, trembling part of him got a kick out of that, because Hastur would have to clean it up, but the thought evaporated before he could truly enjoy it.)

“You were right, Arthur Lester,” said Mama Laveau. “I’m not perfect. I believed, after all, you’d give up long before you got to me.”

“Ha! You wouldn’t be the first to make that mistake,” said Arthur like an eighty-year-old-man, and struggled to sit back in the grass with all the grace of a skinny walrus.

(Vague bass mourning back there somewhere—)

“Your god is going to need some triage,” she said.

“Don’t have a god,” Arthur said.

Again, she softly chuckled.

Arthur had no idea what that was for, but that was okay. “Give up yet?” he said with full confidence.

This time, she threw her head back and laughed for real, and the sound of it and her proximity shook everything, and his thoughts splashed wild and murky like soapy water disturbed by a rock.

(See to the fool, Shub-Niggurath said to her witch.)

Asenath went to check on Parker’s shuddering form, and Mama Laveau knelt down and brushed Arthur’s sweaty hair out of his face.

Her touch was cool, pleasant, calmed the waves in his mind instead of making more of them, and he had a weird moment of clarity. Her patience for him was thin because of what he was, and he couldn’t take too long with this. “Hey,” he said weakly. “Can I shoot straight with you?”

“I think you’d better,” she said, which was good advice.

“I don’t remember the details of this case,” he said as she plucked some grass from his (elaborate golden collar) lapel. “It’s my fault—had too much to drink last night.”

“That’s a real shame, with such a big, important meeting today,” she said, still running her cool, dark fingers through his damp hair.

He cranked the charm to a thousand, because Hastur was the scary partner, so he had to be the winsome one. “I can be pretty dunderheaded, ma’am, and I’d be the first to tell you that—but the biggest idiot in the world can still pass on an important message. Would you be willing to hear out this particular idiot, just for a minute?”

“Well,” she said, low and soothing, “it’d be a real shame to let all that effort go to waste, wouldn’t it? What’s that message, then?”

He couldn’t remember.

All his thoughts climbed over each other like ants, and he couldn’t see whatever dropped sugar cube they were swarming.

She waited, fingers cool, eyes patient if not exactly warm.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed, but he didn’t want to risk that patience drying up. Winging it. “Something bad’s coming.”

“It is,” she agreed, because her thoughts weren’t a wasp’s nest climbing out her ears. At least one of them knew what was going on.

“It isn’t their fault,” he said, going with instinct.

“Some are saying it’s yours, being as interesting as you are,” she said like opening a door to see if he’d go through.

He snorted. “No, it’s Kissinger’s for being a greedy, ugly baby who doesn’t like to lose.”

Her chuckle was dark. “You might be right on that.”

A glimpse of clarity, like a light flashing in a dark room. The Fire of Y. So many dead… “We know we fucked up, ma’am. Does that really mean we deserve to just be wiped out, down to the babies?”

She didn’t answer that. Her lovely, round face was unreadable. “Do you know what it’s like to put your good faith in someone, in a lot of someones, only for them to spit on your good will to the point that, in spite of your desire, you find them only distasteful?”

Oh, that was a big one. “I can’t say I’ve been betrayed that badly, ma’am.”

“Can’t you?” she said, and for one moment, just one, he remembered.

Hastur knew who, and knew all along, and never said. I know that if I had given you the name, and triggered my Contract, I’d be obligated to Harvest you—and then I’d lose my eyes in this world.

Parker sounded angry. “Of course I fucking know.” And he fell to his knees, splattering his weird blood.

Arthur cried out and gripped his head, breathing through lungs that felt shrunk to the size of lima beans.

She waited, silent as he rode it out, as the sloshing chaos of his thoughts settled again inside his skull.

Another moment of clarity, and he tried to hold the thought (the truth) that gods, for some reason, had such simple views of right and wrong, such easily hurt hearts, such ever-burning anger. “They hurt you. Like I hurt him. That’s it. Isn’t it?” 

She didn't answer.

It slid like a wine glass on the edge of a table, going over, about to shatter, and he shouted while he still knew what it was: “I’m sorry we hurt you! For everyone! For all of us! I’m a fuckup, but maybe that’s why I’m the one here, in place of all the fuckups! I’m sorry we did it to you! It was wrong, and I…” Images of Faroe (Of course I knew) smashed through his remaining thought like a brick through a window, and he needed another minute while it all crashed and sloshed and spilled.

“What an interesting human you are,” said Mama Laveau somewhere in there. “I knew you were brave; I knew you were stubborn. I knew you were strong enough to hold Hastur within you, and to do what was necessary with the tools I sent. But I didn’t know you could be wise, Arthur Lester.”

Faroe…

“That’s kind of you, ma’am,” Arthur answered from a great distance. “But I promise I’m not wise.”

“Well,” she said. “I chose right before. I’m gonna choose right now, too. I will not vote, Arthur Lester.”

That was bad. Wasn’t it bad? “Wh… why?”

“Because I might vote the wrong way,” she said. “I'm upset; until I’m a bit more soothed, I won't risk making that choice. So instead, I’m going to do what I did before.”

He had no idea what she did before (the feel of that dagger in his hand, its red and black jags biting into his flesh). “What’s that?”

“I’ll give you aid. How well you do with it depends on you.”

This was what she’d done before. This mattered. This… he couldn’t hold on to it. “Aid? What, like a hammer or something?”

“Something like that. Hold out your left hand.”

He did.

Her warm, strong fingers (long and clever tentacles) wrapped around his wrist for one moment, totally enveloping his whole arm, and when they withdrew, they left a present.

A bracelet sat against the bones of his wrist, loose enough to dangle, but far too tight to remove. It was a simple chain, silver, with tiny links and numerous charms that he couldn’t quite make out.

It was surprisingly heavy, too, and his hand fell to the grass, where he stared at it for being weird.

“It’s up to you,” said Mama Laveau, and just like that, she was gone. Her patience was done, and he got that, on some weird internal level. It made sense she’d be gone. It—

Hastur yanked him into a tangle of overly-hot tentacles and swore in some language Arthur couldn’t understand, a language that sounded like rocks grating against steel wool.

“Rude,” said Asenath.

Parker groaned.

Hastur turned to go.

“Don’t you dare,” said Asenath.

Hastur… growled.

And Arthur remembered that sound from his time in Cloud City, when that growl frightened him, when the depth and breadth of it felt ravenous even when immaterial, but now, in the flesh, it was utterly, mind-shatteringly terrifying.

Arthur whimpered.

Hastur pulled him closer, comfortingly tight, keeping him from shattering apart.

There was a pause.

“Very scary,” said Asenath. "Now take your trash with you, for fuck’s sake.”

Hastur rumbled, displeased, and picked Parker up tightly enough that Parker cried out.

Arthur realized that by trash, she meant Parker.

Well. Parker killed her, so that made sense. But Arthur felt he’d indirectly gotten Asenath killed, and quite directly gotten Parker killed. “Don't hurt him,” he muttered.

“I will… not break him,” Hastur said to Arthur, absolutely sullen, and then they flew.

Arthur was glad they flew. The weight of that thin bracelet kept his arm down, making him feel weirdly drained. “Thank you,” he said, though he was already forgetting what for.

Hastur did not dally, did not show off; he simply flew home, slammed the doors of his palace (Arthur’s apartment had never sounded so cavernous), and doused all the lights but one.

#

(Your god is going to need some triage)

Arthur had been right: the green was everywhere, all over his skin, all over his silky yellow whatever the fuck, but he was very tired, and couldn’t gloat or put up a fuss as Hastur stripped him and began scrubbing him down while muttering darkly in another language.

“Yeah, fuck you, too,” Parker snapped from somewhere in the dark, as if trying to get hit.

(Your god is going to need some triage)

“Do you think I care to indulge your little suffering kink?” Hastur growled at those miserable shadows.

“Let me go,” said Parker, sounding weak as a leaking faucet.

“No. I traded for you. I did so on his request. You stay.” Hastur resumed scrubbing.

Arthur realized he’d gotten grass between his teeth, somehow, and Hastur didn’t like that, and was taking it all out. That made it hard to talk, though. “You were mmph… But yoummmph… quit it. Yoummmph…”

“No,” said Hastur, digging deeper.

Arthur gagged a little. “You were suffering,” he threw at the shadows.

“Fuck you,” said Parker, unsteady, like he was about to cry. “I’d almost paid. It would’ve been over.”

Hastur snorted. “Keep telling yourself that. Perhaps, in another world, another timeline, that could even be true.”

“Go to hell!” Parker bellowed.

“I don’t mmph… understand,” said Arthur.

“He thinks the Defiler would be content with temporary suffering,” said Hastur, being mean.

(Your god is going to need some triage)

“Why?” said Arthur.

“Because he wishes to believe the lies of his youth,” said Hastur. “He dedicated his life to something he has found is untrue, and cannot handle the loss, the wasted years, the terrible sacrifices that meant…  nothing.” He laughed, low and cruel. “I broke many cultists’ minds in the same manner, back when we had easy access to Earth.”

Arthur’s brain scrambled all of that in under three seconds. “So Parker had a terrible boss. You were a terrible boss, too. I know it, and you know it, and you ought to give him leeway.”

Everybody stared at him.

“What?” said Hastur, his many limbs going still.

It was a beautiful story! “You don’t have to feel ashamed,” he said, his pride for Hastur warning his tone. “You quit to work with me when you saw how much better it was to help people than hurt people. Sure, the pay’s less, but we’ve had some good windfalls, and you got plenty tucked away, anyway.”

“Oh my gods,” said Parker. “What the fuck is he talking about?”

“A new adventure,” said Hastur softly, and stroked Arthur’s cheek. “It seems now I have been rescued from my own unworthy managerial practices.”

Arthur turned his face and kissed the gigantic hand nearest. “I’ve got you. I know it’s a lot. We’ll do it together.”

Hastur purred.

“Fuck,” said Parker, unsteady. “He’s lost it. They said he broke. I didn’t believe it. I thought he wouldn’t. Him, of all people.”

“Oh, he did,” Hastur said, and laughed darkly. “I, however, did not break him.”

“The fuck you didn’t!”

“I think you know very well what pushed him over that ledge,” said Hastur with a terrible eagerness.

Parker breathed quickly through his nose. “Say it like that, it’s like you think I contributed to it.”

“You did.”

(Your god is going to need some triage)

“Bullshit. You’re a god of madness. You broke him.”

“You and I did together, with the news we hid.”

Parker made a low, pained sound, as if he’d been secretly stabbed in the dark.

Arthur… heard all of this. He did. It didn’t really register, though, because he was too busy studying the bracelet Mama Laveau had given him.

It was pretty. Strange, though, and so much heavier than it should have—

“What the fuck is that?” Hastur snarled, yanking Arthur’s arm up.

“From Mama Laveau,” Arthur said, allowing himself to be lifted like a doll, manhandled. “It’s a clue.”

“It’s a spell,” Hastur declared like a barking dog, and tried to take it off.

“Wait, what?” said Parker, coming closer. “What… I can’t see it. I mean… it’s like a gleam of silver on him. What the fuck is that?”

“I don’t know,” said Hastur, low and getting louder. “Why would she… he’s mine. She wouldn’t want him! What is this? What is this?”

Arthur decided the little dangling charms were books. He wasn’t sure what books, but they were books, some open, some closed. They were the size of his thumbnail, but he felt he could almost read them. “It’s heavy,” he complained.

Hastur trembled. Just for a moment, just once, a tremor from his crown to the tips of his tentacles.

(Going to need some triage) “I haven’t figured out the clue yet,” said Arthur, reassuring. “I will.”

“Clue?” said Parker.

“For the case of the stolen ballots,” said Arthur.

Parker stared. Was it pain on his face? Grief?

“Hey,” said Arthur. “It’s gonna be okay. Kissinger won’t ever get you back.”

For some reason, that just made it worse. “Fuck,” Parker whispered, and turned away into the dark.

“Parker!” Arthur called after him. “Par–”

(Your god is going to need some tri—)

Hastur covered him so suddenly that he had no chance to even finish the word.

#

It took eighty-four years for Hastur to be satisfied.

“Mine,” Hastur kept growling, as if Arthur had a string of competitive lovers lining the street below, and “Mine,” Hastur kept growling, as though he wanted Arthur’s wordless cries replaced with vows, and “Mine,” Hastur kept growling, but all Arthur could do was moan, because it had gone beyond pleasure or pain into bell-ringing, ear-burning, brain-numbing madness.

This was more than scooped out and replaced. This was scraped clean and painted too many times over, and Arthur felt like his original canvas had began to thin.

His blood was spiced with Hastur’s heat. It didn’t hurt? Exactly? It was too much. Too much, and Arthur came again, yet again, and he sobbed. “Yours,” he managed, clinging, clutching. “Please stop. Hastur. I’m yours. Stop.”

Hastur stopped.

(Triage)

Stopped, and stared down at him, somehow communicating horrified wonder without a moving face. “There… there,” said Hastur, breathy. “Little detective. You’re all right. You’re all right.”

Arthur privately made it a goal to make him breathe like that again. “I’m okay,” he slurred. He could feel the tree-branch current of nerves under his skin, humming unceasingly, and he groaned.

Surprisingly tender (curiously ashamed?) Hastur began the healing.

The folding back together took a while. Something had panicked his partner, made Hastur forget not everyone was made of rubber and stone, but it was okay. Hastur was fixing it, following every hair-wide branch of jangled nerves and abraded veins, soothing every sharp bite of shattered bone and burning blood.

It was wonderful. This meticulous aftercare was somehow even better than the sex that led to it. Arthur felt very loved. He felt very safe. It made him all sniffly.

But Hastur was still upset. It was obvious. He kept growling.

Arthur wanted to fix it. “It’s okay,” he reassured when he remembered how to talk. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“Fuck,” Parker whispered, somewhere in the dark, sounding shaken and afraid.

Parker. Parker was here. Arthur had forgotten he existed. “Oh, hey,” he said, his lips still bleeding, his throat still sore.

“Fuck,” Parker said again. “That’s what you’re doing to him? No wonder he’s broken.”

“I do as he wishes,” Hastur snarled, which was true because of how good a partner Hastur was. “He wants to forget who he is, to pay for what he’s done. He wants to suffer.”

“Fuck that,” Parker snapped. “You think I don’t know he hated pain? You think I don’t know I pushed him? I did that because he hated it.”

What a weird thing to say.

But oh, that growl turned threatening, and oh, some limbs left Arthur’s still-aching skin as if to point at Parker.

“Yeah,” said Parker with relish. “And I fucked him through it, and made him come while crying. Your point, dandelion king?”

And Arthur couldn’t—

Arthur tried but could not—

He couldn’t make it make sense, and it had to make sense, because that’s how things worked (Not in the Dreamlands, little one, said Mama Laveau in his head, and he ignored that shit). So he closed his eyes.

The moment he did, it all settled down.

The lingering pain, strange and deep, like he’d been fucked by a car. The thrumming nerves, still pulsing with pleasure, like that car-fucking had been the best thing that ever happened. The presence of Hastur, deforming his mind like an elbow on a pillow. The cold, weird weight of whatever Mama Laveau (Shub-Niggurath) had given to him to make things right.

And Parker, breathing in the shadows like preparing for a fight.

Arthur closed his eyes. Took a moment. And he got it. It was a ruse. A goad. And his partner was falling for it, hook, line, and sinker. “Don’t,” Arthur said.

A beat.

“Don’t what, little detective?” said Hastur.

“Don’t hurt him. He wants you to. He thinks…” It was slipping. “He’ll… get… points, or something.”

Hastur’s dangerous rumble changed, switching timbre from angry to pleased. “You’re right. That’s so good, Arthur. To think, he almost got me!” A horrible laugh. “How pathetic.”

“You’re just shaken because we saw Mama Laveau,” said Arthur, because that would shake anybody.

“That would shake anybody,” Parker confirmed, low. “I can’t believe she came out to see you. She doesn’t see nobody but her fucking favorite witch.”

Asenath. Arthur was already sure of that. “She’s not that exclusive.”

Parker snorted. “Yeah, she is. She’s favored you since day one, apparently. If I’d had any fucking idea she’d been giving you things like the Ever Knife, I’d have slowed the whole damn plan down.”

“The… what?” said Arthur, who couldn’t remember.

“And you think he would have let you,” said Hastur, somehow sounding like a crouching lion, ready to pounce.

“Sure,” said Parker. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” And his voice caught. “He trusted me. I… he trusted me.”

“You mistake inability with trust,” said Hastur. “He couldn’t do anything but wait on you.”

“No! He trusted me. I’d earned it. He knew I was all in!”

“And yet turned on you without hesitation for something you had absolutely no control over,” said Hastur as though he’d just been waiting to drop that guillotine.

Parker fell silent.

Arthur shook his head. “Kissinger didn’t deserve you,” he said, eyes still closed. “You’re rough around the edges, but you’re not… you deserve a partner—“ (god) “—as faithful as you are.”

“There’s no such thing,” Parker said, and it felt honest, and it felt grieved, and it felt surrendered.

“Hastur is,” said Arthur, and couldn’t understand why Hastur’s hands suddenly went still.

“What,” said Parker.

“I fucked up at the end,” said Arthur, eyes screwed as tightly shut as he could manage. “I could’ve told him my plan, but I didn’t. He didn’t know what was coming any more than you did. He still forgave me.”

There was a long moment of silence.

Arthur shifted, hurt, moaned, and Hastur resumed healing, resumed comforting, and that made it better.

“He didn’t know for real?” said Parker, sounding amazed. “So when I bound him…”

“I thought I’d lost,” said Hastur in a rare moment of honesty, and Arthur had to reward that.

“You’re doing so good,” Arthur said, turning his sore neck (with sore lips and tongue) to minister to whatever part of Hastur was nearest. It felt good to kiss him, to lick; to gentle the storm that had hit them both.

(He didn’t have names for any of the parts he touched. That was okay. It was all Hastur.)

Parker’s laugh was cracked and crumbling. “Fuck. We all fucked it up. All of us.”

“I did not,” said Hastur.

He had, but Arthur knew better than to push right now. “He forgave me. That’s what good partners do.”

“You’re out of your godsdamned mind,” said Parker.

Arthur swallowed. “Maybe. It doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

“Why are you talking to him? You killed him,” said Hastur, suddenly, as though upset Arthur was talking to somebody else. “Remember?”

Arthur shuddered. “I had to stop him,” he said, tremulous and fading. “It doesn’t mean I wanted it to happen.”

“Why are you trying to comfort him?” said Hastur, growing louder. “Why did you even ask for him to begin with?”

Arthur opened his eyes (which was a mistake). “It’s not obvious?” Hastur twisted before him like vertigo taken form, and Arthur closed his eyes again.

“No,” said Hastur, flat. “It is not at all obvious to me why you asked for him, or why I listened.”

Damn it, this question mattered (triage), but Arthur couldn’t think, was aching in a way Hastur could not heal. “Because he needed it,” Arthur finally said.

A beat.

And Parker somehow knew it was coming. “Don’t say it.”

“Even with the knowledge he withheld regarding who killed your daughter?” said Hastur, almost joyful because Arthur had sprung that trap with both hands, and it was

Too late

Faroe cold, Faroe sticky, Faroe riddled with bullets

Too late

Faroe silent, and all the complaints Arthur had ever made about noisy babies lodged in his side like unholy spear-heads

Too late

Arthur screamed.

He tore at his face, his eyes, as though he could rip these thoughts out, and Hastur stopped him, and Parker shouted something like you asshole, and

#

Darkness.

A voice.

Warning?

Instructions.

Three sentences, stated in the dark, given as a gift like the dagger had been, like the jewel. Whom he had to look for. What he could expect. What would happen if he failed.

Her voice, Mama Laveau’s, filling his mind, howling across the unconscious void, just the same three sentences growing like the sound of an oncoming train—

#

Arthur woke. The three sentences nestled behind conscious thought like burglars behind a bush, in wait.

Nothing hurt.

Physically, nothing hurt.

He felt safe, snug; warm, compressed. Wrapped in so many tentacles, held against his monster-god’s torso.

“Good morning, little detective,” said Hastur, sounding pleased.

Something… there was something. “I…”

“Yes?” said Hastur, already anticipating, tentacles sliding over one another and curling at their tips.

Arthur’s brain filled it in. “Can’t believe that ambulance was stolen. Who the fuck? It’s not like there are so many of them. What’re they gonna do with it, anyway? Break it down for parts?”

“Mm, perhaps,” said Hastur, going right along with the story.

“Yeah. A chop-shop. Parts are so damn rare as it is, but we can’t let them do that.” Arthur sat up, stared at the cyclopean knife-edges of this horrible place, blinked, and saw his grimy brown apartment with its incredible view. “The doctors need that thing, you know?”

“For… the wounded?” Hastur said.

“I said ‘ambulance,’ Hastur,” said Arthur, teasing a little, sliding out of bed to make coffee, and bounced off Parker Yang.

Arthur was off-balance and fell backwards. Hastur caught him.

Parker’s hair was everywhere, and his face was creased as if he’d slept on his arm on a table or something. He stared down at Arthur. “Ambulance? What are you talking about?”

“It’s our case, Yang,” said Arthur. “We were hired.”

Parker just stared at him.

“Well, now,” rumbled Hastur, already purring, tentacles sliding over Arthur with possessive familiarity. “Perhaps we can do with help from the police.”

Arthur made a face. “We need the pay. But… fuck, you’re right. This is too important to go solo.”

"What?" said Parker, who usually wasn't this slow on the uptake.

“You need coffee, too,” Arthur decided, finally pulling away from Hastur and going to dump what was left of yesterday’s.

“Oh, shit,” said Parker, snatching the coffee pot (some strange sharp vase with sigils on it that hurt to see). “Easy!”

“You wanna make the coffee?” said Arthur.

Hastur laughed, low.

Parker wore the expression he had last night—pained, maybe guilty, hard to fully comprehend because it wasn’t in line with his usual faces.

“Do you want his help, Arthur?” said Hastur, sounding pleased as punch. “It seems to me it might be a good idea.”

Arthur sighed. “Look, asshole, we do need help. That ambulance matters to people.”

“Am… bu… sure,” said Parker, and turned away to rub at his eyes. “Fuck. Not you.”

“You were fine with him being erased, but not crazy?” said Hastur (which Arthur ignored, running water to make coffee).

“That was different. That was an honor. He’d have been lauded. This is… this is just cruel.”

“To whom?” said Hastur.

Parker said nothing.

Arthur made coffee. Arthur stood at the enormous window (gardens that made no sense plants that fucking moved) and stared out at Cloud City, at its curves and color, and wondered. “Why the fuck would they take an ambulance?” he muttered. “Gotta be a reason. I mean… could’ve taken a lot of the cars out there. Why an ambulance?”

Slowly, almost cautiously, Parker joined him, staring not at the view, but at him. “Maybe for parts, like you said?”

“No,” said Arthur. “I have a gut feeling. That’s not why. Here, let me pour you some.”

Whatever he handed Parker made the man wince, holding it gingerly, and he didn’t drink.

Whatever. His caffeine to waste. Arthur downed his and turned to his partner. “Let’s get moving. I have a really bad feeling about this.”

“Then move, we shall,” said Hastur magnanimous, and picked him up to dress him.

“Fuck’s sake,” said Parker softly.

“What?” said Arthur, obediently stretching his arms over his head.

“Nothing,” Parker muttered. “Sure you want me along on this, Lester?”

“Yes,” said Arthur. “You’ve got your problems, fuck knows, but we’ll need help on this one.”

“Why?” said Parker.

“They’re gonna pretend,” said Arthur suddenly. “It’s a fake-out. They’re gonna use it to get to the governor! We gotta move!”

Parker just looked at Hastur.

“Come or don’t,” said Hastur, putting Arthur down.

And Arthur was off. He knew just where to go.

#

“Keep up!” he shouted behind him because Yang was lagging again (“We’ve been running for a fucking hour!”), and there was no time to waste.

They’d come to the edge of Hastur’s city and skirted it, just running along the outer wall, and Arthur knew what he was looking for, nevermind that he couldn’t say it, and knew his partner (partners?) would have his back, and knew the smell was the right way to go.

The smell of fish.

Salt-water.

Weed-rot.

Ahead, just ahead, was a dark alley (a gap in the hedge), and Arthur plunged through without hesitation, fists clenched, ready to punch out any monsters he saw on his way to his goal.

“Where the fuck are we goin?” Parker shouted back there somewhere, which was remarkably amateur of him.

“Another’s territory,” said Hastur, grim, and stopped Parker short.

Arthur had already run inside.

It was a walled section inside Hastur’s walls—a sort of preserve, an area, evidently owned by one person. The man sitting there (not a man not a man NOT A MAN) hunched over his own lap as though he had nothing to live for, staring out over the nasty water of a pond (not a pond) big enough to diminish him, though he was huge. Scum lapped at his legs, which were calf-deep in the water. He stared out at nothing, visibly unhappy, ignoring their approach.

“Oh, fuck!” said Yang from somewhere back there, and the man looked up.

He was big, meaty; a strong-looking man, a keen-eyed man, with dark reddish hair and mutton-chops and a look like someone who’d start a brawl just so he could

(Huge, larger than Hastur, scale-covered and sharp with spiked fins on his arm and down his spine and on his head, his eyes so shadowed by his brow that his attitude was impossible to read)

empty the bar out and have some peace and quiet.

This man watched Arthur's approach without comment, without smile. Without anything but an uncomfortable darkness, shading his eyes.

Time for the charm. Arthur adjusted his (lacy metal golden collar) tie and approached. “Good morning, sir.”

The man eyed him, unreadable, still except for breathing (and the occasional fluttering of gills).

Arthur stopped at a respectful distance and doffed his hat.

(There was no hat.)

“Well, isn’t this a thing?” said the man (god).

“Got a moment, sir?” said Arthur.

The man grunted, shifting, sending ripples across the scum that lay over the top of the pond like a weird blanket. “Didn’t think you’d make it all the way to visit me with your craziness, crazy man.”

Arthur’s brain translated that into something he needed. “What, you think just because you’re not high society, your vote doesn’t count?”

(“What… no ambulance, now?” said Parker back there.)

(“Evidently not.” They had not come closer.)

The being grunted again and moved, pulling his legs out of the scummy water, rose (up and up and up and up), and walked Arthur’s way.

So tall. So huge, (taller than Hastur), seven feet if he was an inch, and Arthur was not tall, but he swallowed, and didn’t budge.

The being stopped so close that Arthur could hear unusual air moving through those impossible gills. “You think I want to vote in something that has nothing to do with me?” he warned.

Oh, Arthur knew he had to go carefully here. “Sir—”

“Sir!” And the man threw his head back and laughed. “Who in fuck do you think I am, crazy man?”

(“Hastur!”)

(“Shh. Just watch. He is skilled, my little pet.”)

Arthur blinked. “You’re Morrissey Dagon. You own all the fisheries in Cloud City—which makes you rich, and also really dangerous, because the ocean and whatever the fuck is in there doesn’t scare you. I know all about you, sir.”

The man (sharp shark eyes and sharp shark teeth) was grinning now as though considering adding Arthur to whatever was on the menu today. “And you still walked up here to say hello.”

“Of course,” said Arthur as though surprised. “You’re on the Council.”

Morrissey Dagon tilted his head. “I could eat you. I could fuck you, then eat you. I could wing you over my head like a slingshot, send you over the wall so H’aaztre has to go chasing down your body in wherever the Dreamlands sends you.”

Arthur’s brain translated: they’d never find your body, and your partner will weep alone.

He swallowed hard. “Yes, sir. You could. “But this isn’t about me, sir, or even about you. This is about everyone else.”

Dagon growled.

It was different from Hastur’s growl (though the same birth defect, maybe), a pulsing and resonant thing, like it was somehow meant to sound underwater. “Why in fuck should I care about them?”

Arthur blinked. “Why should you… care about other people?”

“Mine are all gone.” Dagon rumbled like some oceanic devil. “Every last one, at least down there. You get that, crazy man? Do you? I lost them all!”

Arthur winced, gripping his ears. That last line had been so loud (louder than humans could be) and he felt warm wetness on his hands, but refused to look at it. “You... lost…”

“My whole family. Turns out they’re fucking susceptible to waterborne radioactive poisoning. Go the fuck figure,” Dagon growled.

And Arthur

(Faroe)

heard him and fully understood and

(and if he let this subsume him now and lost the plot he’d lose the vote)

took a shuddery shaky choked-up breath and answered. “I get that. Mister Dagon, I… I get that. I lost my—” (it wanted to swallow him whole) “—daughter. I know.” And he couldn’t help one tiny little sob.

Dagon stared at him, unreadable again, eyes shadowed. “You did, huh?”

Arthur’s voice was almost steady. “I do. I know. You… want to give up.” He swallowed, vision wavering, Cloud City smearing like a painting under heat. “Things like not wearing the same clothes for a week don’t matter anymore. You get aggressive, like maybe you hope someone will do the right thing and take you out, but they don’t, and they won’t, and you just have to wake up every damn day and it keeps happening, but she doesn’t come back, isn’t there when you wake, and the ones responsi… the ones who… who did it… got away.” Arthur's voice sounded distant even to him, over the rushing in his ears, a roaring flood, a rising clamor, and he didn’t realize he was hyperventilating until Dagon picked him up.

(Vague snarling back there like some dog robbed of its food)

Arthur dangled, hands up in a harmless gesture, eyes wide, held by his lapels

(by a giant hand around his waist)

up to eye level. “You’re real fucked up, too, huh?” Dagon said, low.

Focus. Focus. Just a little bit longer. “Yeah. Guess I am. But the vote’s really gotta… it matters. It matters.”

“Why?” said Dagon, quietly.

And Arthur said it, just said it, just went to that place. “How different would things be for you if someone had given a fuck about your family the way I’m asking you to give a fuck about other people’s?”

Dagon did not have a readable face. When still like that, terrifying like that, the stuff of deep-sea domains like that, danger was the only obvious projection. “Too late for me.”

“And for me,” said Arthur, low. “But not for them. Please.”

Dagon sighed slowly, deeply. “You’re kinda endearing, crazy man. I’ll think about it. I won’t promise you, so stop fuckin’ asking. But I’ll… think about it.” And surprisingly gently, he put Arthur down.

Arthur couldn’t stop shaking. Judgment loomed, an undertow, ready to pull him down.

“Aww, poor thing,” said Dagon, and patted him on the head. “You get on home, now.” Then he took Arthur by the shoulders, turned him around, and shoved him toward the exit.

Off-balance, Arthur staggered forward, carried that way merely because his own weight angled him forward, and his legs didn't want to fall down.

Hastur waited. Hand out. Not stepping through the gap in the hedge (territory), clearly eager for Arthur to return to him.

Parker did not look or sound calm. He shouted something, waved both arms.

Arthur couldn’t hear them. The rushing in his ears, the deep current of shame, eroded his mind with every step, and he tried to recall why he was really here—the case, something about a theft—but he could not, could only hear Faroe’s sweet giggle, could only feel her cold blood, and he staggered.

The bracelet on his wrist tightened suddenly, sharply, enough to cut his skin.

It sliced through the fog. He cried out and stopped, looking down, staring at the droplets of blood welling through the hole of each tiny link like eyes weeping red.

His vision went dark.

#

The undertow stopped.

The howling in his mind ceased as if someone had shut a door, and Arthur looked up.

The hedge was gone. The daylight was gone. He stood in a dark place, quiet except for the soft howl of air currents far above, surrounded by tall, black shapes like enormous coffins.

The bracelet fucking hurt, but something about it… it was like a knife made of ice, cutting through impossible fog, and he could think. (Could not remember the bad thing, not right now.) Vaguely, distantly, he knew why he was here.

The three sentences, from his dream. It was happening. This was the vote Mama Laveau wanted him to get in her place.

But it would be a challenge. This vote would be coming from someone on the Council who’d never, ever voted, who was locked away in mourning, who had walked away from the world, who had even less reason than Morrissey Dagon to care.

But Mama Laveau had sent him, and he would do what he had to do.

If only he could see. There must have been windows somewhere. Cold, lean light from maybe the moon kissed the tops of the coffin-whatevers (far too big too be coffins, bigger even than Dagon), but below that was only darkness.

This was where the Lady lived? Arthur swallowed. “Hello?”

“How in fuck?” came behind him, and a knife pressed into his back. “How in fuck, dude?”

The last of the three sentences: Her assistant won’t kill you if you don’t give her need.

Arthur would not give her need. “I’m sorry to bother you,” he started.

The knife dug in (though not as sharply as the bracelet). “I said,” threatened the young woman’s voice, “how in fuck? How did you get in here? Who are you? What the fuck do you want with her?”

Arthur swallowed. “Mama Laveau sent me. I don’t mean any harm, and I don’t want anything but just to talk to the Lady for a moment. I swear.”

A pause. “Mama who?”

And the next voice that came rose from this entire place, from everywhere, from the bookshelves (that’s what the coffin-things were), from the floor, the unseen ceiling, the moonlight itself. “Did she, now? That is quite a bold claim. Tabby, bring him to me. I would like to see his face.”

The woman named Tabby gripped his arm, and her knife-point didn’t leave his kidney. “Move. Try stupid shit and you are fucking ganked.”

Arthur walked where tugged. “Ganked?”

A sigh. “Just walk.”

Arthur did.

It was like walking in a tomb, in a mausoleum, in a graveyard if all the dead were somehow standing but no less full of all they once were. He caught glimpses of the books and scrolls that packed the shelves, spines burned and crinkled, gilded lettering all but destroyed; he heard his own steps snapping back at him like accusations, echoed by walls too far for him to see.

Mama Laveau’s words were clear. Three sentences. So simple. Tabby was obviously the assistant. But the last sentence… that’s what scared him most.

If you don’t get her vote, I think you’re going to lose, mon cherie.

Arthur walked in the dark, at Tabby’s prompts, and hoped his charm was up to snuff, because he knew that warning was right.

[samieree]

Goddess of Muspelheim || GOW Ragnarök

Heimdall x OC

-> Introduction + Prologue  -> masterlist

*Chapter 1 || We have to make some rules*

At first, Amaris wasn't positive about leaving her home world, thinking what had she done that her parents were sending her to Asgard for she didn't know exactly how long. They only told her that it would 'calm the atmosphere' between Asgard and Muspelheim. She didn't want to believe it too much, but all she could do was enjoy the fact that she would avoid the lessons with her aunt and see more of the other world.

Not that she'd never been to Asgard, but it was only at the feasts and she couldn't roam the land freely. Although who knows how it will be now, looking at the fact that she got a nanny in the form of... Heimdall.

Not going to lie, she doesn't know him very well, but she already knows what an asshole he is. And he's supposed to be the best person to make sure she doesn't accidentally hurt herself?

It'll be... Interesting.

"Of course, I love being a babysitter, but we need to set some ground rules." it's already starting, and they barely had time to leave Odin's house...  "You should write it down, you don't look like a person who has a good memory."

"Hey!"

"Rule number one: If you're not dying or losing a limb or something like that, don't scream or talk. Everything bright, clean and clear. Two: I don't care if you're bored. Third: DON'T touch me. Four: I'm not going to do anything with you." and so they walked slowly towards the wall, and she listed all his rules one by one... Honestly, Amaris only tried to listen to him a little, because she knew what skills he had and would probably know if she started ignoring him. "Twenty-fourth: If you get a bump or something, I don't care either, because it'll be YOUR fault." how much does he have? "Fifty-nine: I'm not a punching bag you can try to vent your teenage hysteria on." they go and they go, and he keeps talking... "One hundred and eighty-six: Just because I have to babysit you doesn't mean I'll be nice. " wow, like it's something new... "Rule number two hundred and four: You don't touch me under any circumstances..."

"You already said that." the fourteen-year-old cut him off, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Did I tell you not to talk?" He stopped abruptly and turned to her with his piercing gaze.

"Maybe there was something in the first ten rules..."

"Then you are not to speak." he interrupted her. "Rule two hundred and five..." he wanted to continue and go on as if nothing had happened, but Amaris spoke again.

"And if I do? And you skipped rule two hundred and four because it was before."  she noticed, and ran a little to catch up with him.

I hate children.

"If you do, I'll tie you to a stake in the middle of town, and I'll come only if someone wants to murder you. Do you understand, baby? Great, so rule two hundred and four..." She sighed heavily and rolled her eyes, just wondering how many more rules he'll come up with that she won't remember anyway...

What does it matter? He'd probably make them up anyway, whenever she did something he didn't like for some reason.

"And last, rule three hundred and forty-eight: I'm an adult, so I'm always right." He finished listing all these rules once they were on top of the wall encircling Asgard. "All clear?"

She was silent. He had told her not to talk to him, hadn't he? Well, she won't say anything, as he wish.

"Well, yes, to a child with special needs, I need to clarify a few things... You don't speak without being asked. When I expect an answer, you are to give it to me."

"How do I know you're expecting answer?" Did Odin really think he was the best babysitter here?

Sure, Thor would probably be even worse... And Sif has three children to deal with, but there's sure to be someone in all of Asgard more qualified for the role than Heimdall. She didn't doubt that Aesir had some advantages, but... Dealing with teenagers was definitely not one of them.

"Are you really that dull? I get it, you're young, but so unintelligent?"

"Are you so old that you forget to be clear?" she replied in the same tone. After all, what's wrong could happen to her? He's teasing her already, so why shouldn't she respond to him the same way? He won't do anything to her.

Right?

"Oh ho... The girl wants to argue with me?" Great, he laughed at her. "That's the fun you found to yourself?"

"I have a name, you know?" she snapped back.

"Yes yes, and now it's time for another game so I don't beat you up on the first day..." what? Is he just saying that or will he actually hit her if she pushes him to the brink? More probable is that she'll be the one whose psyche will fail faster, but what if not?

Maybe he'll even threaten to throw her off that wall?

"You said you won't care if I'm bored." But she decided to take the risk of teasing him further. At most, he'd kill her, and then her parents would kill him.

"You see this stone?" he asked, picking up the first stone he came across. She didn't quite know what he meant, but he walked to the edge of the wall and threw it somewhere in front of him. "Come back when you find it. And hope it didn't land on any rooftop."

Is he mocking her? Does she look like the kind of dog who'll take care of bringing back not even a stick, but some stupid stone?

And what's even worse is that Heimdall would know perfectly well if she brought some other stone to get him off her mind, after all, this damn Aesir can read minds.

That's why she didn't plan to participate in this 'game'.

"I'll be back when I find you a better sense of humor, it shouldn't take me long." she muttered angrily, watching him jump on one of the stones and sit on it as if nothing had happened.

Excuse me, this is his job? Lying all day, because few people are stupid enough to climb this wall, and even fewer will do it successfully?

Life is unfair.

"Seek what you want, just don't bother me and don't get yourself killed." I wonder what would happen if I tried to burn his braids... she thought, actually considering this option. Her hands literally burned her to try, even though he probably would have easily dodged her innocent attack. "Don't even think about it, sunshine. You can burn your hands by accident." Now I understand better why no one likes him.

"That would be a low price anyway." she answered.

"Oh, and grab something to eat while you're looking for that stone or sense of humor or whatever..." He waved his hand as a sign that she can go. I'll put rat poison in there... "And don't try to put rat poison or anything else in there!"

She still hadn't moved a step. She gave him a hateful look, which he obviously enjoyed.

When she couldn't bear his piercing gaze any longer, she turned her back on him and sat down on the ground. She quickly heard a sigh behind her and that he was rising from the stone.

"I swear, you get offended the fastest in the nine realms." She didn't react in any way. "Come on child, let's go get something to eat."

Before she knew it, he strode past her, ducking down for a moment, only to grab her arm tightly and start dragging her along the ground behind him.

"Hey, let me go! It's not funny!" no reaction. "I can walk by myself, you idiot!"

"So far, all I've noticed is that you're complaining." He finally released her. Amaris had never gotten up from the ground so quickly and brushed herself off. "Great, now that we've got your little sulk over with, let's go get something to eat. Or at least me, because I don't know if you can use cutlery yourself." After sending her one of his smirks, he moved forward again, and she slowly followed him.

Pff, of course she can eat with cutlery, what a stupid remark... She could even stick a fork in his neck with pleasure.

"Stop thinking about such things, because lest you hurt yourself, I'll have to feed you myself. And I absolutely don't want to." mocking him under her breath, she walked on.

Oh, it will take a long time for her to get used to her 'nanny'... But maybe she will find a way to make his life miserable and not spoil hers at the same time?

One thing is certain, her stay in Asgard will be interesting.

-> Next Chapter -> general masterlist -> God of War: Ragnarök masterlist

[hecatemoon87]

A Modern James Delaney Story - master list

Chapter Six

Tala hit the button for the 44th floor. As the elevator ascended, she waited awkwardly with two men in business suits who stood behind her. She was relived when the doors opened, because she was certain they had been staring at her ass the entire time.

There were two offices on this floor, so she briefly read a sign indicating that The Delaney Nootka Trading Company was on the left side of the 44th floor.

Opening one of the glass doors, Tala approach the reception desk. A hint of coffee and printer paper scented the air, and the faint sounds of phones ringing, keyboards, and people talking filled the back portion of the office.

"Good Morning, I'm Tala Swiftstorm. I'm Mr. Delaney's new personal assistant," Tala said.

A chubby, Latina woman looked up from her computer and smiled. "Yes, of course. He's expecting you. Just go down this hallway. And he'll be the last office on your left."

"Thank you," Tala said turning to proceed down the hallway. She saw that his office was open and she stepped in, knocking lightly on the door.

He was seated behind his desk, checking something on his mobile phone. She she knocked, he did not look up and maintained his focus on his phone.

"Tala, didn't I say eight a.m.?" he said, locking his phone then setting it down next to his laptop. He placed his arms on his desk and folded his hands, giving her a firm stare.

"You did? I'm sorry, I must have not heard you," she said, batting her eyes innocently. She was well aware that in this situation she had the upper hand. Her posing has his personal assistant for a few weeks was a favor after all. Also, she knew that he was very attracted to her.

He arched an eyebrow, but did not push the matter further. It was eight-thirty a.m., not the end of the world. She waited for him to say something else, but instead he simply looked her up and down. It was quite obvious he was undressing her with his eyes.

She was wearing a tight, black business skirt and a deep purple blouse. Which reminded her. She dug in her purse and extracted a receipt. She came up to his desk and placed it in front of him.

"I'd like to expense this," she said.

He picked it up and read the receipt. "Nine hundred and eighty-six dollars for clothes?"

"Yes, I didn't have any classy office clothing," she said, completely confident he'd pay the bill.

"Fine," he scoffed and folded the receipt. He got up from behind his desk and walked her across the hall to an office that was parallel to his own. It was a much smaller office, but it had a window. And on her desk was a vase of roses.

"This will be your space for the next few weeks," he said, standing off to the side and pocketing the receipt. Tala walked over and picked up the roses, she loved roses. She smelled them and said, "Okay, I could get used to this."

"Since I'm buying you clothing and flowers now, perhaps you'd reconsider that date?" he said, boldly.

That made Tala laugh and she shook her head as she walked behind the desk. "Nope. Clothing and flowers are lovely and all, but what really turns me on is a man who can accept who he really is."

"Right, and just how do I prove that to you?" James asked.

"You can't figure that out on your own?" she said, sitting down. "Now, really, Mr. Delaney, I'm trying to work here. If you don't leave me alone I'll cry sexual harassment," she said in a teasing manner.

"Very well, let's start the work day, shall we?" he said, and walked back into his office.

The remaining part of the day went by in a blur. Tala was impressed by how organized Lorna had been. James' schedule was very clear and well coordinated, which made it much easier for Tala to inform him of his upcoming week.

However, she soon found James was a rather demanded boss. He asked for her to get his coffee, order his lunch, send out important emails and update reports for a meeting he had coming up.

"And make sure you use Ariel font, not times. You did that in your emails and it looks appalling," he said, as she set his lunch in front of him.

She couldn't help but glare at him, but said nothing because after all he was paying her. She wouldn't tell him this, but she needed the money.

Towards the end of day, Tala walked into his office yet again. She had some documents that he needed to sign off on. Handing him a folder, James' took it and began signing. "How was your first day?" he asked.

"Do you want the truth or shall I sugar coat it for you?"

He smiled. She noticed that he never smiled completely. It was just a slight pull around his lips, something you'd have to look for closely in order to realize he was even smiling. "I want to hear the sugar coated version, then the truth."

"Oh, Mr. Delaney. Today was such a great experience, it's a real pleasure to be working for such a talented and handsome man," she said, making her voice sound as girly and flirty as possible.

He chucked and closed the folder and handed it back to her. "And the truthful version?" he said.

"You're kind of an asshole," she said, taking the folder.

"Yes, so I've been told," he said, sitting back.

"Lorna said she was in love with you, really? After working for you for five years? Did she have Stockholm syndrome or something?"

"Lorna was a formidable woman, I assure you. I was very fond of her. She took my demeanor in stride, and she'd often put me in place if needed," he said.

"Oh, so why didn't you just date her like she wanted. Sounds like you admire her."

"Admiration does not necessary equate to attraction, Tala," he said.

"I suppose not...poor Lorna," she said, feeling a little sad for Ms. Bow.

"She will be fine. And you...I want to know what you're doing tonight." he said, standing up from his desk and walking over to her.

"I'm doing nothing. And I intend on doing nothing," she said, folding her arms.

"I'd very much like it if you came over to my home, had dinner," he said.

"Oh my god, you are relentless aren't you? The answer is still no. Not until..."

"Not until I sort my shit out as you have eloquently put it. I know. But how am I going to do that without your help, exactly? Didn't you say you would be a friend to me and help?"

"But friends don't invite each other to their big mansion homes, wine and dine them and hope to have sex after," she said, poking him in the chest.

James made a faint expression of mock offense. "Sex? Tala, that is the furthest thing from my mind. That is, unless, you want to, of course."

Tala rolled her eyes and hit his arm with the folder. "I'll see you at seven, James, and no, I do not." Which was a blatant lie on her part.

[hannahssimblr]

Chapter Twenty-Six (Part 3)

Later on, back at my parents house, he parallel parks his car out on the street in one easy manoeuvre, and for some reason, that simple action knocks the wind out of me. “That was hot,” I say. 

He eyes me, amused. “Keep your knickers on Kilbride. At least until we get upstairs.”

“Oh, yeah,” I grimace as I lead him up the driveway. “My parents want you to sleep on the couch,” I expect him to make a joke about it, or say something like “It’s a bit late for them to save your virginity,” But he understands. Shrugging, he just says, “Yeah, sure. Absolutely.”

“I’m sorry, it’s just how they are, they were always really strict about boys and things. They never even let me go camping if someone’s boyfriend was going to be there. I think it was a teen pregnancy thing.”

“I get it, it’s their house so it’s their rules,” He says. “Plus, the pregnancy thing… I mean, it is catholic Ireland after all.”

When we go inside my parents are just settling in front of the TV with a glass of wine. They swivel their heads when the front door slams. “Oh, hope you don’t mind, Jude,” My mother says very politely. “But we’re just going to watch something before bed. I’ll make the couch up for you afterwards.”

“There’s no rush, but thank you Marian.” He smiles. 

“Can we hang out in my room?” I ask. 

“Yes but leave the door open,” I’m aware that this is a glimpse into what my life would have been like if I’d actually had a boyfriend when I was a teenager, and I wonder if mam is thinking the same thing. It’s like seeing the ghost ship I never boarded and feels weird. I take Jude’s hand and lead him upstairs. 

“This is my room,” I say, reverently opening the door. “I know it’s small. Everything in this house is small.”

“It’s not that small,” He says. “But I’m actually more shocked that I can see the floor,” I laugh and punch him gently in the arm. “That’s only because I don’t live here anymore. You should have seen it when I was still at school, it was absolutely disgusting. All of the time. Like old mugs of tea and everything,” I glance at him as I move to sit on the bed to see how repulsive he finds that, but he doesn’t even flinch as he carefully leaves the door ajar behind him and plonks next to me. “My room was sick too,” He admits. “I had such an aversion to keeping it tidy, it was like, the only room in the house that I wouldn’t let the cleaner into. It felt like a weird control thing.” 

“How did all of the girls you brought home feel about that?” I tease, and he gives me a sidelong glance. “All three thousand of them, you mean?”

I laugh and smooth the covers of my bed, freshly changed into the same pink frilly ones I remember picking out in the shop about twelve years ago. They’re thin and faded from use now, and I still remember how vibrant they used to be. “Well this bed has never seen any action,” I say. “It’s pure innocence objectified. I never even had a chaste kiss in this room. How sad.” Jude remedies that quickly by planting a firm lips on mine. “Glad to be the first,” He says, and I blush like a little girl. 

“Oh, look,” He says, eyes catching something over my shoulder, and reaches to the bedside table to take a framed photo into his hands. He turns it to show me a photo that’s been there forever. It’s me, smiling with a missing left incisor tooth on the day of my first holy communion. “Tiny little bride.”

I gaze at it fondly. “That was 2001. Caroline, Shane’s mam sewed that dress for me because I didn’t like any of the ones in the shops. It was so exciting to have something custom made and along with that I got eighty pounds in gifts that day.”

“Pounds?”

“Yeah we didn’t have the euro yet.”

“Well that’s a lot of money for an eight year old.”

“Kelly got three hundred and twenty five pounds and a gold necklace with praying hands on it.” I say, lips pursed with envy.

“Is that a rough estimation, or?”

I take the picture into my own hands and brush the light layer of dust away from the glass. I was so small. Small even for an eight year old. This was a little bit before my sudden, dramatic and heinously awkward growth spurt that turned me from a tiny child to an angular jumble of sharp knees and elbows the height of an adult woman in the space of ten months. I remember how much bigger the other girls looked in the communion group photo, especially Kelly, who even got her first period the following year. For some reason looking at myself as a child makes me emotional, because I’ve come to understand that all of the things that have happened to me in my life have happened to her. When I scold myself for being unworthy or undeserving of happiness and nice things, amn’t I really saying those things to this child? I place the picture back on the table. “Sometimes I wish I was little again.” 

“Yeah, me too.”

I rest my hand on his knee and he turns it over to wind our fingers together. “What were you like?” He asks. 

“I was so quiet, and so anxious. I got overwhelmed and I cried an awful lot.”

“I’m sure you were more than those things.”

“I liked drawing, reading, and playing with dolls,” I say. “I used to take all of the books out of the bookcase in the living room and turn it into a high-rise apartment for my Bratz dolls. I made beds out of shoe boxes with face cloths for the sheets. I was always making up stories for them.”

“What kind of stories?”

“Love stories,” I smile, “Always love stories, like, finding the perfect man was the ultimate goal. I was obsessed.”

“Lucky you found him,” He smirks, and I push him away from me. 

“Do you think you’d have liked me when you were a child? Or a teenager?” I ask. “Like, if we’d gone to the same school do you think we’d have gotten along?���

“Yeah.” He says, “I wish I’d known a kid like you back then. I think we would have been good for each other, you know? It seems like we wanted the same thing but could never get it from the people around us.”

“What’s that?”

“Not to grow up too quickly, like, to be allowed to just be a kid.”

These words make my heart ache with want. I don’t think I ever really thought about how badly I needed permission to just be how I wanted to be. To not rush things, to not have awful kisses with boys when I wasn’t old enough to have those feelings, to not steal cans of cider from my dad’s stash and take them down to a field to drink. I wish I never worried about fake IDs and someone’s eighteen year old sister that kind of looks like me if you squint your eyes, or about having the shortest skirt at school, rolled up at the waist until I had to hold it to the back of my legs going up the stairs.

“I still want that.” I whisper. 

“Me too.”

I’m almost sure I’m about to burst out crying, so I quickly turn around and whip open the bottom drawer of my bedside table, remembering the things I had intended to show him when he visited. “Look.” I say, dropping them onto his lap, much to his surprise. “These are my dirtiest secrets.” He seems a bit confused about what he’s looking at. A form. A book. A scrap of card. 

I clarify, “These are my Jude things.”

“Oh,” He says, opening the cover of Goodnight Mr Tom. “This is my book.”

I nod. “I stole it.”

“I didn’t take you for a thief,” His eyes are gleaming. He didn’t take me for one, but he likes it. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “It was just on impulse, the morning of your flight before I left your house I just kind of… rushed in and snatched it. I liked that it had your handwriting in it, I suppose,” I pull the scrap of card out from underneath the book to show him. “As does this. Do you remember this?”

“Yeah, of course,” He breathes. “I was trying to sound so nonchalant. ‘See you later, alligator,’” He lets out a short, mocking laugh. “Dickhead. That was a shit morning. I sat in the kitchen having this miserable bowl of cereal, hoping you’d wake up and come down to say goodbye to me. I don’t know what this note was about, to be honest. Just a last ditch effort for some contact with you. Maybe I thought I was being romantic.”

“I used to look at it every night and cry,” I admit. “That’s so embarrassing, Jesus. Sorry, but I did. I cried for weeks.”

“Awh, man.”

I pull the final item out and lay it on top of the other two with intention. “And this is the admission form for the Berlin Academy of Fine Arts.”

His eyes snap to mine. “You applied?”

“Well, no. I didn’t. See? The form is empty.”

He smooths his hands over the paper like there is some intense meaning to the pages and its blank boxes. “I can’t believe you considered that. That’s nuts.”

“It was nuts. You weren’t even speaking to me at that point, I was just so desperate for some contact with you. I was probably one step away from sending one cent to your bank account with a note saying ‘please text me’,” I observe him. “What would you have done if I actually applied and got accepted?”

“I don’t know, honestly. I would have been shocked. Is it what you would have really wanted?”

I consider this. “To be with you? Yes. But to live in Berlin? No, I don’t think it was the right thing for me. I wasn’t ready to live abroad.”

“Well then I’m really glad you didn’t. Imagine chasing eighteen year old Jude Turner to Germany,” He shudders. “Disaster.”

I laugh and hook my thigh over his so that he can rest his hand on it. “I think I’d be so sickened if you changed your plans for me. Like at that point in your life anyway. Things are so changeable right now and every choice feels so important. If you’d come to Berlin it would have been so wrong, you mightn’t have been making any of the amazing things that you’re making now. I’d have felt so guilty if I knew I was the sole reason you chose to come.”

“Well, lucky I didn’t.”

There’s a long silence after he moves the items off his lap and onto the bed, and we both stare off into the distance, his fingers pulsing a gentle rhythm on the top of my knee. Grasshoppers chirp outside now, and the sound drifts through the open window in unison with the muggy air while bass notes from the TV downstairs reverberate through the floor. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you looked at jobs in LA?” It’s out of me before I even realise it, but Jude turns and looks at me like he’s been waiting for me to ask him all day. “Because it was nothing, it was just out of curiosity, and I’m really not looking to move to the states right now.” 

“Were you scared that I’d think you’d leave?”

“No, it was nothing like that, I just wanted to compare the number of jobs available, that’s all. I don’t want you to think that I was hiding something from you, I’d never do that.”

“Well…” I pause, “Do you think maybe you should even reach out to those companies for feedback? Even if you don’t apply to them, they might give you advice that would be helpful for the London jobs.”

“Well, yeah, I never thought about that. Maybe.”

“You know I just want you to be happy,” I say with a new tremor that seems to come from nowhere. “You’ll always do what’s best for you, right?”

“What’s best for me is to be with you,” He bends over to ease me into a long, dreamy kiss. “Didn’t we have a rule about discussing job applications? What was that you were saying earlier about my sexy parallel parking skills?”

“Oh I could go on and on,” I say. “I could probably write an essay about the muscles in your forearms, actually.”

“Interesting.”

“Do you want to hear some of the highlights?”

“Yeah, maybe later.” We kiss until we hear the TV switch off, and then, like teenagers we scamper apart, and he hurries downstairs to sleep on the couch. 

Beginning // Prev // Next

[elwynten]

Chapter 25

Talk with Miach, Hephaestus, Hestia and Takemikazuchi about immortality.

I invited Miach, Hephaistos, Hestia and Takemikazuchi to a special supper. I served hamburgers and French fries. Something they have never had before. The food was quite the surprise to our guests, although they did like the food.

The conversation was easy because our guests are kind and friendly people, or should I say 'gods'.

About halfway through the meal Miach spoke up. "While I do appreciate this delicious and unusual food. I have to wonder why you invited all of us here."

I smiled a Miach. "I have two reasons for inviting all of you here. The first is to try out the hamburgers and French fries, to see if y'all would like them. I might open a restaurant that serves them as well as a few other foods. The second reason is the main reason y'all were invited. And that reason is a little more… how should I put it… sensitive." I started.

Hephaistos nodded her head. "The food is very good. If you do open a restaurant, I will visit it regularly. Unless I can get the recipe so my cooks can make it." She said with a smile.

I chuckled. "Over time people will probably figure out how to make the hamburgers and fries, but until then I don't plan on giving out the recipe. But since y'all are my test subjects I'll let y'all eat for free for six months." I told Hephaistos and the others.

Take' nodded his head in agreement. "That sounds like a good offer." He admitted.

"Once the shop is open, I would appreciate if y'all would let everyone know how good the food is and get the word out." I told them.

They all nodded their heads in agreement. "What is the sensitive subject you wished to talk to us about?" Miach asked.

"Yes, what would be so sensitive that you would need to talk to us?" Hephaistos asked me as she looked between Hestia and myself.

I saw where Hephaistos was looking. "Hestia doesn't know what I want to talk to you about." I started. "So, to get to the point. To you 'gods' us mortals are only here for a blink of an eye. Some of you have fallen in love with a mortal to only have them die of old age in mere moments as far as you are concerned. I was wondering what you would think if there was a way for some of your 'children' to live hundreds or even thousands of years instead of sixty to eighty years." I started.

They all had surprised looks in their faces. "Sadly, our children can only live a short time. It is the way of the world." Take' said.

"Yes, as much as we would like our children to live longer, it is not possible." Hephaistos added.

"I would love to have Bell with me forever, but sadly it can't happen." Hestia said with a sad expression on her face.

Take' looked me in the eyes. "Why would you ask such a thing?" Take' asked. There was no anger in his voice, just curiosity and possibly some concern.

"I'm over sixty years old. I don't age, because 'I' am immortal. I will never die unless I am killed, or I want to die." I told them.

"You're telling us that you're a god?" Take' asked leaning forward onto the table.

I shook my head, negative. "No, I'm not a 'god', and I have never claimed to be one. But I was gifted immortality, 'and' I was given the ability to give that same immortality to anyone I want to." I said. "Now the immortality I can give to others does not prevent that person or people from being killed, but they will never die of old age. They will stay young forever." I explained.

Hephaistos stood up quickly causing the legs of her chair to scrape and squeal across the floor and looked down at me. "You're telling us that you are immortal, and you can make others immortal as well!?" She exclained.

"You mean Bell could be with me forever?" Hestia asked with a huge smile on her face and shining eyes.

I grinned at Hestia because I know how much she cares for Bell. "His life has already been extended. When I gave him a Companion, his life was extended to over four hundred years. It's the same with everyone I gave a Companion to." I informed Hestia.

Miach looked at me with a confused look on his face. "Companion? Who or what is this companion?" He asked me.

Hephaistos sat back down.

"Have you seen any of the animals that usually accompany our Familia's members?" I asked Miach.

"Yes, I have." He replied.

"Those animals are Companions. They are 'not' normal animals. They have human intelligence, they are stronger, more durable and have some other abilities and/or powers. And those abilities and powers are shared with their human partner." I informed them. "One of those abilities is Regeneration or quick self-healing. Some of them heal so fast a lost arm or leg will regrow in about seven days. Others the Regeneration will restore a lost arm or leg in an hour or less. And depending on the speed of the Regeneration the Companion and their partner will live three to six times longer than normal. In other words, they will live to be around two hundred forty years to four hundred and fifty years old." I explained.

Miach's face showed shock on it. "Those animals are as intelligent as humans? That's not possible." He stated.

I chuckled. "Taima would you come in here please." I called to Taima who was just outside the room. *In cat form please.* I sent to her as well.

A moment later the door opened, and Taima in her Snow Leopard form walked into the room. Taima trotted over to an empty chair at the table and jumped up onto it, then she put her front paws on the table. "Who doesn't believe I'm intelligent?" She asked our guests.

Miach and Hephaistos pushed their chairs back away from the table, while Take' had a thoughtful look on his face.

Hestia gave Taima a dirty look. "Paws!" Hestia told Taima with a little heat.

Taima removed her front paws from the table and placed them on the chair. "Sorry, lady Hestia." Taima said to Hestia.

"Thank you, Taima." Hestia said as Taima removing her paws from the table.

Hephaistos, Miach and Take' all gave Hestia and Taima surprised looks.

I chuckled. "Hestia, rightly so, will not allow anyone or anything to put their feet on the dining table." I explained.

"She-she… the c-cat removed her feet from the table when Hestia said 'paws'." Hephaistos observed. "Hestia didn't even tell the cat what to do. She just said 'paws' and the cat removed her feet from the table." Hephaistos said surprised.

"That's because Taima knew what Hestia meant and she also knows she's not supposed to put her feet up on the table." I explained.

"I did know what lady Hestia meant. That is why I took my front paws off the table." Taima explained. "And since Eilwyn is immortal, I am immortal also. A Companion's life span is the same as their partner's. That means when a Companion's partner dies, the Companion dies. Which means since Eilwyn is immortal, I am immortal." Taima added.

Miach looked at me for several moments. "Can you prove you are immortal?" Miach asked me.

"Not really. How would anyone prove they are immortal? Although I can give you information that might help you believe What I have said is true." I told Miach and the others. I held out my hand and summoned from my closet PD, the first paper Hestia had given me with my status on it after she had given me her 'Blessing'. "When I joined Hestia's Familia, she handed me this paper. It's the first paper with my status on it. I kept it just in case I needed it, and it looks like I need it." I told them then handed Miach the paper.

Miach's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. "Th-this isn't p-p-possible!" He exclaimed.

Hephaistos reached across the table and took the paper out of Miach's hand. She looked the paper over.

"I would appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone about what you are seeing. You know how some of the 'gods' want anyone that's different." I told them. I also pushed it into their minds that they would not tell anyone and that they would only talk about it if they were alone with the other people in this room.

Hephaistos handed the paper to Take' so he could read it. "How is this possible? How could you be so… so… so powerful?" Hephaistos asked me and Hestia.

I chuckled. "I really must record that story, so I don't have to keep repeating it. Long story short. I was in an accident, a life-threatening accident. I heard a voice in my head after I blacked out. The voice told me, my dreams would come true. When I woke up, Taima was there looking at me, and I had all the powers and abilities you saw on the paper and many more that aren't on the paper." I explained to Miach, Hephaistos and Take'. "And one of those abilities is immortality." I told them. "Plus, I can give that very same immortality to anyone I want. I have already given Cindy, Iris and Kimmy immortality, and I'm thinking of giving Rosni, Bell, Welf and the rest of the Hestia Familia immortality. Of course, I'll ask before I give anyone immortality.

"You have abilities not listed on your status sheet?" Take' asked.

I nodded my head in agreement. "Yes, I can see in total darkness, and I can see in infrared, which means I can see the heat that people, animals and other objects give off. And…" I said while I stood up and moved behind my chair. I extended my Extra Arms out, using three of them to lift myself off the floor. The fourth 'arm' I reached over the table and used to scratch Taima on the head between her ears.

"You know I prefer that you use your hands when you scratch my head." Taima gave me a mild rebuke.

I chuckled. "I was just demonstrating how my 'Extra Arms' work." I replied.

Hephaistos stood up and looked at my 'extra arms'. "How do those work?" She asked with awe in her voice and on her face.

I shrugged my shoulders. "I don't really know how they work. They are just one of the abilities I received, and I can use them just like I can use my natural arms." I told Hephaistos. "And again, please don't tell anyone about any of this." I reiterated.

"B-but if you don't know how they work. How do you repair them when they get damaged?" Hephaistos asked me.

I smiled. "That's the nice thing about them. They don't get damaged, so they don't need repaired. They are indestructible." I told Hephaistos.

Hephaistos stared at my 'Extra Arms'. "But even unbreakable swords need to be sharpened and maintained."

"These don't, along with all of my weapons and the weapons of my Familia. None of them need to be sharpened nor do they need to be maintained." I assured Hephaistos. I set myself back on the floor and retracted the 'extra arms'. Then I summoned my naginata to my hand. I handed it to Hephaistos to look over. "You might want to take a look at this." I suggested.

Hephaistos took the naginata from me and started taking a close look at it. "Who made this weapon?" She asked.

I shrugged my shoulders. "No clue. I got it along with all the other weapons from my Armory. Why?" I replied.

Hephaistos looked up at me with awe on her face. "This is a perfect weapon. There are no flaws, no blemishes, no imperfections. It's perfect. What are these markings?" She said pointing to the runes on my naginata.

"Those are runes that allow the owner of the weapon to do different things." I started. I pointed to each rune as I explained what they do. "That one is a Bonding Rune. It allows you to bond or store the weapon 'in' yourself. It doesn't harm you and you don't even know it's there. Plus, you can summon it to your hand whenever you need it, and while it's Bonded to you, you can use any of the other runes when you want to use them. Then there is:

Electrical Control (create and control electricity) Metal Control (create and control metals) Weather Control Healing (Heal people, mend/repair non-magical objects) Air Control (Create and control air) Multiples (Doppelganger, make copies of the weapon) Purify (Cleanse wounds, food, places) Elementalist (Electricity, Air or Earth can be used on the blade to cause greater damage) Extended Range Danger Sense."

I listed everything the runes on Sasori and what they each can give the owner the ability to do.

"It will not crumble after you use the magic a certain number of times. It lasts forever or until I put it back into the Armory. And it doesn't use mind to power it, so you don't have to worry about mind down or mind zero after you've used the magic several times." I told Hephaistos.

Hephaistos sat in her chair shaking her head in disbelief as she read what was on the blade. "There' are hieroglyphs on the blade as well." She said as she read what it said. "This is Hestia's Falna!?"

"This first side reads; The truest of silver and brilliance of mithril, shapes thy body. The true light shall be clouded if touched by others. Take care, as only one who shares your blood, can draw this blade." Hephaistos read.

"The edge of the blade says; You are the Goddess Hestia’s double. The flame of hearth that splits the shadow, the one who cuts through the path of your master. You are to be the forever companion, protecting your master." Hephaistos continued.

"And the other side says; The master of The Armory, being an ally of Hestia, to create this weapon. Marked by the Falna, god’s Blade, you are our beloved Familia. Commanded to be equal to the name of Hestia. Share your strength and give glory to the ones who share your blood. The name of your master, Eilwyn Tengee. You become the other half of your master; may you smile together, rage together, cry together, hurt together, travel together, surpass hardships together, grow together. Excelia be your food, sharpen your edge, and reach new height together." She finished reading what was written on the blade.

"This weapon is alive. It'll grow as you grow and get stronger as you grow stronger. How did you get this?" Hephaistos asked shocked and surprised by what she had read.

I grinned. "I told you; I got it from my Armory. And I should let you know that everyone in the Hestia Familia has their own version. Bell has a Hestia knife, I have my Hestia Naginata, Welf has a Hestia Sword, Cindy has a Pair of Hestia Gossip Yuanyang Tomahawks, Iris has two Hestia Hook Swords, Kimmy has a Hestia Pole Axe…" I started listing off all the 'Hestia" weapons, but Hephaistos stopped me before I could finish.

Hephaistos held up her hand, palm facing me. "Enough I don't need to hear what everyone's 'Hestia' weapon is. If they can do what I think they can, they could become the most powerful weapons on the planet." She said with awe and fear on her face and in her voice.

"I also have a couple different styles of Hestia Short Swords as well." I added.

"I said ENOUGH!" Hephaistos said forcefully. "I don't need to hear the whole list. It's bad enough everyone in the Hestia Familia has one of those in the first place."

I chuckled at Hephaistos's dilemma. I tried to change the subject back to immortality. "We'll drop the weapons for now." I said and summoned my naginata to my hand. Hephaistos's hand still looked like she was holding the shaft of my naginata although her hand was empty. Hephaestus jumped in shock and surprise to find her hand empty and my naginata back in my hand. I then Bonded it to myself.

"Back to the immortality. What would you think of me giving a few people immortally? Of course, everyone in the Hestia Familia will receive immortality, 'if' they want it. And I would have no problem giving those in the Miach Familia, Take' Familia and some in the Hephaistos Familia Immortality if they want it as well." I offered.

Miach looked at me thoughtfully. "Would anyone that you give this immortality to also receive one of those Hestia weapons?" He asked me.

I shook my head in the negative. "No of course not, because they are not in the Hestia Familia. All of the Hestia weapons only work for people 'in' the Hestia Familia. Anyone else that tries to use them, the weapon looks, feels and acts like a piece of useless junk." I explained. "Now, I can get Miach Familia weapons as well as Take' Familia weapons." I said then I looked at Hephaistos. "I'm guessing your smiths wouldn't want one. Although Welf has one and is trying to figure out how to make them himself." I told Hephaistos and grinned.

Hephaistos rolled her eyes. "That child." She said exasperated.

"Since Nahza isn't an adventurer anymore. I don't see any reason to give her a Miach Familia weapon, but I'll leave that up to you and her." I told Miach.

Miach looked at me for a moment then he nodded his head in agreement. "I can see that reasoning." He admitted. Miach then looked at Take' and Hephaistos then back to me. "I believe we will need to talk more about this immortality before we tell our children about it, or even think about offering them immortality." He told me.

"Yes, we should talk about it amongst the three of us." Take' said.

Hephaistos nodded her head in agreement. "Definitely we'll need to talk about it more. If we have any questions, will you be available to answer them, Eilwyn?" She said.

"If I'm able to, I'll answer any questions you have. But you have to realize I don't know all of the answers." I replied.

Hephaistos nodded her head in understanding. "That is acceptable."

"Now if everyone isn't off their food. We have bubbly pies for dessert." I offered.

= = = = = = = = = =

A fortnight later (2 weeks) Takemikazuchi, Hephaistos and Miach returned to the Heartstone Manor. This time we were sitting in the living room.

"You are sure anyone that receives this immortality does not age?" Miach asked me.

"Yes and no. They will age to their prime which is usually around twenty-five years of age. But once they reach their prime age, they will stop aging." I answered. "Plus, if someone that is over their prime receives immortality, they will age backwards until they are at their prime, then they will stay at that age." I added.

Miach nodded his head in understanding. "What does it take to give this immortality to a person?" He asked.

"It takes about five minutes to give the immortality to a person." I told Miach. "Although I do have the option to 'not' give immortality to anyone I feel is unfit to receive it. There are some people that would abuse it. Plus, it is free. The immortality is 'not' for sale. That way it cannot be considered something that only the rich or rich Familia's can obtain. Although I would like to keep this as quiet as possible. I don't want anyone and everyone coming to the door wanting immortality." I told them. "And one more thing. After I give someone immortallity, I can take it away if I feel they don't deserve it or are abusing it."

"That is understandable. Would you be willing to give my 'children' immortality?" Take' asked.

I nodded my head in agreement. "Yes, I would. They will either have to come here or I'll have to go to your home to do it. And they will have to want immortality as well." I told Take'.

Take' nodded his head in understanding. "That is as expected."

I looked at Miach. "What about you?" I asked him.

"I will tell them about it and leave it up to them." Miach told me.

I turned to Hephaistos. "With as many members you have in your Familia, you might want to give it to only those that work hard, learn their trade well and won't use immortality to build themselves up." I suggested.

Hephaistos nodded her head in agreement. "Kind of like a bonus for doing good and not cheating customers. Sadly, there are a few in my Familia that try to pass off shoddy work for first class work." She admitted.

"Sadly, that happens in the best of businesses." I agreed.

I turned to Take' and Miach. "If you would talk to your Familia's and find out if they want immortality or not and who wants it, then let me know. After you do that, I'll give immortality to those that want it." I told them.

[fearsome-series]

Book One [Book Two]

Chapter One | Two | Three | Four | Five | [Six] | Seven | Eight | Nine

As Laura slammed the door behind her, she smelled…something…something…

Like a rat.

“Gef?” Laura said. “You awake?”

Gef stirred, slowly opened one eye. “Blast it, you’re a subtle one, aren’t you? Slamming the door like a Buggane’s chains.”

“Stop saying ‘Buggane’ like I should know what a ‘Buggane’ is!” Laura threw herself on her bed. “Don’t explain. Good night, Gef.”

“Don’t you want to hear if anything -”

“Good night, Gef.” She turned away.

“I didn’t see it. The black dog,” Gef said.

Laura turned back. “What, you were looking out for it?”

“I was keeping an eye out. Didn’t want to be its dinner.”

“Or you want us to be safe.”

“I’d never! I’ll be happy to see home tomorrow. You’ll see.”

“Sure, Gef,” and she turned away again.

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

Laura woke up again. She heard a distant dog’s barks, a car pulling in late, and Gef’s snores. He lay curled up on the floor. At least someone could sleep.

She tiptoed past Gef, knocked on her parent’s door and asked for dad. After a couple minutes, he stumbled out.

“Laura?”

“I just wanted to say sorry. It’s just been overwhelming, and...I got angry. Sorry.”

“I probably haven’t been helping, huh? I’ve been so concerned. Or curious. Or both. Con-curi-rned.”

“Yeah.” Laura made herself laugh.

Chris and Laura tiptoed to the kitchen. “So, how was school?”

A cult tried to murder me in a bathroom. “It was okay. Uh, I had soccer and after that I met Sam.”

“Huh. Wow. Who’s Sam again?”

“She…plays soccer and basketball. And she’s a werewolf. Is that all you want to talk about? School?”

“Well, I forgot to ask. Kinda busy getting my entire worldview shattered.”

“Yeah. You’ve been through so much,” she said insincerely.

“You too,” he smiled. 

“Uh, how was work?”

“Good. We interviewed some TED Talk tech guy and heard back from Ray. He’s safe.”

“Who’s Ray and what’s he safe from?”

“Do you want to hear about the very depressing news story he was investigating?”

“No.”

Chris patted Laura’s head. “You should get some sleep, Laur.”

“Thanks, dad.” She went back to her room, where Gef watched her with bleary eyes.

“Can’t sleep either?” Laura asked him.

“I was counting sheep like a hungry w…coyote - until you barged in. What were you doing?”

“Saying sorry to my dad for telling him to shut up earlier.”

“Did you mean it?”

“No. I don’t know. Maybe I just wanted to talk to someone.”

“Gef’s right here, if you need to talk.”

“Fine. Gef, I keep getting thrown into werewolf shit, and now black-dog-maybe-a-werewolf shit, and I’m tired. I want to talk about anything else, but what else is there? My brain’s thinking about everything and I can’t focus on anything.”

Gef pilfered Laura’s phone from her jacket and flicked through. Laura reached out futilely, tired arms pawing at the air as he swiped furiously just out of reach.

“Downloading, downloading...‘Random Icebreakers’...favorite airline.”

“Who the hell has a favorite airline? They all suck.”

“I stowaway on boats. Favorite season?”

“Summer. Wait, spring. You?”

“Fall. Why?”

“It’s warm but not too warm…you?”

“Everything’s dying!”

“Wow, what an in-depth topic, with so much to say.”

Gef flopped onto the table, tossing Laura’s phone to the side. “You come up with something! This damned app-useless!”

“Uhhhh…”

“Uh?”

“Uh.” Laura closed her eyes and tried to sleep.

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

Laura’s weary eyes opened slowly, revealing a room still dark and Gef still restlessly perched on the table. Every now and then, Gef looked over at the window. No movement.

“You too?”

“Hmph.”

“So you’re from India.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re one hundred and seventy?”

“Seventy, sixty-nine, seventy-one. Eighty. Give or take a few years. Or decades. Young, wild mongeese tend not to keep track of the time.”

“If you were born wild, how’d you learn to talk?”

“I always knew something was different. That my fellows all thought differently, thought less than me - and withered and died. But as for talking - only recitation ‘til Voirrey.”

“Yeah? That the girl Manuel mentioned?”

“Can’t believe there’s only two pages on me in there. You know, I have my own Wikipedia page.”

“Really?”

“Don’t dawdle, look it up!”

Laura did, and to her shock, there he was. Gef the talking mongoose. Did everyone know about him but her? How’d he get here, anyway?

“Still says nothing past that.”

“Hmm...odd. Embarrassing, it is. You know, I joined the circus once.”

“Really? What’d you do?”

“Talk, whilst being a mongoose - when they paid me.”

“But what about the Irvings?”

“...never met her again. Them again. Why so curious about my secrets? What about you?”

“Uh, I’m not really hiding anything.”

“Well, what menial drudgery do your parents suffer to shelter you in this hovel?”

“We aren’t poor, Gef. Mom works for a newspaper. Dad’s a producer for a public radio station. It’s not a hovel and, hey, you sleep in a zoo?”

“I had important work -”

“You slept in a zoo, Gef.”

“Yes, twenty hours a day. Like I said, important work..”

“...I’m gonna try for three hours tonight.”

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

Knocking on her door. “Laura?”

Laura’s eyes slowly opened. “Yeah? Come in.” She threw an arm over the snoring mongoose on her table.

Her mom opened the door. “Your dad says that someone called Jessie Ashdown will be driving you to school?”

“Uh…Jessie?”

“Yes, they run a community center?”

“Oh. Yeah. We have to, uh, talk about…there’s this therapy thing, over what happened in Elkhorn.”

“I see. He says you had a support group during the play last night?”

“Yeah, yeah. Over, you know. All of this. The trauma. You know, the trauma of a traumatic event can linger for a while…” She didn’t know what she was talking about, she was just quoting a line from a horror movie she saw about smiling demons or something.

Her mom nodded, and walked back out into the hallway. Laura quickly got dressed and got her bag ready - shoved Gef into it (he still didn’t wake up) and went outside.

Jessie was driving a van, marked with the community center’s name and logo; her dad saw her off, and Laura waved to him as they pulled away.

“I wanted to check in with ya after last night,” Jessie said. “How’re you -”

“Good,” Laura snapped, then sighed. “Good. Sorry.”

“How’re you feelin’ about being a dog?”

“I don’t know. I thought I was scared of transforming, then I was sad when I didn’t?” Laura leaned her head against the glass and looked down at the pavement. “Why aren’t you a werewolf all the time?”

“Me? I am a werewolf all the time.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yep, just being a smart ass. Why don’t I stay in werewolf form all the time? I don’t know, there’s lots to do out here. Gotta be able to talk and oppose your thumb to do ‘em. Driving, for example. Or drinking coffee. Do you drink coffee?”

“No?”

“You shouldn’t, caffeine’s not good for you. What do you drink?”

“Soda and energy drinks, mostly.”

“You should start drinking coffee,” Jessie said. “There’s lots of things you can’t see when you’re a wolf, and lots of things you can’t see when you’re a human. We’re lucky, we get to see a little bit of both. We get pumpkin spice lattes and we get to smell a mouse fifty feet away; we get to know people and know our pack closer than any of them; we get to howl to the moon and post dances to TikTok. We’ll never starve in a dark, cold winter, but we’ll have our hearts broken. But we also get to eat the heart right out of a deer.”

“Gross,” Laura laughed.

“D’you see my point? Why I’m human and a wolf and don’t pick one?”

“I do.” Laura paused, eyes focused on the cracked asphalt. “Do I have to eat the heart?”

“I don’t think it’s too healthy, compared to Monster though…”

“I don’t drink Monster.”

“What do you drink?”

“It’s called Heartrush.”

“Heartrush?”

“Yeah. It’s like, super concentrated.”

“Are you joking?”

“The can says it’s like meth in a can.”

“You’re kiddin’ me.”

“No, it’s. It’s my favorite drink. I drink it ten times a day.”

“Laura, either you’re joshin’ me or your body needs to be studied by science.”

“You came up with three different ways to ask me if I’m joking.”

“You’re joking.”

“Yeah.”

“You just made it up.”

“I didn’t. I only drank it once but I didn’t make it up.”

“It’s…it’s real?”

“Yeah. It’s illegal now.”

“Under the Geneva Convention?”

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

Laura neared the white marble stones, off to the side of the school, between them and adjacent Adams Middle in a tiny strip of grass. Private. ‘cause no one ever came to the stones. Ever.

No one knew their name anymore. Manuel called them “creepy Stonehenge” - which always confused Laura, since it implied Stonehenge wasn’t creepy. Most people, those rare times they mentioned it, called them simply “the stones”. Dying speakers broadcast cracking whispers: “peace”, “you are loved”, “you are wanted”. The centerpiece was a memorial to shooting victims. Once, new names had been chiseled on - starting in 1999, years before Laura was born - but they ran out of space years ago. Laura wouldn’t even bring Gef here; he was hiding in her locker for the moment.

“Hello, Laura.” Sitting on one of the cracked ‘reflection benches’ was Emily, wearing a deep purple jacket, dark blue pants, and a white t-shirt with art & the words “Lilith Fair” on it. She looked as if she thought nothing was strange.

“Is that shirt ironic?”

“I gave you the false impression,” Emily said, “that I commit to bits. Only when I find something funny when I’m thrifting. Normally, I’m all-serious.”

“Who’s Lilith Fair?”

“Some musical festival in the 90s, I don’t know.”

“So our next lesson is here?”

“Yes.”

“Uh, so, first question. Why?”

“Because -” the speakers interrupted with a loud, staticy ‘YOU ARE LOVED. DON’T HAVE TO DO THIS’; both jumped. “- because this is the creepiest place in the whole school. If you can shut this out, you can shut out anything.”

“Alright,” Laura tried to find a comfortable place to sit on the cold marble. “God, do they think this place actually helps people?”

“What else could they do, besides anything? Now, close your eyes.”

Laura did, hoping this was really a lesson and Emily wouldn’t drag out a box again.

“Now, what do you hear?”

“Cars. Some stuff inside. Talking, lockers, kinda muffled. The wind. Some people out front. Passing cars. Some squirrels running. Someone’s trying to smoke...”

‘CONSIDER REACHING OUT”, the speaker warbled.

“- GOD!”

“Okay. Focus on one thing. The wind, maybe.”

“The wind? Okay.”

Closed eyes again. Cars. Talking. Walking. Wind. Deep breath. The wind. Think about the wind. Rustling through leaves and branches. Cutting breeze building to a momentary howl. Tossing her and Emily’s hair.

“Open your eyes.” She almost didn’t hear it, as if she was underwater and Emily was far above.

“Did you hear the speaker telling us to ‘make friends’?”

“No?”

“Good. Then you did much better today. Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

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

Alone. Manuel was alone, since Laura was away with Emily, and that means Emily was away with Laura, and…

Manuel had been happy to go to the event yesterday night, but with what he learned…maybe he learned a little too much about all this. Maybe he shouldn’t have gone. Maybe he needed to reintroduce himself to the non-werewolf world.

He found Cameron, sitting on the floor in the hallway connecting the larger lunchroom to the school store, his denim jacket hanging loose against the brown brick wall. He was crouched over his phone, his shaggy, dirty-blonde hair draped over one of his eyes.

“Cam?” Manuel said gently, starting to sit down next to Cameron - then deciding to stand - but then thinking -

“Who - hi. I didn’t know you were, you were…” He drawled out. “You were out here. You’ve been with Laura.”

“I just thought I should check in with you,” Manuel said, his eyes locked on the floor. “A lot has happened in the past couple days, and I didn’t really know what you were…”

He tugged at the wires of his earbuds. Tugged at them pointedly.

“Oh…I’m sorry if I was interrupting you…” This happened last time they talked, too; he was watching videos by a man named Peter Randolph, this writer and self-help person from Australia, and a quick glance - don’t look, that’s - showed that he was still watching him. “I’ll leave you be…”

Manuel wound his way back into the main lunchroom, where -

“Manuel?” He looked around for the source of a voice; a red-jacketed arm shot up over the crowd. Alice. He walked over to her.

“Hello. If you wanted to talk about last night, I thought about it, and I shouldn’t have gone.”

“Huh? No, I’m apologizing to you.”

“You…are?”

“Me and Em let you walk out. We showed you around but once something went down we let you go.” Alice sighed. “It’s good that you came. ‘cause Laura needed someone to support her, and we kinda blew it.”

“...thank you. It…was good to meet everybody and learn about…”

“Dogs.”

“Dogs,” and Manuel could see Laura and Emily walking back inside, and they looked like they had something to say.

“Hey,” Emily said. “Do you want to go looking for a black dog?”

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

“We thought it was weird when we found that bicycle lying around,” Emily said as they walked along the path.

“But none of you have seen the jumpsuit guy?” Laura asked.

“No,” Emily and Alice agreed, and Manuel joined in too. Laura felt scratching in her hoodie pocket; before they went out to search for the dog, she’d been talked into going back for Gef, even if it cut into their time.

“You have something to add, Jeff?”

Gef hissed. “No. Simply scratching my leg.”

Laura rolled her eyes, sniffed the air, and -

“You smell that too?” Alice said.

“Yeah, I do,” Emily confirmed.

“Um…I don’t smell anything…” Manuel frantically sniffed the air.

“Don’t hurt yourself, Mani,” Emily said. “I can call you that?” Manuel nodded.

“It’s a smell for werewolf noses only?”

“Yeah,” Laura said, “It’s a werewolf, but a weird werewolf.”

“Is it one of those werewolves that can transform no matter what?” Manuel asked.

“No, they smell the same as any werewolf,” Emily answered. “It’s coming from down there.” Emily nodded her head towards a ditch; Laura darted forward, to the edge of it. It looked like a drainage ditch, with rocks on the bottom and a little…the concrete places where the water goes.

“It’s so strong. Should I go down?” Laura asked, but she was already climbing down into it, no matter how much Gef scratched in her hoodie pocket.

“Laura, you sure about that?” Alice asked.

“No, it has to be her. All new recruits are assigned going-into-creepy-dark-holes duty,” Emily said.

The end of the ditch was slightly too small for Laura, so she ducked down and crawled inside. It was… “I can’t see anything.”

“Yes, you can,” Emily reminded.

Oh. Yeah. Laura focused on her eyes, on letting them adjust to the darkness. Let me see in the dark, let me see in the dark, let me - The darkness became darker, no, it wasn’t the dark of buried places, it was the dark of blindness, because her eyes were changing, her eyes were melting away and new eyes were growing in their place, animalistic eyes, her vision came back in clouds, allowing her to see the contours of the little cave, to see three shapes in the back and another shape closer, a lupine shape, the dog, the black dog, whose collar -

Not a collar. Nails, buried in its skin.

Asleep. The dog was asleep.

“Pictures,” Gef hissed, and Laura braced herself to the mud and rocks and little dirty streams with one hand, and pulled her phone from her pocket with the other. 

“It’ll wake up,” she whispered, shaking hands fixing tight over the black, unlit phone.

“It can hear you, it can smell you.”

Laura tapped the phone on with her nose, she opened the camera app, she turned on the flash…

“It’ll see…”

“We have to get a picture,” Gef, scrambling out of her pocket, digging his hands into her shoulder. “Else the doctor will never know what it is.”

“I…” The dog growled. No, snored. Asleep, it was still asleep. Laura wrapped her fingers around her phone and hovered her thumb above the button to take the picture, thumb swinging left and right, up and down, in its tremors…

“Laura!” Alice cried from outside the ditch, and the dog growled, and Laura’s grip loosened, and her phone started to slide, she tightened it, took a deep breath, snore or a growl snore or a

She jabbed her thumb onto her phone’s screen. Click.

The flash of light illuminated the shining, orange-yellow eyes of the dog. The flash of light illuminated the shapes in the back and the dog not asleep and the dog’s teeth and

Laura clutched her phone tight, backed away, and ran, stumbling, out of the tunnel and out of the ditch.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” scolded a teacher, stomping across the field towards them. “Past the bike path is no longer district property. Isn’t lunch over at King anyw-”

“Whatever,” Emily said. “We’ll go back onto school property,” and they ambled back to the school, Laura checking behind her the entire way. The dog didn’t follow.

[splotchy-sketches]

The Story of a moose and a nerd

Chapter Moose

Shmorbu was born on a moose ranch, deep in the Canadian wilderness. They would later go on to get a mooselerate-degree in syrup production from the university of antlers.

It was a crisp winter day, Shmorbu was in Connecticut working on bettering the syrup industry as a whole. They were drinking fresh hot moose milk when they decided to stop by a bookery. Their hooves grazed over the wildlife section, then the antler maintenance section. Then they stopped. Between the looming shelves sat a nerd. The nerd looked up at the moose-human and smiled.

“Meerrrph hump *Other moose noises*” Shmorbu expelled

“Oh, hello there, I’m hella British. I like your curly moose hair” The nerd spoke, slightly muffled by the pages of their book

Their conversation was cut short as more people entered the bookery, they appeared to be high school students attending Stars Hollow High. They all seemed focused on finding their reading material, shoving Shmorbu aside, drowning the nerd in a sea of more nerds.

Shmorbu began heading back to their Moose-tel room to continue their work. A frigid winter breeze blew in from their window, as they raked through their thoughts. Who was that nerd? Why do I want to talk to that nerd more? Am I a nerd? Their thoughts were interrupted when they realized their fur had grown sticky with blueberry syrup. The fur was glopped together in over-sweetened clomps. They decided to tend to their business and told me the sexy narrator to buzz off.

Meanwhile, our nerd had fled the overcrowded bookery and decided to seek haven in Kim’s Antiques. They leafed through the pages of their fluffy smchoopsy book. They had started thinking about that moose-human they had met just hours before. Why is there a moose in Stars Hollow? Am I gay? Is Minnesota real? They made it their mission to track down that moose, they rushed to a window armed with binoculars they had for some reason, through the window they could peer into the Independence Inn. They witnessed the vague silhouette of the moose human de-syruping. They quietly wondered if it counted as real syrup. They then packed their things to formulate a plan for how to conveniently meet the moose again.

Chapter Dos

The nerd was booking fiercely on how to track meese guidebooks. They figured out that the best thing to do was leave nude pancakes in a trail for where they wanted the moose to go. To the kitchen! They began forcefully throwing pancake ingredients into the bowl. They had created moose bait! They left their booking-oriented home to create a trail for the moose. They decided getting the moose home wasn't enough, they were going to set the trail to Canada.

Shmorbu awoke to the distinctive scent of nude pancakes, skin cakes if you will. It was in their DNA to secrete moose juice (syrup) onto the cakes and eat them ravenously. They began following the trail, the scent getting strong, a growing sense of familiarity. One thousand seven hundred and eighty-six miles later, Shmorbu was face to face with the nerd, the nerd looked down at shmorbu and smiled.

“I thought I wouldn't see you again!” The nerd spoke softly

“Meee Oph Ahhgg” Shmorbu replied

“Could you speak more clearly govna’” the nerd side British

“Ahem, pardon me my tall maple leaf, I have been thinking of you ever so much” Shmorbu explained in an Australian accent

“Does your fur taste like syrup?” The nerd asked earnestly

“Yes, feel free to lick me in a respectful, non-seggsy way :)” Shmorbu Replied

And so the two licked the syrup secretions off of shmorbu in a not-tense completely-platonic way.

Shmorbu decided to take the nerd to their hometown and show the nerd around.

“Excuse me but might you have a name?” Shmorbu asked

“My name is Nerdando Nerdaquis but everyone calls me Nerd!” The nerd replied with enthusiasm.

They caught a moose taxi and headed to the moose ranch where Shmorbu was born at.

“Look at this mess, soulless moose-breeding. I wish there were other ways to create hyper-intelligent moose people in this cold Canadian world” Shmorbu whined

“We could make some…” The nerd suggested sheepishly

“And by that, we mean stealing a normal moose from Minnesota and raising it like a human shield right?” Shmorbu clarified

The nerd and Shmorbu smiled at the sexy narrator proud of their plan.

They soon after decided it was time to plan the wedding.

[scapegrace74-blog]

New Ways of Turning Into Stone, Chapter 7

A/N  For anyone waiting patiently for this chapter, I apologize.  Somewhere in the midst of writing this story, I fell out of love with it, making it very hard to find the inspiration to finish. I’m too stubborn to abandon it, though, so here is the final chapter.  The good news is the angst fest is over, for the most part.  Slight reference to child trafficking in the past.  Thanks to everyone who read and interacted with this story!  This final chapter is entitled A Dragonfly in Amber.

The whole story can be found on my A03 page.

Eighteen Months Later

The breeze off the firth was picking up, and Claire wished she’d grabbed a  jumper before leaving her flat.  She spent a lot of time these days looking back at the million decisions that made up a life, aware of their path as though they were footprints visible to the eye.  Where once missteps would have inspired judgement or shame, she could now chart their passage with a certain measure of peace.

A rare free Thursday brought her to a seasonal market in what was otherwise a car park overlooking Edinburgh Castle.  With no specific objective in mind, she wandered the stalls of fresh produce and locally made crafts, meandering but purposeful.  A jar of raw honey and a half-dozen blueberry scones made their way into her tote bag before she stopped at a store selling beautifully woven woolen goods, thinking that she could perhaps invest in a shawl.

Lifting the various offerings from where they were displayed, something caught her eye.  Beneath the many-patterned pile of wool stood a beautiful wooden chest, its heft and patina speaking of its craftsmanship.   It had been painted in a rusted umber, the shape of a dragonfly elegantly carved into its solid lid.

“Tis lovely, is it no’?” a soft lilt startled her from her trance.

“Yes, very.  Is it for sale?”  She had no idea why she’d asked.  Her flat was crowded enough as it was and frivolous purchases no longer within her budget.

“Alas, no.  Twas an anniversary gift from my man.”  Perhaps seeing the disappointment register on her face, the woman added, “I can give ye the card o’ the man who made it, at least.  Ye’re no’ the first tae have admired his work.”

Claire’s hands shook slightly as the shopkeeper sought out the card, an eerie sense of premonition settling over her.  Sure enough, the familiar names leapt into relief as she accepted the woman’s offering:

Lallybroch Furniture Design

James Fraser, Proprietor

***

The afternoon and evening passed in a blur of obligations and routine.  It was only as she settled into the peace of her own bedroom that Claire allowed her thoughts to return to the business card tucked safely into her wallet.  

She’d known Jamie was still in the city.  While she’d resisted the urge to seek him out a thousand times, she couldn’t stop herself from searching his name on the Internet.  A harmless indulgence, she rationalized, and one that assured her that he was well, his business going from strength to strength. Despite the capitol’s tight-knit community, however, their paths had never crossed.  Until now.

Was it a sign?  Long Ago Claire paid no heed to such foolishness, but that was before a chance encounter spun her life one hundred and eighty degrees, sending her down a brand new path.  Now she accepted these memos from the universe with humility.  Tomorrow, she would go looking for Jamie Fraser.

***

Jamie heard the jingle of the bells above the door, even over the mechanical whirr of his sander.  Unbending and blowing a sweaty curl off his forehead, he admired the intricate scrollwork of the custom hutch that was his latest commission.  It still amazed him to watch his visions take shape before his eyes.  If life hadn’t slapped him hard across the face, knocking him far off course, he might have spent the rest of his days unaware of the gift that resided between his hands.

“Took ye long enough, Geordie,” he called out to the footsteps approaching from the door.  “Where’d ye go fer the varnish, Glasgow?”

There was a pause, and an eerie sense of premonition settled over him.  Today was going to be the day.

“It’s not Geordie, it’s me.  Claire.”  He’d thought of her voice each day for the past eighteen months, and yet he hadn’t been able to summon its exact timbre: sonorous, precise, with a smoky finish like well-aged whisky.

“Claire,” he replied to the universe, summoning her by name before he even turned around.

Sawdust motes danced in a sunbeam descending from a clerestory window, illuminating the mahogany in her curls.  She was everything he remembered, and so much more.  The nacre of her skin, now dusted with cinnamon freckles.  The topaz of her eyes less fierce, more open, and overwhelmingly anxious.  The tight line of her jaw was less defined, her once whippet-thin figure filled out into plush curves.  Overall the impression was one of softness, of willing vulnerability.

“The door was open,” she explained needlessly, her eyes drinking him in hungrily.  He wondered what changes she read on his surface.

“It’s... uhhh...” his voice wobbled painfully, “it’s good tae see ye, Sassenach.  How have ye been?”

He hadn’t trusted himself to seek her out since Maggie’s death, understanding that they both needed time to heal.  It didn’t stop him from zeroing in on every glimpse of brown curls, nor from reading wedding announcements with an invisible fist gripping his throat.  If it was meant to be, he counselled himself, they would find one another when the time was right.  And now she was here, standing in his workshop and more lovely than his zealous imaginings.

“Good,” she replied, eyes meeting and then sheering away from his gaze.  “Really good.  Busy.”  She was gripping the strap of her handbag like a parachute cord, and he couldn’t help glancing at her left hand, selfishly relieved to note it was still bare.

“I, ummm, I saw one of your pieces.  At the market yesterday.  Not for sale, of course.  The woman offered me your card, so I thought, you know, that I might...  You’re really very talented, Jamie,” she prattled nervously.

He blushed, delighted by her praise.  “I thank ye, Claire.”  To taste her name in his mouth, so long forbidden, was intoxicating.  He would never tire of saying it.

“And yer work?  Tis Friday.  Are ye taking a well-deserved day off?”

“Oh, no.  I’m not practicing anymore, Jamie.”

He froze, horrified.  Of all the scenarios he’d played out in his mind, he’d never imagined her anything but a doctor. It was too much a part of who she was.  A familiar sense of oppressive responsibility crept over him.  If he’d somehow caused this to happen...

“Sassenach, no...” he whispered.

To his utter confusion, she laughed, merry and bright as the bells that had announced her return to his life.

“It’s alright, truly.  I, well, a lot has changed since last year,” she explained, a glimmer of something coy transforming her face.  His wame sunk into his feet.

“Ye’ve met someone.”   A statement of fact.  Punishment for wishing for something that wasn’t meant to be.

Her spritely laugh rang out again, increasing his pain.  He felt the old, habitual hardening around his heart, and fought to keep his breath steady.  No matter how much it hurt, he owed it to Claire to listen to her joy.

“In a manner of speaking.  His name is Fergus, and he’s eight years old.”

Startled, he stared into her upturned face, trying to read the truth in her features.  A hand, delicate but strong, took his own.  He held onto it like a lifeline as she told her unlikely tale.

Shortly after their last meeting, Claire had been walking through Grassmarket when she’d been jostled by a running figure.  It was only upon righting herself that she realized she was without her phone.   Giving chase, she eventually cornered the thief down a blind alley, only to realize that it was a young boy, unkempt and malnourished.

Rather than turn the pickpocket in, Claire had negotiated an exchange: her phone for a four-course meal and the story of how a boy of his age, with a heavy French accent no less, had come to live on the streets of Edinburgh.

“He was trafficked, Jamie.  A group in Paris were keeping him and other orphans in a brothel.  When they came to transport them, Fergus escaped.  He hid in a lorry, and this is where it brought him.  He had no coat, no money, hardly any English, but he’d been surviving on his wits for six weeks before I found him.  I can’t bear to think what might have happened to him had we not crossed paths that winter’s day.”

“Christ,” he swore, thinking of his own nephew, and what he wouldn’t give to protect the lad’s innocence.

Claire went on to describe the painstaking process of reporting Fergus, whose real name was Claudel, to the authorities without allowing him to be deported back to France and into the waiting hands of the very people he had escaped.

“There was no formal steps to follow, no real resources I could rely on.  I ended up filing for adoption, because it was the only way to keep him safe.  In the beginning, he needed all my attention.  He had no formal schooling and had to learn English in a hurry.  He suffered from terrible nightmares.  I transferred all my patients, shut down the office, but I assumed it was only temporary, until he felt more secure and could go to school with other kids his age.  But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that Fergus isn’t the only trafficked child in Scotland.  I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t do whatever I could to protect every one of them.  So I quit.  I’d made some contacts at ECPAT in London, trying to sort out the mess with Fergus’ immigration paperwork.   I called them up and offered my services on a part-time basis.  A former pediatrician with experience in grief counselling.  They couldn’t accept fast enough.  So now, when I’m not busy being Fergus’ mom, I’m the executive director of ECPAT here in Scotland.”

“Christ,” he repeated.  “Sassenach, I’m...  God, ye’re an amazing woman.”

It was her turn to blush, glancing down to notice that their hands were still clasped, fingers woven together like thirsty roots.  They were standing toe to toe, breathing in harmony.  Jamie smelled of pine, a sharp sweetness that seemed to cling to his body.  She dared a look upwards and found his gaze locked on her mouth.  Oceans stormed in the depths of his eyes.

“You’ve got a little...” she reached for his jaw, “...a little something, right here...”  Before she could dislodge the fleck of sawdust trapped in his auburn stubble, Jamie’s whole body surged forward, their noses practically bumping.

“Sassenach...” he beseeched.

“Yes?”  Wispy, fluttering wings of hope surrounded her.

“I’ve bided as long as I can.  May I please, for the love of all tha’s holy, finally kiss ye?”

A tiny nod, a murmured assent, then their lips took up the conversation that had begun so many months before.  There, in a dusty workshop at eleven o’clock on a Friday morning, the last obstacle that stood between them came crashing to the ground.  In its place came warmth and certainty, a candleflame of cherished possibility. 

[lettheladylead]

running in circles

chapter sixteen: love is something that needs tending to summary: Five years is a long, long time. warnings: references to sex, nothing explicit wordcount: 3087 playlist (will be updated as chapters are posted): shorturl.at/bfBCQ ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33776632/chapters/89530387

here’s chapter sixteen!! text will also be included in this post for those of you that don’t use ao3:

1914-1919; White Agony Plains:

On day five, their situation really started to sink in. They were going to be stuck for a very…very long time.

“It’s been quite a while since I set foot in Dawson.”

“Yes, well, some of us still have things going on here.”

On day one hundred and sixty eight, Goldie decided she would take curses more seriously from now on. Just because something didn’t sound so bad didn’t mean it wouldn’t be horrendously agonizing.

“So this is where we’ll find the golden lagoon?”

“That’s what the map says! C’mon, Goldie, this’ll be a piece of cake!”

On day three hundred and four, Scrooge finally convinced himself to stop worrying about his family. He’d go see them as soon as he got free...right after he checked on his businesses. Hopefully some other treasure hunters would free them someday soon.

“These must be the rainbow caves. We’re almost there!”

“Oh...Scrooge, let’s stop for a moment. It’s beautiful here!”

On day seven hundred and ninety two, Goldie couldn’t contain the twinge of a smile on her face. As much as he’d insulted her and screamed at her right before they fell in, she was glad to have Scrooge’s face to look at while she was frozen in place. Or maybe she was delirious from lack of sleep (lack of anything, really). But it was still nice to see him.

“We must’ve gotten turned around at some point. Let’s just set up camp for the night.”

“...if you say so, Scroogey.”

On day eight hundred and five, Scrooge smiled back at her. He couldn’t help himself. Though Goldie often pissed him off with all her little comments and teasing and mockery, when he had an opportunity to just look at her and take in her face and eyes and everything about her that made him so lightheaded, he found himself enchanted. He wished he could hear her sing again.

“Wait, what?! My map! Goldie you no-good, swindlin’-”

“I’m gonna find that golden lagoon first!”

On day one thousand, seven hundred and forty four, the ice around their hands had melted away. With the little strength they had, Scrooge and Goldie reached out to each other. Their eyes were still locked and they had strange smiles on their faces and were holding hands and it felt oddly romantic despite the situation. Scrooge felt an unfamiliar pull in his heart, like he wanted to keep holding hands with her forever. And…he did. He never wanted to let go.

“What was that?!”

“That, you connivin’ map-rippin’, thievin’ swill, is a...a mammoth!”

The ice around Goldie continued to melt over the next few months. It was on day one thousand, six hundred and eighty-eight that the ice had melted enough for her to really move. Goldie yanked her leg out of its frozen tomb and hopped down to the ground, stumbling slightly. She was so excited to leave that stupid cave. To get some food and see to her businesses and sleep. By her count - and god damn, she’d spent so fucking long counting the seconds - she hadn’t slept in almost five years.

There was still one thing to do before she could leave, though.

Goldie looked at Scrooge and saw him continuing to gaze at her with that same goofy smile she’d been staring at for over a year. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he looked like he was in love with her. Wouldn’t that be something? If the one time she couldn’t speak up and ruin things, he actually fell in love.

But she knew better than that. If he was feeling anything stronger than usual, it was thanks to being so touch-starved and miserable after being stuck for five years. It was fake. It wouldn’t last. She was feeling it, too. An urge to love him always and forever. But she knew it was just a phase.

Still, she thought about freeing him. He wouldn’t die if she left him there, of course, since that stupid ice curse wouldn’t let them just die in peace, but he wouldn’t be comfortable stuck for another few months or however long it might take for the rest of the ice to melt.

Goldie had that thought on her mind when a loud, ferocious roar caught her attention. She whipped her head around to see where it came from and knew that it was the mammoth from years earlier. It was still around and probably eager for a snack. Their fight with it before had not gone well. Neither of them had been injured, thankfully, but that was only because of their escape strategy. If they’d ended up against a wall of the cave instead of an icy creek, they would’ve been crushed to death. Or eaten, maybe.

It roared again and Goldie felt her heart jump. She was scared. Utterly, completely terrified. She didn’t want to spend another moment down in that cave with that creature. Getting Scrooge out of his ice would take a lot more than a moment.

She looked back at him.

He had such a happy, expectant look on his face. Like he really thought she’d save him and then they’d be together forever. But that wasn’t them. And he should’ve known better than that. They weren’t in a relationship and five years of their only source of warmth being their beating hearts wouldn’t change that.

Goldie decided that she wanted to leave more than she wanted to try to save him. But she didn’t want Scrooge to see how scared she was - she wanted him to see her leaving confidently, a classic Goldie O’Gilt escape with a wink and a kiss. In a way that would make him come find her as soon as he got out, would make him angrily seek her out for a reason why she left him behind. She’d give him some half-assed answer and kiss him and they’d be right back where they started.

Scrooge’s face fell when Goldie blew him a kiss and waved goodbye. She rushed out of the cave, heading back the way they came in, and her miserable expression mirrored his. His loving look had disappeared so quickly that she knew she’d made the right decision. Whatever love he thought he was feeling just wasn’t real.

---

Scrooge started to cry.

Being frozen in ice, and still living thanks to that stupid curse, his tears froze instantly and now his eyes were hurting along with his heart and head. But he couldn’t help it. He really, really thought something had changed in the years they’d been stuck together. Without the ability to argue or have sex, they’d just...looked at one another. For years. Eyes locked, one hand clasped with another. It felt so new and so powerful and he really thought things were going to change.

He thought, not for the first time, that he was falling in love with her. She couldn’t distract him from the thought by teasing or mocking him. And she smiled back and held his hand, too! Scrooge had been so sure that Goldie was feeling the same way he was. He thought she wanted to hold him the way he wanted to hold her!

But then she was gone.

He closed his eyes, sad that he wasn’t physically able to cry anymore thanks to his icy gold tears. The release would’ve been nice. Instead, he’d just have to stay stuck for another five years until the mammoth finally came back to kill him.

---

The little orphans Goldie had allowed to live in her Dawson Blackjack were not-so-little when she finally returned. They’d been growing slowly and steadily over the years, but suddenly they were all adults! It was amazing what five years did to a teenager.

They were all shocked when she returned. Though they were grateful to Goldie for giving them a place to live and food to eat, they weren’t exactly close to her and assumed she’d either died or abandoned the business for better opportunities elsewhere. It wasn’t an unreasonable assumption. So when she shuffled into the saloon and up the stairs to her room, the current employees of the Blackjack just stared.

Goldie didn’t even notice. All she wanted to do was sleep.

She woke up twelve hours later hungrier than she’d ever been. Her head was dizzy and her body ached and she felt like death. Goldie sighed and climbed down the stairs, happy to see it was early enough that there were no customers. She could just take a moment to herself and eat some food and drink some water and clear her head.

That alone time lasted maybe ten minutes before Goldie heard footsteps clamoring down the stairs. She looked up to see one of the kids - well that probably wasn’t an appropriate description anymore - and raised an eyebrow as the girl took a seat next to her.

“Hi Miss Goldie,” the girl said politely. “We thought you were dead.”

“Me, too,” Goldie grumbled back. She took a bite of her sandwich. “The saloon looks good.”

“...thanks,” she responded, sounding a little uncomfortable.

Goldie looked at her curiously. “What?”

“Did you come back to...collect money?”

Goldie swallowed a particularly big bite and wiped her wrist across the front of her beak. “Nah, don’t worry. Keep the money here.”

The girl smiled and nodded - she looked extremely relieved.

Goldie wondered what she’d done to instill such fear. “What’s your name?”

She frowned and blinked a few times. “You don’t, uh…? Well. That’s fine. My name is Opal.”

Goldie closed her eyes and took a long sip of her water. “Opal. How old are you now?”

“Thirty-one, ma’am.”

“Wow,” Goldie laughed. “I keep thinking of you like you’re still the ten-year-old that walked in here begging for scraps.”

Opal didn’t return the laugh, just nodded along while Goldie spoke.

“Where are all the others? What about the fat kid, um...Earl?

“Ernest is in politics now. I voted for him in the last election!”

Goldie blinked. Women could vote, apparently. She’d really missed a lot. “And the rest?”

“A lot of them are still here,” Opal responded. “It’s just that eight in the morning is a little early for them. But Rose and Roman went to work at your Blackjack in Seattle. Carl went to New Stork. And of course there’s Dawsie who, um…”

“Hm?”

“...she stole a few hundred dollars from the register and headed south. No one knows where she went.”

Goldie laughed again. “Well, at least she didn’t leave you other kids high ‘n dry. Was this all in the last five years?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Crazy.” Goldie took another big sip and sighed. She needed to go somewhere warm and recuperate. “Do you need any money for repairs or new furniture or anything here?”

Opal’s eyes went wide at Goldie’s question and she seemed nervous to answer. “W-well...nothing’s broken, but a little extra money would be helpful. Just in case anything comes up.”

“Yeah, ‘course.” Goldie stuffed her hand into her bottomless bag and pulled out a wallet. She grabbed three twenty dollar bills, slapping them onto the counter.

“...thank you, Miss Goldie,” Opal said quietly as she pocketed the bills. She didn’t look at how much it was, just in case her reaction would be offensive. “Are you staying here long?”

“No. But I’ll be back in a few weeks.” Goldie stood up and brushed some crumbs off her pants. “Let me know if a loud Scotsman named McDuck comes around.”

“You mean Scrooge McDuck?”

“That’s the one.”

“Last I heard, he was spotted running some goat farm in the UK. Why would he come around here?”

Confused, Goldie turned to her. “A goat farm? When was this?” She knew Scrooge didn’t tell her about all of his businesses, but as far as she knew he stayed away from farming or animals because of the unpredictability.

“Maybe two years ago? He hasn’t been in the news much lately.” Opal scratched her head. “I know he’s the success story of the Klondike, but he never comes back here, so it’s hard to keep up.”

Goldie frowned and turned her head so she could roll her eyes without Opal noticing. Okay, obviously she was thinking of the wrong person. Didn’t matter. What mattered was checking in on her businesses and making sure everything was still afloat. She walked towards the stairs.

“Um...Miss Goldie!” Opal called out. “I put all your mail on the desk in your room!”

“Thanks,” Goldie said with a lazy wave.

As she entered her room again, Goldie sighed at the pile of mail in front of her mirror. She hadn’t even glanced at it before falling asleep, and it looked like a doozy. She grabbed a few of the letters off the top of the stack and shuffled through them.

Goldie paused when she saw a familiar name staring up at her. Not a name she’d thought about in a long time. Without any expectations of what might be inside, Goldie opened up the letter and began to read.

I don’t care if you thought she was a shite mother, you still should’ve been at the funeral.

Goldie closed the letter back up and tossed it onto the desk. She didn’t have the energy to think about what she’d just read. Her body was still aching. She stared at her bed and decided to go back to sleep.

---

A few days after Goldie’s departure, Scrooge’s sadness had transformed into anger.

He was absolutely furious. How dare Goldie leave him here after everything they’d gone through?! They’d been on-and-off rivals and partners and lovers and whatevers for almost twenty years and she chose to throw it all away and leave him behind to die for what?! Her stupid little game of cat-and-mouse?!

He’d never agreed to play that game with her. And at this point in their lives, he was getting tired of it.

Scrooge balled his hands up into fists and started to shake in frustration and anger. His heart was broken and he was so tired and annoyed and he just wanted to go home and get some goddamn sleep.

With the power of his own strength, combined with the anger of all his McDuck ancestors flowing through him, Scrooge’s shaking managed to create enough friction to start melting the ice immediately around his body. He kept going - even as his muscles were screaming and aching. He needed to get out. He was done being trapped.

As the ice started to melt enough for Scrooge to start shimmying forward, he took a deep breath and started thinking about Duckburg and Glasgow and how much he wanted to leave the Klondike and never come back.

Several hours of shaking and shimmying later, Scrooge finally fell out of the ice and landed face-first onto the solid ice below. He felt lucky that the freezing water had fully frozen in the last five years so he could escape without getting trapped in ice again.

It’d certainly made it easier for Goldie to get away.

Scrooge scowled and shook himself off. He didn’t care how in love he was with Goldie or how she’d completely proven her lack of reciprocity. If his feelings were just a game to her, then he wasn’t interested in playing anymore.

He wanted to go home.

---

Two months passed without any word from Scrooge.

Goldie was back at the Blackjack and feeling nervous. She thought he would’ve gotten out and come to scream at her by now. He should’ve yelled at her for being selfish and loving gold and treasure more than anything else in the world and then they’d fall back into the same old routine. 

She’d been sure of it. After leaving him behind like that, there was no way he wouldn’t seek her out. He’d have to be pissed.

She huffed and looked out the window of her room at the Blackjack, thinking about how many times she’d watched Scrooge walk by so many years earlier. Maybe she’d made a mistake. She thought the oh-so-smart, tough, and sharp Scrooge McDuck would’ve gotten out not long after her. But...perhaps she overestimated him.

Even without a map to guide her, Goldie knew she needed to go back. She could remember the way there...probably. She’d bring knives and other junk to protect herself. What was the chance she’d run into the mammoth again? It was very unlikely.

...still, bringing a gun wouldn’t hurt.

No one questioned her when Goldie marched out of the Blackjack with a full backpack and hiking boots. She often disappeared without saying goodbye or letting them know when she might be back. After her recent five year absence, they had no expectations for her to be communicative.

Goldie didn’t mind. She knew they could handle the Blackjack just fine without her, they didn’t need any coddling. They were too grateful to her to ransack the place and abandon it, so she wasn’t concerned. Her focus was entirely on Scrooge and where he was and why he hadn’t gotten out yet.

It was a two hour hike from Dawson to White Agony Plains, where the entrance to the ice caverns sat. Goldie took a deep breath when she saw the opening she and Scrooge had walked through years earlier.

She kept thinking about how without a map she could get lost in there, there were so many twists and turns and tunnels and a giant somehow-living prehistoric mammoth that could prevent her from getting back out. But she needed to check if Scrooge was still in there.

Goldie was only five feet from the cave entrance when she noticed footprints in the snow. They were duck feet, not boots, and they were clearly exiting the cave.

So he had gotten out. He’d gotten out and didn’t bother to stop in Dawson to tell her off or threaten her or anything like that. He just...left.

She frowned. Was he regrouping and planning to go back for the golden lagoon without her? He might’ve been collecting a team to help take down the mammoth. He still had half of the map, as far as she knew, so if he could find the mammoth and kill it, then he wouldn’t need her help.

Goldie thought about all the tools she’d brought with her and scowled. If Scrooge was going to cut her out, then she’d at least make it harder for him.

---

[ image: goldie & opal, who is very similar to @peachhoneii​ ‘s oc Opal McDuck except she’s not related to scrooge at all. below is the original before peachhoneii requested i change her hair a little bit to reflect her new life ]

---

REAL HISTORY FACTS:

- 5 years is 1,826 days - Wooly mammoths went extinct over 4,000 years ago. But it's fine there can be one left

DUCK FRANCHISE REFERENCES:

- "Rose" Roman" "Carl" and "Dawsie" - Don Rosa, Romano Scarpa, Carl Barks. & Dawsie was a popular baby name for kids born in Dawson City lol - Obviously this includes the flashback from the DT17 episode "The Golden Lagoon of White Agony Plains!" - From the DT17 book Solving Mysteries and Rewriting History: "Golden Lagoon of White Agony Plains (twice): We searched for the legendary lagoon made of liquid gold. Best encounter with an unfrozen woolly mammoth I've seen to date."

[dizzydancingdreamer]

Persephone's Symphony | Day Two / Part One | Hades

Hey lovelies this isn't completely done (this chapter, I mean) but this was a good spot to post it because it's been a while and I'm proud of this part. The next part will be about the same length (I'm guessing) and will be the long awaited bathtub scene! enjoy, and sorry for how ramble-y this chapter is. It's on purpose LOL!

Synopsis: In which he is the bad one— the dangerous one, the clunky one, the one who only knows how to break things— and she is the good one— the fragile one, the soft one, the one who knows how to put things back together— and he has to keep her alive long enough for anyone else— anyone who can do more than kill— to save her like she deserves to be saved— to save her from him. There are no pomegranates, no three headed dogs, and no requirement to stay— that is, if they don’t count an assassin on the loose out for her neck. In that case, three days in a safe house doesn’t feel like a long time— just long enough for Persephone and Hades to remember why opposites attract.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader (third person)

Warnings: PTSD in action on both parts, self-loathing

Word count: 2.7k

Previous | Next

Master List

Maybe saying yes is the wrong answer. It certainly goes against the protocol his commander explicitly told him to follow.

Stay inside, Barnes. Keep the curtains closed, limit the amount of lights on inside the house. Don’t let her out of your sight— not even for a second.

It was all basic, day one things that any rookie would know. Bucky is a lot of things but he isn’t a rookie— he’s been around the block his fair share of times and then some. Still, the last thing his commander had told him rings through his ears as he crosses the threshold of the Wilson’s family residence and feels the sun, warm and steady on his face— and on his one, good arm— for the first time in twenty-four hours.

Be a ghost, Barnes, or you might just become one; you understand me?

Bucky had answered yes, again— obviously. Maybe that’s just a thing he does; saying yes when he doesn’t know what else to say. Saying yes when he should be saying anything but.

But what?

But it’s not like it really matters— there was no other choice that time. He’s a soldier, he was given his orders, and— whether he likes it or not— Bucky always follows his orders.

The door creaks shut behind him, a little loud for his liking but the sound of the willow trees snapping in the yard are enough to drown it out for the most part— Well, Bucky always follows most of his orders.

That was also before everything went straight to hell, though— before no one thought to tell him that he's not dealing with a victim; he’s dealing with a survivor. Fucking military— he should have known they’d leave the important details out. They’ve been shoddy since the forties, always squirreling away information from the little guys. Eighty years later, one hundred and six years old, and he’s still a little guy. No closer to gaining an invite to the big kid table than he was at twenty-six when he still had two good arms. If anything he’s further away now, begging for scraps when there was once a point in his life where he at least had a seat somewhere.

With someone.

Nothing’s changed— nothing will change and he doesn’t expect it to— but this time there’s a difference.

There’s a big one.

It’s the canyon between grief and watching your family get slaughtered in front of you; the insurmountable jump from longing for those you’ve lost and having them ripped away from you so violently that you can’t function. Can’t sleep. Wake up scared. Jump away from every touch, every noise, like every shattered vase is out to personally kill you—

Why the fuck wouldn’t they tell him that the girl he’s supposed to be protecting has PTSD? He may be old— the term may be different now— in his day they used to call it shellshock— but it’s yet another thing that hasn’t changed. Nothing ever changes; not really— not for him.

Soldier.

Scientist.

Same fucking difference— the signs are still the same and she has all of them.

He would know— he should have known from the moment he walked through the door— they should have told him!

He saw the pictures. Saw the scarlet circles and lifeless eyes and blood. Fuck, there was so much blood and that was just a grainy photpgraph from a junky projector! He couldn’t smell it— couldn’t taste it— through the pictures but he has an imagination— well, what’s left of one at least. He can’t say he didn’t leave most of his creativity in those hills of Austria— gods only know he left most of everything else there— but even if he had left all of it he wouldn’t have to dig far for a memory of his own. They don’t tell you as a soldier that fresh blood smells like rotting honey— that it lingers in your clothes and hair and on your goddamn lips for hours.

Soldier.

Shooter.

Fucking psychopath with a gun and one arm and snow still shoved so far down his throat that he can’t breathe—

No, if they don’t bother telling their soldiers then there’s no way anyone thought to tell the cherry pie angel. They probably thought it would ruin her sweetness. They probably didn’t even think to tell her at all. Bucky definitely didn’t. He should have. If he had, maybe he would have been able to catch her before the flies ate through her wings completely. Maybe if he had just done his damn job instead of being sucked in by the sticky marmalade of her laughter then he would have seen the way she was melting right in front of his face. July in Brooklyn does that to a person.

It brings the flies to the cherry pie.

The flies to the rotting honey.

The flies to too fucking late— he had twenty-four hours and instead of doing something he just let her sink. Some guard dog he is.

Bucky watches as she gingerly sits on the edge of the white swing, her movements stiff, almost mechanical. She lifts her feet as soon as she’s down, toes hanging a good few inches off the ground as they curl around the thick bayou air, clenching and unclenching rhythmically. They never touch the bamboo mat and her eyes never lift from the shoreline— not even when he takes a couple measured steps towards her. It’s unnerving, to say the very least.

“We can’t stay out here too long.” Bucky isn’t used to speaking this quietly but it feels like if he doesn’t level his voice to match the whispering of the wind across the bulrushes then he’ll be hurting her more than he already has.

Her answer isn’t any louder than his— the only reason he even hears it at all is because he refuses to look away from her. He only hears her because his eyes are already on her lips, willing her to stop sinking her teeth into the soft flesh. Please, please, please stop—

“I just need a few minutes.”

Her eyes are wide and rimmed with red, toes continuing to work against the breeze with the same automatic movements. Clench. Unclench. Clench. Unclench. He doesn’t understand. It’s like she’s trying to work the feeling back into them— or maybe like she doesn’t know that she’s doing it at all. Hell, if the way her eyes have glassed over means anything then he would wager that there’s a good chance she doesn’t even fully know she’s outside. Yeah, that’s shellshock alright. Clench. Unclench. Clench. He doesn’t realize he’s copying her movements until his jaw aches.

Unclench.

“I know, doll. I—” He finally tears his gaze from her rigid figure— from her bruised lips— looking as well to the horizon. Maybe she’s on to something; maybe the waves will tell him how to help her— “I know.”

Can they tell him how to help himself? He shuffles forward again, stopping at the edge of the swing, gaze sweeping from the water to the barriers of the premise. Who is he kidding— of course they can’t. This isn’t about his salvation anymore. Those days have more than come and gone. Now it’s about hers— it’s about an assignment and keeping ten toes and ten fingers connected to two legs and two arms. Right now is about an order and Bucky Barnes can certainly follow orders— maybe that’s all he can do.

He gives the shaking girl who— despite everything— is swathed so prettily in the shade of the porch another once over.

Maybe but maybe not too.

Maybe he can’t follow orders at all.

Maybe he can’t afford to think about it for too long.

Because if he can’t follow orders then what can he do?

Bucky is still staring at her when she speaks again but her sudden words still make him jump nonetheless. “There’s room.” Her voice falters for a moment, lips hanging open and eyes faraway, before she continues. “If you want to sit, I mean. There’s room.”

He shouldn’t— he knows he shouldn’t, sitting isn’t a part of his orders— but he does. He couldn’t say no to her if he wanted to.

“Thanks.”

He definitely doesn’t want to say no to her.

“Sure.” Her voice is barely a hum— barely there at all— and he can’t choose whether to look at her lips or her fingers, which are now following suit.

Clench, unclench. Clench, unclench.

It’s an impossible decision— much like the ones from his days as a soldier— but it demands a choice from him nonetheless— unlike the ones from his days as a pawn. Her nails drag over the wood, snagging every so often, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Clench. Can she even feel him next to her? Back in the day— before that day— he used to watch his comrades do the same thing. He used to do the same thing. Sometimes he still does. He knows exactly what he would want someone to do for him.

He makes the choice for an impossible decision, wrapping his hand around hers until their fingers are laced together. “You can talk to me, if you want.”

It seems to work, if only marginally, because she stiffens for a moment, fingers flexing around his. Bucky can’t tell if it’s a good thing or a bad thing, the way she grips his hand so unsure of herself. Is she unsure of herself, though, or is she still lost somewhere in the depths of her mind, drowning in her rotten honey thoughts?

Her hand stills— an answer in itself— before her voice, slowed as though stopped by lips that have been glued shut, sounds. “Do you ever feel like you’re drowning?”

It’s not what he’s expecting but what else is new— neither was she and yet he’s here, listening to the moments they’re allowed to be outside— all of zero moments, that is— tick away as her toes clench and unclench.

Tick, tick, tick— what would his commander say.

“Yes.”

Steve used to ask him the same thing, Bucky adds silently, but only when they got older.

He supplies, “I think maybe that’s a part of being human.”

Tick, tick, tick— his commander wouldn’t say anything, he would just put Bucky on probation.

Still, he doesn’t rush her— he can’t. He won’t. She just told him she’s drowning; he’s not going to be the ocean to her frenzied attempts to stay afloat. He’ll just hold her hand, and keep looking over her shoulder, and then over his own, and when the time comes he’ll tell her they have to go, because that’s what she’s expecting. He would know— there have been times he’s wanted someone to do the same for him.

Tick, tick, tick— this is worth probation.

“I don’t think I like being human.” She hums back.

No, Bucky wants to say— no, I don’t either, doll.

Being human sucks and he’s not very good at it. He would know, he’s been a lot of things— been compared to a lot of things. Robot. Popsicle. Dog— yeah, he’s a real jack of all trades and so far human isn’t near the top of his ‘favourites’ list. Maybe that’s because if he wasn’t human then he wouldn’t be any of the other things either— maybe if he wasn’t human then he wouldn’t be so easily turned into a monster.

Tick, tick, tick— maybe.

Tick, tick, tick— have his thoughts always been so disorganized?

Tick, tick, tick— maybe it’s the shellshock.

Bucky doesn’t say any of that, of course.

What he does say is— “What would you like to be instead?” —as if he can make everything all better himself.

He can try, at least. He’s been compared to a slave too. Being hers doesn’t sound all that bad.

Thunder rolls over head and it sounds more like a grandfather clock— or the impatient tapping of his commander’s fingers— than anything Bucky’s ever heard. Still, he waits to move. Tick, tick, tick. He waits for a lot of things.

Bucky waits for the sky to turn grey— for the first droplets to mix with the salty bay air and blow against his neck and face.

It’s familiar, the sticky, salty rain, and he isn’t expecting it.

He isn’t expecting Delacroix to remind him so much of his own home in Brooklyn.

He isn’t expecting the way that sitting next to this soft creature feels so much like sitting on the docks with Steve the summer before his enlistment. Sometimes I feel like I’m drowning— Steve had said it at one hundred but he may as well have said it then, at eighteen, too. Because little did Bucky know, Steve had always felt a little bit like he was drowning and now Bucky, at one hundred and six, always feels a little bit like a bad friend.

Like a bad brother.

Like a bad dog— he should have scented it out all those years ago but instead he just waited.

Tick, tick, tick— all he does is wait.

Bucky waits for her to squeeze his hand once more— for her tiny fingers to alert him that she’s ready to move.

Maybe if Bucky had waited until Steve had told him that he was ready all those years ago then Steve would have waited for Bucky to be ready too. Because as he sits here, his skin turning swampy in the sticky, salty rain he realizes that no, he wasn’t ready for Steve Rogers to leave him behind.

He wasn’t ready to face the world alone.

He wasn’t even ready to face Brooklyn alone. Sometimes he still waits at the deli for him and orders the hero sandwich because even though he doesn’t like the absurd amount of pickles, Steve always had. Maybe if he eats enough— and waits long enough— then Steve will come back.

Tick, tick, tick— for a man who isn’t patient, Bucky Barnes sure does do a lot of waiting.

Bucky waits for her answer— because that’s what matters most. Not Steve’s wishes, not his commander’s impatient tapping, not even his own nostalgia that’s starting to make him, too, feel like he’s drowning. He used to love swimming in the Atlantic but when he licks his lips and tastes salt he’s sure it would take a miracle to get him to go in again. It would take a hundred years— or maybe just eighteen— and a push from a man who left Bucky almost as fast as Bucky had left him.

“I want to be a god—” she says it so suddenly that he jolts, eyes scanning their surroundings before realizing it’s just her determined, honey hollow voice sounding from next to him— “I want to be god— or invincible— or anyone but me, I think. I just don’t want to be me anymore. So yeah, I want to be a god.”

She still sounds so far away. Like she’s underwater— like Steve that time he wanted to see if Bucky could hear him scream from under the surf. He couldn’t but he told Steve he could. It doesn’t matter anymore— not right now. Only she does and her airy confession.

It makes Bucky’s heart clench and, as a reflex, so does his hand.

He releases the pressure accordingly— in his hand, not his heart— unclench— and as he does she adds— “and I want to take a bath.”

In that moment, despite his worry for her, he’s ecstatic she isn’t looking at him because if she had been then she would have seen the way his jaw drops. It takes him a moment to answer— a moment to pull himself out of the gutter his frozen-robot-dog brain drags him to— but he settles on one thought in surprisingly record time.

He can’t make her a god but he can sure as hell watch her back if she wants to take a bath.

He can’t make it all better but he can do that no problem.

So of course he stands, squeezing her hand one last time before saying, “okay, doll.”

Maybe Bucky is following orders after all. Maybe it’s a matter of choosing which— whose— orders to follow.

____________

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[boredandelusive]

05.

♞ TW: Amm-nia, death, this chapter has a case in it not from an episode, but from a generator. It may sound stupid, but it’s effective, isn’t it? Also, there’s a bit of a wet dream, yet Spencer’s awake, so there’s that.

♞

As Kiara woke up from her sleep, she witnessed Spencer frantically rushing around as if looking for something. "Something wrong, baby?" She asked groggily, which made him stop and look at him.

"I can't find my shirt and there's another case," it wouldn't be the best idea for him to go back to work in the same clothes he wore yesterday, however, he didn't have much of a choice. He couldn't risk being late for his job, especially because he was the star agent of the team.

"Then just take some of my smaller clothes from my closet." She admitted groggily, which looked over to her closet with an unsure look. "Spencer, I was skinny once, I still have those clothes, and they should fit you. Just take the clothes and go."

"But I don't have my boxers," that was the other thing he looked for, which she turned over in her bed. Considering she now lied on her stomach, her words would've been muffled.

"That dresser, second drawer on the left." Listening to her words, he moved to get the clothes and noticed all of the clothes almost perfectly fit him. "Before you ask, I keep my old clothes in case I date skinnier people."

"Thanks, I owe you!" He rushed out of her room, and soon, out of the house. Once they had enough time, they could go over last night. Now, however, they had things to do.

♞

As Spencer got to work, which he hoped his colleagues wouldn't notice his clothing, he passed Garcia, who still noticed something off. "Rough night?" She called out, which Spencer stopped in his tracks.

"Something like that. Where are the others?" If Penelope noticed something different, no doubt the others would, too.

"In the conference room. You're not late, but you might want to hurry up." With that, he rushed toward the conference room and sat down. "Did you get any sleep?" Derek was the first to ask, but Spencer didn't understand why.

"Yes, why do you ask?"

"Because your hair's a mess," at least that sent a wave of relief in his body, which meant they didn't question the woman's clothes on his body. Running his fingers through his hair, he fixed it. Seeing as no one said anything about his clothes, there was a bit of silence before Penelope walked in.

"In Fort Wayne, Indiana, three victims were found scattered in the forest," as she spoke, she clicked the buttons on the remote in her hands. "Each of them had traces of ammonia in their lungs," her voice dropped to barely a whisper. She wasn't the type to enjoy cases, she just liked being in her bat cave.

"It says here that all of the victims died just after sunrise. Maybe it's the unsub's motive," Spencer pointed out before Hotch stood up.

"Regardless, Fort Wayne requested our help. Wheels up in thirty (30)." As everyone else got up and collected the file, there was some sort of tense silence in the room. Trying his best to ignore it, Reid glanced up to see the others glancing at him.

"Is something wrong?"

"You're wearing a blouse," Emily pointed out, which meant his hope went bad.

"Did you have a fun night?" Derek teased and considering his messy hair, all of them assumed he finally got some. "Come on, kid, what was their name?" As he got everything together, hr walked out of the room.

"Kiara," Emily looked at Derek with an open mouth, as if shocked he would admit it.

♞

As the plane was in the air, Spencer kept his head in the case, and knowing Derek, he would've either pestered him about it now or ask about it later. "How many victims are there so far?"

"Five (5) of them. The first two were found three months ago in an abandoned cabin. The police only got word of it from an anonymous tip." Garcia admitted from the video call in her office.

"Alright, when we land, JJ, Prentiss, go to the ME's office, see if there's anything else on the victims the files might've missed. Morgan, Reid, set up at the police station. Rossi, you and I will go to the crime scene."

♞

Once the two were in the car and driving to the station, Derek decided to break the silence. "So, Kiara, huh? Wait, lemme guess: you didn't bring an extra pair of clothes so you had to use hers?"

"Was it that obvious?" He asked, yet he didn't look his friend in the eyes. It wasn't out of embarrassment, but probably out of how much Morgan would taunt him about it. He didn't say anything at first, but he peeled back his collar. "Hey!"

"You need to learn to hide that better, Reid. And fix your hair before we get inside, it still looks like a mess," he teased and messed up his hair intentionally.

"Okay, okay! Leave my hair alone. I was rushed out the door by the case, and I didn't want to be late." He excused, yet Derek wouldn't drop the conversation just yet.

"I guess we have to let the kid out of the coop someday. Fly away little Reid, I'm proud of you," he teased again. This was going to be a long case, and he didn't know if the rest of the team would give him shit about how he lost his virginity.

"You know, I could just be trying something new," Spencer tried excusing his appearance, but he blushed while he did so.

"You definitely tried something new, alright. Even if it weren't for the hickey," Derek tapped his chest with enough force that the scars from her scratches hurt. "That told me enough. Now come on, we gotta get the office set up."

♞

As JJ and Emily made it to the ME's office, Em pushed the door open for both of them to walk inside. "So what do we have?" The blonde woman asked first, which the coroner looked at them both before pulling down the cover.

Because of it, there was irritation around the victim's mouth and nose, most likely from being forced to breathe the gas. "You would think the irritated skin would be the most concerning part, but this was," the coroner then pulled the cover down farther to reveal a series of stab wounds.

"I don't get it, why would the unsub force the victims to breathe the ammonia then stab them?" Getting that piece of information was confusing enough, but it also meant the unsub was disorganized or greedy.

"I don't understand it either, but I can tell you that they're smart. All of the stab wounds were inches from the major arteries." The coroner wasn't the profiler, but there was something about the case that proved there might have been more to this than what meets the eye.

"So they're torturing the victims before killing them?"

"And restraining them, too," the coroner also pulled the blanket away from their wrists and ankles to show the bruising. "The tox screens came back and the only thing pumping through their body was anesthesia. However, the color of her lungs indicates she was gassed repeatedly."

"Okay, thank you." Both women turned to the door as if realizing something. When they got to the hallway, Emily stopped for a moment. Though JJ was a media liaison, it didn't stop the fact she could help on the missions by being a second set of eyes. "What is it?"

"If the unsub has them sit up, and they pump gas into their lungs, but they also stab them..." she trailed off, as if trying to get some sort of idea. For now, she couldn't think of anything because she hadn't been to the crime scene yet. "Let's get back to the station."

♞

As the two women met up with the others, Emily's brain started putting the pieces together, but still needed Reid's nerd expertise with this. "Hey, Reid?" She called out to the boy, though he didn't respond immediately.

His head was buried into the file, yet his mind was elsewhere.

"Be a good boy for me, won't you?" Kiara's voice rang out in his head, and the scene was set. Spencer was on the bed with his dick in a chastity cage while his Mistress hovered over him. His eyes trailed down to her waist, which a nine (9) inch tentacle dildo hung with lube almost dripping off.

"Yes, Mistress," he whined, and considering she wouldn't stroke his dick to help him feel better, he just rolled his hips. He wanted her, but she wouldn't let her baby have her.

"So eager, already? I wonder how your tight little ass would feel around my new strap. Now stay still or I'll leave you here with the belt on," almost immediately, he stopped moving, despite what his brain told him to do.

As she climbed on top of him, she lifted his legs and slid the dild-

"Reid?" Hearing the voice made him look up from the file, which proved his mind was somewhere else. "Do you have any nerdy facts about the case?" Emily needed to know the full parameters, and judging by the growing blush on his face, he thought about something not safe for work.

"Eighty percent (80%) of ammonia is used for either fertilizer in the agricultural community or used as a refrigerant gas. Ammonia gas itself is lighter than air, so it rises, yet when mixed with moisture, turns into a vapor. The vapor turns so heavy that it keeps to the ground, but the unsub's found a way to transport the ammonia gas without it turning into something harmful to the unsub themself." He rambled on, but it also indicated the level of skill the unsub had.

"So we might be dealing with a chemist?" Morgan asked, which Emily pulled out her phone and dialed Garcia.

"What's cookin', good lookin'?" She asked into the call, not aware that she was on speaker phone.

"Garcia, you're on speaker. I need you to make a list of all of the chemists within Fort Wayne, Indiana," she placed her phone onto the table, which meant anyone could ask the tech wizard to narrow the search.

"There's over six hundred (600) names. Do you have anything to narrow it down?" Hoping there was more to the search than just the job alone, she looked to another screen as she waited for an answer.

"Look for anyone who might have a history of violence. It might be something as little as peeping to murder." Derek said something next, which caused Penelope to type it into the filter. Though it was a great thing, there were still a lot of names on the list.

"That leaves me with sixty names, sugar. It's majorly concerning how many of them could pick up jobs. Some of them have misdemeanors, others have assault, someone has aggravated battery." Penelope listed off some of the crimes that popped up on the screen.

"That's all for now. Thanks, Garcia," Emily picked up her phone.

"You're welcome, my Mistress," she ended the call before Em had a chance to say something back, so she shook her head. As they turned to the door, an officer rushed in.

"There's been another body," hearing those words, all of them rushed out the door. Considering they only got here a few hours ago, it meant this death was fresh. Taking two cars, one that had Morgan, Reid, and Prentiss while the other had Hotch and Rossi, JJ stayed behind in case she had to deal with the media.

♞

As Kiara worked, her mind wandered to last night. What she wouldn't give to hear him beg for mercy like that again. However, she couldn't keep her mind on it, considering her phone rang. The noise and feeling of the sudden buzz almost made her jump, but she contained herself enough.

Looking at the caller ID, it was Spencer, which made her confused but she answered it anyway. "What is it?"

"How do you undo a downward prayer? Each shibari design has a failsafe wrapped in," this must've been important, which also meant this wasn't time for jokes. Closing her eyes for a moment, she thought to herself.

"On the back, there's over three (3) dozen ties to create the design. The one you're looking for might be tucked in behind one of the strings. If he's an amateur, it'll be tucked between the hands of the person in the rope. If not, then it'll be wrapped around their neck."

"Are you sure?"

"There's only two ways to create a downward prayer and there's always a failsafe. Always." There was a bit of silence before someone picked up the phone again. "Did you save them?"

"Yeah, I did. Thank you." He ended the call, most likely trying to keep his voice to a professional level.

♞

The place I got the ammonia knowledge was from here.