#and from that death new life will rise in the Spring | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

itsphoenix0724 · 9 months

Text

Can You Kill A God? (Azriel x Reader)

Summary: No one will ever forget why you are Death's queen ever again.

Based on another fic I wrote which you can read here

Warnings: Gore, blood, the reader is a little sinister but I love it, SMUT (unprotected sex, breeding kink?, oral: m and f receiving)

Word Count: 2.4k

A/N: I've been really missing Death!Az and Life!Reader recently. Also, I've had an obsession with Get In The Water from Epic the musical and this is what spawned. I did set in Ancient Greece so I did mention a Greek city. Happy New Year!!!

It started as a petty slight. Some stupid mortal king had said they feared Death more than War, so the god had raged a challenge. Your husband doesn’t normally involve himself in other matters, he had no need.

Eris was irrelevant to him.

Of all the other gods he is the only one who was inevitable, who would be permanent despite all odds. Azriel didn’t even feel the need to acknowledge the God of War, but he had started harming your creations, which was unacceptable in his eyes.

The souls had come into the underworld brutalized, they curled into your lap as you wiped their tears with the gossamer of your gown and told you that they had been sent as a message. You shed your own tears as you escorted them to eternal paradise and Death’s eyes went dark with promise as he cupped your jaw.

Then he prepared for battle.

You had to return to the overworld soon, the last phases of winter thawing into springtime greenery. He would sort this mess out before you leave his protection realm. Azriel gathered his allies and they outfitted themselves for combat. He took care to strap the armor to your chest, the gauntlets on your arms, and around your calves, kissing his devotion before securing every piece of metal. You did the same to him taking extra care to protect his heart.

The sight of you almost sent him to his knees.

There are still flowers wound through your hair, nightshade and belladonna make a deadly crown, and the golden glow that seems to permanently surround you bounces off the obsidian steel of your armor.

The battle had been bloody and long, it felt as if you’ve been here for days. Your dress was torn, the cloth shredded around your feet. Blood covered your entire front, caked and cracked into your skin.

You cannot kill a god.

But that doesn’t make the battle any less gruesome.

Nothing would touch you thanks to Death looming over your shoulder. Every attack that may have hit you was deflected by your husband and vice-versa until the God of War catches onto this little tactic and baits Azriel by attacking you. Az had jumped in front of you, a wall of shadows blasting the God of War back a few feet at the risk of wounding him.

But Death had fallen, red blood spilling sickly and sweet onto the fresh spring grass. It reminds you of a splitting pomegranate as the red seeps out and stains the dirt, every god in the field halts their battle and watches

You fall to your knees in front of him, vines starting to curl around him as your magic begs to erupt from your chest to protect what’s yours. Eris gloats from his spot hovering in the air, laughing at Azriel struggling to breathe around the blood coming up his throat. The thorn vines wrap around Azriel to ward off any who might try to weaken him further as you rise to your feet.

“Flower,” he wheezes around a cracked rattle in his throat, shaking his head and trying to sit up. You shush him gently pouring golden light into his chest that does nothing. You are not the Goddess of Healing, life will never stop death, so Az will have to heal on his own. War still mocks your shushing, your tears, calling your magic pathetic.

The earth beneath you starts to rumble.

You are the Goddess of Life, the Goddess of the Earth, the World Shaker, and you will make every God here remember why you are Queen of the Underworld.

Rising to your feet, the earth grumbles and shudders under the very force of your erratic heartbeat. War made a mistake waging this battle in Sparta, his arrogance will be his downfall. Your entire body shakes with rage as you stare at Eris from his spot in the air.

“Get on the ground Eris.” Your voice rumbles in time with the splitting of the earth and War widens his eyes at the splintering ground. Yet, his overconfidence keeps him hovering out of your reach.

“Go home, Little Goddess” He drawls, “You’ve been beaten.” he spits at you with venom in his eyes—a dark, dark laugh bubbles out of your chest like molten lava.

“If you don’t come down here I will collapse every wall in your city, and kill everyone in it.” You glare up at him, and he laughs shaking his head in disbelief. “Don’t believe me?” You quirk a brow and the rise around the city starts to shake. “Tell me God, what happens when every last worshiper of yours is dead?” His eyes widen in fear then.

Because that is how you kill a god, you force them into the darkness of being forgotten until they waste away like little more than salt in water.

Faster than a breath thorn-covered vines shoot from the earth and surround War kicking and screaming, golden light begins to glow brightly from your eyes as your fury hauls him to the ground.

People seem to forget that Death is the calm acceptance of something coming to an end. Life joins this realm wailing its existence to the stars, Life can be a very violent thing.

You will break him beyond repair, you can’t hear the sounds of Eris choking on his blood, the only noise in your head is the dull thumping of a war drum. He fights back with as much power as he can muster, but you’re barely trembling with the effort it takes to hold him there. The sinister in your smile reflects in his shining, terrified eyes.

How pretty would it be if lilies sprouted from his lungs?

Someone may be calling your name but you can’t hear anything, the tunnel vision threatening to collapse you entirely. You might not be able to kill him like this but regrowing all of his organs certainly would take some time. Feeling the golden power writhe and wrap around his heart, begging you to let it off its leash and crush, but it’s then that you feel the cooling darkness wrap around your shoulders. Death sweeps his chill gaze over War after rising to his feet. You still hold the line firm, one arm shooting out to block Azriel from any further advancement. The light in your eyes still refuses to dim, but Az wraps a hand around your jaw delicately turning your face toward him.

“You’ve made your point My Love,” the steady weight of his hand calms the rising heat in your blood. “It’s time to let him go.” Azriel didn’t particularly care if you ripped Eris apart and scattered him to the seas, but he knew the guilt would threaten to drag you into the abyss entirely. The light dims, and you drop your hand. Eris falls to the ground like a puppet dropped from strings, coughing blood like shiny red rubies onto the grass. You’re only looking at Az, the wash of reassurance running over your body as you finally process that he’s whole–that he’s standing.

He’s alright.

Death doesn’t deign to even look at War as shadows come around you like dark silk, and you’re back in his realm. He finally sags into your arms as he lets the facade drop, the real pain and exhaustion catching up to him. Az thinks you might call for a medic, but it feels like someone is holding his head underwater. The silk of the sheets feels distant against his skin as your hand strokes his face, and he finally lets his eyes slip closed.

Azriel sleeps for four days.

He wakes in your bedroom, your presence absent, but a pitcher of water remains on the bedside table. The armor he’d donned for battle had been stripped from him, replaced by a black chiton that fell loosely around his chest and hips. He chugs half the water in one go as his power reaches out frantically for you, his heart settles when he feels like your golden aura, and he rises to set off looking.

He finds you beneath an ever-blooming willow tree in Asphodel fields, reading animatedly to a group of children, the golden reeds bellowing in the fresh spring air. They scatter as he leans against the trunk, giggling and laughing as they chase each other into the meadow. You’re overjoyed when you see your husband, throwing his arms around him and crashing his lips to yours.

“Are you all right?” You mutter, gently pushing back the curtain of black hair that had fallen into his eyes. You’re so delicate with him, Azriel feels his heart skip two beats in his chest.

“I’m content,” He hums lazily dropping his nose into your hairline, the lingering smell of lilies floods his senses and calms his nerves as it always does. He nudges his nose to your pulse point before biting gently at your fluttering heartbeat.

“Azriel,” your voice reverberates into his chest, twinning heartbeats thudding together. “You’re still injured.” he continues his exploration of your neck, nipping his displeasure at your attempt to coddle him. Your body shudders as he finds a sensitive point, and you can feel his smug smile at your jugular.

“Let me worship my Goddess in peace,” he rumbles relishing in the feel of your skin and the golden warmth of the fresh sun. He drops to his knees in the dirt, pressing devotion into the curve of your knee as your back thumps against the bark of the willow. He smirks as flowers bloom around you in time with your bashfulness, red poppies matching the pretty flush on your cheeks.

“The souls,” You whip your head from side to side as he runs his hands along the sensitive skin of your thighs. He tilts his head in contemplation, hazel eyes reflecting the warmth like molten gold.

You feel his power ripple around you and a blanket of silence covers the area. Everything goes quiet, no birds chirping or animals running through the surrounding forest, even the rustling of the grass in the wind falls silent under his command.

“No one will bother us now,” Azriel muses, continuing his travels, you squirm under his attention as he climbs higher and higher.

“You’ve been asleep for four days,” You barely get the words out as he runs his thumb delicately over the apex of your thighs, enjoying the feel of you under his hands. “You should really eat something,” He growls his frustration as he bites a dark mark on the sensitive skin.

“I’m trying too, if you would stop interrupting me.” His eyes turn almost black as he focuses his attention on your core again, brushing aside the scrap of silk covering you. Az lets out a guttural moan as your scent floods his senses. He dives in then, feasting on you like he needs it more than air.

He’s wasted precious time with you since he’s been asleep, winter is caving to the sweet spring, but it seems the cold is listening to his prayers and holding on just a little longer. He licks straight to your center, tasting the honeyed sweetness as it floods his mouth. No matter how many centuries you spend together you are always still so responsive to him, you’re twitching and squirming against the tree just about to tumble over that edge when you yank his head away to pull him to his feet. His eyes are glazed over and your slick is dripping down his chin, you haul his mouth to yours tasting yourself on his tongue. All of a sudden his back is against the tree and you sink to your knees before him, tearing at belt holding up the fabric around his waist.

It seems that you’ve missed him as well.

You look up at him through batting lashes, and Azriel strokes his hand along your jaw in adoration. You take him in your mouth and Az feels like molten iron has been poured down his spine, white-hot pleasure blinding all of his senses. Death’s knees begin to buckle under Life’s ministrations, the smug look in her eyes adding to the crumbling of his resolve. He has always laid everything he is at your feet, intimacy is no different. You stroke the rest of won’t fit in your mouth in time with the bobbing of your head and he feels weightless.

Your tongue strokes along a vein on the side of his cock and he explodes almost embarrassingly quickly. It appears that four days had taken more of a toll on him than anticipated. He scoops you into his arms and in a blink you’re in your bedroom. The absurdly large bed stretches across the expanse of the room, the open windows letting in the sun. Azriel tosses you on the cool silk sheets as he stalks on top of you. His lips collide with yours again as he slowly draws one hand up your thigh and draws your underwear down, throwing it somewhere behind him. He thrusts into you in one long motion, and the searing pleasure sends a rumble of power that shakes the very foundation of the palace.

“Calm Flower,” he whispers as he hits the spot inside of you that threatens to launch you into oblivion. “You’ll bring the walls down around us.” You let out a laugh that bubbles into a moan as he continues his languid drive into you over and over. Eventually, Azriel starts to ram into you as his restraint falters like a splitting thread, toying his fingers over the apex of your thighs with musician’s grace as he bites at your neck. He flips you over at lightning speed, your ass in the air as he drives your further into the mattress, your moans muffling into the pillows as your try to keep up with the relentless tempo. You finally tip over the edge right before Az spills himself inside you, your combined release makes him let out a roar so loud the birds flee from their nests in the trees.

He watches himself spill out of you, thrusting it back inside with two of his fingers.

You whine in overstimulation as he crooks his fingers inside of you, he lets out an amused huff as he gently strokes your shaking thighs. Azriel waves a hand, and you hear the water in the bathtub start to run. You stroke a gentle path through his night-dark hair as he leans into your touch.

Yes, spring may be coming soon. The time with your husband dwindles to sparse moments in a dying winter fire, but as Az scoops you into his arms to take you to the bath you enjoy every single moment you have left.

#acotar #acomaf #acowar #acosf fanfiction #acotar imagine #azriel acotar #azriel x reader #azriel #azriel imagine #azriel shadowsinger #azriel au #acotar fanfiction #acosf #azriel spymaster #azriel smut

512 notes · View notes

headspace-hotel · 1 year

Text

My Oenothera biennis at home is covered in caterpillars of white-lined sphinx moth. I've never seen one before! I think the caterpillars hibernate underground over the winter and emerge in spring as their adult moth form?

O. biennis is common evening-primrose. It has such a special place in my heart. It was, I believe, the first rescued plant that bloomed for me—I pulled one from a crack in the pavement on the roadside, not knowing what it was, and carefully took care of it until it had grown too big for its pot, at which point I planted it in the front flower bed.

I remember how amazing it was to watch the plant develop pointed buds that opened into large, bright, delicate flowers that were the most gorgeous shade of glowing pale yellow. It was so unlike the rich, heavy, buttery yellows of dandelions and sunflowers and other yellow flowers I was familiar with—this plant had its own yellow, so gentle yet so luminous, almost fluorescent. Each day, a new set of buds formed and opened, beginning late July and continuing into the final days of September.

At last, the plant reached the end of its bright, showy riot of blossoms, and slowly dried up entirely, leaving an array of partially split open seed pods along the stem. O. biennis is biennial, as the name suggests. It germinates the first year, forms a rosette of leaves close to the ground, then the second year, it bolts—rapidly growing its stem upward—and produces tons and tons of flowers until it is utterly spent. As the plant dries out in death, the seed pods slowly curl open, releasing loads of tiny seeds.

The next spring, a strange miracle occurred: Many O. biennis sprouts came up where the seeds had fallen, but instead of creating a neat little rosette of leaves on the ground, they began bolting immediately.

One particularly enthusiastic sprout was already a foot tall by May, and kept growing and growing, to my perplexment. "You're supposed to be biennial! What are you doing?"

But it couldn't be denied—the plants were all preparing to bloom the same year they'd first sprouted. And bloom they did!

The flower bed by the front door was blazing with color.

I saw how people designated O. biennis as a weed—it wasn't compact like the usual garden plants, it grew tall and sprawling like an expansive candelabra of blossoms. It was strong and enthusiastic in spite of poor conditions. But it was so beautiful, I was in love.

I learned that occasionally, O. biennis growing in harsh conditions with low competition, could evolve to have an annual life cycle. Apparently, all the seeds produced by the founding plant inherited this trait.

Yesterday, I visited home and collected seed pods from the one extraordinarily enthusiastic plant that had captured my attention, the one that bolted in spring and began blooming before all the others. I intend to spread those seeds in the goldenrod fields and whatever neglected place a tough plant might thrive.

I feel that the progeny of my one extraordinary plant might be more competitive in areas that are periodically subjected to mowing and bush-hogging. The plants these seeds give rise to could be better adapted to the novel stresses placed upon them in these disturbed environments.

The weakness of O. biennis is that it spreads its seeds simply by gravity and the action of water washing seeds away. Its genetics, however exceptional, cannot travel far. So I am helping it out a little bit, by identifying a plant that has evolved exceptionally well for the stresses of a roadside environment and spreading its seeds as much as I can.

#oenothera biennis #plants #plantarchy #native plant gardening

570 notes · View notes

blurredcolour · 5 months

Text

The Only Truth... | Part Four

The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist

John "Bucky" Egan x POW Flight Nurse!Female Reader

The day Stalag VIIA is liberated ought to be one of pure celebration. Unfortunately, fate has other plans in store.

Warnings: Language, Angst, Death, Blood, Brief Battle, Serious Reader Injury [gunshot wound], POW Camp Setting, SS Officers, Mental Health Struggles, References to Christianity, Reader Scars, Hospital Setting, Kissing, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Rating - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: Thank you all ever so much for your patience! At last we come to the end of our tale. This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 6267

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

The morning of Sunday, April 29, 1945, dawned cloudy but bright. The chill of early spring still hung in the air, your breath hanging from your lips as you ducked out into the tent to collect the clean yet still-unfolded laundry that had been awaiting your attention throughout the drama of the rainstorm. You had just managed to tuck it away into your room when Fitzgibbons arrived with a new book for you to read, a more recently published fantasy novel called The Hobbit, though you had other priorities before diving into it.

You had almost gotten away with your clandestine chores, rags folded, and three-quarters of the bandages rolled, when your former surgical technician appeared at your door, knocking on the frame with an admonishing look on his face.

“I see you’re taking it easy on your day off, Ma’am.”

Huffing in irritation at being caught, you shook your head. “I’m off my feet, Fitz, can’t we just call a truce?”

He made a non-committal noise before cracking a grin. “Actually came to ask a favor, so I’m thinking we can come to an agreement. Menzies,” his deliberate mispronunciation of the British Captain’s name made you roll your eyes affectionately, “ordered me to flush a wound using your make-shift tools and honestly, I cannot make heads or tails of what you’ve jerry-rigged.”

Biting back a laugh, you nodded quickly, well aware that your cobbled-together system was more than a little unorthodox and not at all surprised Menzies had not taken the time to ensure Fitzgibbons knew how it worked. “Certainly, let me walk you through it.”

Grabbing the laundry you had thus far folded, you made your way down the hall to collect the items from the supply desk and followed him to the bedside of a new patient. Introducing yourself warmly, you learned the man’s name was Michaels and he hailed from the frigid wilds of Canada.

“Fitz and I are going to use this here to flush that wound, alright?” You nodded to the nasty laceration on his calf, your makeshift instruments cradled in your arms.

“Sounds fine, Ma’am.” He nodded patiently, vowels clipped remarkably short in that efficient Canuck way of speaking.

“Alright so if you take this, Fitz.” You held out a funnel with a piece of tubing secured to it, watching the tech take it carefully.

The mundane calm of the morning was shattered by the sudden hum of an airplane engine, your eyes shooting to meet Fitzgibbons’ sharply moments before the eruption of gunfire.

“Everyone get down!” He shouted and you both lurched into motion to begin helping your patients from their cots onto the wooden planks of the tent platform, abandoning your instruments on Michaels’ cot.

Panic rising as you once again found yourself in a wildly unsafe place while under fire, you urged the men from their beds to get low, presenting smaller targets for the errant bullets that were punching holes through the canvas of the tent every so often. The cacophony outside only increased with the rumble of approaching vehicles – tanks quite possible given the depth of sound that carried across the camp – and you nearly tripped over your own feet in an effort to reach the last two patients who simply could not move on their own.

Heaving one, Sidhu from India, out of his cot and depositing him onto the floor, you were just sliding your arms beneath the shoulders of the last, Hernandez from Texas, when searing heat and pain punched into your side. Your arms and legs gave out beneath you instantly, your body collapsing atop the poor boy still on his cot, both of you gasping for breath. With a grunt of annoyance, you flung a hand back to your hip, eyes widening as your fingertips were quickly covered in a warm, slick fluid.

“M…Ma’am?!” Hernandez warbled from beneath you, watching as you lifted your fingers to inspect just what was going on, his face blanching at the unmistakable scarlet of blood. “Doc?! Medic!! Help!!!” He began to shriek all the words he knew to summon assistance, making you wince at the racket as you forced yourself to roll off him, crashing to the floor in a pile of uncooperative limbs.

Taking a moment to try and catch your breath, pulse rocketing at an alarming rate, you began to realize that no matter how long you lay there, things were not improving. In fact the situation was growing a lot more serious as a deep ache was settling into your right side and you could feel your clothes growing damper with blood by the second. Rolling onto your stomach, you had just begun to feebly pull yourself across the floor of the tent when the racket outside subsided momentarily, Hernandez’s cries summoning several sets of boots to run in your direction.

A great, external cheer erupted in the same moment you were lifted by many hands onto one of the recently vacated cots, Chalmers, Menzies and Fitzgibbons all hovering above you as they yanked at your shirt and pants to get at your wound. The striking similarity between your plight and that of Simms set your teeth on edge, tears brimming in your eyes at the sudden thought that this could really be it. You might very well die here in these filthy, mud-covered clothes while the rest of the camp cheered on outside.

“Keep breathing for me, Nurse. You’ve got an entry and an exit wound, you just stay with us now.” Chalmers barked firmly and you managed a brief nod despite the shakes that seemed to want to rattle your bones. “Fitz go find out if they’ve got a Medic with them – we need sulfa and plasma, and she needs an aid station and surgery.”

“Sir!” He replied before you heard his frantic footfalls leave the tent.

Menzies applied a ruthless amount of pressure to the front and back of your hip and it was all you could do not to wail pathetically at the lances of pain that shot through you. “I know, Nurse, I know. For your own good, now. Why’d you have to go and get yourself shot in the middle of our liberation, hm?”

“Libe.r.ation?” It was difficult to form the word, your mouth clumsy and filled with cotton, head buzzing with adrenaline and pain.

Your heart was beginning to lose its rhythm, stuttering and skipping beats every so often. Your medical training offered a whispered explanation of ‘blood loss’ which did nothing for the suffocating feeling of panic in your chest.

“Looks like your American Army showed up to bring you home, so let’s make sure you can get there alright?” Chalmers added firmly and you nodded again, trying to take deep breaths.

You were so close. They were right there.

What had started as a frigid day seemed to be growing colder, your fingers tips positively icy by the time you heard Fitzgibbons return, giving someone a rundown. The familiarity of it made your heart ache for a simpler time when the two of you were the ones saving people, taking them from danger to safety. Now you were the one in peril, finding it remarkably difficult to keep your eyes open. The unfamiliar face of a young man in an Army helmet came into view before you felt the sting of sulfa on your wounds.

Your left sleeve was rolled up, your nonsensical protests going unheeded as the man began to search for a vein, inserting an IV for the bottle of cheery yellow plasma – the bright color anachronistic to the monochromatic color palette that pervaded the Stalag. Bandages were wrapped tightly around your middle once more and they were just about to lift you, cot and all, when another set of heavy footfalls sounded on the floorboards.

“Jesus christ…angelfish…” Bucky’s voice was unmistakable, though anguished, and you rolled your head to the side to look at him with a weak smile.

“Bucky.” You managed to form his nickname at a volume no more than a whisper, vision narrowing in on his pinched, tight features, the normally rosy hue completely drained from his cheeks.

Suddenly everything tilted and whirled as your cot was hoisted onto the shoulders of Chalmers, Menzies, Fitzgibbons, and the Medic.

“Take the plasma, Egan. Hold it up, keep pace.” Chalmers ordered sharply and the ceiling of the tent began to blur as they rushed out into the daylight, your vision going completely white before all was darkness.

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

The morning had seemed like any other, crowded around a small campfire trying to keep warm, trading suppositions about the end of the war with Jefferson, when the unmistakable sound of an aircraft engine had broken through the din of the camp.

“Hey Macon, that’s a P-51!” Jefferson had shouted and instantly the entire population was on their feet, cheering on the pilot as he took out on of the guard towers.

Their elation was short lived, the abrupt sound of incoming artillery sending all the prisoners into the dirt as every single German soldier seemed to open fire as one, the camp instantly an active battlefield. Bucky’s eyes strayed to the hospital tent, its canvas walls helplessly pinned between the encroaching American tanks and the defending German guards. They needed to put a stop to this from the inside before any more lives were needlessly lost. Even as this thought crossed his mind, men were falling all around him.

“Fellas! Take out the tower!” Bucky shouted as he ran for the tent where the majority of the Americans were sheltering, seeking out the homemade stars and stripes they had carefully crafted and transported from camp to camp, kept hidden from goons, just for such an occasion.

It took a few tries before Jefferson successfully came up with the flag, passing it to him quickly. Dashing through the chaos of prisoners running hither and thither through the camp, some fleeing, some fighting guards, Bucky was boosted onto the roof of the administration building. The flagpole was less than sturdy as he climbed it but as he removed the Nazi war flag and tossed it to the cheering crowd below, the guns fell quiet. Securing the ragtag American flag, watching the breeze immediately catch and fly it high, an immense feeling of relief wash through him and after taking a moment to celebrate, he pressed his forehead to the hand-hewn timber of the pole to soak in his gratitude for making it this far. Though the ragged appearance of his country’s flag undoubtedly mirrored his own.

As he carefully climbed down the rickety pole, his eyes caught on a somewhat familiar figure running frantically through the crowd toward the gate, moving against the flow of those milling around the yard, celebrating. The man’s shouts carried intermittently on the wind across the crowd and Bucky managed to pick out “Medic,” his heartrate picking up at the word “Nurse.” His stomach dropped when the word “shot” reached his ears.

“Angelfish.” He whispered and quickly scrambled his way off the roof, wincing a little at his rough landing, before he began to shove his own way through the oblivious celebrants towards the hospital.

Skidding to a stop on the threshold of the tent, he was startled to find all the patients cowering beneath their cots while you lay on one of their abandoned beds, a bloody mess surrounded by men frantically trying to save you.

“Jesus christ…angelfish…” He choked out, throat clenching painfully as your head lolled to the side, slightly unfocused eyes meeting his.

“Bucky.” Your faint whisper of his name propelled him forward, a frown settling over his features at the state of your clothes, wanting nothing more than to cover up the expanse of your abdomen and the scar on your arm – you surely hated to have that so prominently on display.

Chalmers’ sudden directive for him to manage the plasma grabbed his attention and he quickly grasped the glass bottle, holding it high as they lifted the entire bed to begin carrying you out of there.

“Just hold on, angelfish.” He rasped, heart lurching painfully as your eyes rolled back in your head, your body going slack.

Running alongside you to the gate despite the way his lungs ached, the crowd mercifully parted before their odd little group. A jeep was waiting with a stretcher strapped to the back, and Bucky watched helplessly as your unsettlingly limp form was transferred from the cot, the bottle of plasma wrenched from his fingers by the Medic before he perched atop your legs. As the vehicle took off, the Lieutenant Colonel of the armored division strode over sternly.

“How the devil did a nurse end up as a POW?” He demanded as Lieutenant Colonel Clark came to stand on Bucky’s right.

Chalmer’s sighed deeply before sharing what he knew of your story, of your arrival back in January including the fact that the Red Cross was informed through the usual process, and how you were housed separately in the hospital. As Fitzgibbons, the very same surgical technician you had earned your burns pulling out of your plane, filled in the rest of your service history, Bucky could only reflect on how little he really knew you. How short his time with you had actually amounted to be. Hell, he would not have even known your squadron number if it was not for that conversation right then.

“What a SNAFU.” The man muttered and Bucky could certainly see the resemblance of the man’s commanding officer, Patton, in him. “Well, let’s get this formal surrender over with so we can get these boys home.”

Clark nodded in return and Bucky shuffled back to sit heavily amongst the men of the 100th, waving off Brady’s look of concern. Watching the salutes and handshakes, he was completely numb, his thoughts miles away with wherever they had taken you, only able to hope against hope that their aid station was of the highest calibre.

Bucky had not resorted to prayer often throughout the war. Sure he had worn a crucifix and crossed himself reflexively when flying into a hail of flak, but conversations with higher beings had never been something he had put much stock in. Faced, now, with this gnawing feeling of helplessness, your very survival in the balance, it seemed like the only tool left at his disposal.

Crammed into the tent that night, shoulder-to-shoulder with his neighbors, he felt rusty and self-conscious as he addressed the god of his childhood Sunday school and fairly begged for you to make it. He stopped short of bargaining his own life away, but barely, before sleep overtook his aching body, the exertions of the day overtaking him.

As he found himself jostling in the back of a transport truck on his way to Paris the next day, handpicked by Lieutenant Colonel Clark to be among the first sent back to England, he could not help but feel as though he was being driven further and further away from you. It was near night by the time they pulled into the base and Bucky took his first warm shower in over a year, changing into a fresh uniform and feeling almost human. They were served white bread that might as well have been cake, with steak and eggs that were too rich for him to endure more than a few bites before he crawled into a remarkably clean bed and slept deeply, exhaustion winning out over his continuous concern for your well being.

Climbing into the belly of a B-17 for the first time in over eighteen months felt awkward and painful, the crew from the 100th consisting of unfamiliar replacements, the space feeling more cramped than it ever had as he wedged himself into the cockpit behind the pilot. The deep-seated terror he had desperately been trying to supress, his fear that Buck had not made it to safety despite their planning and the beating he had taken to distract the guards, surged to the fore of his mind. It competed ruthlessly with his anxiety over whether you were still drawing breath, the fact that he may have to face the truth of losing both of you leaving him silent and withdrawn as the plane took flight.

There was no immediate answer awaiting him at Thorpe Abbotts either, no familiar faces lining the tarmac – not even Lemmons was around, which struck him as unsettlingly odd. Making his way to the CO’s hut, his eyes at last landed on a familiar face as Herrmann emerged from one the equipment sheds.

“Hey Winks! Where is everybody? Guy comes back after a year-and-a-half and no one’s around?” He plastered on a playful smirk as the boy’s face broke out into a grin of astonishment, shaking his hand vigorously as he rushed over.

“Buck took Rosie, Douglass, Croz, and Kenny up on one of those mercy missions they’ve been practicing for, they should be back any time now, sir. Gosh it’s great to see you back here.”

Bucky’s attention immediately snagged on the first name Herrmann mentioned, finding it immensely difficult to continue listening as he exhaled half of the tension that had strangled him all the way across the English Chanel. “Good to be back, Winks. Think you can give me a lift?” He raised an eyebrow, desperate for a moment of levity.

With a quick nod, Herrmann was promptly driving him towards the control tower. The most difficult part of getting up there was making it past all the congratulatory pats and handshakes, but Bucky was able to pull off his surprise, the sound of Cleven’s voice over the radio going a long way to mending some of the deep wounds he was still sporting.

More handshakes and pats-on-the-back awaited him at the hardstand and it finally felt like he was back amongst the familiar faces of these men. He did not miss the way Cleven’s eyes were quietly scrutinizing him, however. The gratingly familiar feeling that his friend was looking right through him was undeniable as he joked and smiled with the boys who had never been imprisoned. Who had not endured the things they had. As the crowd around them thinned out, Bucky turned to watch Cleven pull out one of his toothpicks, sliding it between his molars in a familiar yet long-lost motion.

“So what you been up to since I left?” His friend asked.

Bucky swallowed and shrugged a little walking over to the jeep, Cleven immediately sliding into the passenger’s seat out of habit.

“That terrible, huh?” Cleven muttered and Bucky sighed as the vehicle roared to life.

“Ended up in Moosburg.” He started out slow, with simple facts. “Got a little hurt on the way, so Brady and Hambone took me to the hospital. Turns out there was a Nurse there, POW since January.”

The look of shock on his friend’s face registered in the corner of his eye and Bucky did not have the heart to fully face him.

“The German’s held a woman prisoner?” Cleven shook his head with a sigh of dismay.

“She got shot during the liberation, stray bullet. Medics from the armored division took her and I have no idea if she made it.” Now that he had started telling the story it all just came pouring out of him.

“You care about her more than just on moral grounds.” Cleven stated matter-of-factly and Bucky sighed as he pulled up in front of what used to be their hut.

Who knew if it still was.

“Yes.” He begrudgingly admitted, though his admission was addressed to the steering wheel.

There was a long, drawn-out silence, the incessant chirping of sparrows filling in the gap in conversation and Bucky realized he had not really heard a bird his entire time in captivity. His head snapped sharply to look at Cleven as he suddenly spoke again.

“If anyone can find someone in the chain of evacuation it’ll be Smokey.”

Bucky furrowed his brows a moment before it clicked. “Doc Stover? You think?”

Cleven shrugged. “He’s our best shot I guess.”

“Our…”

“Are you going to drive us to the hospital, or should I?”

A grin pulled at Bucky’s lips as he started the jeep back up and took a sharp U-turn, heading for the base hospital. He pretended not to notice the way his friend’s eyes lingered on the stiff movement of his body as he climbed out of the jeep – he was definitely sore but was most certainly not going to admit to it. The wards were just as populated as they had been in 1943, something he found rather infuriating. It was another feeling he tucked into a neat little package and shoved down to be ignored until a more convenient time. Or perhaps never to be acknowledged again.

Stover was easy to find, dressed in his white coat, just finishing his rounds.

“Majors, what can I do for you?” He gestured for them to follow him into his office and Bucky sank down into a chair heavily, once again ignoring another man’s assessing gaze on him.

“Well it’s an odd request really but…” He trailed off, hesitating as he smoothed his too-long hair, reflecting once again that he needed a proper haircut.

“We’re wondering if you might be able to track someone down for us. Someone who was injured at a camp in Moosburg and evacuated to an aid station.

Stover raised an eyebrow curiously. “One of your fellow POWs?”

“Something like…. well yeah, she is.” Bucky corrected himself midway through, watching the doctor’s eyebrows shoot up dramatically. “Flight Nurse from the 802nd MAES, POW at Moosburg since January of ’45, shot during liberation and taken to the aid station of Patton’s 3rd Army – armored division. Which division I don’t know.”

They watched as Stover quickly grabbed a pen and started jotting down the important details, including your name.

“How bad was she hurt?” Stover asked and Bucky swallowed tightly.

“I didn’t see it happen but there was a gunshot to her stomach somewhere. They got her on plasma quickly.” He added hopefully but Stover’s face remained grim.

“I can’t promise you anything Major Egan, it doesn’t sound particularly hopeful either, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks, Doc.” He nodded, leveraging himself out of the chair with a barely concealed wince.

“And what do you have going on?” Stover stayed seated, eyeing him expectantly.

Bucky noticed Cleven had not budged either, the bastard. Emptying his lungs with a heavy exhale, Bucky put his hands on his hips and shrugged.

“Couple of broken ribs, I’ll be alright.” He replied nonchalantly.

“And how old are these broken ribs?” Stover prodded and Bucky ignored Cleven’s pointed look up at him.

“Couple weeks, I’m halfway mended, just overdid it getting in the fort to come back.”

Stover rose from behind his desk and opened a cabinet, fetching a bottle and holding it out to him. “Aspirin, to keep you comfortable. Take two every four hours as long as you need. Come back if you run out.”

Bucky accepted the bottle with a nod of thanks, the memory of you scrounging up two rare pills for him in the Stalag flooding back, furrowing his brows. The things you could have done in a place like this with limitless supply.

“Thanks again, Doc.” Cleven’s expression of gratitude pierced through his reminiscing and Bucky nodded quickly, tucking the pills into his pocket before heading out quietly.

Accommodations were procured and there was not much for him to do around base aside from rest and learn how to eat properly once more. It took several days for any news of your condition to reach him, via Stover’s connections, but when the man pulled him into his office on the morning of the May 5, he was stunned to learn that not only were you alive, but that you had been air evacuated to Redgrave Hospital just thirty minutes away from Thorpe Abbotts.

You were safe. You were close.

“Seems they weren’t quite certain what to do with her, but as she serves under the Army Air Force, they sent her to our main hospital.” Bucky realized Stover was still talking and he shot him a warm grin before grasping his hand to shake firmly.

“Well I really appreciate your help, Doc. I’ve gotta…” Bucky glanced over his shoulder at the door, desperate to make his way to you.

“Yeah, go…” He chuckled and shooed him out of his office.

No longer a squadron commander, Bucky technically did not have a jeep of his own to disappear with off base and so he was in the process of grabbing one of the stray bikes outside the control tower when Crosby emerged into the daylight, eyes squinting in fatigue at the brightness.

“Where are you off to Major?”

“Redgrave Hospital!” He replied brightly, watching the younger man blink.

“Sir that’s a good eleven miles, that’s a terrible idea with your ribs.”

Word seemed to have spread fast…

“Take my jeep, I’m not gonna need it today.”

“Croz, you are a lifesaver.” Bucky dropped the bike he had been wrangling to slap him on the back before diving into the jeep allotted for use by the Group Navigator. “I’ll be back!” He shouted, taking off in a spray of dust and gravel.

Turning onto the two-hundred-acre country estate, Redgrave Hospital, consisting of nearly forty Nissen huts, stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the trees and landscaped green. As he pulled up to the headquarters of the hospital, Bucky quickly realized that the staff there were not nearly as excited to see him. In fact, they were downright reluctant to allow him in to visit you, but assured him that while you were ‘heavily medicated and resting’ you were still ‘on the mend.’

While relief still permeated his system, it was a new agony to have you so very close and yet still out of his reach. If they were not going to permit him as a regular visitor, Bucky realized he was going to have to get a lot more creative in order to lay his eyes on you, and until he did, there would be not real peace.

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

Moments of clarity punctured through the blackness – a blur of trees, the flurry of activity of an aid station, the masked face of a surgeon speaking to you reassuringly, the heartbreakingly familiar interior of a C-47 – but it was not until you were settled in a bed inside a hospital with four walls, windows, and nurses that true cognizance really returned to you. Casting your eyes around the sterile, white space, you noted you were situated at the end of a row and walled off from other patients with a set of privacy screens. The most striking feature of this hospital was the very stern-faced Bucky parked in a chair to the left of your bed.

As you began to stir, his eyes lifted quickly to meet yours, some of the tension easing from his frame. “Have a good rest, angelfish?” he whispered, and you furrowed your brows up at him, so full of questions. “They got you on the good stuff don’t they.” He chuckled fondly, reaching out to brush his fingertips across your cheek tenderly.

“Kick a girl when she’s down, why don’t you.” You sighed, speech slightly slurred from pain medication and the dryness in your mouth, but still capable of using his own lines against him.

His resulting grin contained all the brilliance of the sun and made you look down with a self-satisfied smirk. Your eyes immediately fell on your exposed arms laying atop the blanket, the scarring along your left forearm lain bare for all to see. Jerking your hands back roughly, you clumsily tried to shove them beneath the covers despite the warmth on the ward. Bucky’s gentle tut before his hand came to rest atop yours halted your attempt.

“Shhh, you’re just fine you brave, beautiful woman. Stay right there.” He murmured as he laced his fingers with yours, pinning your arm to rest above the blanket. “You have nothing to hide or be ashamed of.”

Swallowing thickly, you slowly lifted your gaze to meet his. “I think I’ve acquired a few more…” You sighed, the feeling of thick bandages padding your hip acutely registering as you spoke.

“Probably.” He nodded softly. “You also probably saved that boy Hernandez by taking the bullet, so I’d say they were well earned. Besides, they’ll make an excellent target for my mouth one day.”

Your soft smile transformed into a look of disbelief, your free hand rising to whack his shoulder gently. “John Clarence Egan.” You chided half-heartedly and he pressed his face to the side of your head where it lay propped up against several pillows, his heavy exhale ruffling through your hair. “We are in a hospital, and you are making inappropriate jokes.”

“Mmmm.” He hummed in agreement, stroking his thumb against yours affectionately.

“Which hospital is this, anyway?” You asked curiously, finding its curved roof and white walls lacked distinguishing features.

“Redgrave Hospital, you serve in the Army Air Force after all.” He pulled back slightly to answer.

“Redgrave…” you repeated thoughtfully. “Sounds awfully English.”

“Hit the nail on the head, angelfish. We made it.” Bucky’s lips brushed against your temple, and you smiled softly. “Despite our best efforts.” His teasing made you laugh softly, and you shook your head.

“If we’re in England, where’s the King?” You raised an eyebrow expectantly and he smirked, shaking his head.

“No King, unfortunately, but I did bring you this?” He reached behind him, pulling out a newspaper to lay across your lap.

“Victory in Europe.” You read the headline aloud, pausing a moment as the words sunk in before gasping and looking to him wide-eyed. “Truly?”

A look of solemn earnestness overtook his features and he nodded softly. “Truly. German army surrendered yesterday.”

You gulped roughly and looked back to ready to date of May 8, 1945, on the top of the paper – you had lost nearly nine days. You really had been so close, everyone had. And the fact that you were here, and others were not seemed so very arbitrary. Sighing heavily, you squeezed his hand gently.

“By the skin of our teeth.” You murmured thickly, looking up as a nurse shuffled past with a faint nod of acknowledgement before making a sharp about-face to come and check your vitals.

“How’re you feeling?” She asked you and you nodded slowly.

“I’m alright, thank you. Bit foggy but things are the clearest they’ve been in days.”

“I’m going to fetch the Doctor.” The nurse turned to eye Bucky sharply. “You’d best make yourself scarce.” She commented before continuing on her way.

“How on earth did you get in here?” You raised an eyebrow as you came to realize how unusual his presence was.

“Bought my way in with a few bottles of champagne – your flightless comrades are quite friendly if one knows the price.”

You coughed out a laugh as the comment made Nurses sound like some species of bird and his lips twitched into a smile, your eyes unable to look away from the soft, rosy skin of his mouth.

“Hey before you go…”

“Hmmm?” He turned to you, half risen from his chair.

“I don’t have the mental capacity to think of something self-deprecating right now, so can I just get a kiss?” You murmured before pursing your lips shyly.

His face transformed into a warm smile, eyes crinkling adorably at the corners as the tips of his ears flushed pink. “I always said you just had to ask, angelfish.”

Echoing his smile, you turned your lips up expectantly as he braced his hand on the pillow beside your head, leaning in to gently brush his lips against yours, drawing a contented sigh from deep beneath your breastbone. Bucky’s lips pressed closer, a tender hum rumbling from his throat just as a sharp cough sounded from the end of the bed and he slowly pulled back with a rueful huff.

“Just checking her breathing, Doc.” Bucky grinned wolfishly as the man raised an eyebrow sharply. “She’s doing great.”

“Hn.” The doctor intoned, clearly unimpressed. “And how are your ribs doing, Major Egan?”

Inhaling sharply, you looked him over quickly, the litany of his injuries flooding back to you from your sub-conscious.

“Much better, thank you Doc. Who knew Smokey was such a gossip. Well, angelfish,” he brushed his knuckles down your cheek, “guess that’s my cue.”

Nodding slowly, wondering who on earth Smokey might be, you watched him leave before your Doctor took over, running through numerous checks with you before discussing the extent of your injury and the surgeries that had been performed to save your life. It was nothing short of remarkable, what they had thrown at you to prevent your death, the conversation a very sobering one. It would be a long road to recovery, and one, it turned out, you would mostly be taking back home in the United States.

After a week or so in Redgrave Hospital, you were deemed fit enough for transport back to the Zone of Interior for convalescence and recovery in a domestic hospital. Though the sympathetic nurses had not seen fit to permit Bucky onto the ward again, they had taken a shakily written note, the loss of strength you had suffered in just over a week was startling, and promised to deliver it to him. The trip via Prestwick to Greenland, then Newfoundland, and ultimately Grenier Field in New Hampshire felt luxurious on the much more spacious C-54. You were admitted to the Station Hospital there to continue your recovery and rehabilitation, enjoying phone calls with your family instead of delayed correspondence for a change.

It took two months for you to be fully back on your feet, back to yourself. The same amount of time, it seemed, for the 100th bomb group to be repatriated stateside. Freshly discharged and clad in a brand-new olive drab dress uniform, proudly bearing your silver 1st Lieutenant’s insignia following your promotion and the ribbons from your two purple hearts, you had sweet-talked your way back onto the base. One of the more sympathetic MPs who had heard your story – admittedly there were few in New Hampshire who had not heard your story at this point – had not even protested your request. It seemed that fate saw fit to land Major John Egan in your life a second time, with Grenier Field the destination for his bomb group on their return flight.

Standing in the warm summer breeze, watching the sky for the silhouettes of their planes, it honestly felt odd to be wearing a skirt. The complexity of affixing your stockings to the straps of your garter belt had briefly made you long for the convenience of slacks, but with your properly cut and styled hair and feminine clothing you felt like an entirely new woman as you stood outside on the grass with the ground crew. Would Bucky even recognize you?

At last the distant droning of aircraft engines reached your, and everyone around you’s, ears, the shapes of B-17s multiplying on the horizon before they began to circle in for a landing. Honestly, there were so many of them you briefly doubted you would be able to find him with any manner of efficiency. Clamping a hand over your officer’s cap to hold it in place as a plane taxied onto a nearby hardstand, your eyes began to scan the crowd of men as they filtered past, surely headed for the mess hall or officer’s club. Catch a glimpse of those unmistakable ears, you stepped forward and called out to him.

“John Clarence Egan!”

His head whipped around so fast he nearly took out the man walking beside him.

“Do I really look so different in a skirt that you would walk right by me?” You teased fondly.

“Angelfish!”

His flight bag hit the asphalt with a sickening ‘crunch’ that had you worried for its contents, but the impact of his body against yours drove that thought quickly from your mind. Wrenching his cap from his head he tilted his face to nestle beneath the brim of yours and kiss you soundly. Distantly, you were aware of all manner of cheers and wolf-whistles from his comrades, but you were too busy clutching at his shoulders to truly mind.

“How did you-? What are you-? God, it’s good to see you.” He rambled before pressing his mouth against yours firmly, not even giving you the opportunity to reply.

Laughing brightly into the kiss, you became vaguely aware of the sound of footsteps approaching much nearer and pulled back slowly, smiling fondly as Bucky’s lips made as if to chase yours, but his friend’s question interrupted him.

“You gonna introduce us, John?” A tall blond man with striking blue eyes and a pair of unsettlingly symmetrical facial scars asked sardonically.

Bucky cleared his throat and stepped back, though you noted his arm slid around your waist in a rather proprietary move. You found you did not mind in the least, particularly as your fully healed wound gave no protest of pain whatsoever.

“Angelfish, this Gale Cleven – call him Buck, Robert Rosenthal – Rosie, and Harry Crosby – Croz.” He followed up by introducing you by your full name.

“He give you that nickname, too?” The one he told you to call ‘Buck’ raised an eyebrow and you laughed.

“It’s a long story….”

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

The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist

Tag list: @gretagerwigsmuse, @luminouslywriting, @softspeirs, @sunny747, @storysimp, @slowsweetlove, @httpsmoon, @buckysegan, @justheretoreadthxxs, @precious-little-scoundrel, @jointherebellion215, @timetowastetime8, @mads-weasley

#john egan x reader #bucky egan x reader #major john egan x reader #john egan x you #john egan fic #john egan imagine #john egan #mota fanfic #masters of the air fanfiction

164 notes · View notes

joelalorian · 4 months

Text

Fevered Flame

Marcus Pike x F!Reader

Summary: When Marcus Pike lost himself in work after that debacle with Theresa, he didn’t expect to take on a sizzling new case in the quirky town of Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. Nor did he expect to meet you, an up-and-coming agent also looking for a fresh start. An unprecedented heatwave, mind-boggling art thefts, ancient Aztec legends, this case had the works. How would he ever solve the case with the temperature rising between you both?

This fic is my contribution to @iamasaddie's Little Lady Kinky May writing challenge. Prompts were Marcus Pike and Temperature. This is my first time writing Marcus Pike and I hope I did him justice. I learned a few things about myself during this process, the most important being that I am incapable of writing porn without plot, or a romantic angle, apparently. This story turned out waaaaay different than intended because of that. I apologize now for the plot heaviness between sexy bits.

WC: 10.4k – I’m sorry, I have no idea where all these words came from

Warnings: Explicit 18+, too much plot, heat making people cray cray, sexy sweatiness, lots of cursing (I’m from New Jersey, I can’t help it), nonsensical crime stuff, a plot that came straight outta left field, protected and unprotected sex (p in v), pussy eating and cock sucking, inappropriate use of an ice cube and hot springs. No use of y/n. Reader has a nickname and boobs, otherwise, I tried to keep her a blank slate. Some terms of endearment. IDK, there’s probably more but I can’t think right now.

Anyway, hope you enjoy this utter ridiculousness. Dividers by the wonderful @saradika-graphics. Moodboard by me.

Masterlist

Still reeling from the aftermath of Theresa Lisbon choosing that pontificating windbag Patrick Jane over him nearly a year ago, Marcus Pike buried himself in work. The transition from Texas to DC and adapting to leading a whole new team took his mind of his misery. However, the lonely nights in his new home, the one purchased with hopes of building a life with Theresa in mind, were untenable and he took on more fieldwork than someone at the director level typically would. Hence why Marcus found himself driving through the desert to some quirky small town in New Mexico called Truth or Consequences.

What the fuck kind of name was that for a town, he wondered idly as his right hand pumped the rental car’s AC to full blast. Having already stripped off his suit jacket and tie, Marcus sweat clear through his lavender dress shirt within minutes. The heat was ungodly. Surely it couldn’t be normal. How could people live like that?

Eyes scanning the dashboard display of the mid-size SUV the agency rented for him, they nearly bugged out of his head at the temperature reading. Lit up in glaring red, the numbers 121°F taunted him as sweat dripped down his temples.

Jesus Christ. Death Valley had nothing on this place.

Marcus steered the vehicle toward his hotel, opting to change into something a little more suitable for the local climate before checking in with the agent representing the local field office. The FBI put him up in a supposedly nice hotel, though he didn’t have high expectations of what that meant in a town like this. As long as the AC worked, he’d survive.

Thirty minutes later, Marcus took his second shower of the day, this one much colder than the last, and jumped back into the SUV in an outfit more typical of a golf outing than an FBI investigation. It was the best he could do with what he packed. The local agent texted him the address of an art gallery, the first in a series of apparent crime scenes, and he plugged the address into the GPS.

Normally, you didn’t mind the heat, preferring that to cold winters, but this current heatwave was beyond ridiculous. You sweat just by simply existing. You never experienced anything like it in the five years you’d been stationed in Albuquerque, and you suddenly found yourself longing for the bone-deep cold of a northeastern winter as you waited for the DC agent to arrive.

The chilling sea breeze of a New Jersey winter sounded like heaven right now.

A sleek silver SUV pulled up next to your government-issued sedan and you watched with an assessing gaze from the driver’s seat as Director Marcus Pike exited the vehicle clad in khaki shorts and a turquoise polo, trendy aviator sunglasses shielding his eyes from the glare of the desert sun. His dark brown hair was short and styled back off his forehead, and a neatly trimmed scruff lined his top lip and jaw.

You knew from a quick glance at his FBI profile that he was a decorated agent, but his government photo did not do him justice. The man was fucking gorgeous in person. Exiting your own vehicle before he caught you staring, you introduced yourself.

He flashed you a smile full of boyish charm when you gave him your name, causing your heart to thump double time. “You can just call me Jersey, everyone else does,” you finished, holding your hand out to shake his.

“Marcus Pike, Director of the Art Crimes Squad in DC,” he replied, his larger hand engulfing yours in a firm, yet not overbearing, shake. “Just call me Marcus.”

The two of you gazed at each other, the sun beating down on you both like laser beams. Holy fuck, Marcus was even hotter up close. Yeah, his FBI file photo did not do him any justice at all. Not wanting to make things uncomfortable by staring too long, you gestured toward the door to the gallery.

“Shall we?”

Marcus cleared his throat and nodded, following behind you as you strolled casually through the entrance. “Wanna give me a rundown of what we know so far?”

“Sure,” you replied. “We’ve had paintings stolen from several galleries in town. Despite its odd name and small-town status, Truth or Consequences has a rather robust art scene. Lots of expensive art showcased in these galleries.”

Marcus nodded as you gave him some background. He likely read most of this in the file on his flight out here, but you could appreciate the necessity of running over it again verbally. Repetition was the mother of… whatever the fuck that saying was. Your brain was already too fried from the heat.

“The thefts started almost a week ago, not too long after the start of the extreme heatwave this area is currently experiencing. There has been one painting taken every other day so far, always at the peak heat of the day when the townsfolk are too overheated and tired to pay much attention. No eyewitnesses and the thief artfully avoided any surveillance or security cameras so far.”

You watched Marcus jot down some notes, tapping the end of his pen against the small notepad as he reviewed the information.

“So, three paintings taken so far, and it’s still early in the day. I’m guessing we can expect another theft today?” You nodded and Marcus tapped the pen against his bottom lip this time, causing you to avert your gaze before he caught you ogling the plump flesh.

“Have there been any patterns identified?”

You could practically see the wheels turning in his head. “Just in the types of paintings taken so far. They all depict scenes of cool, serene landscapes.”

Dark brown eyes held your gaze. “So, the exact opposite of the current weather situation.”

Again, you nodded. “That’s the only pattern so far. We haven’t been able to determine any order to the galleries hit and, unfortunately, this town doesn’t have the law enforcement manpower to guard all of the galleries and still attend to their normal duties. We do have unis posted at the galleries that haven’t been hit yet, just in case. That’s the best the townies could do though.”

Humming in thought, Marcus walked around the gallery, causing you to scramble to keep up. It was fascinating watching his mind work, his big, brown eyes taking in every minute detail around him. When he stopped in front of the empty spot marking the first stolen painting’s former home, you paused next to him, debating on sharing the only other piece of information you had so far.

“There’s, uh, something strange that may or may not be related to this case.” That got Marcus’ attention and his eyes shot to you once again, brow arched curiously.

“Do tell,” he replied with an encouraging smile. You blinked slowly, trying in vain to maintain your concentration in front of such a handsome man.

“I will on the way to the other galleries. Just… just promise to hold judgment until I finish telling you everything. It’s a little… unorthodox compared to what we’re used, I’d say.” You led the way back to your car, gesturing for Marcus to get in on the passenger side. It made more sense to ride together. Thankfully, you left it running while inside the gallery, making the interior still nice and cool.

Once seated, his head cocked to the side endearingly, the tilt of his lips bordering on an indulgent smile. “Ok, I promise.” The cadence and depth of his soft-spoken voice set you aflame and you had to practically shake yourself to not fall to your knees in praise of this man.

Jesus Christ, Jersey, have a modicum of professionalism and self-respect, will ya, your inner monologue chided. Your libido hyperfixated on the veritable stud before you whether you wanted it to or not. It’d been too long since your last tumble in the sheets, apparently. Recentering your focus, you pulled out onto the main road heading to the next crime scene.

“Good,” you croaked. Feeling the heat creep up your already overheated flesh, you cleared your throat. “I’m sure you can tell, the weather here is ungodly hot – hard to miss it. This is not entirely normal, from what I understand. It’s tempting to chalk it up to climate change, except for one strange thing. Drive twenty or thirty minutes outside of town and the temps are far lower, though still hot by some standards. The temps within the surrounding towns are in line with the more normal averages.”

Brows furrowed, Marcus’ dark eyes searched your face, clearly looking for more context clues. “The heat certainly seemed excessive on the ride over from the municipal airport. I had to stop at the hotel and change or I would have melted to the pavement in my suit.”

You chuckled. “I know the feeling. The average temperature here is supposed to be in the low 90s this time of year, not thirty degrees higher. And the usually cooler desert nights haven’t existed for the past couple of weeks. It’s very strange.”

“And it’s just this town, you say?”

Pulling to a stop in front of the next gallery, you nodded. “Strange, right?”

“Very,” Marcus replied, deep in thought as he followed you inside.

It carried on like that the rest of the afternoon until the heat became just too much after checking out the last crime scene. Like everyone else in town, you sought refuge in the coolest place you could find, which happened to be a hole-in-the-wall pub just off the main street.

Just when Marcus thought things couldn’t get weirder with this town, you led him into a dark and dingy little pub, settling right up to the aged bar. If you weren’t a certified agency employee, he would be terrified that you were luring him to his untimely death.

As it was, the scraggly old barkeep gave him the creeps when he shuffled over, eyeing the pair of you with the same attention he would three-headed aliens. “Coldest beer in town. Two pints?” The man’s voice as rough as he looked, he didn’t wait for an answer.

Marcus shot you a look, eyes wide and uncertain, but you merely shrugged in return. He didn’t normally drink on the job, but between the heat and the early start for traveling, Marcus decided his day was finished. He chugged at the frosty draft when the barkeep placed it in front of him. The old man was right, the pint glass was frozen and small chunks of ice floated in the foamy beer.

“Damn, that’s good,” he nearly moaned, feeling refreshed.

“I know, right?” you replied, nearly half done with your own pint. “I don’t normally like beer, but I could drink it all day long when it’s ice cold like this. Especially in this heat, you know?”

The first round went down easily, and quickly, and the old barkeep, whose name turned out to be Harry, placed another round down before Marcus even thought to ask. The pair of you settled into easy conversation, getting to know each other outside of the job. The more you drank, the more your Jersey accent started to peak through. He found it cute and kept asking you questions just to keep hearing you talk.

Soon enough, any thought left in his mind about Theresa evaporated. How could he still think about his ex-fiancé when a hot, smart, sweet little thing like you sat before him, chatting, and flirting away the evening. Theresa had nothing on you.

It took exactly a fraction of a second to be struck by your beauty that morning. Confident and intelligent, not mention damn good at your job, he quickly realized your natural beauty served as icing on the cake. You were the entire package, and he was trying his damnedest to not charge ahead trying to get you into bed.

Turned out you both had similar relationship history, married too young and divorced, no kids, longed for a dog if only your job didn’t call you away so often. You were practically the female version of him, Marcus thought. It made him all the more curious about you.

Before long, you both ordered some bar grub and went back to talking about the case. Neither of you could make sense of what you had so far. There were vital pieces of the puzzle missing, that much was apparent.

Harry unceremoniously dropped plates full of burgers and fries in front of you, not even trying to hide the fact that he eavesdropped on your conversation.

“You think your case has something to do with the heat?” the old man questioned, leaning heavily on the bar top.

You and Marcus shared a look before you nodded.

“There’s some local lore you might find interesting, then,” Harry said, pausing for dramatic effect and you gestured for him to continue. “Well, as the legends go, the Flame of Quetzalcoatl was hidden somewhere in town centuries ago. They say it was a gem gifted by the Aztec god Quetzalcoatl himself, but who the recipient was no one knows. The gem is said to hold the power of the sun and the wielder of it has the ability to control heat.”

You and Marcus sat there in silence, absorbing the tale Harry just shared. After a few minutes, Marcus glanced at you, doubt clear in his expression.

“This town just gets fuckin’ weirder by the minute, I swear,” he said, sipping at his pint once again. “I might actually believe that little story if I was a few more beers in.”

You laughed, but your face didn’t hold the same doubt as his. “I don’t know, Marcus. If living out here for the past few years has taught me anything, it’s that these Aztec legends are often too close to the truth to blow off.”

Harry harrumphed. “I’d say so, little lady.”

“Besides, it’s the best we’ve got right now,” you said, nudging Marcus’ shoulder with yours. “Couldn’t hurt to play that angle until a better lead pops up.”

Marcus found himself agreeing, much to his surprise.

Over the next few days, you and Marcus researched as much as possible about local lore related to Aztecs, searching for any hint of what Harry told you. In that time, three more paintings were stolen. The thief started leaving little clues as if to goad law enforcement.

The first cryptic clue further convinced you of the potential voracity of the Aztec legend. Written in drip red paint in the spot where the fourth painting had been located, Marcus suspected the thief meant it to look like blood.

When the feathered serpent sheds its skin, the heat will rise.

“Holy shit,” you gasped when you first read it. Turning to Marcus, you declared, “Quetzalcoatl was known as the Feathered Serpent.”

His dark brown eyes widened, meeting yours in shock. “No way.”

You nodded, flipping through your notepad to find your most recent notes on the case. “Yes way. That book we borrowed from the Historical Society talked about it. Remember?”

Marcus nodded slowly as the information came back to him, his eyes searching yours, trying to make sense of this completely bizarre case. “Didn’t the book say something about Quetzalcoatl being a signal of transformation? Think the clue has something to do with that?”

“Yeah, could be.”

The pattern continued the next day with another clue left behind.

Where the earth boils and the water steams, the gem of the sun awaits.

The pair of you debated the meaning of the second clue over cold beer at Harry’s pub. As the case evolved, so did the connection between you and Marcus. You both flirted unashamedly when you weren’t talking about the case. It turned out the agency put you both up at the same hotel – your rooms on the same floor even. You were beginning to hope that he would make a move, yet completely terrified of that happening at the same time.

Despite your best efforts, the thief remained one step ahead of law enforcement, somehow managing to steal from galleries you had actively guarded. How in the world was this guy doing it?

Things were slowly coming together once a third clue was discovered.

Seek the place where fire and water dance, and there you will find the sun’s heart.

Without a local FBI office to work out of – the Albuquerque one you worked out of was over two hours away – you’d decided to setup camp in a quiet booth at Harry’s. He kept you full on pub grub and refreshments – soda and water during work hours, of course – and chipped in with his local knowledge whenever he thought it needed.

In fact, it was Harry who guided you toward understanding the latest clues.

“Have you two heard about the hot springs? This town is famous for them.” The old man dropped the nugget of knowledge along with a plate of fries and shuffled away, leaving the two of you to stare after him.

Marcus turned to you; his lips pursed in thought. You ached to nibble on the plump flesh of his bottom lip, to feel the gentle scratch of his facial hair against your soft skin as you did so.

“Where the earth boils and the water streams,” Marcus recalled the second clue in that delicious, soft-spoken voice of his, sending a wave of gooseflesh over your skin. “Seek the place where fire and water dance.”

Shaking your head free of naughty thoughts, you focused on the clues and the knowledge bomb Harry dropped, picking right up on Marcus’ thought process. “Fire, heat, and water... The hot springs!”

Marcus beamed at you; eyes sparkling as he came to the same realization. “It has to be. Makes sense, right?”

“Sure does,” you agreed, grinning back at him. “But there must be a ton of them. How would we ever find the right one?”

Sitting back in his seat, Marcus shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ll have to keep digging. Do you still have that book from the Historical Society? Maybe there’s something else in there to help us.”

“It’s back in my room,” you reply. “Fancy ordering room service at the hotel while we go over the clues again?”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

What was he thinking, agreeing to go back to your room to continue working on the case.

An unwitting temptress already, how was he supposed to control himself when you invited him into your room for dinner, drinks, and after-hours casework?

In the already excessive desert heat, Marcus was sweating bullets as he followed you into your room, conveniently located only a few doors down from his own.

“I have a bottle of cab, is that good?” you questioned, kicking off your shoes with a sigh before reaching for the screw cap bottle.

Audibly gulping, Marcus squeaked out an assent and wiped his sweaty palms on his shorts. He glanced around the room to distract himself, noting happily that you were a tidy traveler, much like himself.

“I have bottled water as well. Would you like one?” Marcus nodded. With an indulgent smile, you held out the small ice bucket. “I like mine over ice. Would you mind?”

Eager for a moment to clear his head, Marcus grabbed the bucket. “No problem.” The echo of your chuckle followed him as he rushed out the door.

“What is wrong with you, dude?” he whispered to himself as he strolled down the hall to the ice machine. “You don’t even know if this woman wants anything more than just reviewing the case. Calm the fuck down.”

Feeling a little calmer and more under control after his private pep talk, Marcus knocked on your door with the full ice bucket in hand. You let him in with a broad smile that nearly made his heart stop.

“Perfect.” Plucking the bucket from his hands, you returned to the makeshift kitchenette area to fill two cups with ice and water. Two glasses of cabernet were already sitting on the tiny table in the small designated sitting area of the hotel room.

Marcus joined you on the couch, case file in hand, seated close due to the limited space. You dove right in to discussing the case, easing his nerves. The pair of you compared the facts of the case, debating theories and potential connections. Without any physical evidence, you still didn’t have any viable suspects, which was incredibly frustrating for both of you.

“I’ve never had a case like this,” Marcus said. “It’s hard to believe that this could all relate to a myth about an ancient god. It feels weird even saying that aloud.”

“I know. It’s giving me Twilight Zone vibes.”

With the lack of viable suspects serving as a brick wall in furthering the investigation, conversation switched to other topics.

“You’re from New Jersey?” Marcus asked. “What brought you out here?”

“Yep, born and raised at the Jersey Shore,” you replied, that northeastern accent peeking through as you drank more wine. “Classic reason for relocating – I followed a guy, the one I told you a little about. We got married young and one day he woke up and decided he wanted a change of scenery. I followed along without argument, and we wound up out here. Biggest mistake of my life.”

“Ahh,” he said with a nod. “That asshole.”

“Yeah, that asshole.”

From what you told Marcus about your ex-husband, he knew the guy was a real piece of work. Classic narcissist who beat you down emotionally the entire time you were together. Marcus was happy that you kicked the guy to the curb two years ago and the divorce finalized last year. No one deserved to be treated like that, especially you.

“Are you going to stick around here now that’s all over with?” He found himself curious about your future plans.

Shaking your head, you laughed. “Hell no. I put in for a transfer already, for anywhere on the east coast closer to home. I’m no picky.”

Marcus perked up at that. The DC headquarters always had openings. He’d get to see you again if you were transferred there. “I could put in a good word for you, if you’d like. You’re a great agent from what I’ve seen so far.”

Ducking your head bashfully, you peeked at him through your lashes. “That’s pretty high praise coming from a director,” you deflected.

“I mean it, Jersey.” He kept his voice low, using your nickname for the first time, and watched in delight as you shuddered.

The air in the room shifted, sexual tension thick and nearly overpowering. Marcus watched as your pupils dilated, lust overtaking the previous sparkle. He gulped when your tongue darted out to lick your lips tantalizingly.

Shifting ever so closer, your scent washed over him. You smelled fucking delicious, hints of cocoa butter and salty sweat, reminding him of the beach. His shorts suddenly became tighter, his cock twitching to life. He wanted to devour you.

The next thing Marcus knew, your lips were pressed to his as you basically ripped the clothes from each other’s bodies, the now empty bottle of wine knocked from the table to the carpeted floor in the process. Despite the cool air pumping from the air conditioning, your skin felt hot to his touch.

Licking into your mouth, savoring the taste of you mixed with the bite of wine on your tongue, Marcus steered you backwards until your hamstrings bumped against the mattress. He eased you down onto the bed, detaching his lips from yours to take in the electrifying sight of your naked body splayed before him.

“You’re breathtaking,” he murmured, his fingertips tracing down your smooth skin slowly, teasingly from your neck to your toes.

Your eyes, blown wide with need, burned into his before dipping down to take in his naked body with a gasp. His cock bobbed eagerly as you stared.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Marcus said, his soft voice filled with awe, matching the wonder in his eyes.

“Me either,” you replied, “but I’m happy it is. You are so fucking gorgeous, Marcus.”

Marcus couldn’t help the blush that pinkened his cheeks. Reaching behind him to the bucket, he plucked a large ice cube from the slowly melting pile. His eyes remained locked on yours as he popped the frozen cube into his mouth, sucking lightly before his tongue pushed forward and his lips puckered as a portion of the ice cube stuck out.

The breath left you when he dipped his head down to run the cube along your clavicle and down across your breasts. Your nipples pebbled beneath the chilly wetness as Marcus directed the ice cube back and forth a few times. He watched delightedly as goosebumps peppered your skin when he moved the cube down your belly in a zigzag pattern.

“Oh, fuck.” Your chest heaved and fingers tightened their grip on the bedsheets when Marcus dipped further down, running the quickly melting cube over your mound and through your slit. The cold nearly shocking to the overwhelming heat of your labia.

Using his tongue to increase the pressure, Marcus circled the ice cube over your clit until you cried out, one hand loosening its grip on the sheets to tangle your fingers in his thick hair. He shifted, plunging the cube into your entrance, pushing as far as his tongue would extend, then leant back to watch your pussy suck the cube further until in melted into mere dribbles of water.

You laid there panting, eyes hooded and wanting, as Marcus dove back in, using his tongue to continue the work he started with the ice cube. He lapped and sucked at your clit, two thick fingers slipping inside you, until you became a blubbering mess, blurting out unintelligible words and moans, finally falling apart beneath his ministrations.

Marcus slurped at the evidence of your long overdue release, savoring the sweet, tangy taste of you. His hips thrust against the mattress of their own accord, his body seeking any sort of friction against his aching cock it could find.

“Your mouth is a lethal weapon, Marcus,” you said breathlessly, hands reaching under his shoulders to drag him up your body. “Now let’s see what you can do with your cock.”

His hair flopped forward over his forehead from your fingers tangling in it and he grinned in satisfaction at your comment. His boyish charm proved too much to handle, and you yanked his face down to yours, tongues tangling in a scorching kiss. You nibbled on his plump bottom lip between fervent kisses, savoring the plushness between your teeth.

Whining when he pulled away suddenly, your fingers grasping for purchase to pull him back, Marcus winked at you when he slid off the bed. “Don’t worry, baby. I’m coming right back.”

Digging in his shorts to find his wallet, Marcus pulled out a long-forgotten condom from the tri-fold leather and checked the date on the foil packaging to make sure it hadn’t expired. Content with the remaining half-life, he ripped the package open with his teeth and slid the latex material over his cock.

You beamed at him when he climbed back onto the bed. “I knew you were a smart man.”

Marcus slid up beside your body, turning you so your back pressed snug against his chest. “Safety first, baby. Wrap it before you tap it, right?”

Your laughter became strangled when he slid inside you, splitting you open on his cock. “Oh my god. You feel so good!” you cried when he began to move inside you after a long pause to let you adjust to the sheer size of him.

Marcus started at a slow pace, getting a feel for the way your walls tightened around him. Gripping the bed covers with your right hand, you reached your left hand up and around to tangle in his hair behind you. He picked up the pace as you tugged gently on his locks, his lips peppering your neck with soft, wet kisses.

When, at last, Marcus began pounding into you, you reached between your legs with your right hand to rub your clit. Despite the cool air blowing over your bodies, the heat between you had your skin glistening with sweat. You cried as Marcus hit a particularly pleasurable spot deep within you, his own moans morphing into grunts as you clamped down on him.

“Fuck, baby. You’re so tight around me. I can feel you clench every time I hit this spot.” His words were murmured into your ear, barely audible over the sound of skin slapping against skin. Marcus plunged forward to hit your g-spot, proving his point when you clenched tightly around him once again. “Yeah, just like that.”

You plunged clear over the precipice then, crying out his name and any number of praises as an orgasm overtook you. Marcus talked you through it, his voice like sugary syrup, while he never once let up on his thrusts. Minutes, hours later, he followed you into the overwhelming bliss with a shout of your name followed by a string of curses.

“That was amazing.” Marcus nuzzled your neck as his hips slowed, the last shots of his cum dribbling into the condom. “You are amazing.”

Lost for words, you just hummed in agreement. Knackered from the excessive heat, long day of investigative work, the alcohol, and the mind-blowing sex, you hovered on the edge of sleep while Marcus got up to dispose of the condom. He returned with a wet cloth and cleaned you up with tender dedication. Tossing the cloth aside, he paused, standing naked and uncertain next to the bed.

“Do you want me to stay?”

“Hell yeah, I do,” you replied sleepily, tossing the covers down so you could both slide under them. “I hope you like to cuddle, Mister.”

Grinning at you, Marcus wrapped his arm around you, curving his body around yours. “You bet your ass I do.”

You both fell into an exhausted sleep feeling hopeful and satiated for the first time in a long time.

Waking up in Director Pike’s arms was not something you expected would happen on this case. You fantasized. You hoped. Sure, all of that. But you never, ever expected it would actually happen. But it did and it felt fucking incredible.

You already knew he was damn good at his job. It was impressive to see that his single-minded focus and massive talent carried over to his skills in the bedroom as well. You replayed the night before in your head as you showered, remembering with fondness all the ways Marcus surprised you, how cherished he made you feel, the sheer pleasure he brought you.

How were you supposed to focus on the case now when your mind was completely overcome with thoughts of Marcus. You were almost relieved when he slipped out of the room after sharing a cup of hotel room coffee with you. You weren’t sure you could keep your hands to yourself if he stayed much longer, the rumbled, sleepy look proving almost too adorable to resist.

Marcus met you in the hotel lobby, two large cups of iced coffee and a brown paper bag clutched in his hands an hour after waking up together. “Good morning, Jersey girl,” he greeted you with a wink, dark brown eyes sparkling in the soft morning light filtering through the windows.

You chuckled at the variation of your nickname, already knowing that would become his signature endearment for you. “Good morning, handsome. Long time, no see.”

His grin grew wider. “Come on. Let’s ride together. No sense in taking two cars anymore.” He handed you one of the iced coffees and the paper bag, pulling the keys to his SUV out of his pocket.

Clad in gray cargo shorts, blush polo shirt, and a pair of boat shoes, Marcus looked ready for a day spent on the water rather than investigating art theft. The sight made your mouth water and you gulped at the iced coffee. As he drove, you both munched on the bagels he picked up along with the coffees while waiting for you.

“I figured we’d start taking a look at some of these hot springs to get a feel for them and see if anything else in the clues pops out at us,” Marcus explained between bites. He always chewed with his mouth closed and waited until after he swallowed to speak. You loved a man with impeccably manners.

“Great idea. I put a list of them in the file.”

“I know,” he beamed at you. “I saw it last night, before… It’s what gave me the idea. Thought we’d start with La Paloma and work our way down the list. What do you think?”

You nodded, sitting back in the passenger seat contentedly. Much to your surprise, there wasn’t an ounce of awkwardness between you two after last night’s surprising turn of events. Everything felt natural, like it was meant to turn out this way and you basked in the effortless interactions between you and Marcus.

Marcus spoke to the manager upon your arrival at La Paloma Hot Springs & Spa and the gentleman gave you a quick tour of the facility before allowing the two of you to investigate on your own. You split up to cover more ground, the scent of mineral-rich water tickling your nose as you worked your way through the facility.

Searching the private soaking tubs, you ran your hands along the edges looking for evidence of hidden compartments that might contain the artifact. Still uncertain if that was what you were actually looking for, it didn’t hurt to search. When you found nothing, your focus shifted to the vintage décor including the old photographs hanging on the walls, looking for any signs or symbols that might be a clue.

An hour later, you and Marcus reconvened at the front desk, disappointed that you both came up empty, yet undeterred in your drive to figure out this case.

You visited a number of other hot springs, conducting the same kind of searches yet never finding additional clues or evidence.

“It’s like we’re missing something,” Marcus said as you both climbed into the SUV, burnt out and sweaty, after your latest search came up empty. You’d spent the entire day running from hot spring to hot spring across the small town to no avail.

“Yeah, but what could it be?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s not just any old hot spring? We need more to go on.”

Just then, your phone buzzed with an incoming call from the TCPD. Another painting stolen right under their noses – or rather, right behind the officer’s back as he turned around while patrolling one of the galleries. The thief had lightning-fast reflexes, apparently.

“Alright, thanks Chief. We’ll head over there now.” You ended the call and relayed the information to Marcus.

“This guy sure is brazen. I’ll give him that,” he lamented, carefully spinning the SUV around to head toward the latest crime scene.

“He’s got some balls, nicking a painting while an officer is standing right there. It’s like he’s begging to be caught.”

“That or he’s just a fucking lunatic.” Marcus met your gaze for a long moment after parking the vehicle. “Is it wrong that part of me hopes we don’t catch him too soon?”

Your heart thumped in your chest, lips quirking upwards into a shy smile. “No, not after last night…” you admitted. “We could always stay a few days after solving the case and explore this.” You gestured between the two of you.

Shutting off the car, Marcus bobbed his head. His previously styled hair fell across his forehead, the heat having worn away the product he used this morning. “I’d really like that.”

The TCPD officer met you at the door and led the way to the scene of the latest theft, his shoulders hunched in shame. “I never saw him; he was there and gone in seconds. Managed to leave this behind though, taped where the painting had been.”

Marcus accepted the paper, holding it up so you could read it.

Where the serpent bathes in earth’s warm embrace, beneath the soothing waters, the heart of the sun lies hidden.

“This message is different. Different, but the same. I mean… I don’t know what I mean,” you sighed frustratedly.

Marcus patted your shoulder in a manner appropriate for a professional audience. “No. I get what you mean. It’s tying the clues together in a different way. Giving us more hints at once.”

Heaving a sigh of your own, you nodded. What a great relief to feel understood. “Exactly.”

Conferring with the forensics team first, you and Marcus departed when they confirmed the thief left no trace evidence behind. No fibers, fingerprints, or hair. Nothing to clue you in on who the thief could be. Nothing, not even on the adhesive used to tape the clue to the wall or the paper itself. The perp was either lucky or extremely tidy.

Seated once again in the corner booth at Harry’s dingy pub, Marcus devoured his burger while you daintily nibbled at your fries. The extremely high temperature ruined your appetite. The case file sat open on the table as you placed sticky notes on a photocopy of the latest clue.

“’Where the serpent bathes’… that has to refer to the hot springs, right? And the serpent would symbolize this Quintessential guy?”

“Quetzalcoatl. The god’s name is Quetzalcoatl, for Christ’s sake,” Harry chimed in as he dropped off a fresh round of cold draft beers.

“Yeah, that guy,” you said, pointing a fry at Harry in thanks. Marcus laughed at your adorable ridiculousness. You made investigating this mind-boggling case fun.

“Right. And ‘in the earth’s warm embrace’ refers to the warm waters of the hot springs as well. That’s caused by geothermal activity, is that correct, Harry?” Marcus questioned.

The grizzled old barkeep lingered by your table, too caught up in his own curiosity to return to his duties. “Mmhmm, that’s what they say. I’m no rock scientist, mind.”

“You mean a geologist?” you chirped, a shit-eating grin gracing your pretty face.

“Yes, you mouthy little shit. Don’t sass me or I won’t help solve this case,” Harry grumbled. For a moment, Marcus worried you would be offended by the old man, but your tinkling laughter convinced him otherwise.

Marcus stifled a laugh when you rolled your eyes playfully and re-focused his attention on the clue. “That could be the earth’s warm embrace part, then. And ‘beneath the soothing waters’ refers again to the hot springs.”

“Uh huh,” Harry chimed in again, pulling the case file closer to him, aged eyes squinting to read your notes. Neither of you would normally let a civilian get so involved in a case, but Harry proved himself integral to solving this particularly challenging and unusual case. Pointing an arthritic finger to the final line of today’s clue, beneath the soothing waters, he added, “It refers to the artifact being hidden there, beneath one of the hot springs.”

Harry slipped into the booth on your side, and you flashed Marcus a smile. The old man was fully invested now. Thankfully the bar was empty but for a few regulars who could help themselves as far as Harry was concerned.

“Ok, so to summarize, we know the hot springs are involved,” you stated, processing the facts aloud as well as in your head. “And we know that the artifact is hidden beneath one of them. The question we’ve been chasing all day is which one, right? So, do any of the known hot springs have a serpent symbol or painting or something along those lines associated with it?”

Marcus shook his head as you flipped through pages of notes. “Definitely didn’t see any in the ones we checked out today.”

“Oh, for the love of all that is holy, you two idiots will be my age by the time you figure this out,” Harry stood from the booth, his voice gruff with annoyance, though whether that was from dealing with the two of you or the effort it took to stand with aged, arthritic bones was anyone’s guess. “You’ll want to check out Riverbend Hot Springs in the morning. You’re welcome.”

Mouths agape, you both watched the cantankerous old man shuffle back to the bar, grumbling to himself the whole way.

“Did he just solve the case for us?” Marcus asked when his gaze shifted back to you.

“I think so,” you laughed. “Thank fucking goodness. My eyes were starting to cross from looking at this file so much.”

Looking it up on his phone, Marcus confirmed that the Riverbend Hot Springs were closed until morning. Knowing their work was done for the day, he flashed you a heated look. “Want to go back to my room? Maybe cool off in the shower?”

Marcus had a nicer room than yours, the walk-in shower encased in glass and large enough to fit a few people. The perks of being a director, you guessed.

You barely glimpsed at the room before Marcus backed you against the already deadbolted door. His mouth pressed against yours, tongue dancing along the seam of your lips, begging for entry. You let him in eagerly, tongues tangling and teeth clashing with urgency. His hands were everywhere, stripping away your clothes and sliding against already bare skin in turn.

Once you both gave into the spark, stoking the fire into flames last night, the want turned into a blazing inferno that neither of you could extinguish. Not that you wanted to, anyway. No, you were content to burn to a crisp as the fire raged.

Marcus had you stripped naked within minutes, his mouth having never left your own in the process. Eager to return the favor from last night, you sunk to your knees, undoing his belt and shorts as you stared up at him. Marcus tore off his shirt while you shoved his shorts and boxer briefs down his slim hips to pool at his feet.

“Oh, fuck,” Marcus moaned as you wrapped your hand around his hardened length, testing the girth and weight of it in your grip. You tugged playfully a few times, getting to know the feel of him. Still staring into his lust blown eyes, you slowly leaned forward to glide the head of his cock around your plump lips before slipping him inside your mouth. A delicious whine fell from his lips when your tongue lapped at the little droplet of precum without breaking eye contact.

Not wanting to torture him unnecessarily, you began to move, taking more of his cock into your mouth until he bumped the back of your throat. Bobbing your head, you soaked his cock with your saliva, sucking every now and then to increase the sensation. Your left hand tugged the base of him where your mouth couldn’t quite reach, twisting with each upward stroke to further enhance his pleasure, as your right hand massaged his balls.

Panting heavily above you, Marcus slapped his palms against the door to support himself as you continued sucking his cock. Experimenting with how far you could take him, you hollowed your cheeks, easing farther down his length and breathed through your nose.

“Jersey girl… ungh. Please, I’m gonna come down that pretty little throat if you don’t stop.” You could feel his thigh muscles flex and twitch with the effort of not blowing his load down your throat as he stuttered out the words.

Taking pity on the man, you eased back until his cock audibly popped out of your mouth, a string of saliva connecting you until Marcus severed the link by stepping backwards on shaky legs.

“You are too good at that, my little minx. Come here.” Marcus helped you up, leading you into the shower once you regained your balance. He kissed you deeply as the cool water from the shower head cascaded over you both.

The water felt good on your overheated skin and Marcus pressed you backwards against the sturdy glass. Hiking a leg up around his waist with one hand, he gently cradled the side of your face in the other. Your gazes locked as he reached around your thigh and teased your clit.

“So wet for me, my Jersey girl.” Already on edge from sucking his cock, you were drenched and ready for him. “Did sucking my cock turn you on that much, my Jersey girl?” You mewled and, with the slightest shift of his hips, Marcus notched his cock at your entrance, feeding you inch by inch until your walls gripped his entire length tightly. “Fuck, you feel like heaven.”

Droplets of water rained down your bodies as he thrusted into you, your lips pressed open-mouthed against each other, noses bumping, exchanging breaths and moans without actually kissing. The stretch was intense but pleasurable, and you could feel every ridge of him inside you.

You suddenly realized why that was.

“Shit, we forgot a condom,” you said in between moans, your hands grasping his plump ass to make certain he didn’t stop.

Marcus showed no signs of stopping, his hips almost seemed to pick up the pace. “Do you want me to stop?”

“Fuck no!” you gasped; eyes fluttering shut as he nudged that spot inside you just right. “Please don’t ever fucking stop.”

“Ok,” he breathed against your lips. “I’m clean and it’s been a while since I’ve been with anyone.”

“Same,” you replied. “And I’m on birth control, so please, come inside me.”

Marcus groaned deeply at that, his head shifting so he could nip at your neck, soothing the sting with little kitten licks of his tongue. Pulling back, he murmured, “Turn around.”

You did so, whining as he slipped out of you. With a gentle hand, Marcus pushed your upper body against the glass and pulled your hips closer to him so your back arched perfectly. Your tits were pressed up against the glass wall of the shower and, just beyond it, you could see your reflections in the mirror. Only a slight mist of steam swirled in the air from the temperature of the water, and it didn’t hinder your view at all as Marcus closed in behind you, slipping his cock back where it belonged.

You watched your reflections, mesmerized, as he fucked into you, his wet hair flopping over his forehead when he bent forward to kiss along your shoulders and neck. Your hands came up on either side of your head to brace yourself against the glass, hoping that the strength of his thrusts wouldn’t cause it to shatter.

Marcus reached a hand around your thigh, slipping between your legs to pluck at your clit as you fucked you. Every single cell in your body felt aflame, ready to burst at the pleasure racing through you. It didn’t take long for you to explode, eyes squinted shut as you keened.

“That’s it, baby. Just like that. Come on my cock, my little Jersey girl. I can feel your cum gushing around me. Fuck, baby.” Once again, Marcus talked you through it in the soft voice of his. He continued thrusting as your walls trembled around him, driving him right over the edge after you, rope and rope of cum splashed your walls as he made the loveliest sex sounds in your ear.

You stayed like that, pressed up against the glass with the weight of Marcus leaning against you, chests heaving, until you both came back down from the high. Taking a few minutes to actually wash the day off each other, you settled on the bed wrapped in towels afterwards.

The two of you talked long into the night and, unable to keep your hands or mouths off each other, you had sex twice more before falling asleep.

Unable to come to an agreement on whether backup would be necessary at this point, you and Marcus finally decided to bring one officer to investigate the Riverbend Hot Springs with you. An extra pair of eyes could be useful, on that you both agreed.

Known for its scenic outdoor pools on the banks of the Rio Grande, visitors usually flocked to Riverbend. The facility not only had the hot springs, but hotel rooms and spaces for recreational vehicles as well. The manager was less than pleased when Marcus informed him that any guests present would have to stay in their rooms and out of both the common and private pools during the search. The last thing the investigation needed was public interference or contaminated evidence.

Searching the private pools first to appease the guests and resort manager, Marcus swiped his hand over his sweaty face when you found nothing.

“Let’s check the common pools now,” he sighed, wondering if it would be another fruitless adventure.

Another two hours of searching – lifting stones, moving decorative displays, going inside the pools themselves, even going so far as to request a shovel from the grounds crew to poke around in the landscaping – turned up nothing.

“At least there’s only one pool to go,” you said, trying to stay positive about finding something. “This has gotta be the one, right?”

“Let’s hope,” Marcus replied. Drenched in a mixed of sweat and mineral water, he wanted nothing more than to slip between cool sheets with you and an ice-cold drink. This case sucked.

Located at the far end of the property, overlooking the Rio Grande, a rock wall encased the final pool for support given the topography on the side along the river dipped lower. Marcus directed the officer to start at one end while he joined you in working your way up from the riverbank. Thorough in your search, you left literally left no stone unturned. One particular large slab placed in the landscaping next to the pool like a decorative display required your and Marcus’ strength combined to lift, and you gasped when you saw what sat in hiding beneath it.

“Is that a fucking trap door?” Marcus asked with a grunt as he glanced down and pushed the rock slab to the side.

“Yeah, it fucking is.” Bending down to open it, Marcus stopped you.

“Wait a second, Jersey girl. We don’t want to just go rushing down there.” He called the officer over for a quick chat, asking him to find the manager and see if anyone knew anything about where the trapdoor led.

Minutes later, the manager and resort engineer joined the group. No one knew a damn thing about what they found. It wasn’t depicted on the as-built drawings or any other schematics the engineer had on file. That did not bode well. Turning to the officer, you asked him to call for back up.

“We’ll head down to scope it out. Come down once backup gets here. In the meantime, please keep the guests away from this area,” Marcus directed the officer and manager before turning to you. “Ready, Jersey girl?”

Pulling your service weapon from its holster, you nodded confidently. “With you at my side, I’m ready for anything.”

Marcus flashed that boyish grin before wrenching the trapdoor open. As suspected, narrow steps carved into the stone descended down into darkness. Before Marcus could ask for one, the facility engineer handed him a flashlight.

Stepping carefully down the steps with the flashlight held high in one hand and his service weapon in the other, Marcus descended into the dark unknown with you right on his heels. At the bottom, a pathway led through more rock, dim light visible in the distance. You reach out while walking along the pathway to find the rock is surprisingly warm.

“I expected it to be cool to the touch,” you murmured, not wanting to make too much noise in case someone or something waited in the shadows.

“Hmm?”

“The walls,” you pointed when Marcus turned around. “They’re warm.”

Directing the beam of light in the direction you pointed, Marcus touched the back of his hand to the wall and looked back at you with a questioning brow. “How?”

“I have no fucking clue,” you shrugged.

“Latent heat from the surface?” he took a guess.

“Your guess is as good as mine. We’re below ground deep enough that it shouldn’t be this warm.”

Marcus continued on down the path, the rock walls growing warmer the farther you progressed. Finally, you turned a corner into a dimly lit chamber, the air filled with oppressive heat making it hard to breathe. You both scanned the room for threats, finding none. The chamber was oddly free of spider webs or bugs or people, aside from the two of you, but a pool of water bubbled inside a ring in the stone floor. Above the pool, an abnormally large, fiery opal appeared to float in the air, the glow from it the only source of light in the chamber aside from the flashlight in Marcus’ hand.

“What the fuck?” you questioned, confused as all hell why the gem just floated in air. “I’m getting some real X-Files type vibes and I DO NOT like it.”

Marcus couldn’t help the twitch of his lips even though he was just as confused as you. “This must be the Flame of Quetzalcoatl.”

“Ya think?” Your nerves made you snarky, a trait Marcus found profoundly adorable and endearing.

Stepping closer to the artifact, Marcus shielded his eyes from the fiery glow. He reached out with one long finger, nearly touching the object when the grinding sound of rock against rock reverberated through the chamber. Jerking back instinctually, both you and Marcus drew your pistols on the sudden intruder.

“Who the fuck are you?” you blurted at the man, your nerves shot to shit, your FBI training the only thing holding you together at that point.

Wild-haired, with oddly composed attire, the man practically vibrated with energy, a glint of insanity in his eerily green eyes. Under one arm, he carried another landscape painting, likely just stolen from another gallery. As if by magic or something equally befitting the utterly odd nature of this entire case, the other stolen paintings appeared, strategically placed along the rock walls rounding the chamber.

“I really don’t like this, Marcus,” you said through gritted teeth. His concerned gaze met yours briefly. “Me either, Jersey.”

It happened, as these things tend to do, suddenly and unexpectedly. The man lunged forward, dropping the painting without thought, and reached a trembling, emaciated hand toward the artifact. Marcus matched the man’s movement, reaching for him rather than the floating, glowing gem. In the process, a glass pedestal you didn’t even know was there, nearly invisible but surely the reason the artifact appeared to be floating in air, toppled over, sending the artifact flying.

You watched, awestruck and frozen in shock, as Marcus tackled the crazy man to the hard ground and the artifact shattered against the rock wall, simultaneously. Almost immediately, the temperature plunged until a damp coolness filled the formerly stuffy chamber, and the man shrieked in despair.

“No! No! No! You’ve ruined everything!” The man continued screeching. Moments later, TCPD officers rushed into the stone room, a few assisting Marcus with securing the thief in cuffs.

Among the backup that just arrived, the police chief stepped up to your side as you gave Marcus a hand in getting back on his feet. “Strangest thing,” the thick-bearded, squat man in uniform said, “the temperature dropped at least twenty-five degrees out of nowhere, just as we started making our way down here. Am I to believe it had something to do with whatever happened down here?”

You and Marcus shared a look before shrugging at the police chief. “I have no clue what even happened down here,” Marcus admitted. Tilting his chin in the crazy man’s direction, he added, “Your boys will bring him in for questioning? We’d like a shot at him, too.”

“Of course. We’ll get him processed. Come by the station whenever you’re finished up here.” The chief followed the officers escorting the man from the chamber, leaving behind a forensics team to gather evidence.

Standing above the shattered artifact, you sighed. “How the hell do I write this up in a report?”

“Very carefully and creatively,” Marcus replied with a smirk.

The interrogation didn’t take long, the man caving like a deck of cards in the wind. His name was Edmund Fawkes, a local starving artist driven mad by the excessive heat. Already obsessed with ancient mythology and local lore, he discovered the hidden chamber containing Quetzalcoatl’s Flame and, seeking the power and prosperity described in the legends, decided to take possession of it by appeasing the ancient god with landscape paintings.

It didn’t work, clearly, but Edmund was relentless in his insanity, continuing his thievery until you and Marcus caught him.

None of it made sense and there were so many things that could be attributed to entirely coincidental circumstances that you didn’t really care how the pieces fit together. The thief had been caught, the paintings returned to the appropriate galleries largely undamaged, and the town was no longer in the clutches of a deadly heat wave. That was all that really mattered.

On your way out of the police station, the case solved as far as the bureau was concerned, you turned to Marcus. “How long are you sticking around?”

Gazing at you with those chocolate puppy eyes, his lips twitched into a grin. “I have several weeks of PTO saved up. Figured I’d use some of that. Maybe all of it if I have a reason to.”

You grinned back at him. “I’m sure we could find a reason for that.”

An hour later, the sun dipping past the desert horizon, you found yourselves naked and neck deep in the soothing mineral water of a private hot springs pool. Given that business was completed, you checked out of the hotel the bureau set you both up in and reserved a room at the best resort in town for a couple days of relaxation.

“I’m going to miss this odd little town, especially Harry and his dingy pub,” Marcus said, pulling you closed to his side as you soaked in the soothing water.

“Me, too. I’m going to miss you most, though. I’ve really enjoyed getting to know you, both professionally and otherwise,” you admitted, leaning your head against his bare shoulder.

Marcus stilled for a moment before tightening his hold on you. “Why don’t you come back to DC with me?”

“What?” Your head tilted back to meet his eyes.

“You said you put in for a transfer back to the east coast, right?” You nodded and he continued. “Well, come back with me and we’ll have that transfer fast tracked. I’m certain there’s a position for you in DC. We won’t be on the same team, but that’s probably a good thing.”

You giggled at the boyish grin he flashed you. “If you’re sure, I’m game. I just don’t want you to feel like we’re rushing into anything.”

“Pssh, rushing, smushing. I’ve waited long enough to find someone like you. Now that I have, I’m not letting you go,” Marcus insisted. Gesturing between you, he added, “I mean it. There’s something amazing here, I know it. We can leave in a few days, spend a week or two exploring the city and each other before getting back to work.”

At a loss for a worthy response, you pressed your lips against his. The soft kiss quickly turned heated as you spun, straddling his lap, with your hands gripping the stone edge of the pool. Marcus ran his fingertips down the slick skin of your bare back as you squirmed into place, his cock swelling to life at the feel of you above, against, around him.

“I haven’t gotten a chance to ride you yet,” you murmured against his lips, grinding your bare pussy down on him.

“Now’s your chance, Jersey girl,” Marcus gasped through a moan. “Take me and use me, baby.”

Overheated despite the contrasting bite of cool air on your damp skin and warm water engulfing half your body, you eased yourself down onto his cock. You’d never get used to the exquisite stretch as he split you open. Drawing out the anticipation, you slid down his length with agonizing slowness, eliciting delicious whines from Marcus.

“Don’t torture me, baby. Please,” he begged to no avail. Peppering his handsome face with kisses, you kept the pace slow and torturous until he writhed beneath you.

At last, you took his full length inside you and started to move, bouncing eagerly on his cock with your head thrown back in pleasure. Marcus’ eyes stared at your breasts, bobbing along the water line and glistening from splashes of the mineral water as you moved on him. Mesmerized, he could look nowhere else, and his fingers shifted to pluck at the hardened peaks of your nipples.

The air temperature continued to drop as night set in, steam rising up from the warm water of the pool, dancing along your skin in beautiful swirls of water vapor. The clear, starry sky the perfect backdrop to your love making – for that’s what it was now, so much more than sex this time as you gave your whole self over to this wonderful, unexpected man who changed your life in a matter of days.

Overwhelmed with feelings, you keened as his cock nudged at all the right placing, your clit stimulated by grinding on his lap. “Fuck, Marcus. I’m gonna cum.”

Marcus thrust his hips upward at that statement, eager to drive you straight over the cliff into that beautiful abyss. “Do it, baby. Come all over my cock, my beautiful Jersey girl.”

Always good at following instructions, you did just that. Your eyelids slipped closed as you spasmed around him, head thrown back in ecstasy, his name falling like a prayer from your lips.

“That’s it, just like that,” Marcus crooned, pressing soothing kisses to the sensitive skin of your neck. “You’re strangling my cock, baby. Gonna make me come too, sexy girl.”

A few more erratic thrusts upward and Marcus came with a fury, cock pulsing with rope after rope of his spend deep inside you. Breathless and exhausted, you clung to each other until shivers settled in from the plunging temperature.

“Let’s get inside, my Jersey girl. We’ll clean up, climb under the covers, and cuddle while we make plans for the future.”

fin

#little lady kinky may #writing challenge 3.0 #iamasaddie game #marcus pike #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike x you #marcus pike smut #marcus pike fluff #mystery #aztec myth #nonsensical plot

111 notes · View notes

soaringwide · 6 months

Text

Pick a Card: What is blooming for you this spring?

Spring is always a magical time for me, and I know I'm not alone. This time of the year, I can feel excitement rise in my heart, the desire to make plan, to savor life to the fullest. And every time feels different, like I'm living it for the first time, with only a vague memory of what it was before.

So I wanted to make this pick a card collective reading about what is blooming for you this spring? I will leave the message open to welcome any area of life and type of message, and provide not only an energy check, if you will, but some advice on how to welcome it fully.

How does that work?

Take a moment to recollect yourself, breathe, close your eyes if you need to, focus on the moment. Look at the 4 pictures and select the one that draws you in the most. Not the one you think looks cooler but the one that creates that pinching feeling inside of you. The one that makes you feel it has something to say.

It is possible to feel attracted to more than one pile, just as it is possible to only find parts of the reading relevant. Remember that this reading is meant for many people so it won't be perfectly applicable to your situation.

PILE 1

Cards: 3 of Swords Rx + Page of Swords Rx + Death + The Vow + 9 of Wands Rx The Gem / 7 of Swords + 10 of Swords + Stress + Page of Cups + Courage + 5 of Cups Rx + Ace of Swords / The Protectress + The Shaman

For the energy-check part, The Death arrives like the return of lifeblood in the branches, shaking things up to leave space for the new buds that are to come. This beginning of spring, a massive cleanup of old ties and energies is occurring. Cutting away the old to let the new emerge.

You're in the process of leaving behind a tie that, while not negative per say, was definitely something you had to leave behind in order to move forward and rise to the skies. It seems this tie was something you found value in for a very long time, but you made or are making the choice to move forward.

This comes somewhat like a battle you had to experience within you, as it was not easy to separate from and left you feeling victimized and defeated, like the entire world was against you or out to get you. This whole situation caused intense heartache and a feeling of almost unbearable internal pressure which you may have turned against yourself in fits of self destructive impulses and anxiousness.

On some level you were or are still resisting this change, or rather, what this change is going to lead to. You are trying to control the outcome and refusing to surrender due to a lack of trust or faith. You are trying to burn the steps to reach the end of this uncomfortable time quicker.

The good thing is by going through the motion of this change, you are finding your inner light. From the pressure is born a beautiful gemstone that catches on the tiniest gleam. You are also not only learning to stand up for yourself and your values, but also to embark on a new journey.

There will be a time of transition. At first you will feel guilty of what you're leaving behind which will cause a lot of inner turmoil and tears shed. You will feel like you're getting away with something you shouldn't be. You will feel like you've hit rock bottom in a rather dramatic way, but the good thing is that the only way to go is up!

What's going to follow this is that you'll become at peace with your own feelings, will learn to be sovereign in yourself no matter what's happening outside of you. You know yourself and what you stand for and you won't get put out of balance anymore. You're learning the courage it takes to stand up for your emotional peace and you will know how to defend it ferociously.

Once you'll be done mourning what you've lost, you'll find a lot of clarity and desire to initiate the next step of your life in a very stimulating phase full of new ideas. You'll realize that the key thing in your situation is to trust the process and let it flow.

Now onto some advice on how to navigate that:

You need to be mindful of how you spend your energy, and by that I mean, you need to get enough rest. Yes spring is stimulating and you may find yourself wanting to make a billion plans, but you've got to understand that your body and mind need rest and relaxation too. Protect yourself, say no when you need to, even to yourself. The other more spiritual side of this is that you're somewhat vulnerable at the moment and need to be careful not to be swayed by the opinion of others. Stand strongly in your own skin, your own beliefs and don't give into something that doesn't truly align with yourself.

You inner fire is unique and you need to remember that whatever it is you will become, you will always be you in all your beautiful strangeness. So embrace what it is to be you, don't be ashamed of if or try to hide it, and shine of your fucked up light.

PILE 2

I just wanted to preface this reading with a warning, it's a bit difficult but the advice is very hopeful and sweet so please don't feel too down about it because it will get better!

Cards: The Poet + The Queen of Cups Rx + Healing + Ace of Cups Rx + Let go + Courage Rx + Ambition + 5 of Pentacles + Acceptance + The Unseen + Bottled Up + The Pilgrim + Anger / 10 of Pentacles Rx + Forgive + Death Rx + Overwhelmed + High Priestess Rx + Gloom + Blessings and Curses Rx + The Shaman Rx / The Devil + 4 of Swords Rx + 10 of Swords Rx / Temperance Rx + Manic + 9 of Cups + Love + Joy + Harmony

In the first few moments of spring, I see you slowly leaving a phase where you didn't allow your emotional needs to be met, or allowed yourself to feel something specific. Due to past experiences, you've felt like your deep feelings where not listened to and were dismissed. Your own light was not seen and remained in the dark because it seems that no matter what emotion you shared, it only led to chaos around you. You ended up discarding them like an useless relic, baring yourself from the ability to heal with them, ending up stuck in place because you don't see that from accepting the sorrow you can learn lessons that will lead you to bloom again.

You are scared of leaving something behind, something that doesn't fulfill you emotionally like it used to, something you had great ambition for. Maybe it's a relationship. Maybe it's a passion or a dream. Ultimately, this is leaving you feeling like you're stuck in the winter, unable to feel the new energy of spring, because you're not accepting this new wave of change.

You are about to embark on a new journey, but unable that you are to see the top of the mountain, you remain wandering in the snow doubting it's even worth it because all you can see is a difficult path. This is causing a lot of anger, which ironically is the only emotion you let out, everything else is trapped within.

This spring, I see your going through this struggle but learning very important lessons in the process. Basically, you're on a journey of self acceptance, both of your flaws and qualities you don't express to the world.

There will be a need to let go of familial expectations that were placed upon you and to forgive the hurt it did to you. It seems you will be resisting change until it becomes overwhelming in order to force you to make a choice. Once that point is reached, it will be hard to see the situation from a different perspective, as in, you will be emotionally drowning into feelings of despair, but, really, that's necessary because you've been shutting yourself from that for too long, keeping busy in order not to think about it.

The process of spring is to free yourself from those heavy bonds. Here is the advice in order to navigate that better:

First of all, you need to cool down and restore your balance. Don't try to fix things by being overly active but instead try to find some rest and moments of silence to listen within.

Also, there is plenty of love around you to be felt and to enjoy, perhaps even a new relationship or one that you closed yourself to. The advice is to be positive about the future. Really all those advice cards are super bright so you're getting massively encouraged.

You will be able to share joy around you once those dark yucky feelings have been cleared.

What if you stopped resisting? I think you would find change doesn't have to be so difficult and painful, and that there is beauty and sweetness waiting for you just around the corner. Open yourself, be playful, and try to remember the wonder of a child discovering spring once more.

PILE 3

Cards: The Bridge + The Moon + Let Go + 10 of Wands + Relieved + Ace of Pentacles + Queen of Swords Rx + The Comic / The Devil + Renewal Rx + Anger Rx + Strength + Forgive Rx + Page of Cups + You are Deserving / 2 of Swords + Gratitude + 2 of Wands + Gloom + Energy

The energy check in this change of season indicates for you a time of transition, where you're crossing from one stage to the next.

At the moment, you're letting go of the very introspective vibe of winter, that forces us to retreat within and inside and rest while waiting for the return of the light. Perhaps this winter was the opportunity to reflect over something painful for you and you've finally reached the point where you can disengage from it and move forward. Because it seems like a burden you were carrying is being released, which is bringing you a renewed sense of hope. To be more precise, you were working hard to carry that weight and now that you finally were able to release it, you feel at ease again.

You're lightening up, seeing the humor and joy of life and learning to be in a more lighthearted mood. I see you really enjoying this change of season and having some type of mood shift. After the heaviness of winter, your new found freedom gave you a reason to smile again.

It also seems you're getting finally getting some new opportunities that were previously barred from you which caused a lot of resentment, because you felt like you were owed something you weren't getting and it was getting in the way of your prosperity. I see that you still have some work to do on that front as you may be lacking courage to seize those opportunities because you feel too unsure of yourself and vulnerable. You may want to isolate yourself as a mean of protection, despite wanting those opportunities direly.

This spring, I see you will need to be careful not to fall back in your old limiting habit of letting yourself be trampled on. You might have a tendency to repress your anger, because you have been told it's not a good emotion to express, which is true, but in your case, your anger can free you because it makes you aware of other people stepping over your boundaries. I'm not saying go punch your boss in the face, but use this anger to reflect on why exactly you feel disrespected, and use that as a motivation to change your circumstances and honor your boundaries.

I also see, and it's a continuation of the previous message, that you will build your character by learning that you don't always need to forgive. It's okay to burn the bridge and take care of yourself first. You don't need to accommodate everyone. Keep your gentleness for the people who deserve it. And I'm saying that because in your case, the balance is waaay off.

Something else that's coming this spring is a message to open yourself to new emotions, perhaps regarding to love, be it romantic or platonic. There is a strong message that you feel like you are not deserving of it and you are somewhat shutting yourself to discovering this part of yourself. Spring is the seasons where so many bubbly feelings awaken and you can welcome that in your heart.

The advice on how to navigate this time better is to, first, try not to shut yourself off the blessing that are coming to you. It's easy to expect the worse and blinding yourself in the process. The key to move forward is to find a more positive mindset, not to assume that everything will be doom and gloom but daring hoping for the best! A mindset exercise you could use could be gratitude. There's already so much good things happening around you but you might not see it because you focus a lot on the negative. Allow yourself to dream and plan the future from an optimistic perspective.

The final message is very fitting considering the title of this reading, as it is advising you to redirect your energy to make your own flowers bloom, not other's. Work on cultivating a fertile soil within yourself and you will be in a much better mindset to attract good things. Remember that while it is altruistic to want to help others, you can't do it if you are yourself depleted, you need to help yourself first.

PILE 4

Cards: The Fool + Knight of Wands + Joy Rx + 3 of Cups Rx + Intrusive Thoughts + The Mentor + Wounded Heart + The Animal + Jealousy / The Portal + King of Pentacles + Bottled Up Rx + 4 of Cups + Let Go + The Star Rx + Fear / The servant Queen

Much like all piles, the start of spring and current energy check, is the time of a big renewal for you, indicated by the Fool. It's the start of a new journey with a fresh mindset and an adventurous heart. However, I can sense that it's very much a desire of yours at this point and not something you can fully indulge in at the moment.

You don't quite dare to let yourself go to celebrate this new change you feel being birthed inside of you, because you have these automatic intrusive thoughts born from anxiety that you have a hard time detaching from. But I see you working on it with a mentor figure, perhaps a therapist, a teacher or someone wise close to you. You seem to be especially working on emotional wounds that are still fresh, or felt to be still fresh.

Also, you feel energy rise within you, a desire to pursue your passion, to start planning things, perhaps a trip or a festival, but something is stopping you from doing it. It's like you know you want it and will make you happy, but you can't access it and it kills your joy.

As a result, you sort of feel like a caged animal, caged in your routine and full of desire to break free, which leads to feelings of envy for what other are able to enjoy and not you.

What is blooming for you this spring is that, there is some type of adventure to be found despite everything. There is something you don't expect coming for you, a new adventure to be had.

It seems something is going to unlock prosperity-wise, something that has seemed blocked for a while but is finally giving you the ability to soar. However, you will have to seize it and not let your low thoughts get in the way of even noticing it. You will have to learn to let go of that tendency of yours. There is renewal, healing and blessings coming for you, but you will miss out if you let fear dictate your actions.

The advice on how to navigate the season is to stop believing that you don't deserve nice things. You have a tendency to self-sabotage and it's doing you a massive disservice. It ties into what I was saying earlier about not blocking your own blessings because of your negative thoughts, because there is something great within your reach.

You must nurture your mind because it's through your mind that you experience the world. It's like a big lens and if it's dirty you get a blurry vision of reality. Work on cleaning your lens and you will see that the world will become an open field for adventure as a result.

#pick a card #tarot reading #pick a pile #PAC reading #tarotcommunity #collective reading #pick a picture #tarot #PAC #tarot community #tarotblr

152 notes · View notes

astroboots · 2 years

Text

Don't they know it's the end of the world

Pairing: Joel Miller x female reader

Summary: There are many things Joel would like to forget, you hope you're not one of them.

Rating: Explicit. I just want to fuck old man Joel.

Content: hurt/comfort, explicit sex-town, cowgirl position yee-ha, post-apocalyptic angst and jazz. Mentions of death, blood and gore, but the real warning all along was emotionally unavailable men.

Word Count: 3.5k

Astroboot’s Masterlist

The thing that nobody warned you about living in a post-apocalyptic world (to use the dramatic phrase) is that when the world as you know it has ended. When an unprecedented catastrophe transforms the very fabric of your reality. In the midst of abandoned cities, dilapidated high-rise buildings overrun with moss and ivy, and rusted cars forsaken on the highway. This horrific new world of unending horrors, at some point, with enough days gone by, becomes common place.

After the first and second year, you're no longer bothered by the constant aches and how everything hurts, everywhere all the time. The new bruises that spring up overnight to replace old healing, because sleeping on concrete and dirt will do that to you, isn't as overwhelming. You barely mind the constant blunt ache in your lower back from unloading crates anymore. Or the way your feet are always blistering and covered in callouses that crack and split and bleed. It's all background noise.

After the third and the fourth, you're no longer dry-heaving at the burnt metallic smell of charred flesh and human hair that reminds you of melted and burnt plastic when they're tossed into fire. Your sense of smell dull to it.

After the fifth year you think that hollow feeling in your chest of missing home, is no longer a constant. At most it comes to you in glimpses. Because sure, there are a million and one things you still miss. The sweetness of cereal soaked in milk. The lingering smell of peonies from your shampoo after a steaming shower. The way your cat used you as a headrest while watching TV.

You miss cupcakes. You miss the cinema. You miss pumpkin lattes. You miss the forest ground covered in auburn leaves in the fall. You miss your mom. You miss--

You miss a lot of things. Small little things, and you remember each one of them despite the years that passes.

But the mind adapts. It doesn't consume you with a hollowness that makes you burst into tears at any given moment anymore. Humans are nifty like that. Our brains rewire to accept the new realities and life just goes on somehow.

You accept the military surveillance. Of men in vests and gear, wearing blank expressions, with rifles slung across their shoulders like it were backpacks, ready to use them at the slightest provocation if you so much as dared to cough in their presence.

You get used to cracking jokes about priests walking into bars, while burying your dead, not because you're unfeeling, or not understanding of the graveness of what you're doing, but because the human mind cannot be relentlessly scared and sad and depressed and unhappy without reprieve.

Instead like much else, that seems horrific and world-ending at first, it becomes background noise.

---

"Uno," you announce as you drop the last card in the pile of red, blue and green cards in front of him.

Joel scowls, that furrowed wrinkle between his brow carves deep with displeasure.

"You're cheating. I've never played this game where stacking is allowed. The correct rule is no stacking."

This again. You scoff. This topic of conversation comes up every now and then (everytime he loses in fact) because the two of you has solely been relyng on your memory to reconstruct the rules given that the manual to the pack of cards were lost long ago.

"I'm not having this argument with you again Joel, I've told you. The rules allow stacking, you're misremembering it."

You shake your head at him and smile. He doesn't smile back. He never really does. Instead he folds his arms across his wide chest, leaning back as he appraises you with skepticism.

"What if you've forgotten the rules?"

"I don't forget things, I'm not you" you say lightheartedly.

He's already passed out when you let yourself in through the front door tonight.

It's a sparse apartment, like all the other accommodations in the area. The mismatched dining chairs and fold up table is not much to look at, but there are still hints of the family who had made this place their home before they had to leave it. The feminine touch of flowery rose wallpapers. Scribbled markers of their children's height year by year. The claw-marks of a dog by the front door.

If Joel left tomorrow, you don't think it would tell much of a story of him or the life you lead together. The only thing that's his besides the radio and music catalog is the blue butterfly sticker that sparkles on the window.

And even with that, you don't quite know what story it is meant to tell or why he'd put it up. You only know it wasn't there when he moved it because it appeared out of nowhere after Tommy left. It clashes with the rest of the decor. Something that belongs to a young girl's bedroom and not a grumpy former veteran addicted to painkillers. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to put one plus one together and deduce it's something of sentimental value to him.

It's always confounded you, because that is so unlike the man you know.

Unlike you, Joel forgets. He makes it his mission to forget. Expired opioids from god knows how long, you're surprised they don't crumble into dust when they're exposed into open air.

There are horrors in his memories that Joel wants wiped clean, and he doesn't care if the good memories go with them, as long as he doesn't have to look at them in the broad daylight.

You never said anything about it, don't pry and you don't ask questions. You don't ask him for anything period. You just let him be and take him as he is. You suspect that that's why he's allowed himself to keep you around for so long.

The room is dimly illuminated from the night light has been left on for you, and you try to be quiet as you make your way to him on the bed. He's lying curled up on his side, back turned to you.

Broad shouldered as he is, with a build that reminds you of a bear at times, in this position, there's something vulnerable about him right now that's reserved for your eyes only. His face is no longer tense, against the amber hue that bathes the room. The specks of grey and white in his beard, soft to the touch.

He's half-dragged into consciousness as you dip your knee into the mattress, as he lifts the tattered, moth-eaten quilt and makes space for you.

Reaching behind you, you kill the light. Then you wrap your one arm over his waist, tucking one leg between his thick and firmer ones. He sighs into his pillow and leans into your touch.

There are things that you know Joel wants to forget, you would like to believe that this won't become one of them.

"Are you awake?" he murmurs against the nape of your neck. His voice is gravelly and worn with sleep.

You open your eyes and the world greets you with darkness. It's too early to be awake at this ungodly time.

His chest is pressed up against your back, warm and firm, and you hum in reply. "Barely."

You nuzzle into the scratchy linen of your pillow, inhaling deeply to relax back into sleep. But Joel isn't turning back around. He's still behind you, almost hovering above you as if he wants to tell you for something, but doesn't.

You raise yourself slightly, reaching over the nightstand to flicker on the small lamp there.

Turning back towards him, you observe him for a moment. The slight sheen of sweat pooled in the hollow of his throat. His eyes wide and alarmed, hands closed into a tight fist into the sheets. His whole body is wired for a fight, even though he's just woken up and it's dead quiet in the still of the night without a threat.

"Did you have a nightmare?" you finally ask.

His jaw tightens at your question, which is as good of an indicator as any that he doesn't want to answer. Also a good indicator that he did have one.

You sigh, reaching your hand back to trail the soft hairs at the back of his neck. Flattening the curly ends with your fingers, and trying to comb it down in a gesture to soothe him the way others used to do for you in a different life and another world. It's a mistake.

He flinches at the touch, and stiffens awkwardly in front of you. Like he's trying to decide what's the right next course of action. To apologize or to turn back around and pretend he didn't do what he just did.

You frown at him, but say nothing. You give him the time to find his words.

"Can we just--" he starts, but his words trail off, eyes barely meeting yours. Silently pleading for you to know what he's asking for so he doesn't have to put them into words.

Joel doesn't really do softness. Doesn't accept comfort. Doesn't trust it.

But there are things that he wants, because he's only human after all. A touch, a warm body to lose himself in, a human connection. It's what everyone of us wants.

But he can't ask for it. Can't say it.

The moment he puts words it, he would have to name it. What this thing is, between the two you that you have. Where at the end of the day you return to his apartment. Where you sleep in his bed. Where he worries if you don't.

If he asks you for this, then he can't pretend there's nothing there anymore.

So you don't say anything. You don't needle him into finishing his sentence. Don't ask him what he means. You don't ask him for anything. Instead you nod.

His face shifts, the stiff crease between his brows smooths in relief and he scoots forward, chest draped flush against your back. He's already hard, the familiar thick girth pressed to your tailbone, like it's trying to carve a permanent dent into you.

"Is it okay?" he asks again, rolling his hips and the newfound pressure against his denim-covered cock has him breaking off with a gasp.

"Yeah Joel. Yes it's okay."

His fingers come to the hemline of your jeans, as he roughly shoves at it in the dark. It catches at the dip of your hips, and you can hear the gruff impatience of the man from behind, as he yanks it down further. As if sheer brutal strength is going to be the solution in here, the way it is outside these walls.

You lift up your hips to help him, long enough for him to slide the jeans off your legs and you can kick them to the floor. Vaguely you try to estimate the distance to where they landed. Because that's where you'll have to pick them up in the early morning before he gets up. But that doesn't matter right now.

There's a scuffle behind you of rustling denim and the metallic clink of a buckle being undone. You reach back with your hand against the softness of his belly, down the sparse trail of fine coarse hairs until you can wrap your hand around his hardened cock.

He shudders in relief. A soft sigh into the back of your neck as he grinds against your back, demanding more. You indulge him, swiping your thumb in a circle over the head of him. There's a sharp intake of breath from him, similar to the sound he makes after taking a swig of shitty whiskey that burns his lungs too sharply.

The indication that it's too much, and therefore just right, because it's only then that it's a relief. An escape from the current reality.

You squeeze down again, fingers wrapped firm around the thickness of his girth not allowing him any reprieve, and he thanks you not in words, but with the way he bares his throat as his head throws back in ecstasy.

For Joel, the old world never ended. Never left. He's still trapped in it. His existence now is a purgatory. He treats it like he's just sitting in a waiting room, as the days and years go by. Everything and everyone in it are transitory. Nothing in the room matters.

His hand shoots out, sliding down the bare skin of your stomach and wedges underneath your panties. One broad thumbs presses down on your clit perfunctory, and still it feels so good. Sharp heat licks your spine at the touch, and your eyes flutter close as you lean back into him.

It's brusque, the way Joel's hand comes to your thighs and spread you open for him. Unrestrained the way his fingers parts your slick folds to collect the wetness he finds there, pressing into you and curls with a familiarity when he knows he's reached that perfect spot that makes your vision whiten. Rough in much the same way he is in every other part of his life.

"Fuck, get up here," he orders gruffly.

You roll over and he wastes no time to roughly grip onto your hipbones and dragging you up his body.

Bracing your arms on his firm chest to steady yourself, you settle yourself with your knees pressed into the sides of his ribs. They're dipped into the worn-out mattress and you think you can feel the springs of the bottom of the bed dig into your kneecaps.

It's a bit uncomfortable, but you don't mind. Because you get to straddle him this way. Get to see all of him, underneath you, on display. His bare skin made golden and soft by the dim light of the night lamp.

He doesn't look like the movie-stars of old. But Joel is handsome. There's no doubt about that.

Despite his rough masculine features, there are details that don't quite match up. His lips are plump and soft, inviting. A deep crease in the curve of his bottom lip that is just begging to be kissed.

Even with the significant grey in his thick hair, and the white in his beard, the weathered look suits him well. As does the fine lines on his forehead, and the ones around his eyes.

Smile lines, an old friend of yours had called them. Does that mean he used to smile? You imagine how he must've looked like in those days. Not constantly frowning or scowling. But smiling so hard that it would make his eyes crinkles. How beautiful and carefree he must've been.

In front of you, there's no trace of that man. His jaw is set, grinding his teeth, with gritted impatience as his hands grips onto your waist and pull you forward, towards and over his cock, positioning you right where he wants you.

His hand reaches behind you, and even though you can't see it from this angle, you've seen it plenty times before to know how good his cock looks fisted in his hand, as he uses your slick, still wet on his fingers to spread it over the length of him. Then you feel it, the fat tip of him nudging against your entrance as he slowly slips inside.

A heady anticipation fills you. It shakes the core of you until it makes your thighs tremor visibly as you straddle him.

Joel is rough. He is unrestrained and brusque, but he is not unkind. Or at least you'd like to think, not to you. He steadies you, one hand still on your hip, the other a flat palm against your lower belly, as he slowly lifts his hips as you sink down on him in unison.

The first thrust always knocks your breath away. Pleasure that warms you inside out in a way that standing in a fire fails to. It fills you anr nourishes.

You drop down the rest of the way until he's as deep as he goes, until he hisses sharply again, in that tell-tale sign that it's, too much and just right.

Your chest glows with pride, and you grind down against him to elicit another noise, this time a chocked grunt that's not nearly as satisfying. But the buzzing warmth that spikes your veins more than makes up for it.

You stay there for a moment, savoring the pleasure that simmers along your spine, until Joel opens his eyes, his fingers digging a bit deeper into the plump flesh of your thighs.

"Fuck," he grumbles, "please move."

You don't deny him, you never do. Not with this, not with anything. Rising on your knees, you feel his cock drag inside you and close your eyes at the sensation until only the tip of him rests inside you. It's a slow, dragged out pace. One that Joel doesn't seem to have any patience for.

His hand around your hip wraps firm and he pushes down at the same time as you can feel him thrust upwards, until he's buried as deep as he goes.

Fuck, you feel like you can't breathe. Didn't know you could fit so much of him.

Your eyes fly open, to the sight of him, thick brows knitted in pleasure. He looks gorgeous like this. Lost in pleasure, no longer buried in a grave of regrets he can never climb out of. Mouth parted as he gasps out at the feel of you wrapped around him. You stare at his spit swollen lips and all you can think of is how you want to kiss this man. Press your lips to his and feel the full weight of intimacy of this shared moment with his arms wrapped around you.

You anchor your arms on his chest, leaning down closer to his face, hovering above his lips and it's like he can sense you. His eyes flutters open as he meets your gaze.

You wonder what it is he sees in your eyes. If the want and depth of your feelings for him are so plain to see. Because he looks at you like he's terrified.

You don't kiss him.

You drop down your hips again, as far as he goes, and his eyes squeezes shut again, both of you choosing to forget what preceded it. An unrestrained moan rips out of him and to your ears, and though he's not saying any words, it's almost like he's thanking you for forgetting.

You ride him and it's rough and there is no rhythm. He meets you with every thrust, deep and fast, like he's racing for the end.

The hand on your belly, pushes down firmer, and the pressure does something to you. The simmer of pleasure turns to an inescapable heat. It climbs up your veins and invades your ribs with it.

You come around his cock and the pleasure is punishing, a slam to your ribs that squeezes down on your very lungs. It flattens your vision, until you're disorientated with it and you nearly fall off. But Joel doesn't stop. Continues to fuck up and into you. Harsh and reckless thrusts.

Pleasure is written over every line of his face, teeth gritted as he keeps his eyes closed to you. You feel him swell thicker in you, and you know he's almost there.

With a harsh hiss, his hand on your waist, lifts you up and off of him. His freed hand comes to his cock and wraps around it. Swollen and glistening with your wetness, as he fists himself with frantic strokes.

The chords of his neck strains, and then he comes. Line after line after line of his release, coating your stomach with the warmth of him.

You're both breathing hard and fast, made louder by the silence of the room at this hour.

Joel doesn't say anything and neither do you. Instead you reach over to the nightstand to kill the light, enveloping you both in the familiar darkness.

You lay back down against the mattress and roll to your side. There's rustling noise besides you and then Joel's hand comes to your stomach, cleaning up the mess he made of you with a corner of the sheets.

---

You wake up before dawn breaks. When it's no longer dark but the sun has not had time to rise above the skyline.

Dipping your foot onto the grimy wooden floor, you walk towards the very spot your jeans had been tossed aside last night, and put them on, as quietly as you can so as not to wake Joel.

You cast one last look at him where he's lying in the same position you found him when you'd let yourself in last night. On his side, curled up, vulnerable.

Then you gently pad across the length of the living room and let yourself out of the apartment, closing the door slowly until it gently clicks.

Someday, when this version of the world is over and one of you leaves. You hope that you get to miss him.

a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow @astroboots-writes and turn on notifs 🤡💖🤡

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #pedro pascal #the last of us #tlou #tlou fanfiction #tlou hbo #tlou fic #tlou fanfic #cici writes

1K notes · View notes

dp-marvel94 · 12 days

Text

Graveyard of Identities- Chapter 1

Summary:

Danny should feel lucky to be alive. After a month held captive by Vlad, barely remembering his life before, and nearly dying in his escape, he is finally safe, with friends in the Far Frozen. And yet, dread gnaws at him- a massive revelation at the edge of his consciousness, forgotten until the dead of night. It was a lie. All a lie. His past, his memories: all false. Amity Park, his friends and family: all real but… not his. The secret locks in his throat, unthinkable. He stays silent while the yetis welcome him as one of their own. But they do not know. And he can not tell them. He is not the Danny they think he is. He is not Danny at all.

Word Count: 3346

Next Chapter->

Also on A03

Note:

Hello lovely readers! Welcome to my story for Invisobang 2024! It has been a long time coming and I am so excited to finally share it with you all!

As you can see, this story is the second in a series. For those who read "Hope Can Be Heavy Thing to Hold," this is its much anticipated (by me at least) sequel! Part of me doubted this day would ever come. It's been almost 5 years since I wrote Hope and while I always planned that there would be more to the story, life (and other phic ideas XD) kept side-tracking me. My writing has changed and improved at lot since the end of 2019. And I really hope those lessons produced a better story than otherwise.

For those joining from Invisobang, welcome! Please do not feel intimidated by the fact that this is a sequel. My hope is that this will be a enjoyable story, even without that background. (Though if anyone gets curious and checks out the previous work, I will not complain of course XD)

Since this work was written as part of Invisobang, I was lucky enough to work with two wonderful artists. @suzukiblu made this lovely artwork and posted it here . @mysterious-ink-slime made her own piece, link to be added once it's posted. A huge thanks to both of them! Go give their art all the love!

Also, a special note on the title! For years, I had my heart set on naming this sequel after this particular GFM song and now I have! Graveyard of Identities by Gold, Frankincense, and Myrrh; you can watch the music video here . This song is about the transforming power of pain, letting the old die, and rising as someone new. To me, it compliments the theme of this story perfectly. Special thanks to CJ and Maggie for inspiring me with their art and listening to me talk about my own.

And the specialist thanks to my sister, @nervousdragonrebelpie , for listening to me ramble about this story for months. This story is much better thanks to her listening ear and thoughtful suggestions.

Finally, thank to all you readers. I love and appreciate all your support and encouragement. And I eagerly await all your thoughts and feelings and screaming at me in the comments. XD Happy reading!

Was this… death?

Floating sightless, soundless. Almost without thought. Too far away and hazy for fear. Just the numb warmth of darkness.

Drifting without form, the fragile center lay exposed. Something gently brushed. Cradling mist; Soft pin-pricks of cloud. Smell-sight-taste of green, old pennies and lime. The feelings arose, more shapes of ideas than anything real.

The world shifted, brightening into bleary focus. Something inside stirred, the sensation like blinking without eyes. Awareness flickered sharper and then dim. Sharper, then dim.

A vibration caught on his consciousness. Many and small and gently plopping like… rain. Rain, streaming down, around, through. Understanding slowly dawned and then… awe.

Green, crisp and bright as a spring day, overcame him. It flowed in, warm and safe and all encompassing. It filled his mind, every part of himself.

And… Mind. He had a mind, a self. He existed. He was a person. He was still here. Maybe he wasn’t-

Darkness rushed back, like a wave crashing on the shore. A gentle death-like sleep took him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Suddenly he was falling. Air rushed passed and bonelessly, he impacted.

The shock of cold stole his breath more than the crash. Something light and airy cushioned his fall, his face half buried in the chill.

Heavily, his eyes dragged open. White filled his dim vision. In the distance…. The sound tickled his ear, an electric roar. Struggling, his gaze drifted up. Blurry silver and blue shapes quickly approached.

His mind crawled, thought unreachable. Unable to process, unable to move, mind and body weighed down by crushing exhaustion.

But confusion chipped at the edge, clawing for purchase. Fear, familiar and ever present, lingered under the surface, though neither rose to awareness, the fatigue too great.

Darkness pulled him down again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Beeping near his head crashed through the darkness. He was lying down, soft plushness underneath him. Familiar… too familiar….

A slimy voice echoed in his head. ‘Son, you're awake.’

The boy’s heart rate spiked, a jolt of panic. Burning red eyes flashed in his mind, a clawed hand squeezing his wrist.

He gasped, whole body flinching. Blurry eyes flickered open to all consuming white. Dread surged. No. This couldn’t-

The beeping grew louder, followed by the cacophony of pounding feet.

The boy flailed weakly, heavy body struggling to move. In his elbow… something hard and cold. His arm jerked violently, other hand scrambling. A stab of pain, a release of pressure. Cold wetness welled up, a flash of green on pale skin.

‘Now Daniel. Stop being difficult.’

No, not Daniel. Never Daniel. Danny. His name was Danny.

“Great One, calm down. You are safe.” A calm voice cut through A furry, horned face… wearing a surgical mask?

Panic swelled. Who? Where? What? This wasn’t-

A different, higher voice. “You are safe, Great One.”

Great One? No, that wasn’t… His mind scrambled for purchase, words and thoughts slipping.

“His ecto-pressure is dangerously elevated.” “He’s going into shock.” “Sedate him.”

He didn’t... Where was he? Where was Vla-

The pinch of a needle, jabbed into his neck. No! He would be good. He didn’t need to be punished again-

Consciousness ripped away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

An unknowable time later, Danny drifted up through the darkness. Soft and gentle. His heart beat slowly, a calm, even timbre. And he was, at last, aware.

Soft fabric under him, wrapped around his body. The quiet, ambient sounds of lights buzzed in his ears. Far away water dripped. His own soft breathing. Soft white light ghosted over his eye lids.

Said eyes blinked slowly, half-lidded. They felt so heavy. An experimental wiggle of his fingers… the boy groaned, sudden sensation hitting him. Everything ached, from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet. Every inch of his skin felt raw and fresh, like it had been removed in pieces and now was newly reassembled. Like a weird gross puzzle.

Danny laughed at the idea and a second later, his lungs spasmed painfully. He let out another, louder groan.

“Great one?” A loud, worried voice cut through the air.

His heart skipped a beat, the surge of fear returning. He’d woken up earlier, hadn’t he? Laying on his back, beeping by his head, all consuming white. And now… He finally registered the towering figure at his bedside.

“Who…?” His voice shook, weak and unused. “Where…?”

The figure leaned closer, the face becoming visible. A furry muzzle, sharp teeth, icy horns.

Danny tensed, a flash of panic. But… the wide, concerned blue eyes. A memory bloomed in his head.

Tightly hugging a white, furry yeti in an icy place.

Instantly, the boy relaxed. “Frostbite?” The names came out with hardly a thought, the knowledge just there in his head.

The yeti’s expression softened, visibly relieved. “Yes, it is me.” A gentle paw gripped his shoulder. “Relax. You are safe.”

Safe…. The word ran in his mind. It felt like an impossible improbability. But… Frostbite was a friend, right? The yeti’s kind eyes and jovial laugh rose in his mind, the image strangely distant.

Danny let out a breath, a surge of relief coursing through him. But the action made him grimace, nose wrinkling.

“Are you in pain?” Frostbite asked eagerly. “Here, allow me.” He fiddled with one of the tubes attached to Danny at his elbow, just passed the sleeve of what was maybe a hospital gown. A plunger depressed. “That should dull the ache.”

The boy gasped as something cold entered his vein. He blinked rapidly, surprised as the pain dulled to a small pin prick in the back of his mind.

“Wow…. That’s… that’s so much better.” He smacked his dry lips.

“Water?” The yeti offered. A glass with a straw appeared and with a flip of a switch, the bed shifted under him, allowing him to recline.

The cup lifted to his lips, Danny drank shakingly. The cool water soothed his sand-papery throat, a blessed respite after… after….

He couldn’t remember. That sent a stab of worry. But he was here with Frostbite, one of his friends. Allies? The shape of that felt right. He’d gotten here, somehow. Wherever here was.

Finally the boy swallowed. “Where am I?”

“In our medical facility.” Frostbite answered. “You have been in and out of consciousness for quite a while. This is your first time being coherent on awakening.”

Quite a while…. It was coming back to him now. He only remembered waking up that last time, panicked at the sound of the beeping by his head. His eyes flitted to the device… a heart monitor.

That was… strangely familiar. His stomach twisted with dread, echoes of previous panic. The heart monitor reminded him of before. He had been… somewhere, somewhere bad. His mouth felt dry, the memory just out of reach…

Danny swallowed. “How did I get here?”

“You triggered a perimeter beacon.” The yeti said, voice taking on a grave tone. “A patrol found you in the snow, unconscious and dangerously unstable. The guards rushed you here and we attended you. It was… We were worried for a long while, that your injury was too great.” His voice wavered with emotion, an air of heavy grief. “That you would… leave us. But…” A watery smile bloomed. “The most dangerous part has passed. You are recovering wonderfully. And you are finally awake.”

“Yeah….” That was… a lot. Danny’s brow furrowed. His mind swam, relief, sadness, and… a mounting unease clashing.

Frostbite seemed to pick up on the feeling. “What is it, Great One?”

“I don’t…” He bit his lip. “That’s… a lot. Thank you for finding me and saving me. I’m grateful, really grateful. I…I know I’m safe. But…” His insides twisted, a queasy feeling. “I…I apparently almost died and I don’t… don’t remember what happened.”

The yeti’s eyes rounded, the concern turning worried. “What is the last thing you remember?”

Before… the heart monitor beeping near his head, a room with white sheet and fancy wooden furniture. A man with white hair, a smug smile, and red eyes.

“Vlad.” The knowledge hit him like a truck. “I was at Vlad’s mansion!” Danny jolted, trying to sit up more fully with a wince.

“The other half ghost?” Frostbite put a paw on his arm, gently lowering him back to the bed. “You are enemies, are you not?”

“He… he kidnapped me.” More images flashed. The plain, impersonal bedroom. The metal panels of the training room. The trap door in the greenhouse. “Vlad kidnapped me. He was…keeping me captive.” His face wrinkled in a grimace. “He made me call him Dad and train with him and watch football…”

“Plasmius keeping you captive.” Frostbite looked just as stricken. “That is worrying….”

Danny’s stomach turned, sickened. “He… he hurt me.” Vlad’s hand across his face, electricity searing his limbs, locked in a small dark space. “He did something to my mind.” The jar of Lethean water, the tree with red and blue berries. “I didn’t remember anything. He was trying to brainwash me into being his… his perfect son but…”

He was missing something, something big. The gap loomed, dark and constricting. His voice quickened, from something uneasy and wary to panic. “I can’t… I can’t remember.”

“It is alright.” The yeti tried to soothe.

The calm voice failed to ease the distress. “I can’t remember.” But… the dark, earthen passage. The lab, bathed in green portal light. Jars and beakers, tables and weapons. The foreboding door. “I was… I was in the lab. I was trying to escape but…” Broken glass and metal, spilled ectoplasm. Vlad’s mocking voice. “He… he interrupted me.”

Danny’s blood chilled, dread dropping in his stomach like a stone. He saw it as clearly as Frostbite across from him.

Vlad’s face set in a sneer, as hellish as the vampire he played at. The taser in Danny’s hand. He jabbed with it but… too late. The man caught his wrist, fingers squeezing. ‘You oppose me at every turn.’

“Vlad… he broke my wrist.” Numbly, the boy stared down at his right hand. The wrist was unwrapped, no sign of the fracture. He felt sick.

“I tried to fight him.” Electricity pouring from his hands, Vlad twitching on the floor. “But I wasn’t… wasn’t strong enough.”

Harsh, hateful words echoed in his mind, too far away to remember. Tears had been on his face, back there in the lab and…. Now, here in the medical wing.

Frostbite said something, paws moving toward his face but all Danny could see…

On the floor, Vlad looming over him, his eyes insane, full of dark possessiveness. Agony gnawed at Danny’s heart, the feeling of his world crashing down around him.

“He held me down, electrocuted me.” Danny trembled, the tears falling. “I couldn’t move, couldn’t fight back. It… it hurt, my core hurt so much.”

A look of understanding, of revelation flashed on Frostbite’s face. But the boy barely registered. Just the comforting furry arms moving to embrace him.

Hands and feet, cold and tingly… then wet. Ectoplasm welling, sickly neon green. “I…I started melting.” Danny froze in Frostbite’s hold, eyes wide and devastated. “Vlad shocked me and I started mel.. melting.”

His hands and feet dissolving away, staring at the ceiling through his tears. “Vlad… he tried to… to kill me. He tried to kill me.”

That was it. That must have been it, the earth-shattering thing he was forgetting. The green spreading to his shoulders, his hips. His core locking up, shaking with agonizing shocks.

In his mind, Vlad hovered over him, shouting. A boom, metal crumpling, sudden icy chill. He couldn’t move. Helpless. He was going to die…

In Frostbite’s arms, Danny shook. “I… I thought I was going to die.” Sudden silence. A figure kneeling over him, unseen through his tears. “I was melting… I… I couldn’t move.”

His heart ached with longing. Familiar faces flashed in his mind. His parents, Sam and Tucker, Jazz. “I…I just wanted to go home. I barely remembered them, barely remembered who I was.” The memory flickered, finding his parents’ picture in the book in Vlad’s office, his real name printed in the pages, and the sheer joy that had overtaken him. “I just wanted to go home.” He was trying to go home to his friends and family but…

In the lab, a mouth hung above him, lips making the words ‘I’m sorry.’

Danny recoiled at the memory, burying his face into Frostbite’s fur. It… it didn’t make sense. Vlad would never say he was sorry. He couldn’t remember… but he was dying, his mind swimming, far away and terrified and-

“I didn’t want to die!” The boy practically screamed. The force of the words, the sudden realization had him violently pushing himself from the yeti’s arms. “Am I dead?!”

“No. No. No.” Danny pulled at his hair. He’d barely gotten to live and now he was dead. “I can’t… I can’t be dead.”

“No, great one.” Frostbite’s paws appeared on his arms, gently pulling his tugging fingers from his hair. “You are not dead.”

Danny blinked, the panic rushing out of him. His heart, or the illusion of one, still pounded, yet shaking arms gently lowered “But…. but I melted.” He flinched at his own words, the next coming out quiet, pained. “How?”

The yeti chief’s brow furrowed. “You said you were in your enemy's lab when this happened. Perchance, do you remember a portal there?”

The boy’s brow furrowed, surprised by the question. “Yes?”

Frostbite nodded gravely. “I suspect you teleported into the Realms.” Danny’s lack of understanding must have been obvious on his face, because the yeti’s expression softened, voice soft and slow like he was talking to a hurt child. “Teleporting is one of your abilities, even if it has not developed fully yet. When your body… dissipated, you would have been reduced down to your core.”

“My core?” Danny looked down at his chest, raising a shaky hand to it.

“Yes.” The yeti nodded. “Grievous injuries will condense a ghost into their core. As long as the central part of their being remains intact, a ghost can survive. But,” Worried eyes fixed on the half ghost. “Cores will crack and fade if there is a deficiency of ectoplasm.”

The boy’s mouth felt dry. “Like in the human world.”

“As in the material realm, yes.” Frostbite agreed. “In a last ditch effort to save you, your core mostly likely used the last of its energy to teleport into an ectoplasm rich environment.“

“So I went through the portal.” Danny bit his lip, voice shaky. “But…I don’t remember that. Why don’t I remember that?”

The yeti gently reached forward, pulling the ghost boy once again into his arms. “Most ghosts do not remember the time spent as just their core. It is like… your human sleep, I believe. Or unconsciousness.”

“Yeah…” That made a type of sense. Distantly, Danny remembered darkness, the feeling of drifting, disconnection from his senses. He swallowed. “So I ended up in the Zone. What then?”

“You presumably drifted for a while.” Frostbite motioned to the boy’s core. “The scans of your core we took while you were unresponsive suggested you had recently re-formed. This is consistent with your lack of external injuries. You most likely came back together in the ectoplasmic nebula near our island.”

Danny’s brow furrowed for a long moment, mind processing. Finally… “I… re-formed? What… what does that mean?”

“Your core rebuilt your body using the surrounding ectoplasm.” A large paw patted the boy’s back. “You are fortunate you drifted into a nebula. The plentiful, active ectoplasm creates a rich, bountiful area for injured ghosts to re-form, and for the new creation of many others. And you found yourself so close to friends…” Frostbite smiled encouragingly. “The Divine must smile on you, indeed.”

The half ghost did not feel very encouraged. He stared at his hands, insides twisting. “So this is a new body…” He shakily removed his gloves, eyes trailing over the familiar fingers. The short, round fingernails, the light green skin, every crinkled line in his palm… everything looked the same as he remembered but… “Are you sure I’m not a full ghost?”

Frostbite squeezed one shoulder comfortingly. “Yes, I am sure. I myself saw your internal anatomy continues to reflect that of your human body. And on your core, the ability to transform between your two forms remains visible as well.”

Danny let out a sigh of relief. He looked at his hands again. Suddenly… he needed to be human again, needed to see that he was still alive. His aura flickered, mind searching for the trigger.

“Do not try to change yet.” The yeti gently reprimanded.

Disappointment rushed through the boy, guilty unease flickering. Had he done something wrong?

But Frostbite continued before he could ask why. “The potential for your human form still exists, but without real world matter to reassemble it, it is inaccessible. We have been providing material world water and nutrients to you intravenously but your body still requires more time to recover.”

“Oh.” Danny nodded in understanding. “That makes sense. Wait..” His eyes widened, his nose wrinkling in distaste. “What do you mean you saw my internal anatomy yourself?” He side-eyed the yeti.

With that, Frostbite’s face turned apologetic. “My apologies, Great One. I mean, we had to perform surgery.” His expression turned serious, crinkled with worry. “Our scans found a foreign object embedded in your core. It was periodically electrocuting you, causing… dissolution in your extremities.”

The boy’s eyes widened, stomach twisting. Frostbite had said at the beginning that it had been touch and go for a long while there but…

“It was worsening so…” The yeti paused for a moment there, arms gently squeezing the shaken boy. “The other doctors and I performed surgery and extracted it.”

Well, that was a relief. After a moment, Danny swallowed. “Can I see it?”

Frostbite paused, giving him a searching look. “Are you certain?”

Decisively, the boy nodded. “Yes.”

“Very well.” With that, the chief opened his arms, gently placing Danny back on the bed.

The boy had a long moment to blush, just realizing. He’d been sitting in the ghost’s lap for most of that conversation, like he was a little kid. He wiped his face with his hands, trying to shrug off the embarrassment.

Meanwhile, the yeti stood, rifling through drawers. After about several seconds, he returned. Frostbite gravely presented the jar.

Wordlessly, Danny took the container between his hands. He studied the contents. A tiny metal strip laid there innocently, y shaped and as long as the end of his pinky. “This is it.” A lump formed in his throat. “This is what Vlad used to… to try and kill me.”

The full ghost’s face scrunched up, eyes alight with anger. “I had suspected this device was the cause of your injury. To violate one's core like this…” His nostrils flared, expression positively murderous.

Danny swallowed, eyes just starting to widen.

Then Frostbite sighed. Again, compassionate eyes turned to the half ghost. “I vow Plasmius will never touch you again, not with the might of the Far Frozen standing beside you.” He shook his head. “Still, I am relieved you escaped.” A paw squeezed his shoulder. “The Divine delivered you to our paws and found you safety. I am much joyed to see you recovering.”

Danny’s heart squeezed, warmed by the words. The boy slumped, heaving a sigh. “I… thanks for taking care of me.” Still… his insides twisted, overwhelmed by it all.

“It is my pleasure, Great One.” Frostbite beamed.

The boy grimaced. “Can you call me Danny? Please?”

“Danny, then.” The yeti nodded seriously.

The half ghost forced a smile. He really was grateful to Frostbite. He appreciated the comfort, but…

The boy yawned, a sudden tiredness coming over him.

“Ah, I should leave you to rest.” The chief stood. “Press this button if you are in need of any assistance. Sleep well, Danny.”

“Thanks.” The half ghost nodded.

With that, the yeti left. The door closed and Danny was alone. Soon, despite his anxiously twisting insides, sleep took him again.

#Danny Phantom #My fic #Graveyard of Identities #invisobang #invisobang 2024 #danny phantom big bang #Far Frozen #Frostbite

56 notes · View notes

taemcains · 2 months

Text

your love is sunlight — cainlane

lane helps cain wash the blood off his wings and gets a thank you in return. ao3

cw: blood mentions

🎧 julia shortreed - broken wings

Pale golden light streams into Lane's shared room, falling on the soft carpet in a mosaic mirroring the elegant swirls on the balcony door. The picture of coziness it creates, along with the spread of reference books spilled like a domino of cards around her, brings her back to high school and days spent cramming for exams with the spring sunshine in North Carolina watching over her like a guardian.

The tremors of a door slamming shut on the ground floor dispel the mirage. Lane blinks hard, bringing herself back to Rotkov's eternal winter and her task, which is considerably more crucial and much more demanding than memorizing chemistry equations.

The Book and her notebook are each balanced precariously on her knees. Reference books lay further down from her, tossed away in rising frustration. Her wrist aches and her back has been steadily cramping from her abysmal posture, but she remains hunched over, picking up her trail of thought and leaving behind unnecessary memories to continue scrawling in her notebook.

Shadows pool on the floor, chasing away the imitation of home and warmth. Lane's head whips up to face the balcony, hair lashing against her back.

White obscures gold. It flashes once, painting the room cold before swerving to the back of the estate.

Real warmth bubbles up in her chest. Cain is back from his night patrol.

Lane spent all of ten minutes in the morning trying to inconspicuously grill the squad about his whereabouts before her mind grew disgusted by her pathetic state. Cain is an immortal. Whatever stalks the forest and whoever hides in the town should be, are, terrified of him. Worrying about someone who can handle himself, when she has a plethora of problems is fatuous. She resolved to put it out of her mind and surrender to the Book instead.

An hour later, huddled under every blanket and comforter looted from her room, the upholstered chair doing little to battle the cold, she muses. Why do you become so irrational when you… have someone? Her hand is unsteady, fingers trembling from the cold, but she makes a valiant effort to jot something down.

Anna shoots her the most judgmental glance she's received in her life. ‘Why are you freezing to death near the balcony when the bed is right there?’

Lane tries to shrug but she doubts the slight movement would be visible under ten layers of wool. ‘The cold will keep my mind awake. I could get a new perspective on the Book.’

Anna almost looks offended at how little thought Lane put into lying to her. She scoffs. ‘Is that what they're calling it now?’ She scowls at a distant spot in the sky, willing the extent of her disdainful glare to reach that angel wherever he is, before turning on her heel and leaving, muttering about ‘beautiful women falling for idiot men’ and ‘why do you never learn, Anna?’

Her mind doesn't linger too long on Anna, but circles him, as always, a whirlpool of memories and longings. She tried to choke down her worry along with mouthfuls of tea earlier, but it spews up with a redoubled vengeance. No matter how many times her exasperated mind reassures her of the angel's strength and safety, her heart refuses to quiet, pacing anxiously with a thump-thump-thump echoing through her very bones.

Are you satisfied? Everyone wants to know whether I even have a heart anymore but you keep it, toss it, and catch it with the dizzying speed of your changing whims. I don't miss that. But I miss you.

Admitting that she missed him was apparently the last straw for her mind, who was jeering at this display of yearning. Lane leapt to her feet, yanked around by the strings of her rational mind that was hard at work to erase this maudlin moment from her day. She climbed into bed, pulled the required materials to herself like a shield and lost herself in the arcane, her mind alight and awake, ready to beat her heart into submission.

Now she allows herself to exhale a shameful ‘I missed you’ to the knowing shadows of her room and let relief unfurl through her bloodstream like a ribbon.

All the romance novels and movies she'd gorged herself on in her teenage years with the relished humiliation of crawling back to an unfaithful lover, had painted love in pink, soft and bloodless. But for Lane, love is a violent intrusion, spinning her mind and heart out of control. If she'd known she would feel so foolish, she would've accumulated more experience, to chart cumulative data and predict the best response in any situation. But Cain's not like anyone she's ever met. He's not like anyone at all.

Plotting Cain would be an impossible task as he shifts a little every time she sees him, a kaleidoscope that never shows the same pattern twice. But won't he let her try? To map his impossibilities across a lifetime like counting stars in the night sky, the only futile task she wants to squander away her time on with the languidness of summer days slipping away.

Contrary to his own impossibility, he seems to have her entirely mapped out, tracing the rivers of her veins with his fingertips and the ridges of her spine with his eyes. She didn't have to ask. Cain understood her, like he once promised, and her working style which he condensed aptly as ‘You wouldn't look up from the Book unless there's a second apocalypse.’ So his wings blinked at her, sending her a sign.

Was he counting on her being able to glimpse the maelstrom of riddles behind every guileless movement of his? Delivered with a susurration of his wings, an order, a request, or the gentle luring of a lover: Come find me.

His wishes are clear, but Lane hesitates, out of her own warring desires. Her heart is almost halfway out the door, straining to settle sleepily against his voice, but her feet remain planted to the floor, roots extending through wood, bypassing time and space, sprouting out of her father's office.

Wood polish. Expensive leather. An angular man leaning over her seven-year-old self. ‘Please do not bother me when I'm working, Lane. Go see to your mother.’ Which was perhaps the greatest condemnation of all, her own father who could not see her mother's umbilical cord strangling her lovingly around her neck, a tie she could never rid of even two decades later.

The memory fractures. Warmth beckons her from the fissure and she follows as if ensorcelled. The press of a thigh to her own. The specter of fingers through her hair. The fracture widens. The tickling of feathers against the small of her back. Her father's office and her younger self preserved in contrition are swallowed into the dark.

The last fragments of the memory are brushed away by an ambrette voice that lifts her and carries her back to the body of her present self, gently setting her down in reality. Tendrils of him and his essence are already curled around her, sweetpea flowers budding around her neck, watching over her when he can't.

Glimpses of him in her memories don't appease her. Lately, even his fleeting touches, light enough to absolve him of intention, do nothing to sate the hunger roiling in her. Come find me.

Guided, or rather, misguided, by the reckless abandon that entangles with desire, Lane crosses the room and doesn't let herself hesitate to wrench the door open. Her eyes hone in on the ornate door at the far end of the hallway, quiet and anodyne.

The estate is still, the history of those hallowed halls, almost a physical presence draped heavy over her shoulders, watching as Lane's hushed footsteps ghost over the floor. She knows her efforts are in vain; he must've heard the click of her door opening, but it felt sacrilegious to stomp over in an estate teeming with revenants.

She comes to a standstill outside his door, heart awake and thrashing. He could probably hear it through the wood, no barrier fortified to the aching of her heart to be a plaything in his hands again. But he waits, lets her settle on going to him or turning away.

She knocks lightly.

‘Come in.’ His voice, smooth and even, with the barest drops of an emotion she couldn't identify, sends a trickle of reassurance down her chest.

Ominous that the creaking of the door is, when Lane peers inside, gingerly stepping past the threshold like an inexperienced thief, Cain is whole and unhurt, lips curving up as salve to her twinging unease. Her heart finally rests.

As relief streams through her blood, her eyes cascade down his figure intently. Silvery fabric molds to his skin, translucent where pearls of water trickle from the damp ends of his hair. Black slacks cling enticingly to his thighs, every slight shift flaunting the statuesque lines of his body. His wings flare, serrated edges silhouetted by daylight, a personal sunset.

Her eyes widen. Cain, who was watching her riveted gaze with a touch of satisfaction pulling up the corner of his mouth, interjected smoothly. ‘It's not mine. A spawn was found close to city lines.’

‘Is that what you were busy with all morning?’ She asks, alarm fading into distraction. Blood lashed against white wings, macabre and ethereal. Offsetting, Lane thinks, no, enhancing temptation, disoriented by her own strange desires.

‘Yes.’ His voice dips, softness melting it. ‘Were you alone for long?’

‘No,’ she answers absentmindedly, eyes transfixed to the startlingly intimate sight of his bare feet. Unarmoured like this, without the chainmail of his condescending sneer and paradoxical words, he seems closer than ever. Like she would only need to reach out for her fingertips to graze soft skin and sculpted muscle, obscured to the rest by shadows and secrets.

Appeased, he turns to the side, pushing back his drenched sleeves around his elbow. Only then does the room start to come together in snatches. Clothes strewn across the carpeted floor, his jacket a bloodied heap by the balcony, transponder thrown on the bedside table. A basin with murky water seated on the dresser, a rag dangling haphazardly from it. Precise to him, messy to others. Not unlike the owner himself, she thinks.

Satisfied with her appraisal, she peeks over at him. Leaning over the basin, rag coiled loosely around his hand, he looks half sunken in a dream. Only the rustling of his wings betray his restlessness.

Her spine is yanked straight by a part of her, a phantom cerebrum spawned to gauge and dissect every shift in his body and every quirk of his mouth. Cain would never allow himself to be so absent. Her heart screeches with alarm, and her mind reluctantly allows the theatrics, admitting the oddness of his behavior.

‘Cain?’ she calls quietly.

Regret follows almost immediately. At the most inopportune moment, she realizes she has no idea how to proceed when he responds. Cain has always taken care of her in his own absurd way, the experience irksome even as the memory fills her empty soul with sunlight. But Lane could hardly care for herself, much less an immortal.

His lashes flutter, moth wings skimming his skin as he blinks out of his daze. ‘Sorry, I was lost in thought.’ His eyes clear, latches clicking shut inside him. ‘I should clean my wings.’ They flick, avouching his words. ‘Not exactly the amorous activity you were envisioning, I'm sure.’

Her eyes narrow but they cannot lance metal. He meets her scouring gaze with calculated repose. His shoulders sink, memories imploding within, then return to their usual assured set, dust settling in the span of a blink.

Only a second, but it's enough for Lane to pry at the chips in his marmoreal mask. She sighs softly as slivers of his bare face come into view. He's… tired. So, so tired. Abandoned by heaven, shunned by earth, untouchable on his altar of divinity. Angel, priest, soldier. Beautiful as a statue, but who dares to touch him? Who can he hold?

Sensing the weight of her thoughts, he straightens imperceptibly, shuttering off any weakness.

Even now, after hurting and helping and licking their wounds, they still hesitate, circling each other like sharks scenting blood, the instinct to hurt before getting hurt honed and layered like second skin, excruciating to rip off. But they can't keep holding onto an infected limb that devours the rest of the body. Years of violent instinct wars with a fragile, blossoming ache.

The words spill out of her lips, noxious blood evanescing, her first breath without her own violence pressing down on her sweet and fresh. ‘Let me help.’

His eyes snap back to hers and lock their gazes. Narrowed, assessing, wary, they're as entrancing as ever. He sighs, the same side emerging victorious in him. ‘I'll give you a chance to back out. I'm warning you now that your arms will ache for the next week.’

‘I won't come complaining to you,’ she says dryly, the secret curve of his mouth sending a flurry of warmth through her.

He follows her lead, effortlessly carrying the basin to an empty spot in the center of the room, sunlight casting the illusion of warmth on the rug. He sets it down and folds himself into a cross-legged posture, somehow elegant even while sitting on the floor.

Lane follows suit, kneeling behind him on the plush carpet. She ties her hair back into a loose knot and pulls back her sleeves, goosebumps arising on her exposed skin immediately. She shivers, body noting the frigidity of his room while she herself is enraptured by the angel.

This close to him, the diaphanous material of his shirt coyly divulges flashes of his body. The slope of his shoulder blade. A channel down his lower back. The sylphlike curve of his waist. Lane exhales slowly, expelling the need to touch him and trace his skin. The intoxicating heat radiating off him doesn't abate the desire to drape herself over his back and see what he'd do.

‘Having second thoughts? Maybe your delicate arms hurt already?’

She rolls her eyes, abruptly breaking through for air. The same person who tenderly drowns her in the thick, languid ocean of desire also hauls her out of it with his infuriating quips.

He slides the basin over to her in reparation.

Experimentally dipping her fingers into the basin, she sighs with relief at the lukewarm water. She dunks the rag in, drenches it, and pauses, water dripping rhythmically onto the floor, lapped up by the carpet. How sensitive are his wings? She remembers the library incident with a quivering in her stomach, the idea of her touch making him still heady more than any wine or pomegranate juice. How hard can she use the rag on them?

His voice is glazed with amusement. ‘This feels familiar. Now is the time to ask me if I'm gloating.’

That settles it. ‘Why should I when I know the answer?’ she replies as she presses the rag to the base of his wing agonizingly gently. He jerks, the beginnings of a low gasp escaping past his teeth before he quiets, wings flaring.

Lane bites her lip to rein in a smirk, throat going dry at the noise and where else she'd like to hear it, again and again.

‘Have it your way, then. Is this payback for that time in the library?’ he retorts, shoulders unnaturally tense.

‘What do you mean?’ she says lightly, carefully moving the rag from the base to the top. His wings rustle and flick, but settle quietly.

A light laugh floats through the air, melding seamlessly with this impossible afternoon.

Cain stays quiet as she works her way through the large expanse, occasionally trembling as she grazes certain spots. She makes mental notes of them, for future reference. Or for leverage.

Her nose wrinkles as she nears the tip of his wing. Spawn gore clumps to the feathers, a sickly sweet smell emanating from the blood.

Cain almost whirls around at her first cough. ‘I'll deal with the rest. You've done enough.’

She waves him off. Before she could think it over again, her hand cups his shoulder, turning him away. A tremor goes through her at her boldness, the heat of his muscle and bone against her fingers warming her entire arm.

‘You reek,’ she says airily, only to douse the incalescence of his gaze, burning her more than his skin as she touched him like she had the right to.

‘Who came to whose room?’

A gradual undoing, Lane watches as her own hands cast magic, turning back time, water swilling blood from his wings, leaching them pure and white.

She retraces her path, returning to the base of his wings where stubborn flecks of blood linger on the feathers. Faltering for just a second, she discards the rag. Her fingers, a gentler heir, glide over the plumage, outsing sanguine settlers.

Cain arches like a cat, allowing himself a muffled moan before rebounding, curving into her. A shuddering breath is the only movement she shows. His back barely brushes her front, the faint contact sparking a riot in her head, one side chanting lean in close, closer, the other pull away I can't breathe anymore.

As the sun drops lower into the sky, in tandem he sinks lower onto her, the silky strands of his hair chilling her chin, the weight of his body warm and comforting. His initial wariness washed away with the blood, he's as cozy and relaxed as a housecat dozing in a patch of sunlight.

Disappointment unfurls petals inside her chest as the last of the blood is wiped away, wings gleaming in the sunlight. Enveloped by him, his body, his scent; sweet and faintly musky, entirely him with the effect it had of wanting to fall headlong into his lies, time has no meaning. The world waiting with ravenous jaws holds no importance when he's quiet and boneless in her arms.

‘Cain?’ she whispers, unsure if he's awake.

‘Hmm?’

Her toes curl into the carpet. His usual liquid smooth voice has been rendered low and thick, drowsiness dipping his tone.

She hesitates. Is it worth jolting him from his place against her—as it should be, her heart croons— for her selfish desire of wanting to look at him?

Ironically, it's her indecision that awakens him, alertness seeping back in. He slips out of her hold, a gentle thief escaping into the night, and turns to face her. ‘What is it?’ he asks, traces of worry playing in his voice.

I wish I could look at you when I want to without searching for an excuse. I wish you would keep being near to me. I want you to keep seeing me.

‘Nothing,’ she bites out, frustrated with herself, eyes catching on an anomaly in the blinding purity of snow. ‘There's dried blood crusted in your hair.’

He sighs, mindlessly patting his hair, completely missing the spot.

‘Let me,’ she interrupts quietly, pieces falling into place, desire breathing her wishes to life.

He eyes her curiously. Whatever he finds makes his mouth twitch and obediently lower his head, submitting to the ministrations of her fingers. A thrill fires through her like an arrow. She quite likes the idea of him bowed and hazy-eyed in front of her.

Her fingers ease into silken strands, white and gold playing on her skin. They trail unwillingly, longing to linger and straighten the wisps hanging over his eyes for him. She flicks the rusty flakes off, careful to not tug at the strands.

Hyperaware of every steady inhale and exhale of his, her own breathing wavers, growing shallow. She attempts to veer her attention back to his hair, instead of the proximity of her chest to his face, when his arm curves around her waist, long fingers splaying out, burning her from rib to hip.

Before she could steady herself to this, him, his thumb traces the jut of her rib. All coherent thought dissipates. Heat whirls up her insides. His fingers trail teasingly over the curve of her waist before stilling on her hip, and she wishes with sudden, fervent clarity that he would play on her skin. Be so familiar to him that he would reach for her to ease his restlessness, her hipbone echoing his music, instead of an undeserving slab of wood.

‘Your knees must hurt. Sit.’ He sounds from below her, words almost breathed into her throat. His voice lowers, a surrender just between them. ‘I can bow down for you.’

She lowers her eyes to his. A misstep. Hazy from sleep, sharp in the corners, sunlight sands down his usual jagged gaze and wicked smirk, turning him into a visage of heaven. Angelic, she thinks for the first time since she awoke to him, both at the rift and at the estate.

Cain has always been inhumanely beautiful from the moment she saw him glowing like an impossible mirage amidst blood and snow, but his beauty is almost unbearable now that she's seen the planes of that same untouchable face contort in anger, slacken in tiredness, soften in fondness. Every feature has been slashed into her mind since their first meeting, but he's a mystery she'll never tire of. She studies each detail with the same fascination as the first time.

Gold clings to every lash with the devotion of the sea returning to sand. Dawn rises in his eyes, the only place where she looks forward to sunrise. Cheekbones like cliffs, sweetpea pink lips. Twin moles wink at her from below his eye and cheek, a taunt mirrored in his eyes: What will you do now?

He tilts his head up, her hand that lay forgotten in his hair sliding down like rain. Brow bone, cheekbone, till the base of her palm curves against his jaw.

She's holding his face in her hand. What will you do now?

Her eyes hesitatingly find his again. The same eyes that speared into her being, trying to unravel her before she could undo him, that held and kept all his secrets, now betray him and look at her with undisguised tenderness. His gaze is the only mirror she can stand to look at herself anymore, her callousness and apathy smoothed over by his affection.

She loops her free arm around his neck, feeling his shoulders tense in surprise. In no reality will she come out of this unscathed. But would it be worth being hurt by these same hands that hold so gently?

Her eyes flit to his lips. Oh, but it would be worth being condemned to hell by this mouth. His lips part, luring her in before the din of doors slamming and a chorus of intermingling voices shatters their retreat.

Lane is off the floor and three feet away from him before he could even blink. His tenderness ripples into a scowl. His eyes glint a lurid red as he rises to his feet.

‘I should go,’ she says hastily, impatient to curse every member of the squad and then pore over every second of this afternoon before it dissipates like a dream.

‘And where are you rushing off to?’ he asks, notes of ire lurking in his voice.

She raises an eyebrow. ‘My room. I don't think the General will be pleased about me spending quality time with you instead of working.’

His mouth curls in derision. ‘If Dmitry's concern is incompetence, you're the least of his problems.’

His tone gives her pause. The second she tilts her head, his cool nonchalance snaps back into place, clicking shut with the finality of a lock.

‘I'll get going,’ she echoes before her heart could rope her into some foolish scheme. ‘Will you go to sleep now?’

‘Yes.’ He pauses, eyes sliding to her, lingering on her exposed collarbone. His voice lowers, softens, a snake coiling around flesh and she feels his words like he whispered them onto her skin. ‘Will you miss this opening?’

Her heart jolts. He can't possibly be…?

‘To watch me sleep again.’ He tilts his head innocuously, the effect offset by his growing smirk. ‘What were you thinking?’

Entirely unhelpfully, her mind bestows her with a visual. She thinks of him asleep, cheek pillowed by his arm, lashes casting needle-thin shadows, his ever-furrowed brows relaxed and a physical burn flares to life under her ribs.

She knits her brow in irritation, saving face too late, hastening to leave. The Cain who curved into her like the moon, who she'd christened angelic had fallen asleep, dreaming in some crevice of his mind. The one who stands in front of her, challenge highlighted in every plane of his face, is familiar, familiar and dangerous, familiar in a sense that she could hardly guess his next thought.

Just as her hand wraps around the door handle, she senses his searing presence behind her. Her body reacts instinctively, gearing up. Cain sends all of her emergency responses into overdrive, fight, flight, and fight speeding and crashing at the junction of her mind. All thoughts come to a screeching halt, leaving only expectant silence, air thrumming with possibilities. A discordant note or a lilting melody?

His fingers curl around her wrist, a gossamer touch. He lowers his head while raising her wrist, night falling as the moon rises to meet as a sunset, as a kiss. His cool breath snakes across her skin, travelling the course set by her veins, the faint brushes of his lips blissful torture.

A marionette in his hands, he angles her wrist to his mouth, setting the stage. The first act: the bite of his teeth against her pulse.

Her shoulders seize and she bites her lip, the blooming pain-pleasure shoving a gasp back inside her mouth. He presses, so gently, an invisible divot to savor and linger over at night, an ephemeral mark of him on her skin.

Can he feel her hand trembling? Her knees will give out if he continues.

In answer, in tender defiance, he scrapes his teeth across her pulse point, shrapnel and velvet, mouth feverishly hot, teeth deliciously sharp. Her spine jerks, pulled by his strings, aching to lean against his body. A low noise escapes her before she could haul it inside.

He halts, knowing when to coax with hardly a look, pulling her along to freefall into desire, another line they can never uncross, and when to let her be. He presses a full kiss to soothe her skin, before the curtain falls with a delicate graze of his lips over the faded cut on her palm.

He pulls back and she blinks as the world rushes in, both the celebrated principal actress and the dazed, breathless audience. He lowers her wrist gently, fingers falling away like the night. ‘Thank you,’ he says quietly with no trace of the smugness she was expecting.

She could hardly remember what she replied or how she stole away into the hallway. Half her mind still trembling in that room with him, the other half lazily waking up from a pleasant dream, she muses as she stumbles to her room.

The weight of the emptiness in her soul is always lurking, always ready to drag her into nothingness. Being around others only seems to chip away the remnants of her soul clinging to her insides; their strained laughter, easy anger and human hope shattered mirror shards reflecting the humanity long gouged out of her. You are not like us. Each irregular mosaic amplified till the message was deafening. You are not like us!

But as she stood in the hallway, vision golden with dust motes swirling around in a lazy waltz in the ballroom of sunlight, her soul is… silent. Not clamoring in its depleted state, begging to find its stolen half and fill it up. Cain's mere presence lifts this particular veil of half death, making her heart pumping in lazy disinterest startle awake, having to work overtime to make up for her lungs slacking.

Though she was the one who wished to lighten his burden today, it seemed he was imbuing her with his own life force with every touch. A thirst for life, and just not survival, gasped for air within her, only to see him again, to touch him again and make him tremble.

The corner of her mouth twitches as she turns the handle.

She has to find a way to get him back for that kiss.

#romance club #rc hsr #heaven's secret requiem #rc cain #rc lane #cain x lane #*mine

65 notes · View notes