#asking those who want one if they consider the blood of innocent strangers 'worth it' is a very valid question

[ssaalexblake]

the inherent irony of the Glorious Revolution (instead of working to achieve systematic change) set calling Gi-Hun an idiot for doing something that will Also get the vulnerable killed.

Are you not getting the metaphor here?

[red-talisman]

An unbetaed snippet of post-CQL canon Yunmeng reconciliation, which is mostly extremely morbid and blunt conversation after beating each other hard enough that they’re too tired for their usual conflicting modes of emotional avoidance.

EDIT: now edited and posted on AO3. :D

CW for past suicidal ideation. Part of my “let WWX express some of his cynical humor and creepiness more often” and “let WWX find out about JC’s own sacrifice goddamnit” agendas.

___________________

Jiang Cheng stares blankly into the trees, their trunks slowly disappearing in the deepening darkness of twilight. Wei Wuxian’s back is warm against his and heaving for breath just as heavily. He thinks his ankle might be broken, but Wei Wuxian is probably worse off.

“You’re an asshole,” Wei Wuxian says thickly.

“Hypocrite,” Jiang Cheng mutters without heat, and Wei Wuxian manages a snort between his gasps.

“Yeah.” After a moment, he adds, with an echo of the old Yiling Laozu in his voice, “You know that if you ever do something like that again, I’ll probably find a way to do something worse than I did before.”

“If I do what, save your life by pulling the same fucking sacrificial shit that you do?”

“I swear to every god out there that I will bring you back as a fierce corpse and kill you myself,” Wei Wuxian says in a pleasant, albeit still somewhat breathless, tone. “I will dismember your carcass and make Jin Guangyao look like a fucking amateur.”

“Good thing Mo Xuanyu’s core isn’t worth shit, then,” Jiang Cheng replies. All of his attention is focused on the feeling of his brother’s bones and muscles moving against his own spine.

“You’re an asshole.”

“Yeah.”

There’s a pause. Somewhere distant Jiang Cheng hears the panicked yells of what’s probably the juniors they left behind a few li back. Then Wei Wuxian sighs. “We’re really fucked up.”

Jiang Cheng takes his time considering and discarding several possible responses. His ankle hurts like a bitch; Mo Xuanyu’s core may not be worth shit, but damn if his asshole genius brother hasn’t figured out how to make the most of it anyway. He finally settles on a tired, “Yeah.”

The silence stretches on long enough that Wei Wuxian goes on, more quietly, “You and Shijie are the only reason I didn’t die in the Burial Mounds. The Wens grabbed me before I knew whether or not you’d even survived the core transfer.”

Jiang Cheng tilts his head just enough to glance briefly over his shoulder. “How did you survive the Burial Mounds?”

“Nope, no, I’m not putting that on you. Not even Lan Zhan knows. I can’t...I can’t do that.”

“Fine. Then tell me, is any of it going to come back and bite us in the ass at the worst possible moment?” he asks dryly.

Wei Wuxian snorts, humorless. “Nah. It’s all mine.”

“Would you tell me if it wasn’t?”

When Wei Wuxian hesitates for a few telling seconds, Jiang Cheng mutters, “You fucking asshole.”

“Yeah.” Wei Wuxian sighs again.

“You left me.”

“You didn’t need me.”

“Who the fuck said that?”

The knobs of Wei Wuxian’s spine are starting to press painfully into Jiang Cheng’s. Wei Wuxian snorts. “I was practically a fierce corpse myself when I dragged myself out of the Burial Mounds. Your position as sect leader was too precarious,” he says bluntly. “You were seventeen years old with no real family, a sister who was getting married off anyway, and an adopted brother who’d been controversial years before the war even happened and who was clearly half-mad and getting worse. And I...my mind never really left the Mounds, honestly.” He coughs, makes a wet sound, and spits. “If I stayed much longer I was going to end up dragging you back into Hell with me. I was a risk you couldn’t afford and I wasn’t going to destroy Yunmeng Jiang a second time.”

"Don’t pull that bullshit, Wei Wuxian.” Jiang Cheng is so, so tired. “Mother was wrong. You know Wen Chao was looking for any excuse. You’re as responsible for that as our shidi was for using a round kite.”

Wei Wuxian doesn’t respond. Jiang Cheng makes a mental note to beat that nonsense out of him in the future, when he can lift his arms again and his ankle isn’t most likely broken.

But Jiang Cheng remembers what it was like to try turning weapons, human and sword alike, into tools of peace. There are still whole weeks of the Sunshot Campaign that are just smears of sense-memory: the cacophony of screams and curses; the reek of mass funeral pyres and the soft ash drifting through the air like black, silent snow; the startling warmth of being suddenly drenched in blood after Sandu sliced open another living human. Half the time he’d come back to himself laughing hysterically, unable to see anything through the tears on his face, and as the war dragged on, the tears eventually dried up. It had taken months afterwards to settle into the mindset of rebuilding for Lotus Pier. (If he’s honest with himself, he never really did settle there. There's always a part of him still dragging itself through mud made by blood spilled on battlefields and churned up by soldiers' boots.)

“Jin Ling’s the only reason I never actually killed myself after you died,” Jiang Cheng says. “...Don’t you ever tell him that.”

“Wait, what?” Wei Wuxian snaps.

“You saying I would’ve died without a core - it was never about not having a core, you idiot, not really.” Not to say that hadn’t hurt, and Jiang Cheng really doesn’t know how he would’ve managed life as a commoner. But there were still worse things to lose than a core, which had also just lost and was about to lose yet again. “I had a few ideas on how to do it, depending on where I was and what was available when I decided I might as well get it over with.” He huffs a brief laugh and idly rubs his thumb over Sandu’s hilt. “I thought poison might be a good option, if a little heavy-handed on the metaphor.”

“I’d be laughing,” Wei Wuxian says flatly, “if you weren’t talking about killing my little brother.”

“Am I?”

“You never stopped.”

The silhouettes of the trees start to blur in Jiang Cheng’s eyes. “You left. You left, and everyone died, and somehow I was responsible for keeping our sister’s baby alive while the wolves tried to eat what remained of our sect from every direction. You left.”

“I never wanted to.”

“But you did.”

“Because I didn’t see any other way to keep you safe.”

“Because you chose strangers over family.”

“Because I didn’t see any other way to keep you safe,” Wei Wuxian hisses. Apparently they’re not so exhausted that they can’t get pissed after all. “I was hardly human anymore, Jiang Cheng. If I was going to die, then at least I’d die actually managing to save innocent people this time around and you would be safe from me.”

“I never wanted you to do that for me!”

“And I never wanted you to do that for me!”

The tension that had them both struggling to sit up straight suddenly breaks, and their backs collide again. Jiang Cheng grits his teeth against the urge to groan over the pain that ricochets through his chest and down his limbs. He hears a muffled yelp from behind him.

“You’re a damned fucking asshole and you’re my fucking brother and I hate you and don’t you ever assume you know what I need again, do you understand me,” snarls Jiang Cheng.

“You’re the damned fucking asshole and if you ever do that again then I will brand a reminder into your flesh right over the scar from the discipline whip,” Wei Wuxian snaps back, because he's never held back from fighting dirty if he thought it necessary.

“Fine!”

“Fine.”

They both stare into the dark forest, in opposite directions. It sounds like the juniors have finally picked up their tracks. Useless, the whole lot - Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian hadn't exactly been subtle in stepping aside for a private conversation that inevitably escalated, how could it take the kids this long?

"Those dumbasses had better not forget that we're on a night-hunt," he says.

"Like we did?" Wei Wuxian replies.

"You started it."

"Did not."

"No, I'm not doing this with you."

"Hey, you started this one."

"Shut the fuck up."

They fall silent again. A cold breeze picks up and Jiang Cheng feels Wei Wuxian shiver, pressing back just a little more firmly against Jiang Cheng for warmth, and he...leans back too. Just a little.

"I'm still fucking pissed at you," says Wei Wuxian.

"And I've got years' worth to pay you back for," says Jiang Cheng.

"Fine."

"Fine."

"Sect Leader Jiang!" they hear. "Senior Wei!"

"If you don't show up for the mid-autumn festival," Jiang Cheng suddenly says, "I'll come drag you out of the Cloud Recesses by the heels."

"But the dogs - "

"Don't be an idiot. Jin Ling's dog is the only one allowed in Lotus Pier, you know that."

Well, come to think of it, Wei Wuxian probably doesn't know that, but whatever, now he does. Wei Wuxian is terrifyingly silent, but before Jiang Cheng can say something that will inevitably bring them back to throwing fists, he hears a quiet, "Yeah, okay."

"Do you think they killed each other?" they hear Lan Jingyi asking loudly. "I mean, Sandu Shengshou versus the Yiling Patriarch - who would win?"

"Don't be an idiot," retorts Jin Ling, and Wei Wuxian's body briefly shakes with a laugh. "My uncle, obviously."

"They're both your uncle, idiot!"

Jiang Cheng just sighs and lets his head fall back against Wei Wuxian’s shoulder.

[omgkalyppso]

The camp was cold, and the hour was late, and still Étoile was distracted by thought, their meditation offering no true rest as the moon travelled across the sky.

They were always gullible, and they knew this came from a secluded upbringing. Their mothers having instilled in them the value of taking people at their word, and treating them with dignity and respect, and this made it hard to manifest skepticism ... self-preservation ... duplicity.

Even so, they felt justified in assuming Astarion was being truthful of his past. His rage palpable at centuries of indignity. It was beyond imaging, and brought into question his every behaviour. How much of who he was, was learned? Was true to how he had grown or had always been? Or to how he wanted to be? Surely asking any of these questions would be inappropriate, contrary to Étoile’s intention, to take Astarion at his word. Whether this behaviour were his current mask or his truth, he’d done nothing to be treated without courtesy.

Étoile thought of his hands, cradling them just so as those fangs had sunk into them, and rolled their head back to either side of their shoulders. They wondered about their own autonomy, and if it were the same. Whether their brain worm was eating away at their thoughts, feeding ridiculous theories on vampiric desire to some unknown brain creature a plane away. Whether they were being influenced, drawn and distorted, to be thinking about him so.

“Astarion?”

“Yes?”

He turned at the sound of his name, teeth flashing in the firelight. His brow was slanted in the innocence that he seemed to sometimes let slip, intentionally or not, between the layers of pomp and decorum.

“I’m sorry,” Étoile said quickly. “I do not mean to interrupt your rest.”

Astarion brought a fist to the base of his chin, and then the back of two knuckles to the front of his lips, amused. He moved his hand aside to speak, swiping the front of his thumb across his chin as he looked away for a moment, indulging in fantasies of peace and freedom. “If only you were the worst of my problems.”

With a raise and lowering of their eyebrows, Étoile signaled their agreement, letting their gaze be drawn back to the fire so that they were not hounded by Astarion’s cheekbones, or smirk, or brutal, cutting garnet eyes.

“Well?” Astarion prompted, swiping two fingers across his forehead as if to dismiss a flyaway curl, perhaps a single strand that Étoile could not see, and they realized they were looking at him again, already abandoning the safety of distraction.

If Étoile was as bold, or confident, or provocative as their mind seemed to think they were, they might suggest, ‘If I’ve lost my tongue, perhaps you might help me find it?’ But they were not. Not nearly by far.

“I find myself thinking of our problems,” Étoile conceded.

There were many things about Étoile which were extremely elven — their patience, the way they took forever to reach their point in a conversation, their keen measure of attention — but their insistence upon treating their little band as a group, a team, was not one of them.

‘Our problems,’ Astarion was tempted to snort, the prospect that what they were going through was anything but personal, isolating and devastating, should have been a joke. Yet Étoile easily sold him on it, the idea that they were earnest, that they would fight a horde, a hunter, or a vampire lord for him out of a sense of camaraderie in shared-disaster. Was this sense misplaced? Astarion couldn’t guess, whether willingly or no, he could imagine himself easily cutting these ties Étoile sought to bind. All allies had limits in their usefulness, even friends, even family, even lovers.

He imagined Étoile’s need of connection came from their human mother, or perhaps a deep inherent loneliness that those with bleeding hearts often found themselves afflicted with. Few in Faerun felt sympathy the way Étoile seemed to, annoying at times, stopping to save or offer benefit to every poor soul they passed. Astarion might have assumed that these acts of charity could have been influenced by a desire for divine forgiveness or intervention in regards to the looming fate of doom brought on by the mindflayer worms, but knew better now, after time and conversation revealed Étoile for who they were.

Wrapping his hands around his knees, Astarion leaned back to empty air. “Any conclusions worth mentioning? I rather doubt I’m the best to offer comfort, if you’re simply finding yourself distraught with thoughts of oblivion.”

“You don’t need to offer words,” Étoile assured him, and this time Astarion did laugh, too tickled by his companion’s instinct to soothe him for being unable to assuage them, and with his lips still pulled back in a smile of disbelief, Étoile clarified their meaning. “May I sit with you?”

“Come then,” Astarion called, the humor still in his voice, as if it were a thing to be dismissed, and not a danger to the both of them, to be sharing a space with a relative stranger. He exaggerated, laying his hands over his heart, “Bring your head to my bosom that we might will away your fears.”

He watched Étoile rise to their feet, their mollified expression sending some sense of unjust contentment to the pit of his stomach. They were a hulking wall of muscle and honor, a gentle soul of fear and hope, and they were moving to sit behind him so they too could lean back against him, not knowing would touch him; lest the worms were more exacting than Astarion dared to worry.

“Thank you,” Étoile said, their voice a rumble in their chest that flitted through Astarion’s dead heart.

“Mm,” Astarion hummed. “If you feel so indebted as to thank me, what would you do if I sought recompense?”

Étoile tilted their head, long hair tickling Astarion’s bare neck. “A bite?”

Astarion found himself smiling, so readily Étoile had taken to being a prospective source of strength and vigor.

“You really must be less diplomatic if you wish to suffer more frequently of blood loss,” he teased, and Étoile scoffed, an embarrassed and easy laugh that rattled the both of them with the force of it. “We faced a veritable army of enemies today,” Astarion went on, relaxed. “No, I’ve had my fill of blood for the evening … but as for my curiosity? That yet hungers.”

“Oh?” The genuine surprise Étoile had managed in a single syllable was almost insulting, and Astarion wondered whether he’d been too aloof the last time they spoke of personal histories. There had been times in Étoile’s stories of life before the worm where he hadn’t known how to react, and simply hadn’t, or had mocked from the safety of distance and indifference, but he had found himself endeared and fascinated, even before their adventures, Étoile was interesting … alluring. What they lacked in charm, they seemed to substitute with their earnest heart, and the drive to secure the strength they needed to achieve their goals. This must have tempted others, before.

“What would you ask of me?” Étoile prompted, a blush upon their cheeks, worried about how the length of their tales had gotten away from them the last time they and Astarion had spoken.

“Tell me,” Astarion suggested, haltingly, “my dear, of the last lover you left behind?”

A sigh escaped Étoile, a noise of sorrow and regret. Astarion licked his lips, wondering whether, to this, Étoile might object, the prospect of having found a favor beyond their desire to balance every perceived responsibility just as satisfying as receiving an answer.

Goading them, he rolled his shoulders against the expanse of their back. “Surely there must have been someone? More than one? A string of broken hearts behind you?”

“A woman,” Étoile answered quickly, and Astarion blinked in surprise, staring, empty, into the distant forest, ears perked to attention. “A human woman.” They swallowed, nervous and mournful, but when they spoke again their tone was bitter, “It was less disappointing than my first tryst, but still she… Her interest didn’t extend beyond closed doors.”

Astarion’s expression twisted in scorn, having expected something more akin to the joy of youth or a gentle heartbreak. “More's the pity.”

“It was her first time with…”

As Étoile considered their phrasing, Astarion opted to offer a suggestion to ease their tension on the subject. “An elf?”

Étoile chuckled. “That too.”

Astarion pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth, smiling about their circumstance. He hearkened them back to the present. “And I say again: Would that you were the worst of my problems.”

When Astarion felt Étoile begin to turn, it was faster than instinct to spin around onto his heel, facing them before they were anywhere close to looking over their shoulder.

Long, tortuous seconds provided the opportunity to pull away, but Astarion found himself still, except the way he heaved with each breath, except for how his heart beat like a man alive … as if it remembered infatuation beyond servitude, desire beyond subjugation.

Étoile smiled at him, and Astarion felt that he could sink into the earth in shame. ‘Bury me now, for I have seen all that creation has to offer, and the Hells are a mercy when compared to the loss of this moment. You will hate me come morning, and so will I.’

“I could be…” Étoile began to suggest, and Astarion huffed in amusement.

“Be a problem?” Astarion chuckled, resting one hand on his thigh to keep balance, and reaching out with his right to rest against Étoile’s collarbone. “Try as you might…” he mocked.

Their first kiss was slower than expected, Étoile twitching throughout the whole of it, as they considered jolting away, afraid they’d overstepped, afraid they’d misinterpret—

“Try harder,” Astarion whispered, allowing his plea to be covered in the grandeur of desire.

Astarion’s eyes were dark with the threat of promise, and whether by supernatural thrall or the splendor of seduction, Étoile only knew they were obliged to try again, and again, and again.

[yeet-me-dad-dy]

Dark Dealings

Warnings: Brief suicidal thoughts.

Summary: Arthur time is nearing its end, but perhaps he can buy himself some more time by making a deal.

Characters: Arthur Morgan

Words: 2,108

Arthur’s campfire glowed brightly in the darkness, illuminating his small camp nestled deep in the woods. He coughed and pulled his thin, ratty blanket tighter around his shoulders in an attempt to keep the cold off of his back. The night was warm and the fire was warmer, but Arthur was sick, and a chill had settled itself deep in the cowboy’s bones. 

The wind shifted and he was left sitting in the midst of a smoke cloud from the fire for only a brief moment. The cough that followed was ragged and harsh and left Arthur gasping for breath. He tried to ignore the splatters of crimson that soaked into the wool of his blanket. As he sat huddled on the cold ground, Arthur thought back on the past few months and how he ended up in this situation. He supposed he deserved it. He got sick from beating up an innocent man, after all.

When he first found out he was sick and had started to feel the effects of Tuberculosis, he had gone to the doctor to try and get help. Unfortunately, there was nothing to be done. Time went on and his illness progressed, and he found himself sharing words with a nun in Saint Denis. She offered a moment of peace and comfort, and Arthur left her presence feeling more at peace with his fate. He was going to die soon, and that was okay. He was ready for it. And then he met someone else, and it seemed that perhaps life wasn’t done with him just yet.

He was enjoying fishing a river north of Saint Denis, past the swamp, when a man about Dutch’s age wandered over. He himself had a fishing pole and asked Arthur if they could fish together. The cowboy agreed and the man cast his line. It wasn’t long before Arthur began to cough and the man turned to him, clearly concerned. He tried to play it down, but it was more than obvious that he was sick and not doing too well. Bloodshot eyes, a pallid complexion, and thin frame were all evidence enough.

“It’s just a little cold,” he tried to assure the man. “I’ll be right as rain in-” He didn’t get to finish his sentence as another fit took over and he doubled over, hacking and coughing up blood. 

“You’re badly ill…” the man observed. 

Arthur couldn’t respond, he was too busy gasping for air. 

“You know…” the man continued, kneeling down next to Arthur, who had given up trying to stand and now sat, defeated, on the riverbank, his fishing pole forgotten. 

“There’s a man. A sort of… miracle worker,” the stranger told Arthur. “You know, I used to be paralyzed from the waist down. Had no feeling or movement in my legs, and look at me now. Riding, fishing, hunting. This man is a gift from god, I tell you. He healed me with a snap of his fingers.”

“Really…” Arthur regarded the man, incredulous.

“Yes, really,” the stranger confirmed. “Look, I have, uh…” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black card. “This!” He handed the card to Arthur. “He told me to give it to anyone who looked in need of his services.” 

Arthur studied the card. It was made of sturdy black paper and written in shimmering crimson ink was an intricate rune of curved lines and strange symbols. 

After considering for a moment, he asked his new friend, “Where exactly can I find this miracle worker?”

The man nodded. “He’s all over the place, really. Saint Denis one day, Strawberry the next. I found him in a saloon in Valentine. Or… he found me. His schedule seems to take him everywhere, so… you might have to ask around a bit to try and see where you can catch him.”

Arthur chuckled dryly. “I aint sure I’ve got the time or the energy to be running around trying to find some mystery miracle worker.”

The cowboy’s reverie broke and he found himself back in front of his fire, shivering, a black card clutched tightly between his cold fingers. He regarded it once more, disappointment at the forefront of his mind. He wasn’t long for this world now… and he hadn’t been able to locate the man. He supposed this was how it was supposed to go. At least he would die in peace.

“You can be a very difficult man to find, Mister Morgan.”

Arthur turned as best he could to locate the owner of the deep voice that had sounded behind him. A man in a black shirt with sleeves rolled up and a rich-looking crimson vest stepped out of the darkness and strode up to Arthur, then settled himself on the ground to the cowboy’s left, in front of the fire. He outstretched his hands to warm them, not looking Arthur’s way.

“Can I help you?” Arthur asked hoarsely, though he had a sinking feeling in his stomach that he already knew who this man was. 

“I hear you’ve been looking for me.”

Finally, he turned to regard Arthur. Whether it was the fever coursing through his veins, or a trick of the night shadows coupled with the roaring fire, Arthur didn’t know, but the man’s eyes were… strange. It was like blood swirling around in black ink, or perhaps red smoke in a dark void.

The man studied him with these otherworldly eyes and the chill that was already present in Arthur’s bones intensified tenfold. He shivered violently and turned his attention to the fire. He couldn’t stare into those eyes… he couldn’t hold that gaze that peered into his very soul.

“You, uh…” Arthur cleared his throat and tried to steady his nerves. “I was told that you could help me.”

From out of the corner of his eye, he could see the man nod.

“You have Tuberculosis,” the man stated plainly. “And you want me to heal you.”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably. “I was under the impression that you were a… a doctor… or somethin’.”

The stranger warmed his hands again. “Not a doctor no, but I can heal you. For a price.”

Of course there was a price. Arthur knew there would be.

“I have money,” he offered.

The man chuckled dryly. There was no humor behind that sound. No friendliness. It was cold.

“Your money means nothing to me. Normally, I would take your soul, but yours isn’t worth much to me.”

“My soul?” Arthur asked, taken aback.

“Yes, your soul.”

“What on earth would you want with my soul?”

“I don’t want your soul,” the man scoffed, and ran a hand through his black hair. “You see, I’m only interested in souls that can offer me something. Souls that have some benefit. Artists paint for me, musicians sing, chefs make me food, etcetera. You’re not particularly talented. All you’re good at is killing people and I can do that just fine on my own.”

Arthur gazed into the dancing orange flames, a heavy weight on his heart and disappointment more prominent in the forefront of his mind than before. He should have accepted by now that he was going to die, and perhaps to an extent he had, but there was still a pesky little flicker of hope urging him to hold on, begging him to keep trying. That flicker died as he sat here, talking to this “miracle worker”. He had nothing to offer this stranger, nothing to trade for his life.

“Perhaps…” the man’s voice brought him out of his jumbled thoughts, and Arthur spared a glance over to see him gazing into the same flames that he had found himself lost in.

“Would you consider yourself a good talker, Mister Morgan?” he asked, and Arthur found himself being drawn into the depths of those blood red eyes when the man’s gaze met his again.

He forced himself to look away, which was easy enough as a coughing fit hit and he curled in on himself, hacking up blood onto the dirt at his feet.

“Yes, you are a good talker, aren’t you?” the man continued. “You’re charming. People like you.”

There was a beat of silence where all that could be heard was the crackling of the fire and Arthur’s ragged breathing. He was tired… so tired. If he closed his eyes for just a moment…

“No drifting off just yet.”

It was as if the man’s voice was in both ears and the back of his mind. His eyes flew open and he blinked a few times, then cleared his throat and dared to speak. His voice was quiet and hoarse, but he managed.

“I suppose I’m good at gettin’ people to trust me.”

“You are,” the man confirmed. Arthur didn’t know how he knew, but at this point he wasn’t sure he wanted to ask. Everything about this strange man screamed danger.

“I think perhaps you do have something to offer me after all.”

That annoying little flicker of hope rekindled then, but Arthur didn’t have the energy to pay it much mind. He chuckled dryly, which led to another coughing fit that left him clutching his ribs and gasping for even the tiniest shred of air that his ruined lungs could manage. He wasn't able to answer this time. He couldn’t. The stranger pushed himself to his feet and brushed his expensive-looking black jeans off, then turned to Arthur. The cowboy managed a glance up, and the angle with which the man was standing over him, uplit by the flickering fire, screamed PREDATOR. RUN. Arthur’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest, afraid that perhaps this man had decided to be “merciful” and tear him apart piece by piece instead of letting the sickness take him slowly. Instead, he crossed his arms.

“This is the deal, Mister Morgan, so pay attention. I heal you from any and all ailments, you’ll feel better than you ever have before, you’ll never get sick again, and all your wounds will heal, no matter how fatal. In return, anyone you find in your travels that looks like they could use my help, you send my way, just like that man sent you to me. You will do this until you eventually die. Understood?”

Arthur nodded. 

“Do we have a deal?”

The cowboy sighed, as deeply as he could without causing himself too much pain. This man was after souls. Arthur didn’t know if he even believed in souls, but sending innocent people to this stranger to have god-knows-what happen to them wasn’t exactly his idea of a fun time. He wasn’t a good man, sure, but he did his best not to be too horrible. He helped where he could and didn’t steal or murder unless he absolutely had to. Was damning people really worth his life? Did he want that on his conscience? 

Still, despite all this doubt and the tightness around his heart, Arthur found himself nodding. The stranger offered his hand, and the cowboy managed to reach over to shake it, albeit slowly. A stinging pain in the back of his hand made Arthur jerk away with a hiss. 

“It’s been a pleasure, Mister Morgan. We’ll meet again.”

Before Arthur could ask how exactly he was going to be healed, the man vanished. The ground was undisturbed where he sat, the chill that came with him had gone, and the sounds of the night animals returned. It was as if he had never been there in the first place, and Arthur may have thought that his illness-addled mind had just played a cruel trick on him if not for the burning on the back of his right hand and the black card still grasped in the other. 

Another coughing attack doubled him over and his world spun, black around the edges, as he nearly hacked up both of his lungs. He found himself lying on the hard dirt ground, in pain and unable to breathe, and he tossed the black card into the fire. He wanted to cry, but he didn’t even have the energy for that. At this point, he wished he was already dead. How much longer would he have to wait to finally be able to rest? How much longer would this misery drag out. He was of half a mind to end it right now, but his gun was just ever so slightly out of reach and he couldn’t bring himself to crawl over to grab it. Instead, he pulled his ratty blanket more tightly around him, closed his eyes, and fell into the black nothingness that was sleep.

[just-a-happening]

Kelly from Psych | T.H

Summary: Sometimes destiny looks like walking in on someone in the bathroom at a party you didn’t want to be at and he wasn't invited to.

Pairing: Tom Holland x Reader

Word Count: 1,815

Author’s Note: hello! again! everyone was so nice in my last fic that I decided to give it another go. am I a one-hit-wonder? you decide! also, I’ve decided that all my fics exist within the same universe, so it’s just like one long story if that makes any sense anyways this is how you met!

          You picked nervously at the label of your beer bottle, searching the faces in the crowd for your roommate. It’d been an hour since she disappeared and what had started as a drink to pass the time had quickly escalated to two Stella’s and a slight buzz.

In her defense, you should have known better. You’d been reluctant to agree to be her plus one at an old classmate’s going away party—“You remember Kelly! From Psych!”—but after negotiating a quick but long-enough-to-be-polite appearance followed by ice cream at your favorite parlor in the East Village, you’d caved.

You lost her within the first half-hour after she spotted an old flame in the crowd, making empty promises about how she wouldn’t be long.

          “I don’t want him thinking I’m not over him!” she argued, already backing away towards where he was standing with a few friends you recognized from the three dorm-room parties you’d been forced to attend.

          “But you aren’t over him,” you’d countered, raising an eyebrow skeptically.

She rolled her eyes. “Of course I am,” she said and you didn’t know who she as trying to convince more: her, or you. “Just relax, okay? I’ll be right back.”

That was an hour and a half ago.

You downed the rest of your drink, smiling sheepishly and gesturing at your now empty bottle as you excused yourself from the small gathering of people that had assembled around you. Not that it really mattered, everyone was so engrossed in the conversation—to which you’d contributed so little—that no one so much as glanced your way as you slipped away.

The crowd had thickened into a dense throng of people. A quiet, intimate, friendly get-together you could handle. A full-blown college rager full of people you hardly knew and barely remembered? Less so. As you weaved through the throng of people you felt anxiety creep into your chest making it uncomfortably tight.

No amount of ice cream was worth this. 

You made it to the kitchenette, which was an oversight on your part. It was impossibly full of at least a dozen people grabbing at chips and beer, emptying the scarce selection by the case. You scanned the room over guests’ heads for a few seconds before zeroing in on the perfect escape.

You traded in your empty bottle of beer for a new one and all but sprinted across the small two-bedroom apartment, ducking into the bathroom by the coat closet and shutting the door behind you quickly, not stopping to check whether there was a line. 

The sound of music and small talk dulled, falling away until it was basically white noise and you felt relief wash over you. You closed your eyes and turned to press your back against the door, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

For a brief second, everything was better.

But then you heard someone cleared their throat and you felt your blood turn to ice in your veins—you’d been so preoccupied about finding an escape you’d never stopped to consider that there was someone already inside.

Your eyes flew open and you came face to face with the unfortunate stranger whose privacy you’d completely invaded, your gaze meeting a strangely familiar one.

You felt your mouth fall open.

He gave a little wave, his expression a mixture of surprise and concern. You thought you must look as overwhelmed as I felt. 

          “Uh, hi.” 

Unfortunately, your mouth worked faster than your brain and instead of the string of apologies he probably deserved, you said: “I swear I’m not a fan.”

He blinked, the ghost of a smile dancing on his lips. “Pardon?”

Shit. You swallowed hard and tried again. “I just–I didn’t want you to think that I, like, followed you into the bathroom like some kind of creep or something because I didn’t.”

He raised an eyebrow.

          “I mean I am a fan,” you backtracked helplessly. “Of your work, I mean. I’m more of an Iron Man girl myself, but you’re great, too. I just–I’m not one of those fans–not that there’s anything wrong with those kinds of fans! Except, maybe there is? Because nobody should be following anybody into the bathroom regardless of whether or not they’re Spider-Man, y’know? Which you obviously are.”

          “Obviously,” he agreed and you chose to overlook the fact that he was very clearly making fun of you. 

You don’t know what you expected, but this wasn’t it. His demeanor was surprisingly calm, all things considered. You wondered if maybe this wasn’t the first time this had happened to him, which seemed like a terrible thing to get used to. 

There was a beat of awkward silence where he watched you, openly amused, as you felt around behind you for the doorknob. After what felt like a small eternity, your hands closed around it and you smiled sheepishly.

          “Anyways, I’m just gonna go and find a different hiding place, preferably one where I don’t make a total ass of myself, and uh leave you to it–” you tried to pry the door open but he cut you off before you could manage to slip out.

          “Wait, who are you hiding from?” he asked.

Your fingers fell away from the handle. “Um, everyone?”

He nodded, gesturing lightly around the room before saying, “Well then, if that’s the case you might as well stay. That way we can hide from everyone together. Strength in numbers and all that.”  

You tried not to smile. “Why are you hiding from everyone?”

He pointed loosely to the party that was raging on outside with a half-empty beer bottle you hadn’t realized he'd been holding. “Oh you know, just doing my best to avoid crazy fangirls who follow me into bathrooms and stuff,” he teased. “They seem always find me, though.”

You flushed. “I never said anything about being crazy.”

He feigned innocence, one hand moving over his heart like some kind of celebrity boy scout. “What makes you think I was talking about you?”

Before you could fire back a response, someone knocked on the door and without missing a beat, the two of you replied, “Occupied!”

When you were sure the coast was clear, you gave him a pointed look. 

          “You know, they’re going to think we’re hooking up in here now.”

He laughed, “I’m sorry to have to break it to you, love, but according to the tabloids I’m actually already having a secret love affair with my co-star.”

You gasped playfully. “Which one?”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “All of them, I think.”

It was your turn to laugh. “Scandalous.”

You slid down the door to sit on the tile floor, grateful you’d gone with jeans instead of the leather number your roommate had tried to corral you into. For the first time since making your dramatic entrance you realized that for someone trying to stay under the radar, he wasn’t dressed very inconspicuously in a pair of dark pants and a printed button-up.

Then again, maybe that was the perfect camouflage.

          “I’m Tom,” he said, holding his arm out to you across the too-small space.

You took his hand. “Would it be shitty of me to say ‘I know?’”

          “As long as your fine with being impolite.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s very nice to meet you, Tom.”

          “Much better.”

You hugged your knees closer to your chest, trying to make yourself as small as possible. It was evident this wasn’t a bathroom meant to be shared by two people at the same time, the ends of your shoes brushing his with every small movement despite sitting on opposite ends. 

You should have felt cramped and uncomfortable, but instead, you felt strangely at ease.

Which is how you found yourself falling into easy conversation. He was in town for business, just a few weeks of press before heading back home for the holidays. You told him about how you’d negotiated Christmas but sacrificed New Years at work. He told you most of the time he sacrificed both. You did your best to keep from asking about Hollywood and he was surprisingly good-natured about it when you inevitably failed. He asked you about college and the party and your roommate who still wasn’t answering your texts.

          “So tell me,” you started and he leaned forward. At some point during the conversation, he’d slid down from the bathtub’s edge to the floor, his knees now slotted in between yours. You tried to keep the intimacy of it all from distracting you. “How did you end up here? I didn’t peg you as a party crasher.”

He almost looked offended. “I’ll have you know I was invited,” he said.

You narrowed your eyes skeptically. “Really?”

          “Not exactly,” he conceded. “But my mate Harrison has been kind of seeing one of the girls who lives here–or I guess lived here.”

Your eyebrows shot up into your hairline. “Your friend is dating Kelly from Psych?”

His lips twitched. “Well, I know her as Kelly from Tinder.”

          “Huh,” you said, in a voice right above a whisper. “Small world.”

          “Isn’t it?” he said, his stare latched to yours. “Out of all the girls in New York, Haz swiped right on Kelly and out of all bathrooms in this flat, we both chose this exact one.”

You felt a twinge in your chest but you pushed it down. “Not to take away from this otherwise great moment, but I do think this might be the only bathroom in this apartment.”

He scoffed. “Semantics, love.”

          “Are you saying that us being friends is some kind of destiny?” you countered, narrowing your eyes at him lightly.

The word ‘friends’ hung between you so tangibly you felt like you could pluck it out of the air. You don’t know why you said it, it had just slipped out, but now that it had, there was no taking it back. What else were you supposed to say? This wasn’t exactly a conventional situation.

Besides, it was pretty bold of you to assume that sitting in a bathroom for an hour with someone even constituted a friendship, much less anything more. But something told you it wasn’t supposed to end here and friends felt like a good place to start.

          “I guess I am.”

You straightened up and squared your shoulders, holding your now-empty beer bottle out to him, almost as a challenge.

          “Friends?”

He touched his equally empty bottle to yours, eyes bright. “Friends.”

For a moment you both just stared at each other, the air loaded with an emotion you couldn’t quite place. When you couldn’t stand it anymore, you peaked at your phone screen to check the time.

          “So friend,” you said and he grinned. “Want to get out of here? I know a great ice cream place.”

He pretended to ponder it. “You know friend, I think I might.”

And you did. 

It wasn’t until much later, long after saying good-bye at your subway stop after turning down his offer of paying for a car—“My subway card works just fine thank you very much.” “Right, but does it have leather interiors and seat warmers?”—and after making loose plans to meet again tomorrow for lunch that you finally heard from your roommate. 

It was well past midnight but dessert had put you behind on work and you had spreadsheets to finalize before bed, which is why noticed when your phone lit up with two messages from an unknown number.

Remember no chains tomorrow. You promised the real New York experience!

This is Tom btw

Before you could answer another message came in, this time from your roommate.

did you really leave kelly’s party with tom fucking holland ????

You bit back a smile. 

[prurientpuddlejumper]

A Punchable Face That I Want to Kiss, Ch. 3

<- Previous Chapter | Chapter 4 ->

Summary: Chilton thinks about you when he knows he’s going to die. 

1,849 words

“Do not come over tonight,” he said. Even through the bad cell phone connection, you could tell he was nervous, and it made you nervous.

“What’s the matter?”

“Or tomorrow night,” he continued. “Or ever. Stay away.”

“What?” Your heart sank. “What are you saying? I thought things were going well…”

“Only for the time being. You... may have been right,” his voice cracked ever-so-slightly. You knew it pained him to admit that, and the fact that he did made your blood go cold. “I think Hannibal Lecter is going to kill me. There is no reason for you to be there when it happens.”

Shit.

You worried when he started to believe Will Graham—ironically, the very thing you had wanted to begin with, but Will had changed, and you couldn't help suspect he was trying to get revenge on Chilton by roping him into investigating Hannibal Lecter. You were certain he at least didn’t care if Chilton was killed when Will started dangling fame and glory in front of his nose.

Chilton was too ambitious to resist the promise of fame and glory, and was the kind of fool to go poking his nose where it didn’t belong.

“Fuck that, I’m coming over. If we’re together, I can protect you.”

“Don’t. I am going to try to... Wait,” he paused, marveling, “you would do that for me?” His resolve firmed again, “Do not come. Please. Look, there is nothing connecting us except sex—good sex, mind you, but—you may not be on the Ripper’s radar. If you are close to me when he comes, he will only kill you, too. It’s not worth it. I do not want you caught up in this. Take the advice I should have: do not get involved.”

There was a click, and the call went dead.

You felt gutted.

 *****

 Frederick was the kind of man who spent all his nights and weekends alone, until you. It was pathetic to think you were his most stable relationship—not just currently, but of his entire life—when he had only known you for a few months.

That was not to say he was inexperienced.

He had fumbled with plenty of bras as a young legacy in a Harvard fraternity, and with fraternity brothers in dark closets, mostly under the influence of cheap alcohol (bought ironically, of course).

He dated in medical school, but there wasn’t much time for relationships when he was constantly studying twice as hard as everyone else just to stay in the middle of the class rankings instead of sinking to the bottom. Besides, in academia there was a full menu of up-and-coming doctors to choose from, and he was never found to be the most appetizing selection. Too bitter.

Family money opened all the right doors for him after graduating and starting his own practice. There, he could sit on top of his own throne without all the competition. Wealth and power finally made him a prime cut to the type who wanted to marry an important doctor, and the nurses and secretaries fell at his feet.

Unfortunately the type of person who, first and foremost, wanted an important doctor, was not interested in an emotional relationship—at least, the money came first.

Some sought the full package of money and romance, but those he always chased away after one or two dates. He found that anyone willing to tolerate his personality defects was the type to borrow his credit cards, ply him for gifts, demand a promotion, ignore him or cheat the moment he wasn’t buying something, and ultimately blackmail him for one final payout when even the money and status weren’t enough to tolerate being with him any longer.

It was fine, he told himself. He used them and they used him—it was how the game was played.

Then there was you.

Frederick Chilton always found you arrogant and unpleasant. He was an expert in his field, a respected psychiatrist who had discovered the Chesapeake Ripper in his facility, and you spoke to him as if he were a child!

(Well, assuming you swore so much at children. He wouldn’t know. children are filthy.)

Whenever he saw you entering his hospital, he knew he would need an extra glass of scotch to recover. You were fierce, never making a single effort to mask your intentions, whether it was tearing into him for (allegedly) unethical practices, or failing completely to mask your sexual attraction to him.

It had been a long time since anybody made a pass at him. Running an institution for the criminally insane was not widely considered sexy, and made his doctor-husband stock plummet—a fact for which he was grateful. Romance was hardly worth the effort, and he would rather be alone than pretend.

He should have shot you down. It would have delightfully changed the power dynamic—any time you insulted his methods, he could remind you of your embarrassing plea for his attention.

But in truth, he enjoyed sparring with you. The days you didn’t come rattle your sword at him were dull. Nobody else spoke to him so brazenly, even though many certainly shared your opinion. It was refreshing.

He’d been imagining ripping your clothes off for weeks.

This would be a one-time thing, he thought: another case of using and being used. He assumed you would call a taxi when it was over, but when he woke up in the morning your arms were wrapped around him with the sweetest smile on your lips. It was odd. It sort of made his chest ache even though he was sure he liked it.

This must have been what pity sex was like. Ah, the advantages of a cane!

Stranger still, you kept coming back to see him. A one-night stand turned into two, turned into three, until it became a habit—and you spent additional time with him for no particular reason he could discern. The sex was great, but fucking did not require staying the entire night to cuddle. When he was too busy working late to stop for dinner, much less for a sexual escapade, you showed up anyway, surprising him with a bag of fast food. It was greasy and barely edible, but thoughtful. You read a book in one of his leather chairs and ate all his fries while he typed reports into the night.

Surely you had other partners to choose from who would have been more entertaining. Your behavior was quite abnormal.

He knew you had an angle, but couldn’t figure out what it was. Breakfast, maybe?

The fact that he made you eggs and gourmet coffee didn’t seem enough to account for your always choosing to spend time with him. You said his house was nice, but even that wasn't enough. The equation was unbalanced. He never paid you, and you never demanded gifts—even when he offered them, you flatly refused. You would not let him so much as replace your cracked cellphone screen. You had always been so vehemently insistent about Will Graham’s innocence, but since you started sleeping with him you’d never asked for any favors, like moving Graham to a nicer cell or falsifying a psych evaluation.

He’d even had a full-blown panic attack in front of you. Something you could have used as leverage to threaten his very career. But you didn’t.

If you were ingratiating yourself with him for an ulterior motive, you were terrible at it.

Honestly, terrible. He wanted to give you pointers, but it would spoil the game. Unless—he considered the terribly disconcerting possibility—there was no game. You weren’t using him, you just had feelings for him. Real ones. It made him feel strange and off balance—if there was nothing transactional about the relationship, it was not something he could control. The thought disturbed him so much he nearly called the whole thing off, but something stopped him from picking up the phone. There was a squirming in his gut, and he didn’t like it.  

What did you possibly want from him? What reason did you have to care?

Was it pity?

Pity was the only answer that made sense. Pity made you want to protect him; you had said as much on that first morning. It explained your change from hostility to affection (usually it went the other way around), and why he hadn’t driven you away by now.

It was nice, he thought. He rather liked your pity.

He would have been happy basking in it for a long time, but… he made an error in judgment.

Chilton knew he had fucked up. He was so drawn in by Hannibal Lecter, trying to be his friend—trying to be like him—and all the while whispering sensitive information right into the Chesapeake Ripper’s ear. Then he had to go and listen to Will Graham, to show Jack Crawford that tape with evidence that seemed so solid at the time. But he was played. Hannibal knew he knew, and Chilton was the Judas who tried to sell him out.

He was dead meat. Literally.

He was dead, but you—you had believed Graham from the start, and stayed far away from Dr. Lecter. He was dead, but you didn’t have to go down with him. He could keep you safe. Out of the line of fire. The time you had spent together recently had been nice, and while he had no desire to die alone, the twisting in his gut insisted that he owed you that much for giving him so much of your time. This was the right reason to call things off.

One good deed could not make up for a life of misfortune and selfishness, but if he could save you from sharing his fate, then dying would not be the worst thing that could happen.

  *****

“Him? How can you honestly believe Frederick Chilton is capable of being a serial killer?!” you screamed in Jack Crawford’s face after he arrested the shaken psychiatrist. Since learning what had happened, you were… upset. “Are you stupid? He’s being framed, just like Will! That man does not have the constitution to make dioramas out of murdered bodies—he’s an anxious nerd who can’t even drink coffee unless it has been first digested by a civet!”

“Watch it, or I'm sending you home,” Crawford warned as the federal agent who would tolerate no disrespect, especially in the middle of an FBI field office. As Crawford the sensitive father figure, the edges of his hard stare softened with sympathy, and he pat you consolingly on the arm.

“At least let me see him!”

Crawford did his best to calm you down, reassuring you that Chilton would be investigated fairly using all the resources of his task force. So you tried to relax as the doctor was handcuffed and dragged into the bowels of the field office to be interrogated. Crawford guided his old protégé, Miriam Lass, into the observation room to confirm whether Dr. Chilton was in fact the Chesapeake Ripper who had held her hostage for three years, while you paced impatiently outside.

There came a loud bang.

[myrskytuuli]

An Ode to Youth (the horny remix)

A smutty Scroldie ficlet taking place in an AU where Webby did not accompany Scrooge and Goldie when they ran into the woods together and finding the fountain took just a little bit longer. 

New, flexible, energetic, nimble, teenaged bodies. The sex is going to be great?? Right?? Right??

A tragi-comedy of being being a teenager. This ficlet might be smutty, but it is not sexy. It might be a bit sentimental though. 

Why was she so goddamn horny??!!

It’s true, that the last time Goldie had been 16 was well over a century ago, but she could have sworn that she hadn’t been this horny back then.

Well.

Not at least all the time.

Goldie was a confident, smooth, intelligent, cunning and unflappable woman, and had always been. When she remembered her teenage years, she remembered the energy, the way her knees had never hurt, the way she could bounce back from anything.

She did not remember these stupidly long limbs, the way her face itched, the hormonal storm that seemed to have washed over her like a flood and being so stupidly horny.

Her horniness for some reason also made her angry, and for some reason there also seemed to be no barrier between I’m angry and I’m going to do something stupid about it.

So, she tackled Scrooge.

Maybe finding the fountain before him, and rubbing it in his stupid, handsome, face would make her feel better.

Scrooge fell to the ground with a satisfying grunt and oof, his fringe of stupidly fluffable looking hair falling into his eyes.

Goldie can feel the familiar contraction in her lower regions, as her vaginal walls unscrew themselves in a biological dance of let’s go already.

She’s never this aroused this fast. Not just looking at a cute boy’s hair fall into his eyes!

The tingling in her loins begs to differ.

She’s starting to doubt if having unaching joints is truly worth it after all.

  Whoever had the audacity to say that women are their most beautiful at sixteen years old, had clearly never met actual sixteen-years-olds. Looking into the clear surface of a puddle, Goldie was not impressed with what she saw. Her body was not proportionate, her oil glands hidden beneath her feathers seemed to function at double the effort, and here and there she could spot itchy patches of baby feathers still clinging stubbornly to her skin.

She knew that picking at the yellowish down feathers, peeking from between her pristine white ones, was not recommended. She did it anyway.

Ouch!

A drop of blood peeked from where she had ripped the yellow feather out, irritating her fluctuating mood even more.

Maybe finding the fountain wouldn’t be worth it. Maybe she should just be content with the fountain in Ronguay, which did keep her from aging beyond certain limit, but would not keep her this young. With the water from this fountain, she would never have to dye her hair again.

She looked at her reflection in the puddle again. She looked innocent like this. Like someone who was not wanted her enemies, who would never be recognised anywhere. Someone who could be whoever she wanted, without people looking at her and pointing “wait isn’t that Goldie O’Gilt, you can’t trust her. Everybody knows what she’s like.”

Expect Scrooge. He would know.

But he had never pointed at her and spat the name Goldie O’Gilt like it was a curse.

Suddenly she felt lonely and small and miserable, and the damn hormones made her want to cry like…like an angsty teenager.

She got up and started heading where the faint flickering of Scrooge’s campfire could be seen.

And goddamn now she was horny again!!

 Goldie was a master of seduction, had been for over a century now. But the fact that her new body was itchy and weird was putting a bit of damper on her usual masterclass of seduction.

Also, the fact that she felt stupidly hyperaware of every single one of her insecurities.

Hey!

Aah!

Scrooge shot up from the nest of leaves he had made for himself and looked guilty and awkward and slightly terrified. His hair was mussed (absolutely adorably!) and his feathers were slightly fluffed up.

She was pretty sure that by now her vagina had unscrewed itself to be ram-rod straight tunnel, if the burning arousal between her legs was to be believed. It would have been more embarrassing, if she couldn’t see the way Scrooge’s genital feathers were mussed in a way like a hand had just been digging into them.

“Wanna have sex?” Asked Goldie, the master of slow and burning seduction.

“So badly.” Answered Scrooge, barely having time to have the words out of his beak before Goldie collapsed on top of him, pushing her tongue inside that beak.

 15 minutes later, they are laying down, side by side, too embarrassed to even look at each other.

That was…not a shining moment for either of them.

There is a tiny spot of blood drying on her genital feathers, that she is too embarrassed to wipe away. She had forgotten that this new body would have a hymen.

Besides her, Scrooge is laying down in the stoic silence of a man who had forgotten how quickly things are over at this age.

“Remember the first time we had sex in 1890s?” Goldie asked her partner.

“Yeah.”

“How in the hell were we better at sex in the nineteenth century then we are now?!”

This prompts a snort from Scrooge, and Goldie can’t help but to follow. It doesn’t take them long to succumb to hysterical laughter at the whole absurdity of the entire situation.

The tension thankfully breaks, and Goldie gets the guts to roll around to actually face her partner in worst-sex-of-her-life. Her flutters faced with the way the campfire makes Scrooge’s eyes sparkle in the darkness.

“It wasn’t exactly perfect then either. Remember when you had to explain the concept of the clitoris to me?”

“Hmm. But you were a fast learner.” Her loins are burning again. “maybe we should try again. I’m a sexy minx and I refuse to be defeated by this awkward body.” She’s already crawling back all over him.

He meets her easily midway, a testament to the fact that while they might need to work some kinks out with their new bodies, their rhythm is still there. They’re not those nearly-strangers fumbling in the dark, that they were more than a century ago.

“I’m going to be entirely honest with you, I have a feeling that the little guy isn’t going to last any longer than it did just now.”

“I don’t think that this body really cares for long and lingering love-making in any case.” She answered entirely honestly.

“And it’s a good thing that you did teach me how to use my tongue back in the 19th century.”

“That too.” She purrs into his beak.

 They manage to make it last almost thirty minutes this time, and it has to be counted as a victory considering the circumstances. Definitely not their proudest work, but who the hell cares.

 The next morning, she wakes incredibly hungry, and horny again!!?? How is it possible to be this horny all the time??!!

[come-on-shitty-boys]

//the fugitive. kuroo tetsurou//

Request:  Not really?? But spawned from @janellion​ and I obsessing over royal kuroo like three weeks ago, so uhhh requested by me?? Peep the new TRT series ig ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1.7K

Notes: i have come to the awful realization that i have ruined any and all of my dating expectations by writing so much fanfiction.

Everything about his current situation was far from ideal.  The heavy downpour as the sky let loose all of its unshed tears flattened his hair against his forehead, his jacket with all of the intricate embroidery jacket and the silver crown that had adorned his raven hair had long since been cast away to better disguise the fleeing prince.  It had been long expected, but a storm had unleashed itself upon the castle, bringing the day of impending doom upon them sooner rather than later.  The people of the kingdom have finally had enough of the tyranny, of the constant feuds, the never ending debts and taxes and now, filled with rage, they had made their way to the castle, hungry for blood and refusing to yield until the king’s head was on a stake.  

His feet sloshed through the puddles, soaking his socks as the rain continued to pour down all around him.  The young prince only stopped long enough to catch his breath under the shelter of a tree before he was once again running through the night in the darkness of the woods.  The last few moments he had with his family kept echoing in his head, eyes pricking with tears to match those of the clouds above him.

“My son, leave before they kill you too.  Get out of the kingdom, please.”

“But, father-”

“Tetsurou, please.  This is my final request.  Head south until you reach Effingfil River.  Once you get to the otherside, you’ll be safe.  Quick!  Make haste and don’t ever look back.”

Who was he to deny his father’s final wish before his end?  He had set out into the night, a dark cloak adorning his figure to shield his identity.  Although he knew better, Kuroo carried his silver circlet in his hands, a final memento of his royal life.  If worse came to worst, it would fetch a good price at the market, enough to make ends meet until he could find some sort of safe haven in the neighboring kingdom.  

But, the cloak, the crown, and every other royal thing about him had been tossed into a stream that had carried the articles away.  There was no time to be sentimental when you were running for your life.  Even so, now he secretly wished he had kept the woolen cloak.  The icy rain had soaked through his clothes, chilling him to the bone as a steady wind picked up, pelting the droplets harder against him.  His entire body shook in a mixture of cold and fear.  Never in his life did he expect to wander through the woods all alone; hungry, freezing, tears mixing with the rain as the water ran down his cheeks.  

Kuroo had no idea how close he was to the border.  Honestly, he wasn’t even sure that he was going the right way anymore.  He couldn’t see the stars through the thick branches above him and in the off chance that there was a break, the dark storm clouds hid his only compass from view.  He did know one thing, though.

He knew the flicker of candlelight in a window in the dead of night.  People.  Someone.  A broken sob of relief fell from his lips as he picked up his pace all over again.  If they turned him in, so be it.  He just wanted to be away from this nightmare, even if only for a moment.  

Your life has always been relatively quiet.  A small cabin on the edge of the woods didn’t boast many visitors, so the sudden pounding on your door that pulled you from your embroidery had made your entire body jolt in shock.  Setting your needle and thread to the side, you took up your candle, only for the steady knock on your door to come again.  “I’m coming.  Hold on!”

You had been expecting a lot of things, really.  Royal tax collectors coming to steal more money from you, the merchant from the other kingdom who smuggled the better quality threads from the other side of the border in the dead of night, maybe even a witch who had come to cast a vicious spell on you.  A dashing young man barely older than yourself, eyes tinged red with sorrow, clothes muddied from trekking through the rain, a hand clutching his chest as if to hold onto his aching heart, however, was nowhere on your list of expectations.  Before you could even stop yourself, you were ushering him inside without a word being passed between the two of you.  A second and a third log were added to the fire, the temperature in your small home quickly rising as you tended to the flames.  The strange boy at your door stood stiffly in the middle of your living room, the orange blaze casting dancing shadows across his features, amber eyes seemingly glowing in the low light.  

“Sit, please.  Let me see if I have anything for you to put on, so you don’t have to sit there in soaked clothes,” you say, pulling up a chair for him to be able to rest his weary feet, but when he took a seat, rather than sinking, taking pleasure in the opportunity to finally relax, even if it was only for the night, he sat with his back straight, slender hands folded elegantly in his lap.  Every so often he would reach towards the fire to warm his chilled fingers, but they were quickly returned to his lap as if he had done something incredibly inappropriate.  The soft rustle of your nightgown as you padded across the wooden floors shifted his attention away from the fire and over to you and the set of clothes that you held in your hands.

“I hope these fit you.  They belonged to my brother before he passed in the war, so feel free to keep them.  I have no use for them,” you say.

Kuroo gingerly takes the clothes from you, trying to hide the look of distaste on his face at the feeling of the material.  It was cheap and stiff, nothing like he was used to, but they were dry and that’s what was more important.  “May I ask for your name?”  He asks, peeling his shirt from his body to replace it with the one you had given him.

“Y/N, sir.  And who might you be and what in God’s name are you doing out in the woods at this hour?  There’s all sorts of animals out there that don’t take kindly to people in their territory.  You should consider yourself lucky.”

His eyes shifted to the window, peering through the night as if to check that there was no one who had seen him during his escape.  “I- I really don’t think I should tell you that.  At least, not yet.  My apologies if that seems rude, but, you see, I’m in a bit of trouble, and well, I don’t exactly know who to trust right now.”

You nod simply and give a short chortle.  “What’d you do?  Commit tax evasion?  Lord knows the king would have your head if that ever happened.  The man is greedier than anyone I’ve ever met.  You would think that he has enough money coming in, honestly.  With the amount of citizens that he hounds for his outrageous taxes, you’d think he wouldn’t need to raise them again, but he has to pay for his wars somehow, I suppose.  Sending innocent men off to die isn’t cheap, that’s for sure.”

You were so busy carrying on with your train of thought that you hadn’t noticed the way Kuroo’s body suddenly stilled as you continued to discuss his father so freely.  Annoyance and bitterness dripped from every syllable as you spoke.  The Kuroo family hadn’t been popular in the eyes of the people for many generations.  They thrived off of starting unnecessary conflicts that would drag on for years.  Even now, there were troops sitting off the shore of a small kingdom, blocking their trade routes, suffocating them slowly as they had been for the past seven years.

“I’m afraid that the monarchy has likely died today,” he says shortly, rolling up his pant legs.  They had obviously been made for someone much shorter than himself as the ends rested just below the middle of his calves.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m from the capital city.  Some of the citizens staged a coup.  Before I left, I heard them say that they wished the king and his whole family dead.  I don’t know what will be left of them by tomorrow.”

“Well, then let’s hope that this will finally turn things around in this country.  It’s difficult to make a living and pay a ridiculous amount of taxes when you’re out here by yourself.  My customers have been sparse since the recent increase.  They can’t afford to mend their clothes, but I can’t afford to live without their business.  Thankfully, with the border as close as it is, I get some business from the other kingdom, but it can also be a pain.  The hassle of trying to make the trip across the river isn’t worth it for most.”

Kuroo’s ears perked up slightly at the mention of a river.  “Which river is it?”

“Effingfil.  Why?”

“How close am I to the border?”

“Only a few miles, sir.  Is everything alright?  You seem a bit frantic.”

“I need to get out of the country.  Please, will you help me?”

“Sir, right now you need to rest.  You’re lucky that you didn’t get hypothermia or something like that out in the rain.”

“Then tomorrow?  First thing in the morning.  Will you take me to the border?”

“Why are you so keen on leaving, may I ask?”

“Because if I don’t, they��ll kill me too.  Please, I’m not ready to die,” he whispered, desperation creeping into his voice.  And in another odd twist of things you weren’t expecting, the stranger who had stumbled across your house in the darkness clutched onto your clothes as he hid his face against your shoulder.  You could feel his body shaking against your form as you took him into your arms, soothing circles being rubbed against his lower back, the silence only being broken by his choked sobs and the gentle crackling of the fire.

[imnotwolverine]

A Devil’s Duet

August Walker x OC Anna 

Author’s note: This is a short sequel to Good Girl (though it’s not necessary to read that first) - the idea is based on conversations I had with @cherrybloomn​. I hope you enjoy it my angels ❤️

Also, should I continue this? And..eh..does the format work? Or do you want longer chapters? Let me know!! 

Word count: 1.364

Warnings: stalking, strong language

This is Part 1 | Part 2 >

.EARTH 

“On earth I was but a man. I felt, feared and failed. Then one day the earth left my feet and I learned how to fly.” 

-

.EARTH - The devil is in the details. 

Again, again, again! 

Frustration scrunched up her pretty face as she stalked back to the corner of the lonely stage, determination bubbling in her blue eyes.

‘FEET Anna. Feet!’ She cursed with a heavy Russian lilt, her tongue surprisingly sharp and fierce for a creature so dainty. 

Hmm. An angel in disguise, the stranger in the back row mused. 

He had watched her for a few minutes now, the small dark theatre not quite what he envisioned when he was looked for a bathroom stall to cool off, but, it was a welcome substitute all the same. 

The plush red seat he had made his throne was far better than any porcelain, its soft velvet scrunching beneath his restless fists as he watched the pretty ballerina dance on the music of his throbbing headache. 

His plans were foiled and now he’d have to go the long route to find absolution. Peace. Just his fucking luck. 

But that could wait a minute. Right now he spared himself the moment to enjoy the soothing embrace of the plush red theatre seat and the magnificent view; a cursing Russian ballerina. 

Gracious like a cat. Red headed and hot blooded. Perfect to a flaw. But also human and earthly, her low growls of frustration curling up his lips as he watched her fight against gravity itself. 

He had been like that once. Scolding himself for imperfection. And he applauded her for her craving to achieve perfection. If only all people were so driven. 

The devil is in the details. He knew that better than anyone. And there were, as of right now, a lot of details he needed to go over; plans needed revising, people needed telling off. UGH..this day..what a fucking shit show. 

First he had to get in contact with the Apostles. Tie up loose ends and start over. Again, again, again. Though this time he’d be extra strict so his angels wouldn’t accidentally blow the whole operation with another poorly stashed ammunition pod. 

It was hard to understand how something so simple could nearly ruin it all. One devious little detail. But, he wasn’t pushed off his course so easily. Just calm down and do it again. Do it better. 

In a few more minutes he’d walk out of this theatre as his usual, cool self. Like his name belied; August, he would make the world burn up in hues of orange and red. And only then a true spring of peace can come again. 

And eh..this little, gaping ..issue? Well. Let’s just consider it a minor hiccup. An after-thought. A tiny flaw in his perfect plan. He would cleanse humanity and all its flaw-...

‘Ehm..hello? Who’s there?’ 

--

.EARTH - The greater the suffering 

“The greater the suffering, the greater the peace.”

-

‘Thank you. I’m standing here at the scene. And as you can see the damage is quite disastrous, most of the house gone. Authorities have not yet confirmed any casualties, but I have been told by neighbours that this house was most likely used as an active brothel, which was also in use at the time the sinkhole appeared.’ 

The news reporter rattled on as Anna’s focus dwindled, her body refusing to relax into the hard foam roller beneath her hip, the blue and red lights of the tv dancing over her exhausted features. 

It had been a long day. A painful day, her foot becoming more and more of a nuisance now she was upping her training hours to get ready for the premiere. But it would all be worth it. The premiere was here, tomorrow, meaning tomorrow would be her first true day as principal dancer. 

And like Mrs. Kurkakov always said: if you want to perform well, pain is a necessity. 

Anna turned to roll out her other hip, her eyes moving back to the tv as a large gaping black hole stared back at her, the helicopter view showing just how large the sinkhole was. That is of course, if New York won’t be swallowed whole by the morning.

--

.EARTH - The streets of New York

His cold blue eyes absent mindedly followed the man as he walked out of the theatre. Again; same place, same time, those chubby Ukranian cheeks turned pink in the freezing wind as he lit a cigarette. Also like always. 

August refused to admit it, but it sure was a habit that died hard. Taking on missions. And smoking. 

Standing here in that same New York winter weather, he held cigarette similar to his stalkee, burning between his fingertips. 

The chubby cheeked man greeted some women who also walked out of the building, their leg warmers and tight buns telling him that they were dancers for the company and also that they knew him. The chub. 

Fucking creep. 

It was easy to read people, and this Chekov-idiot, arms dealer at large, was a people-kind-of-person. August felt nearly repulsed when he watched the man press a disgusting kiss on one of the chuckling maiden’s hands, his teeth flashing a not so innocent smile at the beguiled lady. 

August felt bile claw up his throat, but he didn’t show it, his face a cold unreadable facade as his cigarette burned hot between his lips. 

People are all the same. Even when they are more beastly than man. Pfft. 

With his intel now confirmed, he finished his cigarette, his foot squashing the burning stub beneath his sturdy sole. ‘Time for the next phase.’ 

--

.EARTH - The next phase

“The next phase starts when I tell you, no questions asked. Got it?” 

-

Anna stared at her phone screen for a moment longer, her boss’s voice still echoing in her ear as she placed her foam roller aside. With the tv now on mute, her thoughts crashed with a great force back into her aching body. 

Anonymous. Call ended. 1:02 minutes.  

Alright, so perhaps it wasn’t a sinkhole that would turn her world upside down tonight. In just one minute her expectations of the next day had done a full 180. The premiere would be but an after thought now, as her true next phase was about to start. 

--

.EARTH - The same ground

‘Who’s there?’ She squinted into the bright stage lights, watching the mysterious figure in the far back. 

All she could see was his dark hair, soft curls bathing in the red light of the Exit-sign behind him. 

‘The devil,’ His voice rumbled deep and heavy like a thundercloud, foreboding a storm that was yet to break. 

Great.

‘I doubt that,’ She tilted her head slightly, hoping she would catch some of his features. 

What was it with all these annoying men? First her boss with that stupid phone call. Then that slippery Chekov guy lurking around her colleagues - she’d be sure to get his head! And now this...Devil-man..? Peering out into the hush dark, she could see a suit and a devilish smirk, etched on what seemed to be a moustached lip.

She kept her trained face in a pleasant smile. Yea..she’d surely recognise the devil by now. This was just another jerk in a suit. ‘..in fact you look like you’re in the wrong room, devil-man.’ 

‘Says who?’ 

She huffed softly, near breaking her saintly expression. Who was this arsehole? 

‘Says the angel.’ She curtsied sweetly, a hint of a challenge grazing over her curled up lips. 

‘Hmm,’ The stranger was silent for a moment, his lips twitching in a wider grin. ‘I doubt that, angel.’ And with that he slid out his chair, disappearing through the exit before Anna could get a good look at him. 

Was this what her boss had called about?

The air suddenly felt thick as the earth beneath her pointe shoes crumbled; she had worked so hard and now one devil-man is to take it all away? 

‘черт.’ She cursed in between terse lips. 

Looks like tomorrow this angel had to learn how to fly. 

--

Another note:

I’d love to hear your thoughts on this, dear readers!! Shall I continue? Do you want longer chapters or is this shorter format working for you? I’m getting very little feedback these days, so I’D LOVE TO HEAR FROM YOUUUU  ❤️❤️

--

General Tagsquad: @harrysthiccthighss @tumblnewby @magdelen69 @thereisa8ella @mary-ann84 @darkbooksarwin @summersong69 @madbaddic7ed @luclittlepond @maroonmolly @tillthelandslide

[thedarkplume]

Throwback Thursday

Dust off those browsers, friends. We’re gonna travel back in time to the stories that brought us into the fandom or the ones that have stuck with you through the years.

Share your super old faves and reblog them, showing the authors their classics are not forgotten. Leave them a love note showing them how much it means to you.

Then reblog the first story you wrote for your current fandom or even the first one you wrote for each fandom you belong to. The world is our oyster. Let’s rediscover some pearls.

I'm not going to lie. This Ask made me a little bit sad. There have been some really great writers on this site that have left us for unspecified reasons, and some for the childish bullying that seems to be a daily thing.

One of my favorite blogs was @chocolatecherubs. They were a blog that was written specifically for black female characters in the Marvel Universe, with Steve and Bucky as the central love interests, particularly during the 1940s.

However, all is not lost! There are still plenty of blogs that I follow and love and can always count on to provide the most entertainment you can achieve without picking up an actual book. One of the blogs who always delivers on this front regardless of the subject matter is the beautiful and talented @avintagekiss24 . I've been following her for a year and it has been a nonstop rollercoaster of fun, excitement, surprise, and even a little bit of heartbreak.

@avintagekiss24 has so many stories that I reread over and over again, it's nearly impossible to pick just one. But...if I did have to choose a classic in a split-second decision it would be Night Shift. This was my first time ever reading a story about Andy Barber and since then I have not stopped!

As for my own forays into fanfiction, I've written for Twilight, Harry Potter, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Cruel Intentions, a few WIPs for We Have Always Lived in the Castle, Knives Out, and the Marvel Cinematic Universe, and that's not counting all of the stories knocking around in my head vying for attention!

Here is a VERY old Buffy the Vampire Slayer story I wrote.

Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Pairing: Buffy/Angelus

Setting: 1700s, New Colonies

A/N: This story is a little different from the others I’ve written. This story is set in the days of Angelus’ life when Drusilla had just turned Spike. Bear with me if everything is not exactly up to par historically – I am not a history buff! NSFW 18+ Warnings for offensive language, subject matter, violence, blood, gore, and sexual abuse.

His features could not be termed uninteresting—there lay in them something bold and daring—but the expression on the whole anything but benevolent. There were contempt and sarcasm in the cold dark eyes, whose glance, however, was at times so piercing that no one could endure it long.

from The Mysterious Stranger (1860) – Anonymous

What is obsession? Is it the madness that consumes a man when he’s confronted with the one thing he knows he is not supposed to have? Is it the burning desire to possess the aforementioned object, ensuring that she will only think of him as he only thinks of her? Angelus paced back and forth in his chosen room of the mansion. Darla was still off reconnecting with Dracula and giving Angelus some much-needed breathing room. While she was off having her own adventures, he moved his childe and grandchilde to the American Colonies. They were in the colony named New York. Angelus loved the New Colonies. The women were not as sexually repressed, and the humans as a whole were more trusting. Since their arrival, government officials, writers, artists, scholars – everyone who held wealth and power had invited Angelus, his “sister” Drusilla and her husband William, to parties. There was nothing Angelus enjoyed more than drunk socialites.

And it was at one of these parties that he saw her. The object of his obsession. Elizabeth Anne Summers. Buffy, to those who knew her intimately. She had long, golden blonde hair, not unlike Darla’s, but hers had more of a silky texture. Her eyes were large and hazel, brimming with innocence. She had sun-kissed skin that seemed to glow underneath the moonlight.

Angelus wanted her. He wanted to bury his fangs and his cock inside her. Her scent proved that she was untried, but that would only last so long. Angelus found out everything he could about her. She was promised to the governor’s son. She lived with her parents Hank and Joyce Summers. She had a baby sister – Dawn – who caught pneumonia and died at the age of six. Her father worked as a developer for the colony and his wife owned a prominent boutique. She had two best friends, Willow Osbourne née Rosenberg and Alexander Harris, husband to the beautiful and licentious Cordelia Harris née Chase.

The first time Angelus spoke to her was at a party that was thrown by an oil barren. Angelus, as usual, found himself surrounded by three potential meals. Drusilla stood by William’s side, smiling proudly as he recited poetry. It was terrible, but the women thought it was the most beautiful thing they had ever heard.

“Do you hunt, Mr. McConroy?” one of the women – Mrs. O’Hara or something or another – said, pulling him from his thoughts.

Angelus flashed an enticing smile. “Why yes, Mrs. O’Hara. ‘Tis one of my many pleasures.”

She wet her lips and fluttered her eyes in what he was sure was meant to be attractive. “Well, in that case, you should come to my husband’s estate in the country. You two can hunt and later you could tell me more about your pleasures.”

“How can a man of sound mind resist such an enticing offer?” he said, kissing the back of her hand.

The woman continued to place unnecessary hints concerning secret rendezvous and Angelus almost lost control and snapped her neck on the spot until one of the younger women spoke up.

“There’s that Elizabeth Summers.”

Angelus’ attention immediately shifted, seeking out his dark obsession. She came in with her parents. Her large hazel eyes seemed sad, and Angelus suddenly wanted to seek out that which had caused her misery and destroy it. He wanted to be the sole source of any pain she felt. But he could not gaze upon his obsession in peace as one of the three women continued her verbal assault.

“How a strange girl like that was lucky enough to have a contract with Governor Finn’s son is baffling.”

“She is a strange one, Harmony,” Cordelia Harris vehemently agreed. “My husband says that she spends all of her time reading. Reading! Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

“Well, I hear that she wishes to become a writer! As if any respectable man would want anything written by a woman! A proper lady should spend her time learning to attend a household and concern herself with pleasing her husband.”

“Yes, well, we all know that Buffy,” she sneered the name. “Is as far from a lady as one can be. It baffles me why Alexander enjoys her company so. It’s embarrassing!” she glared as said husband made his way over to Buffy.

“I see nothing wrong with a properly educated woman, Mrs. Harris,” Angelus said, drawing their attention away from Buffy. “It would be refreshing to hear a woman contribute something to the conversation beyond how pretty the dresses are overseas.”

Cordelia Harris’ expression darkened so that if Angelus had been human, he might have been afraid. “Well,” she sniffed, highly offended. “It is upon the hour, and I believe I shall take my leave.” She stood and scowled at Angelus when he broke societal conventions and refused to stand when she did. “I bid you goodnight, Mrs. O’Hara, Harmony, Mr. McConroy.”

“Mrs. Harris,” his flourishing bow was meant and taken in all its mockery. He smirked as she huffed and stomped away. He watched her approach Buffy and Alexander, and used his enhanced hearing to listen in.

“…husband and I must be going,” she said in a clipped tone.

Buffy knew that her friend’s wife didn’t like her, but for Xander’s sake, she at least made an effort. “I am sorry that you must be leaving so soon. I hope you will feel well, Cordy.”

“Oh, Elizabeth, how many times must I remind you to call me Mrs. Harris?” she said tightly.

“Of course. I apologize.”

“Alexander.”

The dark-haired young man looked between his wife and his friend, wishing he could stay, but knowing he would never hear the last of it if he did. “Of course, dear. See you soon, Buffy.”

Her other friend, Willow, who had watched the scene from across the room, performed her usual damage control ritual. “You know I think one of these days he shall divorce her.”

“Willow!” she whispered, linking their arms. “You should not say such things.”

“Well, he should! I’m fairly certain the only reason he puts up with her is for the sex and we both know the pregnancy scare was the incentive for the marriage to start with…”

Angelus watched the two young women disappear out onto the gardens. “Ladies, if you will excuse me.” He left the woman at the table and sought out William. He didn’t have the same mental link with him as he did with Drusilla, but William could feel when his grandsire called him.

“You called?” he said, appearing moments later.

“Yes, I’m stepping out for a moment. Make sure no one sees Dru nibbling on the livestock.”

“Are you ever going to tell me what’s so special about this bird? I mean, she’s a cutie and all, but is she really worth our queen mother handing you your own arse?”

“What Darla doesn’t know won’t kill me.” Angelus knew William had a point. Darla was extremely jealous and possessive of him, but he was still sore around the edges where she was concerned, considering that she left him to die in a burning barn. Darla was his sire and that was a bond not easily broken, but nothing could reestablish the trust he lost for her. He glanced at Drusilla to see if she was keeping out of trouble and caught her thralling Harmony. “If you want the blonde as a party favor you should take her out of here. She’s as dumb as a post but has a pleasant peach scent to her.”

Angelus left his grandchilde to attend to Dru and followed Buffy’s scent through the large garden maze. She and her friend, Willow sat on a bench in front of a pond talking quietly.

“…says?”

“You mean when she’s not nursing a bottle? She blames me. She says even whores aren’t low enough to chase their own fathers,” she sniffled.

“Oh, Buffy, have you thought about telling Riley?”

“No, I can’t tell him, Will. If he thought for a moment that it’s gone further than a drunken fumbling, he’ll never speak to me again.”

“And right now, he’s your only way out,” Willow sighed in sympathy to her friend’s plight. “You know Oz and I will let you move in with us.”

“People will talk.”

“They’re already talking. One of New York’s most beloved sons married to a kike?”

“Willow!” Buffy admonished. “Don’t ever call yourself that.”

The redhead shrugged carelessly. “I have been called much worse. I am just telling you that Oz and I do not care what anyone else says about us.”

“I appreciate it. And if the wedding was happening later than next month I would say yes.”

“But what if he goes too far before Riley can save you?”

The unanswered question hung heavy in the air. Angelus seethed. He barely restrained himself from going back inside, grabbing Hank Summers and tearing off his worthless cock with his bare hands. It didn’t anger Angelus that the man was taking liberties with his daughter. It bothered him that his touch would not be the first she had known from a man.

“I should get back inside before Oz starts looking for me. Come with?”

“In a little while. I just want a little more time away from the noise.”

“Don’t take too long. Your parents,” she mumbled.

Angelus watched the Osbourne woman return to the party from his place in the shadows. He turned his attention back to Buffy realizing that they were finally alone. She leaned back, her hands flat on the bench and her face turned up towards the starlit sky. Her eyes were closed, and the subtle breeze disturbed the tendrils of silky tresses framing her face. Angelus had the perfect view of the golden skin of her smooth throat. His face shifted as he imagined sinking his fangs into her throat as her naked body writhed helplessly underneath his.

Buffy’s eyes suddenly snapped open. She stood and she looked around her as if sensing she was not alone. “Is someone there?” she called.

Angelus contained his excitement and returned to his human visage. “Just me,” he said, pretending as though he was simply out for a stroll through the garden’s maze. “Didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Buffy stared at the man before her. She was certain that she had never seen him around before. He was tall, very tall. He had long dark hair that was bound behind his head. He had a wide mustache and she wondered if it was as soft as his hair looked. He had dark eyes. Eyes that were mischievous and secretive. She started to believe she was dreaming. She always thought Riley was cute in a boyish way, but this man before her with the long brown hair, his piercing dark eyes and his enticing smirk was…beautiful. His smirk seemed to widen, and Buffy realized with startling clarity that she was rather rudely staring at him.

“No, you did not frighten me, sir,” she recovered.

“You are Elizabeth Summers, correct?”

“Yes, but everyone calls me Buffy.”

He took her hand – it seemed tiny and engulfed by his – and pressed a small kiss to it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Buffy. I am Angelus McConroy.”

Recognition flashed in her large hazel eyes. “Of course, Mr. McConroy! You live in the Crawford’s old mansion. Your brother-in-law, William, is it? He ordered a gown from my mother’s boutique for your sister.”

Angelus suppressed another smirk. He had sent William on that particular mission to scout out the boutique and Buffy’s work hours, and to spread the word to the local undead community that she, her family and friends, were off limits.

“Yes, my family and I moved there a few months ago.”

Buffy fidgeted with her dress before resuming her place on the bench. “Would you…would you care to sit?” she offered timidly.

He flashed a dazzling smile and took his place beside her. “Now what is a lovely girl such as yourself doing out here all alone? It’s really not safe,” said the wolf to the rabbit.

Buffy glanced up at him and flushed as he stared down at her unblinkingly. “Oh, well, I just stepped out for a moment. Just for some air,” she shrugged.

“You don’t truly enjoy parties, do you?”

“They are…acceptable.”

“Ah, but a lass such as yourself would much rather be at home in front of the fire with a book. You prefer the silence and solitude to the noise and excitement.”

She flushed an attractive pink and looked up at him from under her lashes. “I realize that those are not exactly the qualities one looks for in a woman, but…”

“But you are far from a woman, lass. You’re still a wee child.” He watched appreciatively as her skin flushed a darker red.

“Sir, I will have you know that I am of sixteen years and will soon be a wife,” she said, not really succeeding in sounding offended.

“Yes, to Governor Finn’s lad no less. I find it difficult to see what it is the boy could have done to deserve the hand of such a fair lass.”

Her hazel eyes met his and she wore a smile befitting that of the most experienced of coquettes. “Do you tell all your ladies that, Mr. McConroy?”

“Only the pretty ones,” he smirked and wiggled his eyebrows.

She started laughing and Angelus thought it was the most enticing sound he had ever heard. “You are indeed a charmer, Mr. McConroy. If I may be so bold…?”

“You may.”

“Why is there not a Mrs. McConroy? A gentleman such as yourself should have amassed quite the number of prospects from the fairer sex.”

Angelus, seeing his opportunity, angled his body towards hers. “Perhaps it is because a man can only have ale for so long before he starts to long for a fine wine.”

He could hear her heart pounding in fear and excitement as their seemingly innocent conversation began to take a different turn. “But what if you’re not supposed to have the wine?” she breathed.

“That’s when it’s the sweetest.” His hand cupped her cheek and her eyes fluttered from the contact. “Look at me, Buff,” he commanded. “Look into my eyes.” Angelus knew he could have waited rather than jumping at the first opportunity to thrall her, but he was anxious to have her in his bed.

“You have pretty eyes.”

Angelus felt his eyebrows rise. You have pretty eyes? Angelus concentrated harder and Buffy flinched as he suddenly seemed to be scowling at her.

“What? Men can have pretty eyes,” she pouted slightly, thinking he was offended.

Angelus blinked. He surveyed her carefully, playing close attention not to let himself linger on her pouting pink lips. He didn’t understand how it was possible for her to resist his thrall. No one had ever resisted! The girl was obviously human. She smelled human. She had a heartbeat. What had gone wrong? His eyebrows knitted together as he ran through any and all explanations as to why his gift had failed him. He felt her warm hand press against his own.

“Angelus? Is something wrong?”

He recovered, wearing his signature smirk. “You think my eyes are pretty, do ye?”

Buffy fiddled with the sleeves of her dress looking anywhere but at him. “Yes, they resemble little pools of chocolate.” She felt his fingers lace through hers and looked down. She liked the way their hands fit.

“Now which one of us is the charmer here, Buff?” he watched her shiver as his fingers idly stroked hers.

“There you are!”

Buffy stood, withdrawing her hand from Angelus, completely missing his darkened expression. “Riley,” she said, her heart pounding heavily as though she’d been caught doing something terribly wicked.

“I have been searching all over for you, Bethie.”

He took her hand in his own, missing her subtle wince at the nickname she loathed. “Forgive me if I have caused distress. I only stepped out for a moment.”

“Your mother and father are looking for you. They –.” Riley stopped short when he saw movement behind Buffy. “Hello,” he said to the man who sat on the bench watching them unabashedly. “I do not believe we have met. I am Riley Finn, Elizabeth’s husband-to-be.”

“Oh, yes, the governor’s boy,” Angelus said, taking in the blue-eyed baby-faced boy with mocking eyes.

Although the sarcasm went completely over the boy’s head as he puffed out his chest and stood a little taller, Angelus smirk only grew when Buffy gave him a warning glare.

“Yes, yes, I am,” he said proudly.

“Riley, this is Mr. McConroy.”

Riley tensed slightly, something neither Angelus nor Buffy missed. “McConroy. You purchased the old Crawford Mansion.”

“Yes,” he confirmed, his eyes glinting slightly.

“Well, it was nice making your acquaintance, Mr. McConroy, but Elizabeth and I must be going.”

“Of course. Nice meeting you, Finn.” He turned his penetrating eyes to Buffy. He picked up her hand and gave her a lingering kiss that left her near breathless. “T’was a pleasure makin’ your acquaintance, Buffy.”

“Mr. McConroy,” she blushed.

Riley’s jaw clenched as he led Buffy away. But his annoyance over what he saw as a threat to his future wife was nothing compared to Angelus’ fury over Finn impeding the progress he had made.

“I do not trust that McConroy fellow,” he confided when they were of a safe distance away from him. Or so he thought. “He worries me.”

“Riley,” Buffy sighed. “Mr. McConroy is a nice man.”

“You know him well, then?”

“No. We only made acquaintance tonight.”

“Yet he already calls you Buffy.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Riley Finn, I do believe you are jealous.”

“Perhaps I am,” he admitted. “Do you find him attractive?”

Buffy blushed and lowered her eyes. “He is…agreeable. But it is you who will become my husband. Your name I will carry and your children I shall bear. Tell me once more why you are jealous?”

With a few well-executed words, Angelus could see Finn’s worries and inferiorities fade away. He leaned down and kissed her lips as carefully as if she were made of glass.

“Bethie?” he whispered, still holding her close.

“Yes?”

“If I asked you to do something, as your future husband, would you do it?”

Buffy tensed. Her small hands fisted the sides of his shirt as her mind twisted and turned over in itself. As her future husband, he could ask almost anything of her, and she was duty bound to obey. She trembled against him and swallowed the bile suddenly flooding her mouth. “Yes.”

“I wish for you to have no further contact with Mr. McConroy or any of his family.”

Buffy stepped back from him so that she could see into his eyes. “Riley, I have already told you that Mr. McConroy bears no threat to us.”

“But he does,” he argued. “Have you noticed the strange occurrences in our town?”

“Are you referring to Madeleine Archer?” Maddie Archer was two years younger than Buffy and had gone missing from her bed in the dead of night.

“Yes, as well as Rebekah Harte, Joshua Black, Edward Morton, Christine Adams, and countless others.”

“Riley, how do these unfortunate people pertain to you desiring distance between Mr. McConroy and myself?”

“They all vanished or perished inexplicably after McConroy, and his family took residence in the Crawford Mansion.”

“You are not suggesting…?” she gasped.

“There is something amiss about them. His sister is said to be touched in the mind, but there is more. She speaks in prophecies. Her husband, William, the poet, who may I say is not very good, he was seen with Rebekah Harte before she went missing. Then there is your new acquaintance. He never leaves the mansion during the day. He does not work and yet he attends every party and somehow amasses enough wealth to support his family. They have no servants or cooks. Their skin is unnaturally porcelain – must I go on?”

“Are you suggesting to me that Mr. McConroy, his sister and her husband may be…nefarious individuals?”

Riley smiled humorlessly. “Why does it frighten you to speak the word, Bethie? You once told me that what most would believe to be a monster, you see as a beast maintaining his nature.”

“I was referring to the work of Bram Stoker, Riley. Beasts exist, yes, but not of that sort, and certainly not amongst Mr. McConroy and his family.”

“You have always had faith in the most undeserving of creatures, Bethie.” He reached inside his trouser pocket and withdrew a silver cross on a chain.

“It’s beautiful.”

“I wish you to wear it whenever you leave the mansion.”

“Even in the sunlight?” she quipped.

“Even in the sunlight,” he answered, unaffected by her glibness. “All of the victims’ blood was drained through small punctures to the throat.”

Buffy paled as she gasped. “What? But you never said anything!”

“My father thought it was best that the families were not informed of this. It would lead to panic and at this time, the authorities have declared it a beast. Wear it. For me.”

“Okay,” she whispered, still struggling with the concept of the creatures she learned of as a child could truly exist beyond the pages of a novel.

Riley secured the cross around Buffy’s neck and exhaled in relief. “Now I believe we should find your parents. They can hardly fault a man for enjoying the company of his love.”

The couple left the garden arm in arm, completely oblivious to the heavy stare on their backs.

Angelus was beside himself with fury when the Finn’s and the Summers left the Hardy Mansion. He had covered his tracks and the tracks of his childe and grandchilde carefully. Yet, the Finn boy seemed to have linked all of their victims back to them. Although he tried his best to come across as noble and caring in Buffy’s eyes, the boy was far more concerned with her affections rather than her safety. The thought in itself caused a malicious smirk to befall his angelic features. They would have to be careful. Meticulous. One mistake and all would be lost. Nevertheless, Angelus would have Buffy Summers…even if he had to eviscerate every townsman to get her.

Angelus itched to relieve his fury and he knew just how to do it.

“Margaret, is it?” she was nothing. An aide in the Hardy household with the burden of a fatherless son. She was not remotely attractive, and her blood was not in the slightest appealing. But her polite smile and cautious eyes appeased him.

“Yes, sir.”

“I regret to bother you as I can see you are terribly busy, but I am afraid I require your assistance.”

“In what way, sir?” still so trusting.

“Come with me, please.”

Ah. There is the hesitation. “Very well, sir.”

He led her to a dark corner underneath the stairs hidden from the rest of the intoxicated socialites. “Ah, that’s better, isn’t it? Not complete privacy, but it should do for what I have in mind,” he said, letting his eyes drift over her, hoping to discomfort her. She predictably squirmed under his gaze, unaware that her used and aged body held no appeal for him.

“Sir, I…I should get back,” she stuttered, her heart pounding beautifully, forcing her blood to flow quicker through her arteries.

“Why not stay a while? After all, you did say you would help a fellow with his problem,” he purred, moving even closer to the frightful maid.

*“Sir, please, I should return to the party.”

*“Margaret, Margaret, there’s no hurry.”

She tried to pull away from him, hoping that someone might see. *“Mistress will be wondering…”

*“Sshh,” he cooed. “Mistress will be wondering how to get the good Reverend Chalmers into bed and will not notice the absence of canapé.” He stroked her chin for good measure, and she shuddered in spite of her fear. “Stay with me,” he urged.

Angelus could tell by her eyes that she was considering it. How could she not? A lowly maid, past her prime, receiving the attentions of the young and wealthy Mr. McConroy, a man that all women, be they married, betrothed, or divine worshippers, have attempted to lure into their beds.

*“Sir, people might talk,” she weakly protested. “I’ll be put out on the streets. My little boy would…I can’t lose this job,” she said, forgoing any thoughts she might have had about taking a chance with the beautiful Angelus McConroy.

Angelus, sensing her resolve, lost his temper. He grabbed her arms. *“Then you must keep quiet.”

*“You’re hurting me!” she said, speaking a little louder than she intended.

*“Ah! Cry out. Call for help. I’m sure Mistress will believe your behavior beyond reproach,” he sneered.

*“Please!” she gasped, wriggling in his embrace.

Angelus shook her roughly. *“Come, make a scene, huh?” he taunted. “Shall I?”

Margaret hesitated. *“No,” she whispered.

*“No, no. We’ll be as quiet as mice.”

Margaret lowered her head. Her shoulders sagged in defeat. If she closed her eyes and didn’t put up a fight, maybe it would be over soon. No one would believe her if she said their familiarity was forced.

Angelus could almost taste her defeat. His face shifted and when she looked back up at him, her fear and terror flooded his senses. *“No matter what.”

*“Sir!” she trembled, tears welling in her eyes. “My son!”

Good, he had almost forgotten. *“Oh, he’ll make a fine dessert, huh?”

He grabbed her, sinking his fangs into her throat before she could scream. He drained her quickly. She was unsatisfying and not at all fulfilling. He released her, letting her body fall carelessly to the floor. He tucked her away in the corner, knowing one of the other servants or perhaps her Mistress herself would find her. Angelus maneuvered around the intoxicated guests, following Margaret’s scent to the servant’s quarters. He found Margaret’s whelp sleeping in his bed. He was a boy of no more than seven years. His hair was curly like his mother's and a brighter shade of blonde. Margaret’s pallet lay positioned beside the boy’s bed. The boy clutched a worn brown bear that was missing its left eye. He was a beautiful child, clearly taking after his father. The boy opened his eyes and startling emerald green eyes met his own.

“Are you an angel?” he whispered.

His lips twitched as he fought the smirk that threatened to reveal itself. “An angel?”

“Mum says when it’s time an angel will come and take me to see my Da. Will you take me?”

He arranged the boy’s body in his bed and retrieved his mother, placing her on top of her pallet. From a distance, it would look as If they were merely sleeping. He returned to his mansion an hour before sunrise.

“Daddy, we saved her for you!” Drusilla called over the screams.

He strolled down to the “playroom” in the cellar. The room smelled of sex, blood, and fear. The young woman from the party, Harmony, was naked and railroad spikes had been driven through her hands and ankles, courtesy of William. Her legs and stomach were flayed, and Drusilla greedily lapped up her flowing blood.

William leaned against the wall, a pipe in his hand. “How did it go with the bird?”

Before he could answer, Harmony turned towards Angelus. Her face had been clawed, most likely by Drusilla, and her right eye hung out of its socket and lay limply against her cheek. “Mr. McConroy, help! Please help me!” she whimpered.

A cold smirk drifted on his lips as he played with her blood-soaked hair. “I could help you, Harmony, but you would have to do something for me first,” he taunted.

“Anything, anything.”

“Open your mouth.” A single tear fell from her good eye. She opened her mouth without hesitation. Angelus released his semi-hard cock and shoved it into her mouth. She choked and gagged as his hand knotted in her hair. “She resisted my thrall.”

William pushed off from his relaxed stance against the wall. “Resisted? How the bloody hell did she do that?”

“Gee, William, I have no idea. I’ll be sure to ask her next time,” he growled, shoving his entire length down Harmony’s throat.

“She’s not like the others,” Drusilla whispered. Her eyes were wide and unfocused. She was having a vision.

“What do you see, pet?”

Just as Harmony’s heart stopped beating, Angelus felt his seed spurt into her mouth. He pulled out, using her hair to clean himself off, smiling lightly as his seed and her blood dripped from her mouth.

“She was almost Called.”

“Called?”

“As in…?” Angelus had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“But the Powers…she was unworthy…innocent blood on her hands…now she is just a human.”

Angelus ran a hand through his hair, attempting to process what they had just learned. Buffy was meant to take the Calling. She was to be a Slayer, but she killed someone. The Powers deemed her unworthy and now she will never be a Slayer. But even though she didn’t have the Call, she was still equipped with the typical Slayer attributes. A mental block to resist the thrall. Possibly strength to fight against any demonic creature.

“Darla is going to kill you,” William snickered.

“Darla is too busy fucking Dracula to care what I do!”

“Sure, keep telling yourself that.”

Drusilla hunched over, moaning and hugging her stomach. William’s good mood faded quickly as he and Angelus flocked to her side protectively. “What do you see, Dru?”

“Bad man…bad man…bad man…”

“What bad man? What is he doing?” Angelus questioned her as she leaned against William.

“Touching…bad touch…bad touch…wants to keep her…wants to hurt her…!” she moaned.

Angelus growled deeply, startling his childe and grandchilde. “Hank Summers is a dead man. William, at first dark, I need you to do something for me.”

[iveryafterdark]

Day 128

Part 11, Nameless werewolves. [semi-Long]

Last Part. Next Part.

Ever since the little hunting disaster with Relis and Vaitelin, Time had been doing his best to avoid being recruited to go on another hunt... not that it was difficult. The second they stepped back into camp Relis made sure everyone knew about his broken ribs, so no one had been expecting much of him of late. It had only been about a week, though, so, eventually, that would change.

"I don't think you should be going around patrolling yet, you still have a broken rib." Bear cautioned, though he was starting to sound more like whining with the amount of times he had said something similar. While the dark-toned man wasn't wrong about the rib situation that didn't mean that he wasn't capable of keeping their borders safe. Even with a broken rib, he was still more powerful than any mortal was.

"You worry too much, stop being such a mother-hen." he responded dismissively to the guard, who frowned deeply in response... or Time assumed he did. He wasn't really bothering with throwing the shadow-man a look to check. It had been a little under a week, and for the most part his lungs felt fine again. Gods heal faster than mortals, another week and it would be like it never happened.

"Last time I was careless you got hurt." Bear responded, voice low but pointed. Time pretended he didn't hear him, it was a reasonable thing to do with how quiet he was now speaking, as much as he liked Bear he might have to do something about his penchant for seeing him as needing protection. Despite the, occasional, complaint from the brown-haired man the walk existed mostly in silence. It Seemed Bear wasn't so eager to talk anymore... maybe thinking too much. Time would leave him to it, which meant less of Bear worrying a hole through his ears.

The young-god's attention only snapped back to reality when the werewolf stepped in front of him, arm out to stop him, growling at.. someone. Time rolled his eyes at the bristling guard, clearing his throat and pushing Bear to the side as gently, but firmly, as he could manage. Another stranger stood several yards away, hands raised to show innocence, dark brown eyes watching Bear warily.

"You! Finally worked up the courage to show your face, little stalker?" Bear spat, crossly, Time couldn't help but think that he was just taking his frustration out on the guy. This 'stalker' dipped his head deeply, eyes lowered to the ground, posture poor as if to make himself look smaller. If he stood up straight he would probably be about Time's height... which, yeah, he supposed that would make him 'little' to Bear but he had been named that for a reason.

"Lashing out needlessly, Bear? Let's, at least, see what he wants before you verbally abuse the man." he chided with a light tone, he had been disapproving of the guard enough today no need to put him in a further bad mood. The lack of response told him that he was willing enough to allow the man to speak. This 'stalker' was a fair-tanned man with hair almost as dark as Bear's in brown, short and messy. The most interesting thing about him, however, was the excessive amount of body-paint he was using. White-ash mask over the majority of his face, as well as his hands, wrists, throat, and chest, bright yellow and black stripes cutting around the back of his hair, and arms, that reminded Time a bit of a Bumblebee. This guy didn't look very threatening to him.

"What can I do for you, little bee?" he asked in an amused tone, ignoring the disgusted snort from Bear behind him, the stranger's dark brown eyes went wide at this and he dipped his head further down. As if to apologize for the momentary eye contact.

"Your defender is right to look down on me, to call me such things, I have been following you for some time now." his voice sounded uncertain, but Time didn't focus as much on that as he did the words themselves.

"You've been following me?" his voice harder now, a slight threat.

"Yes." another dip of his head like a duck bobbing in a lake.

"For how long?"

".... Since you first stepped foot into the meadows.. when you met the Robin." Time's blood went cold in his veins at that, the almost constant sensation of being watched that he had attributed to the new territory? It had been this guy following him around like a ghost. How had he went this entire time and not noticed that he was being followed? The young-god turned his gaze to Bear for an explanation.

"I noticed a few nights ago, he's really very good at being a rat."

"Why didn't you let me know we were being tailed when you found out?"

"I... didn't want you to worry about something like that right now?" A question, that same almost guilty look he had worn when Time first met him. The implication in Bear's words were, also, not lost on him. He didn't say anything because of his broken ribs... they'd discuss that later, right now they had a mouse to deal with. Time turned his sharp, orange, eyes back to the strange man. As soon as the attention was back on him he seemed to scramble to say something before Time could.

"I meant no harm, I merely followed you because being near your group makes it safer for me to travel."

"If you wanted safety you should have returned home." his harsh tone caused the striped man to wince. "Why reveal yourself now? You've been in hiding for several months, why change something that's been working for you?"

"Because..." the stalker glanced between him and Bear, before carefully approaching only to stop in his tracks a few feet away when Bear began growling defensively. The man kneeled on the ground, not unlike Robin would when she prayed, and raised both of his hands up to Time like one would in offering. It was a strange thing, he could feel the power connection with even just this gesture, something he had seen but had never been involved.

"Because I am a man with no name, no family to speak of, but I have worth." ah, one of the unfortunate, untrustworthy, people forced to walk the world alone due to the nature of their existence. Not a single soul to vouch for them. Often treated as criminals and chased from cities both human and otherwise... and it was strictly forbidden to give one's self a name. A hangable offense.

"I am an honest man, I am loyal, I will give you everything I have to offer. I just need a chance." His plea was soft, heartfelt, full of pain, and loneliness, and desperation.

"You say this but by the very nature of your existence there is no way to prove any of your claims. You could be a criminal, a madman-" Bear responded, distrust on his voice, Time held out a hand to quiet him. The striped man's eyes seemed only honest, a small amount of hope in them at the gesture.

"You ask for a chance, the opportunity to prove yourself?"

"Please-" he sounded on the verge of tears. "-that is all I ask. Just one." a long moment of silence followed, Time sizing the nameless man up, before nodding shortly. He had never seen such a look of pure gratitude and relief before than the one that followed.

"You already know the way back to camp, but you should walk with us this time." the striped man rubbed his hands across his face, looking at Time like he was as important as the sun, before getting to his uneven feet. Hm, the white marks on his hands and face hadn't budged despite that, maybe they were actually tattoos and not body-paint. The yellow stripes that went through the back of his hair was definitely painted, though.

"What are we going to tell them when everyone expects him to be introduced? He has no name, and I'm sure some of the others won't be like being around an unclaimed." Bear, again, voice unusually hard.

"Leave that for me to worry about, Bear." the man opened his mouth, but at the warning look he was thrown just sighed.

-

While there had been some raised eyebrows when Time offered no introduction for the new member no one made a particular fuss about it, going about things as usual as the sky began to darken into night. The bee-colored man was following him closely, like a lost pup, seeming to be afraid of being left alone with the rest of the group. Understandable, considering the past experiences that he had probably had with other large groups of people. Due to the constant following, and looks of sheer gratitude he was getting from him, Time noticed rather quickly when the nameless man went missing while the rest of the group was sitting around the fire to eat before bed.

Like usual, Astaria, Felis, and Surie were sitting in a half-circle talking, telling bad stories, worse jokes, and laughing loudly together. The three were nearly inseparable at this point. Near them was Vaitelin, who would briefly exchange insults with Astaria throughout the night. A weird relationship those two had, Time wasn't going to even try to parse out if they loved or hated each other. Sitting close to himself was Robin; who was acting stranger and stranger as more time passed, Relis; who was sitting on the ground instead of on the log like everyone else, and Bear. In the beginning, the nameless man had been sitting next to him as well but, at some point, he had dipped out. A sense of doubt stabbed through his rib, had it been a mistake to trust him? A man with no one willing to claim him or vouch for his goodwill? Was he really dangerous like Bear had believed?

Bear seemed to sense the thought process going on in Time's mind and gave him a knowing look, at least he had the decency to not look smug about it.

"Think I made a mistake on that one?" he was expecting a quip, or a snappy response, or an incredulous look, but instead Bear just looked conflicted and shrugged.

"He... seemed genuine to me." uncertainty, a complete reversal of the confident distrust he had shown earlier.

Time decided to wait beside the fire for the rest of the night, the rest of the group retiring to bed one-by-one until it was just him and Bear waiting.

"You should really get some rest-" the yawn was loud enough to cause him to wince and shuffle a bit further away from the werewolf. "-you aren't gonna heal any better sleep-deprived." it was probably more along the lines that Bear was exhausted and didn't want to stay out any later.

"You can lay down whenever you want, Bear. I'm not forcing you to stay up." the guard just blinked at him in an unamused manner, before rubbing his eyes and stretching. Seems he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. He was starting to think he should just lay down to allow the poor man some rest when a rustle caught his attention.

Turning towards the sound was a figure, with dully-glowing brown eyes. The oddness of the silhouette caused him to bristle, Bear growling beside him, but the familiar gesture of the being just... kneeling with hands out caused him to pause.

"Do not be alarmed." it sure was the same nameless man from earlier, voice soft.

"What happened to you?" Time narrowed his eyes at the shadow, trying to better decipher what he was seeing.

"I was... hunting?"

"Was that a question?" Bear growled shortly beside him, he didn't seem tired anymore.

"I... took down the buck that tried to attack you." the nameless man added, shifting. Ah, the oddness of the silhouette was him hauling a... full-grown deer on his shoulders. Surprising, for a man that height.... even if he was, obviously, a werewolf.

"You.... managed that all by yourself?" a short nod, in response. Time eyed the unclaimed werewolf warily before gesturing for him to come closer. In the fire's light it became more obvious the situation, by the looks of it the man had field-dressed the buck and skinned it, the cloak draped around his shoulders. Once the striped man stood only, about, a leg-length away from the young-god he kneeled once more and presented a thick bear-leather bag that he had been holding at his side before removing the deer cloak and placing it on top as well. The nameless man closed his eyes, muttered something Time couldn't hear, before pushing the hunt to Time and bowing deeply to the ground. An offering, the first he had ever received personally, the gesture made Time felt like he was breathing ice-cold water in the best way. Like he was drowning in ether. He sat stunned for many seconds, staring blankly at the offering and the nameless man, before blinking the tears out of his eyes.

"I underestimated you." Time said, even his voice felt different. Smoother. It must sound different too because Bear was giving him a look. The striped man sat up, though he was still kneeling, cautiously looking at Time with the reverence that Time had only seen directed at his own father before.

"You've proven yourself in my eyes, I see no reason for you to walk the world nameless and shunned. I will claim you, vouch for you when needed." his brown eyes were shining. "I think the name... Hercules suits you just fine, don't you agree Bear?" the dark man blinked, like he didn't understand what was happening, before nodding.

"Welcome to the pack, Hercules." the guard agreed, dipping his head in greeting. Hercules, as he was now dubbed, looked like he was in sheer disbelief. Like the world had suddenly stopped making sense.

"Unless, you would prefer something different, of course?"

"No!" the reaction was so quick it made Time raise an eyebrow. "No, Hercules is... perfect. Thank you, I will not disappoint you." he was grinning, the first time Time had seen him do so, sheer joy on his face.

"Now, everyone else is asleep so I think you should join them, you'll be no use to us dead on your feet." a deep nod, but Time doubted someone who looked so excited would be falling asleep anytime soon.

[thegreenfairy13]

Gotham’s Problem

Written for @justsimplymeagain who asked for a Watchmen/Gotham crossover. I hope you like it!

Plot: Rohrschach approaches Jim Gordon in a bar and tries figuring out his character. Hinted Gobblepot. 

Rohrschach’s journal. September 15, 1985. I’m in Gotham, the country’s most infested city. I can smell them in every corner, the whores, insatiable, dripping, brains clouded from lust. I can hear it in the shadows, the sound of knives being sharpened, guns getting cleaned - another gruesome murder waiting to happen, screams barely muffled by brick walls. 

I can see it - with crystal clarity - this city is doomed, beyond salvation. The inhabitants, they have dedicated their lives to sin, are soft, puppets, useless. This city should not be worth my time, actually, but something changed. I might be able to help, might pull this city back from the abyss, if I only give the right person a little push in the right direction…

He’s not how I imagined him to be, the blonde sitting in the bar. I expected to find a fighter, a man with a purpose, determination, driven by the need to change what has been unmoving in ages. What I find is a drunkard, a weakling, a broken man. Am I too late? Has Gotham already got him? 

I approach the figure sitting at the bar, Jim Gordon, the man who took down the old order. I get a better look, he’s bruised, blood is smeared across his face, his fingers are trembling. Maybe I’ve been too quick in my judgment, maybe it has been a rough day. 

I sit down next to him, order a beer. I don’t usually drink. It lowers my ability to respond, to defend myself. The man glances over, his interest in me is subtle, good. Maybe he is the cop everyone thinks him to be. He looks away, downs another glass of whiskey. I’m disgusted but I show him a small smile. I need to convince him. 

Smiling is weird. You basically flash your teeth at a stranger. 

I order another drink for him. 

“You’re Jim Gordon,” I acknowledge, nodding slightly. The man doesn’t react. Why should he? he knows who he is. 

“I have heard a lot about you. How you change the city,” I add, trying to get his attention. I almost think he’s too inebriated to respond. 

“So what?” he finally asks, slamming down his glass. He’s untamed, I can see that, almost vibrating with anger brimming just under the surface. If I can unleash that rage, guide it, this city might have a chance. 

They say he has a hero-complex, tries being this city’s knight in shining armor. I attempt to flatter him. “I haven’t been here in years,” I share. “It has been too unsafe. Now with the mob gone, the police not being a nest of corruption, I decided to visit again.” 

He doesn’t rise to the bait right away, stays guarded. “So you’re a fan,” he scoffs, sipping his liquor. He must drink frequently. Anyone else should have passed out at this point. 

I shrug. “You have given me hope again. I thought you should know that.” I gesture at the blood on his collar. “You might need to know that, after the day you clearly had.” 

He finally relaxes. I tried sounding kind, compassionate. I must have succeeded. 

Jim looks into the distance, his shoulders slump. I can see how his mouth twitches, contorts into an awkward grin. 

“There’s still so much to do,” he sighs. I nod in agreement. At least the man sees what lies ahead. 

“This city is getting worse, though. Not better,” he mumbles under his breath. I can still hear him. 

“What happened today?” I ask. I know humans mostly want to talk about themselves, they are narcissistic like that. And in my experience, they open up once they are given the chance. 

He remains reserved, I like that. 

I order another round. His hands gripping the glass are shaking. When I ask him again, he finally shares what’s bothering him. 

“There was a murder. Three people dead. We caught the killer.” 

I’ve heard it on the news. The men killed are not worth this strong reaction, have been mobsters, useless scum. They have probably gotten in the way of the Penguin, the imperator of this city’s underbelly. I’ve heard it must have been an especially gruesome crime. It was probably Gotham’s number one psychopath, Victor Zsasz. 

I tell that Jim Gordon. It’s not like this information is a secret. I want to know why these men are still free. 

“Lack. Of. Evidence,” he replies, punctuating each word carefully he pulls a grimace. “Wasn’t Oswald’s style,” he grumbles and this time I have trouble hearing him. I’m surprised a cop calls a gangster by his first name. 

I enjoy the silence in his company. Usually, humans hardly shut up. 

The cop shifts in his seat, readies himself to leave. 

“You should take him down,” I tell him. 

“I’ll try,” he promises. 

I can’t let him go like that. “You’re not trying hard enough,” I accuse him and that does seem to do the trick. His eyes widen, shocked. Ashamed? 

“How dare you…”

I cut him off. “You called him Oswald. I heard,” I confess, pointing at my ears. “No respectable cop should call a gangster by his name. They have lost that right when first spilling the blood of an innocent.” 

Jim spins around, faster than I would have expected after all those drinks. “If you truly think that,” he tells me, “you’re no better than the criminals. Cops play by the rules, collect evidence.”

“You are fighting against men who know no rules,” I reply casually. 

He shakes his head. “You must mistake me for a vigilante.” 

“Aren’t you?” I snap back. “There are rumors,” I tell him, “about you killing Theo Galavan, Fish Mooney. People who can’t be stopped by the law.” 

The cop’s mouth drops open. He crosses his arms, sobers up. 

“You know nothing,” he hisses. “And now I’ll leave.”

I have to play my ace. “They say you favor the Penguin,” I state. “They say you are being soft on him. Wouldn’t arrest him despite the evidence, despite everyone knowing. I don’t believe that. Not after what I heard about your career.”

The man stops, clenches his jaw. If we would be outside, he’d be at my throat. It’s glorious, seeing him like that. Like a lion about to be unleashed. 

“Men like him, like the Penguin, can’t be stopped by playing to the rules. They have to be fought with the actions you have taken against the ones I mentioned. I can help you with that.” 

A muscle in the corner of his mouth twitches. “If you propose killing a man, I will have you arrested.” 

It’s not what I expected him to say. 

“He’s the root of this city’s evil,” I declare. “Orchestrates the murders, the horrors that have befallen Gotham. “You know this place can only be cleansed once he’s removed.” 

The man sways as if my words have hit him. Is it the prospect of victory or something else? 

“I don’t condone murder,” he says firmly. 

“Me neither,” I tell him as I reach for my pocket. Jim’s eyes follow my movement, his hand reaches for the gun attached to his hip. I stop the motion. 

“Have you ever heard about the Watchmen?” I ask instead. 

“A bunch of self-proclaimed heroes,” he snaps back. “Criminals themselves,” he spits. 

I am disappointed. He can’t see it. But I’ll give him one last chance. 

“The Penguin has raised their interest,” I share. “I am here to offer you a chance: fight at their side or go down with the mobster.” 

I thought he would consider my generous offer. 

“I’d rather go down with Oswald,” he states with venom. Here is it again, that name. The way it rolls off his tongue though, I only note it now, this slight hint of longing. I don’t think he knows. 

“If you try murdering someone in my city,” he tells me before leaving, “you’ll have to go up against me first.” There is something in his voice that tells me he’ll have my blood for daring to even try. 

And then I understand. Jim Gordon is stopping Gotham from salvation. 

[sserpente]

Mischief and Ice (Chapter 7)

Synopsis: Thanos’ cruel attempt to wipe out half of the universe failed and the titan is dead; but his actions came with grave consequences. Tears and cracks in the universe, all across space and time, formed wormholes within the nine realms and beyond, giving some old enemies a vicious opportunity to strike again. When the Jötuns invade Earth and the Avengers assemble to defend the planet once again, it is the help of none other than the former war criminal Loki they are reliant upon to drive the icy warriors back into their own realm. But then the God of Mischief encounters a young woman abandoned in the cold—your body mangled and altered with Jötun blood, a lab rat to the Frost Giants. He decides to take you with him and nurse you back to health, unable to comprehend the confusing affection he begins to harbour for you.

Find all chapters on my masterlist!

“Mr Loki…”

“What?” He spat. He had only returned less than a minute ago, his feet still sore from the cold. Now as a Frost Giant, the temperature should not bother him—it did not. It was the sudden warmth surrounding him again which made him weary. An effect he did not appreciate.

He needed time to think about what he had found out, time to figure out a new plan and strategy. Loki was always one step ahead. Until the bitter end, not even Thanos had stood a chance against his trickery.

Therefore, he was not going to tell Thor or the Avengers how his lovely encounter with his own people had gone as of yet.

“It’s… it’s about Ms (Y/L/N)…”

Instantly, he spun around, facing one of the doctors—the one who had dared contradict him a few days back.

“Is she well? What is it?”

“We believe she is… um, waking up and—“ He did not wait for him to finish his assumptions. Taking a deep breath, he rushed past him, hurrying back to your room. He could tell how you flinched when he burst through the door. You were stirring. The doctor had been right.

Ignoring, the other medical in the room, Loki hurried to your side and sat down on the stool next to your bed.

He smirked when you squinted, your tiny fists—compared to his anyway—clenching. The light in this white room was way too bright. It took you a moment to get used to it and then, as you finally opened your eyes, your sleepy gaze met his, relief and joy washing over his body unlike he had ever felt it before. You waking up was a good sign, it was a very good sign… and it made him hope that your body had defeated the vicious Jötun blood in your veins for good.

“Good morning, my dear.” He heard himself say gently.

“L-Loki?”

“Shh… don’t try to speak just yet.”

You longed to ask him what had happened, where you were and why there was a doctor standing in the corner, watching you intently. But Loki was right. Your throat was dry and itchy, burning even and your body… your body was so weak you felt it would take another few days for you to regain your strength. You were hungry though. Hungry and thirsty… your muscles were screaming for nutrition.

“Get her something to eat.” He suddenly ordered as if he had read your mind, without looking away once.

“We know the drill, Mr Loki. My colleague is on his way. Some mashed potatoes, cooked vegetables and beef is a very nurturing—“

Loki frowned. “Have you lost your minds? She cannot eat that.”

“But…” You whimpered. You wanted to. Those doctors, whoever they were, would give it to you for free, for you to get better and now Loki… Loki, the very man who had saved your life, your king, was going to take it away from you? Perhaps now that you were awake he would call in his favours for keeping you alive after all.

“No,” He replied sharply, shooting him a strict glance. “Get her soup. Something rich with vitamins and as hot as she can take it. Her stomach is not used to solid food. It will take you time to recover, little dove.” He added a little gentler when he turned his head back to you. Oh. Biting your lower lip, you forced yourself to ignore the sting of remorse in your stomach.

“Very well…” The doctor mumbled. He seemed to add something inaudible when he left the room, something which dangerously sounded like insults directed at Loki. For his sake, you hoped the God of Mischief would choose to overhear them. You would not like to witness murder or torture again this soon. Would he do it? Punish mindlessly like the other Frost Giants had done? For some reason… you thought he would not. And you did not pull away when he brought up his hand to softly stroke your hair.

“My king…”

Loki shushed you again, alas his heart skipped a beat upon being addressed like that. He could get used to it… and it scared him that he considered keeping you submissive and anxious to be able to do so.

“There will be enough time to talk, my dove. I am afraid I am not the only one who has questions for you… but not until you feel better, yes?”

Obediently, you nodded, your eyes falling shut again for a brief moment. It was only then he realised that the red tint in the colour of your irises had disappeared.

-

Loki had tried keeping your awakening a secret for the time being but of course, those absurd excuses for doctors had informed the Avengers straight away. They were itching to bombard you with their questions which you would most likely be unable to answer.

The Jötuns had not exactly sounded like they had involved you in their war plans. On the other hand, he had to admit that it was worth a try. Slaves, back on Asgard, had always known a lot more than they had let on too.

Two days after, your ability to speak properly returned fully without harming your throat. You had stopped shivering completely and thankfully accepted the warm pullover one of the doctors had brought you in Loki’s absence. The hospital gown you were forced to wear underneath, however, you were to keep on… and after all the sweating at night when Loki insisted on the use of the heating blanket, you felt disgusting—not to mention your greasy hair.

“How are you feeling?” Loki’s voice was incredibly stern when he spoke up, making you flinch slightly. He moved with such grace and so quietly you never noticed his appearance until he made you aware of it.

“A lot better, my king, thank you.” You were on the verge of finishing your soup, for he still did not allow you any solid food. You obeyed. After all, he had saved your life. He would know what was best. You… trusted him, despite your fears still residing deep within you.

Loki had promised he would not lay a hand on you. Part of you believed that. The other, anxious and terrified part that had lived a living hell with cruel Jötuns feared he might have lied to you—and that one night, he would strike. But with every day that passed… the voice telling you to run and save yourself went quieter and quieter. What grew instead was throbbing affection which made you want to be with him, day in and out. This wasn’t Stockholm Syndrome. Loki had not kidnapped you, after all. No… quite on the contrary, he had saved you from capture. The more time you spent with him, the more you longed to taste his lips, to wrap your arms around his body and seek his comfort like you had when he had carried you into the bathroom… even if he had thus far rarely spoken to let you recover properly. Today finally seemed different.

“Are you experiencing any abnormal heat? Any pain?”

“No… no, I don’t think so. I tend to get very hot at night though… I’m… really sweaty.”

“We can have a nurse come over to help you take a shower. I would also suggest a gynaecologist to check on her. I am not authorised nor trained to do it myself.” The doctor interrupted.

Your eyes widened. You did not want a stranger to look at your vagina. With Loki, it was different. He had touched you down there before. Another female doctor… how would she ever come to understand what you had been through? What if you had taken permanent damage? What if you could no longer conceive? If that was the case, you did not want to know.

“That is nothing I could not achieve with my seidr without having to penetrate her with metal tools.” Loki retorted. “As for the nurse…” His blue gaze met yours, questioningly. Slowly, you shook your head. “I believe that will not be necessary either.”

“Fine then… she is your responsibility, Mr Loki. If she dies because of some internal injuries that could have been detected and treated, her blood will be on your hands. And before I forget it… Mr Stark and the others will be paying you a visit today, Ms (Y/L/N). I believe they have some questions for you.”

With a nod, the doctor left the room, eliciting a relieved sigh from you. Slowly, Loki approached you.

“Would you like me to wash you again, my dove? As much as I dislike to admit it, the healer was right. Now that you are feeling better, I shall use a spell to make sure your birth canal is intact.” He spoke matter-of-factly. He should have thought of this earlier. There were no grave injuries, that he had made sure of already of course… but it would do no harm to check.

Loki smirked when you nodded and allowed him to remove the covers to lift you up and carry you over to the bathroom. Carefully, he removed your hospital gown, sat you into the bathtub and turned on the water faucet, his seidr immediately manipulating the temperature for you.

“Now… I will have to touch a little more intimately for this spell to work, little dove.” He warned you hoarsely. Looking up at him innocently, you nodded once more, surprised by how he was giving you a chance to object.

Hungrily, he eyed you down, his glance lingering on your breasts and your inviting cunt. Thus far, Loki truly was proud of himself, for he had kept his promise. He wanted to ravish you there and then and sheath himself deep inside you, right here in the bathtub. No. Touching you would have to suffice.

Focusing on the spell, he dipped his right hand underwater and gently parted your legs, suppressing a gasp when you let them fall open without any resistance.

“I don’t know how I could help them,” you suddenly chirped. “I know nothing. There are no questions I could answer for them. They only told me they meant to subjugate this planet and drown it in ice… and they told me that their rightful king, you, your highness, had abandoned them. Will they throw me out once they realise I am useless to them?”

“Nobody will throw you out unless they wish to go through me first.” He replied growling, making you all warm and fuzzy inside… or was it his hand resting on top of your folds, gently stroking the sensitive skin?

It felt… good, an involuntary moan escaping you when he parted your lips and began to explore your entrance all the while letting his seidr ripple through your body.

How far would he go? Would he penetrate you with his digits and feel for himself what you had to offer? Would he bring you pleasure even? Your arousal did not go unnoticed, your growing wetness covering his fingers. Almost ashamed by your intense reaction to the God of Mischief’s touches, you squeezed your eyes shut.

Was it… right to have these sensations? You had been violated so much in the past letting a man touch you again now felt both frightening and exciting. Embarrassed, you raided your mind for a distraction.

Loki withdrew his fingers disappointedly. You had some internal bruising but nothing that would not heal over time. Oh, he would have loved to have lingered a little longer and see how far he could have taken his little examination. What it would feel like to make you cum on his fingers, to have you pulse and contract around him repeatedly, your juices gushing from your entrance?

He suppressed a moan when he felt his cock stirring in his leather trousers, demanding attention. Your attention.

“M-my king?”

“Yes, my dove?” He replied absentmindedly.

“You… you told me you were not always… blue, n-not like the other Jötuns. May I… may I know why?”

Loki smiled weakly, bitterly. Whyever would he not? Perhaps you would be the first person to properly listen to his side of the story. Besides, he welcomed the distraction. Reaching for the black wash cloth to help you clean up, he took a deep breath and turned off the water faucet.

“I was adopted, little dove. Odin stole me away from Jötunheim when I was an infant. I grew up on Asgard, as a prince… the prosperity of a throne within my reach. But the Alfather never told me about my true heritage.” He began the tale. “All I ever knew was being the second-born son, living in Thor’s shadow. The day I found out I was a Frost Giant… I meant to show the man I called my father… to prove to him I was as worthy of his recognition and love as my brother.” Only now did he realise that he had never told the story out loud, to no one. “But Odin… he would hear none of it and my desperate attempts to please him resulted in the destruction of the Bifrost. That night, I welcomed death with open arms, little dove. It all came different.” Loki looked away, his mind trapped in a painful memory all the while his fingers caressed your skin, sending pleasant shivers up and down your spine.

“That… that is awful.” You whispered.

Yes, he thought. It was indeed awful. He had never described it like that, only ever accepted that fate seemed to want him to never know true love, recognition, affection… at least not until he found you, half-frozen in an abandoned cottage. Your compassion was genuine.

“How can you control your appearance?”

“For a long time I believed Odin or Frigga had cast a spell upon me. But when they both died… now it is nearly impossible to undo the spell of a dead being, yet it was not long after I realised my mother might not even be of Jötun heritage. I do not know her, nor have I ever taken it upon myself to find out. She could be anywhere within the nine realms, or beyond. If she is still alive…”

Loki’s head turned back to you abruptly when you reached for his hand both timidly and reassuring.

“I am so sorry…”

He smirked—a futile attempt to hide the pain glistening in his stunning blue eyes.

“Now… let us dry you off again.” Loki said. He stood, reaching for a soft towel; your eyes following him curiously and grazing your own dishevelled appearance in the mirror, making you gasp.

It was not the fact that Loki had used another spell to maintain your hair… but… perhaps you had only imagined it, for when you blinked, the bright red irises of the young woman returning your gaze were replaced again with the regular colour of your eyes.

-

A/N: If you enjoyed this chapter I would be flattered if you supported me on KoFi! kofi.com/sserpente

[ofravensandgenesis]

OC Quiz

Tagged by @amistrio​ and @stvnningstrike​ !! Thank you for the tags in this fun ask game!! :D ♥ Tagging anyone who wants to be tagged, go forth and tell us about your lovely OCs!!!!

—————

Deputy Joshua Rook

————— Asked someone to marry you? - Innocent.

Kissed one of your friends? - Uhhhh, innocent...? What kind of kiss are we talking here, because if we mean cheek kisses or something like that then yeah, guilty, but if you mean a proper kiss on the mouth then pretty sure innocent. Well. So long as we’re counting people as friends that I’ve known longer than the lifespan of a mayfly.

Danced on a table in a bar or tavern? - Innocent.

Ever told a lie? - Guilty guilty guilty, it’s a marvel I have a single pair of pants left, rather than all of them burning up in one of Sharky’s bonfires.

Had feelings for someone whom you can’t have? - ...I mean, yes. It’s a crush, I’ll get over it. Guilty.

Ever kissed someone of the opposite sex? - Innocent ish if we mean strictly me being the one to initiate the kiss. Platonic affection kisses guilty, romantic or sexual kisses innocent. If we’re including being kissed by someone of the opposite sex, guilty then.

Ever kissed someone of the same sex? - Guilty on all counts.

Kissed a picture? - Does it count as guilty if I was five and it was for art time? It was an effort somewhere between painting and cleaning all the paint off my face. If no, innocent otherwise.

Slept in until 5pm? - Guilty and then some, I’ve slept at weird hours before for night work. [coughs.]

Fallen asleep at work or school? - ...guilty on rare occasion, I try not to though. Sleepwalking, you know how it is.

Held a snake? - Innocent which is unfortunate, snakes are cool animals man. I’ve only seen them in pet stores and in documentaries.

Been suspended from school? - Ehhhhhhhh, technically innocent as I was not actually suspended. I was threatened with suspension if I was found to be acting out again. So I made sure to not get found out.

Stolen something? - If I had a nickel for every item I’ve stolen, I’d have a small fortune. Guilty as hell.

Done something you regret? - Guilty again. We all have regrets, don’t we?

Caught a snowflake on your tongue? - ...innocent, I hadn’t thought to try this yet, why am I living this far up north where it gets freezing cold and snows if I’m not going to do these things. I’ll have to do that when winter next rolls around. If I can, anyway.

Laughed until liquid came out of your nose? - Innocent. That sounds uncomfortable.

Kissed in the rain? - Uh. Guilty? It was an out of the blue surprise and I wasn’t expecting it. Nice though.

Sat on a roof top? - Guilty. It’s nice up there.

Kissed someone you shouldn’t? - Innocent?? Who would count as “someone you shouldn’t kiss”? ...maybe guilty? There was that one time I gatecrashed a party to, uh, avoid a close encounter with the law, shall we say, as a teen. Was yanking my hoodie off to try to blend in and change my look when I ran right into this guy—real cute, real surprised, but that left no time for me to really hide though. So I panicked, pulled him out of the way, and sprang a surprise smooch on him. I apologized after the coast was clear, but he was...ahem, more than fine with it. Ended up sticking around to talk to him. Nice night, nice guy, honestly. Rory's his name. We still talk on the regular.

Sang in the shower? - Innocent. I think.

Been pushed into a pool with all your clothes on? - Do lakes count? Guilty if so. Blame Sharky and Pratt. Hurk helped.

Shaved your head? - Personally innocent, though others have given me a really close cut as a kid on occasion. Didn’t much care for it at all, then or now.

Slept naked? - Guilty. Sometimes summer got too damn hot and clothes were overkill because there was no air conditioning. Thankfully I make more than enough to afford AC now so I don’t melt into a puddle during a heat wave—or turn into an icicle up here in Montana during the winter.

Made a boyfriend/girlfriend cry? - Innocent. I’d need to have an S/O to run that risk first. Pretty sure if I ever do get one there’ll be fights eventually because I don’t think anyone can avoid fighting forever, can they?

Donated blood? - Innocent, it just never came around as a situation to consider before now.

Eaten alligator meat? - Guilty, it was a food bank donated can of the stuff. Tasted kind of like a cross between something gamey, chickeny, and fishy?? Not real keen on eating it again, but if there was nothing else to eat, probably would.

Eaten cheesecake? - Guilty. Tasty stuff, cheesecake.

Still loved someone you shouldn’t? - ................... [What an uncomfortable question. He doesn’t want to answer that.]

Have/had a tattoo? - Guilty on multiple counts.

Liked someone, but will never tell who? - Guilty, though Joey already knows, she has this ability where she can just stare into your soul and know your deepest darkest secrets— [He’s kidding, Joey’s just perceptive and he knows it. He likes to pretend that she doesn’t know though, helps with the denial.]

Been too honest? - ??? Uh...I...would...not think so? Innocent?

Ruined a surprise? - Guilty, both accidentally and intentionally.

Eaten so much that you can’t walk after? - Innocent. I have wolfed down my food on more than one occasion though, even though I know I shouldn’t. It happens sometimes, but still working on it.

Dressed in a man’s clothes? - Guilty, I generally wear men’s clothes.

Dressed in a woman’s clothes? - Innocent as far as I know, though many clothes are unisex and I’ve gotten clothes from thrift stores and other sources before so who knows? Hoodies are for everyone.

Joined a pageant? - ??? I don’t think so, unless school talent contests and costume contests count? Didn’t really do much for those either. So, innocent.

Still have communication with your ex? - Pfft, I’d need to have an ex first for that. Innocent. Rory isn’t an ex by virtue of the fact that we never dated.

Been told that you’re beautiful by someone who meant it? - Innocent.

Cheated on someone? - See above, have not had an actual serious relationship to speak of for this to happen. Nor have I been the, uh, third person so to speak, so innocent.

Gotten totally drunk and missed an exam? - Innocent. I don’t really get drunk outside of drinking with friends socially, and even then I would prefer to keep my personal intoxication levels low.

A total stranger treated you by paying your fare? - Innocent.

Got so angry that you cried? - Guilty. Life sucks sometimes.

Tried to stay away from someone for their own good? - ...does for our combined mutual good count? Guilty if so.

Thought about suicide? - ...Guilty in passing, once. Not deeply or seriously. [He’s too determined to try to live his life, honestly. Even if he’s kind of worked up into a mess with all of the cult business and the psychic bullshit he has to deal with.]

Thought about murder? - Guilty. Very guilty if dreams and visions of possible futures count.

Actually murdered someone? - Innocent. Hopefully it’ll stay that way regardless.

Thought about mass murder? - ...Guilty. Comes with the territory of dreaming about the Reaping and Collapse for years upon years from different perspectives. Would prefer not to think about that. [It’s unsettling to him.]

Actually committed a mass murder? - Innocent, and hopefully will very much stay that way.

Rode in a stranger’s vehicle? - Do taxis count, or public transportation? Guilty if so, innocent otherwise.

Stalked someone? - ...guilty but it was for a good cause on all occasions. Namely keeping a third party from tormenting and or murdering them and their family members or friends.

Had a girlfriend? - A serious girlfriend? Innocent. A girlfriend in kindergarten school for all of one recess and free play period? Guilty ish? Kindergarten was wild, man.

Had a boyfriend? - Innocent since I would say I haven’t actually had a serious relationship yet. I’ve had...flings?? It’s weird to call them that, we didn’t discuss what name fit it at the time or anything, just acknowledged that we were both on the same page of not looking for something involving commitment at the time from each other. Just...you know, being there with each other for a little while, before we parted ways. It wasn’t a good time to pursue a relationship for me, at the very least. Not sure when a good time would be, though. After all this? [Assuming there is an afterwards worth mentioning once the cult situation is...resolved, shall we say. He doesn’t know what will happen then. Terrifying, isn’t it. Almost as bad as knowing what could and would happen in what he considers the Bad Ending from his point of view.]

Gotten totally drunk during a holiday? - Innocent. Don’t much care for loss of control over myself, as stated earlier. Some drinking is fine in good company and a safe environment.

[blancheludis]

Tagging: @tokky231

Fandom: Marvel, Avengers Characters: Tony Stark/Steve Rogers, James Rhodes, Pepper Potts, Bruce Barton, Steve Rogers Chapters: 27/?, Words: 152.012

Summary: Tony meets his soulmate under the worst possible circumstances. It is not just a kidnapping gone wrong. It turns out Steve and his gang picked him on purpose and they want some personal revenge. If only he had managed to say the words written on his soulmate’s arm before they threw him back out into the streets.

—

It smells fantastic in the kitchen, throwing Tony back immediately to their college days, Back then, Rhodey’s cooking skills had still been unrefined, but they spent a number of holidays and summer breaks at the Rhodes’ home and it had seemed to be Rhodey’s mother’s single mission in life to fatten her two boys up. And to teach Tony that he is loved. She has had partial success in both those things, but since then Rhodey has taken seamlessly over.

Tony walks up to the counter to glean at what Rhodey is making. A pan is sizzling on the stove with an ungodly amount of garlic, just as they like it. Next to that sits a plate with neatly cut vegetables that Tony is sure cannot have come out of his kitchen.

Before he can say anything, Rhodey turns to look at him, eyes travelling over Tony’s form as if he thinks Tony managed to get himself injured again in the few hours they were apart this morning. Tony knows how he looks. The suit jacket he put on to appear at least somewhat collected for his meeting with Coulson does not hide the bags under his eyes or the fact that he walks with his shoulders slumped, almost bowed as if something is pulling him down to the ground.

That something is Obadiah, of course, and has been for weeks. Ironically enough, Tony thinks he might have preferred dealing with the mental toll of the betrayal alone, instead of adding its inglorious end to the mix. He cannot get the way Obadiah crumpled to the ground out of his head. How he kept sneering until the pain took over. How that last look in his eyes resembled hatred more than anything else.

“Are you ready to talk yet?” Rhodey’s voice interrupts his thoughts, cutting right through them and catapulting Tony back to the present.

He is in his kitchen with his best friend. Food is on the stove. Nobody is out to kill him anymore. He is safe. It is over. Obadiah is dead.

Tony killed Obadiah.  

“About?” Tony asks, not bothering to make his tone innocent. This is straight-up denial and they both know it.

Rhodey’s expression does not change much, but Tony is practised in seeing the small signs of disappointment.

“Don’t do that, Tones,” Rhodey says, his voice unbearably calm. “Tell me if you need time, but don’t pretend nothing happened.”

Tony could run. That is what he usually does when things become uncomfortable, when he does not want to answer questions. JARVIS could put the workshop on lockdown and keep everybody out until Tony feels more collected – or until they stop trying.

Instead, Tony sits down on the counter, feet dangling, and stares at the pan. Rhodey must take that as sign enough that Tony is willing to talk because he turns back to the food, cutting with precise strokes, completely in control.

“It’s –” Tony shrugs. Fine. Over. Complicated. A myriad of entirely inaccurate words. “I’m not sure what to say.”

That, at least, is the truth. He is barely able to think about it in an even remotely coherent fashion without landing back in that warehouse, his mind running away from him but the gun steady in his hands.

“Stane is dead,” Rhodey says, echoing the constant choir in the back of Tony’s head. “How about you start with that?”

Heartrate picking up, Tony does not meet Rhodey’s eyes. “I already told you –”

He stops talking when Rhodey huffs. “I don’t exactly consider your feverish rambling from last night telling me anything.” Despite the words, Rhodey’s voice is gentle, as if he could ease Tony into this conversation. “Do you even remember what you said?”

Tony remembers surprisingly much of the night before, mostly in flashes but it is there. Steve brought him home, helped him lie down, and kept his distance while making sure Tony felt protected. He stayed when Tony asked him to. He made sure someone called Rhodey.

After that, things get more blurred. Rhodey had put him into the bathtub when he could not stand long enough for a shower. There was tea, and a mostly one-sided conversation full of mindless, soothing things.

Tony has talked too, in random bursts of information that can probably all be boiled down to two facts: He does not understand why this has happened. And it hurts.

Even now, it is hard to put into words. Years of Tony’s life turned into a lie that he happily believed as long as he was handed what he considered freedom to do as he pleased.  

“Obie killed my parents and now he wanted the company for himself,” Tony says, not reacting when Rhodey winces.

Since he does not look very surprised, this is one of the things he must have let slip the night before. It is the most pressing thing, too, because they already knew that Obadiah wanted Tony dead. They just were not aware that this was not the first time he decided to remove his problems in a permanent manner.

“He told me – everything was a lie, you know.” Tony’s lips turn into a bitter caricature of a smile. “Encouraging me to build, helping me out when Dad got mad, letting me grieve after they died. It was all part of some scheme to make more money. He did not care about me one bit. He – Dad said they were best friends and it was all a lie.”

Rhodey stops cutting for a moment to look at him, a sigh on his lips that Tony does not want to hear.

“It’s just impossible to wrap my head around,” he continues quickly, unwilling to linger on this. “I mean, you and Pep always tell me I’m terrible with people. That I always choose to trust the wrong ones and push away the ones who are good. But how could I have been so blind?”

A multitude of examples come to mind. Ty Stone and Sunset Bain being the most prominent of them. Rhodey had warned him away from them. If he had trusted his best friend more, he might have avoided those heartbreaks. Nobody knew to suspect Obadiah, although that does not help him at all to cope with the aftermath.  

“We never meant it that way, Tones,” Rhodey says quietly, his eyes turning sad. “We all fell for it. Stane – he did not fool you because you are naïve. He’s –”

Tony knows what Rhodey is going to say and he does not want to hear it, so he cuts Rhodey off, his voice a wounded monotone.

“I killed him.”

The knife clatters loudly on the counter as Rhodey stares at him. “What?” He looks like he has understood perfectly well what Tony said but wishes he did not.

Last night, Rhodey had reacted with unconcealed satisfaction at hearing about Obadiah’s death. Now, his expression is dampened by shock.

Unable to stand the scrutiny, Tony looks down at his lap. Rhodey will not judge him, but he still feels the recoil almost ripping the gun out of his hands after the first shot. That would have been enough to keep Obadiah down, and yet he steadied the gun and fired again.

All of the reasons and justifications have fallen away since then, leaving him to feel like nothing more than a murderer.

“He tried to run and we had to decide what to do with him,” Tony explains in a flat tone, flailing to keep calm. “Rhodey, I – I could see it in his eyes that he would never leave me alone. It does not matter that they would have locked him up. He would have somehow managed to make me miserable even from prison.”

He wanted to be left alone, but now he is not so sure anymore it was worth the price. Tired and hurting, with a mind eager to replay all the bad memories from the night before, it is like he has lost a part of his soul without any hope of making up for it.

“So you,” Rhodey beings but trails off. It is not clear whether he does not know what to ask or is simply not sure whether he should. He has by now completely abandoned the food.

The silence between them is, for a moment, only interrupted by the sizzling of the pan.

“I took a gun and shot him. Twice. I –” Tony takes a deep breath, surprised that his lungs allow it despite the weight on his chest. “I watched him die.”

Every long second of it. Every shuddering gasp, every new drop of blood, every twitch, every glare. Tony watched and did nothing. He merely waited until it was over and wished he was anywhere but there.

Obadiah might have betrayed him, but this was a betrayal in return. Not so much the bullets themselves because that night demanded that only one of them would leave the warehouse alive. But Tony pulled the trigger. He asked to do it himself and he did it. Coming back from that is impossible.

Rhodey is saying something, although Tony cannot hear a single word over the rushing in his ears. He sees Rhodey’s mouth moving, his lips turned down in sympathy. It must be something soothing, some kind of promise that Tony will be all right, that he only did what had to be done.

“How do you do it?” Tony asks, talking right over Rhodey. “Kill people?”

He has been wondering that since he was first kidnapped by the Avengers, really. That ready violence between people does not make sense to him. Where does the thrill of hurting or killing strangers come from? They are all human. They are all the same. And yet something primeval allows them to draw each other’s blood.  

“It’s not –” Rhodey starts, but Tony knows his best friend’s expression when he wants to shower him in platitudes.

“I swear I’ll throw you out if you’ll tell me it’s not easy,” Tony counters, rousing himself a bit from his stupor. “Obie deserved it but I can’t get his face out of my head.”

That is what he tells himself, that Obadiah deserved to die. He cannot even believe that, however, much less that he should be allowed to regain some inner peace.

Rhodey picks the knife back up and, without any semblance of a plan, throws everything he has cut into the pan at once, too thrown to stick to whatever recipe he chose.

“I am still seeing the face of the first person I ever killed,” he then says, dragging his eyes back to Tony with some reluctance. To Tony’s surprise, there is shame lingering in Rhodey’s face. “I still sometimes wake up from him asking me why in my dreams. I didn’t even know him. He was just some unlucky sod on the other side of a battlefield. You’re not supposed to shrug this off, no matter whether Stane deserved it or not.”

The thing is, Tony remembers Rhodey coming home on leave after that happened. He never told Tony about the nightmares, about how hard it is. It makes him feel like a bad friend. Like an egocentric, selfish man-child who does not like to take responsibility for anything ever. He should have known about Rhodey’s struggle. Perhaps Rhodey knew that there are no good answers to the questions simmering inside Tony now.

“So what?” Tony asks, still thrown but needing to make some sense of this. “I shouldn’t have done it? Is that what you’re telling me?”

The thought of Obadiah being alive hurts more than reality. He could just now be sitting in a holding cell, planning Tony’s further downfall, or talking in excruciating detail about all the things Tony did over the years that were hushed up. Drunken misadventures, bringing dozens of people into his bed, seemingly not caring for anyone but himself. Between that and the dutiful COO of Stark Industries, who would the police believe?

“I wish I could have been there to do it for you,” Rhodey says, and the sincerity in his voice breaks Tony’s heart further. “But I understand why you had to do it yourself.”

Tony thought it would help. That it would be a mercy. Just another pair of lies.

“It doesn’t feel like it’s over,” Tony admits, wishing Rhodey would give him reassurances, no matter how empty they would be.

“No, I can imagine,” Rhodey says instead. Then, however, he reaches out and puts his hand on top of Tony’s where they lie clenched in his lap. “But I’m proud of you.”

Immediate warmth floods through Tony, but he stamps down on the feeling, trying to expel it from his chest.

“What’s there to be proud of?” he asks, tasting bitterness on his tongue.

Somehow, Rhodey finds the strength to smile. “You’re stronger than you think.”

If this is strength, Tony is not sure he wants it. Someone has to take responsibility for his life and, more often than not, he left that job to others, and this is the reason why. He is feeling brittle, like one wrong word or touch will be enough to shatter him.

“Thank you,” Tony says quietly. Nothing is resolved. He is still raw, but Rhodey’s presence always helps.

“One day I’ll manage to make you believe that I’m not going anywhere,” Rhodey replies, his tone too serious to match the lightness of his smile.

Tony knows what he is saying. He is still working on not doubting it.

 ---

They have just finished their lunch, having turned to easier topics so that they could finish cooking and manage to keep the food down, when JARVIS speaks up.

“Sir, Dr Banner has entered the tower and asks to come up.”

Tony’s mind immediately jumps to new possible problems. Perhaps Thor’s state worsened since they saw each other this morning. Perhaps Coulson lied and brought in the Avengers anyway. Perhaps some more of Obadiah’s men have surfaced to give them more trouble.

“Let him in, J,” Tony says, his mouth dry. He swallows and he tries to convince his shoulders to straighten and his head to stay up to meet whatever is coming head-on.

“Dr Banner?” Rhodey asks. He, too, looks affected, although that might just be because he would prefer to wrap Tony up in a blanket and not let anyone ask something of him for the next seven years.

“He’s a friend,” Tony replies immediately. Whatever else happens, he does not need Rhodey and Bruce to argue. “He’s also the Dr Banner whose papers we’ve been gushing over, so don’t embarrass me.”

Rhodey’s lips twitch, even while his eyes remain serious. He is undoubtedly trying to figure out how Bruce fits into this. How, between all the bad things of the past few weeks, Tony made a new friend.

“Are you telling me you had an actual scientific celebrity in your home before and didn’t invite me?” he asks as he gets up to clear their plates from the table.

Tony takes overly much care as he gathers their cutlery and glasses to avoid looking at Rhodey. He cannot help the small grin, though. “You’re here now, right?”

Huffing, Rhodey replies, “We’re going to talk about that.”

That feels almost normal, the banter between them, the easy way Rhodey lets Tony be himself. If not for Bruce and his likely bad news coming closer, Tony might have even relaxed a little.

They just manage to clean the kitchen enough to let a guest in it before the door opens and Bruce comes in. He looks tired but not like he is in a hurry. His supplies bag is slung over his shoulder.

“Tony,” he greets with a smile that appears unstrained. “And you must be Colonel Rhodes.”

He does not get the change to offer his hand because Rhodey crosses his arms in front of him and asks, “Who are you?”

Tony rolls his eyes, mostly for Bruce’s benefit. Rhodey has a habit of mistrusting everybody Tony meets. He would prefer they skip that here since Bruce has proven himself to be an ally.

“I told you he’s a friend,” Tony says, a warning in his tone that he knows will be ignored. It should be more annoying, but even after years of friendship, Rhodey’s protectiveness soothes him.

“And I’d like to hear it from himself,” Rhodey rebuffs him before turning towards Bruce with a grim expression. “Are you with that mob?”

They have not yet talked about that. Only in fragments the night before.

Bruce takes the glare in stride and nods. “I am, although I’m not here as one of them,” he says as if that could restore Rhodey’s favour. “Now, if you would excuse me. I promise I’ll let you yell at me later.” Completely ignoring Rhodey’s flabbergasted expression, he puts his bag down on the kitchen table and says to Tony. “Did you have anyone look you over?”

“I’m fine,” Tony says before he even fully realizes that Bruce has come here to make sure he is all right. That last night did not leave him with more injuries he refuses to have looked at in a hospital. The thought makes his throat constrict. Although, for once, in a good way.

“We took a while to get to you,” Bruce says. He knows Tony well enough by now to not believe him about his health. “And you were bleeding when we arrived.”

Tony has catalogued his injuries in the shower this morning. Split lip, a cut over his eyebrow, sore ribs, and a multitude of bruises. That is it. It could have been much worse.

“Truly, Bruce,” Tony insists, even though Bruce and Rhodey are now looking at him with obvious doubt. “I’m fine.”

They do not believe him. Tony probably would not either. He has seen his face in the mirror this morning. He knows he takes every movement with exaggerated care, at least when nobody is watching him.

Compared to the weeks before he is fine, however. Nobody is trying to kill him anymore, he can concentrate on the future. If hie ignores the emotional toll of last night, he is doing well. He is free.

“What are your ribs doing?” Bruce asks, skipping the pretence completely.

Tony just barely keeps himself rolling his eyes. “I guess I refractured them again.” That happens when people keep kicking him in the ribcage. By now, he has almost gotten used to being constantly in pain with every breath he takes.

“You guess?” Rhodey pipes in, sharing a look with Bruce as if they have always known each other, always banded together over Tony’s inability to take care of himself.

A small part of Tony feels flattered. Bruce should not be here. He has a soulmate to care for and the Avengers to go back to. Since Obadiah is dead, he does not need to look in on Tony. It would probably be safer for all of them to keep their distance lest Coulson changes his mind about covering up for them. And yet Bruce is here.

“I appreciate your concern, but I’ve been worse,” Tony says. Bruce is too kind to just leave if Tony does not give him an out. “They didn’t torture me. It was just a couple slaps to remind me of who’s in charge. The worst thing was Obie’s monologuing.”

He keeps his tone light but cannot quite hide how the mere memory makes him wince. His mother’s face keeps flashing in front of his eyes, the way she used to smile. how she never gave up on mediating between Tony and his father.

“Take off your shirt.”

Tony is already halfway through nodding his head when the words register. He expected Bruce to accept his rejection of medical care and leave. Or possibly to ask more questions about what transpired between Obadiah and him the night before. People never just stay for his sake, Rhodey being the glorious exception. Even Pepper and Happy had been on his payroll before becoming his friends.

“What?” Tony asks, raising his hands in front of him as if he has to bodily keep Bruce from tearing his shirt off. “No.”

Identical glares meet him from both Rhodey and Bruce. He does not want to show them the new mess of bruises on his chest, even though Rhodey must have noticed them the night before and Bruce has seen him in a worse condition already. This time, it feels more like a personal failure than a violation done to him.

If he keeps the bruises on his skin tucked away and breathes shallowly enough to avoid his ribs hurting, he can almost feel like everything that happened is long behind him. There is no hiding from the scars inside his mind, of course, so perhaps his reluctance is moot anyway.

“I’ll make it quick, but I am going to have a look at you,” Bruce counters, unimpressed by Tony’s refusal. “I can’t believe you’re this stubborn. You were kidnapped.”

Tony knew what he was getting into. Theoretically. Bruce can do nothing for his broken ribs. The bones will heal and so will Tony’s heart. It just needs time.

“And I’m –”

“Lose the shirt, Tones,” Rhodey cuts in, not stern enough to mask the worry on his face. They are all just trying to look out for each other.

“You’re supposed to be on my side,” Tony mutters and lowers his hands, clenching his fingers around the hem of his shirt without lifting it.

“I am,” Rhodey answers solemnly, not moving even an inch. “And I like this one.”

With great reluctance, Tony takes off his shirt. He does not meet his friends’ eyes as he leans back against the table, preferring to look down at himself. Several big patches of skin are discoloured. Vibrant blues and violet, misshapen or vaguely reminiscent of fists. The pain increases immediately, just from looking at the bruises as if all his brain needed was a confirmation that they are still there.

Next to him, Rhodey stares intently for several long seconds before turning away. He is clenching his hands, muttering curses under his breath. Perhaps he regrets not having been there the night before as Tony is glad that he was not. It would have been impossibly harder to keep himself together with his best friend there.

Bruce’s face does not show what he is thinking, although his jaw twitches with distinct displeasure. He reaches out and palpates each of the bruises. The touch stings but Tony remains where he is, knowing Bruce does this as carefully as possible.

“Despite knowing I’ll be ignored, I’ll tell you now that you should take it easy for the next weeks,” Bruce says as he turns to get the tape out of his bag.

“I’ll make sure he does,” Rhodey says, still sounding like he wants to go out and deal some damage of his own to the people who did this to Tony.

Wisely, Tony keeps his mouth shut. He has no time to rest. Now more than ever, he needs to be present in his company, needs to build and pave the way for the future. If pressed, he can tell them that he will have DUM-E do all the heavy lifting for him in the workshop, but Rhodey knows better than to expect him to stay in bed.

Thankfully, there are no open wounds to clean or stitch up, so Bruce is done very quickly, applying the tape as if he rarely does anything else. It has Tony wondering how often he needs to patch up the Avengers this way. Tony did not register much of the fighting in the warehouse but the entire thing seemed rather headless, swarming in without much of a plan other than attack. That might be Tony’s preferred mode of action, but as professionals, they should surely do things differently.

When Bruce is packing his things back up, he looks up at Tony, lips dipping down for a moment as if he already regrets what is going to say. “I guess you’re not seeking help for your mental health either?”

Tony’s first instinct is to ask What for? He knows. Of course, he knows. He has been kidnapped twice in mere weeks, and has almost been killed three times. His godfather betrayed him. His parents were murdered. He can see how that could warrant seeking help. He is fine, though. Exhausted and still somewhat in shock but fine.

“Don’t tell me you’re offering to do that too,” Tony asks lightly without outright rejecting the idea. He would never hear the end of that. Already, he is afraid that Rhodey will pick it up later.

“Hardly.” Bruce snorts, although he does not sound very amused. His expression is pinched but clears again quickly. “I would just recommend it.”

Bed rest and therapy. Other people might have the luxury of taking care of themselves first, but Tony has found that a few hours – or days – in the workshop do the same job. The art of creation is the most potent medicine he knows.

“It’s over now,” he says dismissively.

Bruce’s eyes linger on Tony’s torso, running over the bruises and the accurate lines of tape. Suddenly self-conscious, Tony reaches for his shirt and pulls it back on.

“Is it?” Bruce asks, no trace of pity in his voice. “Did you sleep tonight?”

“Yes.” Well, he passed out when the exhaustion finally pulled him under. Nobody has to know he woke up mere hours later because he dreamt of Obadiah looming over him. Rhodey might have noticed but did not comment on it.

Bruce does not believe him. To be fair, the bags under Tony’s eyes do not exactly back his answer. With a sigh, Bruce turns towards Rhodey. “Is that something you can talk sense into him about?”

“I will certainly try,” Rhodey promises without missing a beat. It sounds vaguely like a threat.

Straightening, Tony glares at them. “Could you please not conspire against me?”

To himself, he can admit that he is glad for it. Considering the way Rhodey had raged against the Avengers, it is a small miracle that he is now standing in the same room with Bruce and has an entirely amicable conversation with him. Tony has no illusions that the rest of the team would get the same treatment, but this is important to him.  

Rhodey smiles at him, something predatory in the line of his lips. “That depends on how well you take care of yourself.”

Which means Rhodey will talk JARVIS into throwing Tony out of the workshop at a sensible time, and they will force him to eat three meals a day and limit his coffee intake – all for his own good, of course.

Already feeling the future lack of coffee, Tony pushes himself away from the table to get himself another cup. They are welcome to stop him – and Bruce does, although not with medical advice.

“Thank you, Tony,” he says suddenly, his voice firm. That stops Tony right in his tracks. He has done nothing that warrants gratitude from Bruce. On the contrary, considering he got Thor shot. “I’m not saying it was smart what you did or that you should ever do it again, but thank you for getting Thor out of there.”

Oh. Bruce is thanking him for giving himself up. Which Rhodey and Pepper yelled at him for. And Thor. And Steve too. Compared to that, Bruce’s words should not weigh more, but Tony’s chest fills with unexpected warmth.

Still, Tony is aware of Rhodey in his back, and of how most people think he should not be so lax with his own safety.

“It’s not as if he went to the hospital as he was supposed to,” Tony says, attempting to wave the entire matter off.

“I already yelled at him for that,” Bruce says, his eyes narrowed. That conversation apparently went very well.

“So it’s my turn now?” Tony quips and starts walking to the coffee machine again. He just knows that Rhodey and Bruce are sharing a glance behind his back, but he does not mind. Things worked out well.  

Bruce sighs. The sound is practised, long-suffering. “If I thought for a second that you wouldn’t happily sacrifice yourself the next time the opportunity arises, I might try.

It takes effort not to laugh at that. Howard tried for years to cure Tony of his undesirable character traits and had never any success. His friends will not either, especially not if it is about something that ultimately benefits them.

Once the coffee machine is running, Tony opens the cupboard and turns around, gesturing vaguely in question whether he should get out cups for them too. Rhodey nods with the quiet resignation of someone knowing they will need all the energy they can get to survive Tony’s madness. In turn, Bruce hesitates but declines.

“What are you even doing here, Bruce?” Tony blurts, then immediately scolds himself for it. Bruce looks like he wants to leave but, at the same time, like he is not sure where to go. “I just mean, I thought you wouldn’t leave Thor’s side.”

Tony does not want Bruce to think he is not welcome here. To hide the blood shooting into his cheeks, Tony hides his face in the cupboard as he gets out two cups and arranges them neatly next to the coffee machine.

“He sent me back to the base when Coulson wanted to talk to you two,” Bruce replies, nothing offended in his tone. Quietly, he adds, “He worries.”

Coulson could still be a danger to all of them, especially the Avengers. This story about having worked with Natasha and Barton before sounds too convenient, leaving them with the sudden possibility for a happy ending that none of them could imagine before. There has to be a catch.

“And you didn’t go?” Tony asks instead of opening that can of worms.

He glances over his shoulder and blinks when he finds Bruce’s normally amiable expression twisted into something annoyed. “Oh, I did go,” he bites out, his displeasure tangible in the air. “But my team continues to be full of idiots who take offence to anyone having a private life, so we yelled a bit at each other before I came back here.”

Tony hides a sigh of relief at not being the reason for Bruce’s anger. It also makes him wonder how the Avengers have managed to stay together for years if they are so prone to bickering amongst each other.

“I’m sorry,” Tony says and turns to pour the coffee to escape Bruce’s reaction.

“What for?” Bruce asks, already sounding gentler again. “It’s not your fault.”

In a way, though, it is. He has had no hand in Thor becoming a bodyguard or in Stane deciding to get rid of him in the first place, but Tony is still the axis this entire mess revolves around.

“Without me, they wouldn’t have found out about Thor,” Tony offers. He does not know Bruce’s reasons for keeping his soulmate secret, but it is out now.

He uses the coffee as an excuse to keep his eyes down as he carries the two cups over to the table. Rhodey and Bruce are still standing, making the entire scene look as if they are all ready to run at a moment’s notice.

“I’m not angry about them finding out but about how they handled it,” Bruce says firmly. He does not elaborate, but Tony has an inkling how that conversation went.

“Do you want water, at least?” Tony asks Bruce, unwilling to get deeper into the topic of the Avengers dealing with emotional matters. He could not offer an objective opinion anyway.

“I shouldn’t even be here,” Bruce says but trails off, perhaps wondering where else he could go while arguing with his friends.

To Tony, the solution to that is obvious. He does not blurt it out like he almost wants to do, but sits down and pointedly gestures at them to follow suit. There is no reason they cannot have this conversation in a civilized manner.

Rhodey is the first to sit, while Bruce appears conflicted. He must worry about Thor. Finally, he caves and sinks into a chair.

“You’re welcome to stay here, you know?” Tony says. He should perhaps not blurt that out like that, but he is not sure he will get another chance.

This interlude with the Avengers is over. Luckily, of course, because that means he is not in any particular danger anymore to get beaten up again by Barton or Barnes. It means his name is cleared and nobody is attempting to kill him anymore. It means he can distance himself from their little mob and get on with his life.

Regret has no room here. Tony likes Bruce, and he feels safe with Thor. Wanting them to stay close does not mean he is betraying himself or forget his treatment at the hands of the Avengers. He will not allow Steve close without reservations.

Bruce smiles at him, little more than a slight twitch of his lips. “Thor said as much. Thank you, Tony.”

That sounds like a rejection. Not as if Bruce does not want to stay but like he thinks Tony is simply offering him a hiding place for a few days. Tony wants him to stay for good, though. Thor too.

He has learned anew how important it is to surround himself with people he can trust, who are good at heart. If Bruce accepts to stay, Tony could offer him a better life. They could work together. With both their minds applied to a project, they could change the future.

“I mean long-term,” Tony corrects quickly, wondering whether he is out of place. They do not know each other that well, after all. “I don’t presume to tell you what to do with your life, but you’re brilliant and a friend. I could have a lab ready for you in no time. You could – stop running.”

Tony bites his lips and looks down at his coffee. He feels Bruce eyes on him. Worse than that is Rhodey’s staring. All Rhodey knows is that Bruce is part of the Avengers. Whether he patched Tony up or not, he is still the enemy. Bruce might very well think the same about Tony.

“I –” Bruce trails off. He does not look offended but almost embarrassed. “I appreciate the offer, but it’s not as easy as that.”

That is not a no, Tony realizes with relief. Bruce is not refusing outright and his reluctance might not have anything to do with Tony at all. No matter that they have spent little time together, Tony knows that Bruce has no qualms to speak his mind. He would not hesitate to tell Tony no if he really does not want to stay here. Which leaves one more, glaring option.

“Because of Ross,” Tony states calmly, fighting to not sound too excited.

He throws a guilty glance at Rhodey who perks up at that, connecting Tony’s manner to the topic at hand.

“General Ross?” Rhodey asks, always able to read Tony – and Tony would not care about Rhodey’s presence if they were talking about a Ross he does not know. Involving Rhodey could make things much easier but also more complicated.

“Nasty business,” Tony replies with forced cheer. There is no going back now anyway. “I hope you don’t like him because I have half a mind of making sure he’ll never set foot on a military base ever again.”

Rhodey has questions, but Bruce looks positively green around the nose, so Tony twitches his head just so that Rhodey notices. They can talk about this in more detail later – Tony would not go against a general of the US military without Rhodey anyway.

“Nobody likes Ross,” Rhodey says, drawing out the words in a way that tells Tony they will have a long conversation about this and why Tony is talking about taking on another powerful person after just escaping the machinations of Stane.

“Great,” Tony says with a careless grin that has to be grating on his two much more sensible friends. “Do you have some dirt on him?”

Rhodey looks at him, rather unimpressed. “That depends –” he starts but cuts himself off when Bruce clears his throat uncomfortably, looking at them like he regrets ever having sat down.

“You don’t have to do this,” Bruce says, his expression closed off. A note of hope is clearly audible in his tone, however, which is certainly involuntary, considering the way Bruce ducks his head the moment the words are over his lips.

Tony looks at Bruce for a long minute, taking in the tension in his shoulders and the way he is hiding his hands under the table where they are surely clenched. He wants Bruce to know that he sees him, that he knows this will not be easy. Stopping to run never is, especially not when it is all one has done for years.

“I know,” Tony says, aiming to sound confident without being dismissive about it. “But you also helped me when you didn’t have to. And I like you.” He shrugs, trying to take the weight out of the words. “It’s just an idea, but I’d like you to think about it.”

Some of the tension drains out of Bruce’s posture, and while he does not appear surprised, he is not entirely convinced this is a good idea. Which is good, Tony supposes, because he is not either. Liking Bruce is one thing, but going to war against Ross for him is another. They have been through an ordeal together, though, and that is a first good step to trusting each other.

“I’ll need to see where Thor is going,” Bruce says after a moment of silence. As far as answers go, this is neither acceptance nor refusal. Of course, he will have to talk this through with his soulmate.

“I will talk to him too,” Tony says before he knows what he is doing. He does not want to put pressure on Bruce. If they do not accept his offer, that is just proof that he might have been wrong to make it in the first place, so he should not dig himself any deeper than he already is.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Rhodey moving as if he has to say something to that, but Tony does not look at him, intent on catching Bruce’s reaction. And Bruce leans back in his seat. Tony is smart enough to not read that as a sign of sudden acquiescence, but it is a start.

“Why?” Bruce asks, carefully neutral.

The why, for once, is comically simple. “Because I’ve just been shown that the number of people I can trust is even smaller than I thought,” Tony says, his mouth turned up in an estimate of a wry smile. “And platypus here tells me that I have a habit of pushing people away the moment I risk being vulnerable with them. I think it’s time to change that.”

He is not really ready to change that, of course, but he is willing to make an exception. Bruce has proven himself trustworthy several times, and Thor is steadfast in ways that stabilise Tony.

Bruce smiles, looking wistful for a moment. “You’re a good person, Tony, you know that?” he says, nothing but honesty in his voice. And Tony barely knows what to do with that.

Being a good person never really featured in the plans other people and he himself had for him. He is supposed to be brilliant and innovative, to generate jobs and a lot of money. He has to be good at things. Building, leading the company, socialising. He has no idea how to be good just for the sake of it.

“Nope,” he replies with fake cheer. “But I’m working on it.”

Bruce opens his mouth as if to argue, and Tony just knows that Rhodey will have to say something about it. They both stay silent, though, until Bruce nods.

“All right,” he says, not showing either way whether he thinks about accepting Tony’s offer. That is all right, they have time as long as Bruce and the Avengers do not disappear without a word. “I’ll go and try to wrangle Thor back into bed. I suggest you get some more rest too. If you’re feeling dizzy or are in pain, call me.”

JARVIS is here to keep an eye on Tony, but he appreciates the offer. Even if he knows he is not going to call for Bruce when he is feeling unwell. Thor needs Bruce more and he has done enough to them.

“You should get some sleep too,” Tony says instead of making any promises. The past weeks have been long for all of them.

“Look at that,” Rhodey drawls to the side. “We’re all being adults and taking care of each other. Miracles do happen.”

He looks at them appraisingly and makes his words sound a bit like a threat. In a way it is. After wrangling the mess Tony was at MIT, he knows exactly how to push Tony into compliance to take care of himself. He has never stopped guiding Tony’s hand when necessary.

“Ignore him,” Tony says, shooting a glare of his own in Rhodey’s direction. “He thinks he’s funny.”

Once again, Tony is beyond glad that Rhodey is here, that he has someone at his side whose motives he never has to doubt anymore.

Bruce looks at them, his expression warm. “Well, I see you’re in good hands,” he says and, without further ado, gets to his feet.

It does not feel like a goodbye, but Tony still fears he will never see Bruce again if he lets him just go now. Still, it is not his place to cling to either Bruce or Thor. Heaping his expectations on others does not end well, as Obadiah has shown.

“Thank you, Bruce,” Tony says, trying to convey everything he feels in these few words.

And Bruce smiles, softening further. “Any time.”

The answer is the same as Steve’s has been and it appears just as honest. Tony has never doubted Bruce, of course, but it makes him feel better about Steve. He hopes there will not be a next time, but it is good to know that he has people around who will have his back.

They watch Bruce go, his back straight and his steps light. He has barely disappeared out the door when Rhodey says, “Just because I like him doesn’t mean the rest of that mob is off the hook.”  

Unable to help himself, Tony laughs. It is not particularly funny, and he does not feel either that the situation with the Avengers is resolved, but life goes on. And Tony does not have to walk that road alone.

[starlessskies94]

Wanted (Arthur/FemReader)

So this is the new one-shot I was working on for Arthur Morgan/Female Reader. Where the reader is a wanted bounty and Arthur is the bounty hunter. It was a random idea and it kind of got away from me and end up over 3k words! I hope anyone who reads it enjoys it because I’m still extremely nervous with reader inserts so I hope it’s okay as I spent soooo long writing this damn thing! Enjoy <3 Also thank you to the lovely @reddeadmort & lovely @shethenightwolf that both inspired me to start writing for Arthur Morgan you guys are awesome! I apologize in advance for any typing errors but I’m tired and wanted to get this posted. Hope its okay <3

If there was one thing Arthur Morgan both liked and disliked; it was bounty hunting. It was good honest work with a pretty decent pay out but sometimes the bounties themselves were a pain in the ass to catch and keep hold of. He’d gotten the tip off in Strawberry, a couple of Law men waiting on a train to Valentine to track down the new bounty and turn them into the Sheriff. Simple. Easy.

And Arthur was determined to get there first.

You weren’t exactly the most innocent of souls. In fact you weren’t innocent at all and that was exactly why you had such a bounty on your head. It wasn’t a large amount by any means but you were still eager to pay it off all the same. Taking into account, the fact that you had also returned the horse you’d stolen. You were hoping the sentence wouldn’t be as serious as you were expecting. You couldn’t help but laugh. Of all the things to be wanted for. Horse theft wasn’t really the most impressive of crimes. Still; you’d almost earned enough to wipe your slate clean. Planning to stay away from Valentine just long enough to collect the rest before returning into town to pay what was owed. You kicked away the embers of your dying campfire with the heel of your boot, then prepared your bow for another morning of hunting the forest for more pelts to sell. You’d already caught a glimpse of a fine looking deer that seemed promising. Maybe if you were quiet; you’d pick up her trail again. But as you moved to search the forest floor for clues; your quiet morning was crudely interrupted by the stomping of cantering hooves. A black Shire horse huffing to a steady halt as a tall stranger quickly dismounted. His heavy boots thudding upon the dry ground before he began striding purposely towards you. “Excuse me Miss...Are you Y/N L/N?” He asked gruffly; tipping his head back to look at you from under the brim of his hat as his large calloused hands rested upon his belt. You eyed him warily, taking in his appearance. Tall, rugged. Definitely handsome with a strong jaw dusted by a dark layer of stubble. Straightening your stance you took a deep breath in a feeble attempt to feign confidence against this man before you answered with an unshaken voice. “I might be.” You challenged. “Depending on who’s asking.” The man’s lips seemed to twitch as he looked to hold back either a laugh or an amused smirk. Damn maybe you weren’t as intimidating as you thought. It was clear just by looking at him that he wasn’t here for a nice chat and had obviously been sent by someone to take you in. You were honestly a little surprised the Sheriff would sink to the level of sending Bounty Hunters after you for stealing a horse. Perhaps this man could see reason, maybe you could explain things to him and he’d let you go? It was certainly worth a try. So striding up to stand face to face with him; you push for your courage to hold just long enough as you stare him directly in the eye. “Look Mister...I don’t know what the Sheriff told you but I haven’t done anything wrong.” You reason. “So maybe you could just pretend you never saw me right? I’ll keep outta your way, I promise.” The man stands unconvinced but he does smile. That you hadn’t been expecting. He sighs deeply; his blue eyes breaking contact with yours as he glances down at his feet before looking back at you in earnest. “Madam I’m paid to do a job and you see, if I don’t do that job; I don’t get paid. You understand? So why don’t we make this easier for the both of us and you come quietly huh?” You had considered it. You really had. You were so close to earning the rest of your bounty to pay for your freedom. But there was no way you could see the Sheriff or any other Law man taking the time to let you explain that, before throwing you into a jail cell to either rot or wait to be hanged. No, you still needed time. You needed to get away. Though it seemed the Bounty Hunter knew exactly what you were planning to do even before you did. Because no sooner had you turned to run, you found your legs bound and your body hitting the ground with a dull thud. A pained groan leaving your lips as you twisted against your binds. The man held back a laugh as he moved to turn you to face him. His overbearing silhouette blocking out the morning sun overhead. You winced when he leaned over you to tighten the ropes. “Sorry Miss but I did warn ya and you ain’t the first bounty to try running off on me.” He mumbled. And if you didn’t know any better, you could’ve sworn he was actually amused by all this. It was an easy guess that you weren’t the first bounty he’d brought in but were determined to be the first to talk your way out of it. “Please Mister; I have the money to pay my bounty! Well most of it, I was going to earn the rest today.” You pleaded. Slowly sitting up to better face him as you continued to pull at the ropes around your wrists and ankles. “If you want the payment I can give it to you. It’s yours! Just please let me go!” He seemed conflicted. Running a hand over his stubbled chin and cracking a smile. You looked as confusion flashed in your eyes, watching this Bounty Hunter openly laughing at you with his hands on his hips. “You seriously expect me to believe that you’re carrying nearly a thousand dollars in that satchel o’ yours lady?” He laughed. At this you were taken aback. A thousand dollars?! That wasn’t right. Your bounty was forty. Since when had horse theft carried a thousand dollar bounty?! There must have been so sort of mistake; perhaps this Bounty Hunter had stumbled upon the wrong bounty and thought you were someone else. But that couldn’t be right when he’d asked for you by name. You sat quietly. Defeated as you gave up pulling at your binds. Which didn’t go unnoticed by the man watching you. Faltering for just a moment as he pulled a large piece of paper from the satchel he was wearing and holding it lowly for you to see. You couldn’t stop the shocked gasp that escaped you; for there you were. Face to face with yourself. WANTED. DEAD OR ALIVE. Y/N L/N. REWARD $1000 Slowly reaching out, your every move tentative as you took hold of the poster. Your blood running cold at the sight of you. Along with the list of crimes were apparently wanted for. “Guessing you ain’t ever seen nothing like this before? Am I right Miss?” The man asked softly. He almost seemed sincere. “Y/N. Call me Y/N.”

“I’m Arthur. Arthur Morgan.” He returned.

Arthur had never had this happen before. A bounty that didn’t know they were wanted. And what’s more you didn’t seem to know anything about the crimes you had supposedly committed. He caught the surprise on your face as he went to sit down beside you. His forearms rested on his bent knees; blue inquisitive eyes glancing down at you.

“Well Y/N, don’t think I’ve ever come across a bounty that didn’t know they were wanted before.” He said. “Most of em’ either run or try ‘ta kill me. Some are even proud of what they done. You really got no idea about any of this?” He watched you; your watering eyes darting across the page at the bold writing. Silently shaking your head at his question. “I stole the horse...” you croaked. The tears in your eyes more from frustration than sadness. “But I gave it back.” “And this one.” You pointed to the crimes listed, Arthur’s gaze falling from your face to the poster held between you. Reading them quietly to himself. PUBLIC DRUNKENNESS & ASSAULT. “That quiet drink I had in Rhodes, turned not so quiet when that Ranch hand wouldn’t take no for an answer. So I broke the bastard’s arm.” You said matter-of-factly as if it were the most nonchalant thing in the world. But Arthur didn’t reply, instead he let you continue on. Your attention drawn back to the paper in hand. Fingers softly running along the printed letters. “This one; now this one ain’t my fault.” The Outlaw leaned close; closer than he realized when he could feel your hair wisping against his cheek. It was soft and he could smell a hint of lavender. He stopped himself; instantly coming back to his senses as he read on. FRAUD/HANDLING OF COUNTERFEIT GOODS “Those bank notes were counterfeit and I knew that but I stole them from a con man in Saint Denis so he’d stop scamming people.” As you explained that you’d planned to destroy the fake notes but had been caught with them before you had the chance; Arthur had to wonder if perhaps it’d been Trelawny you’d stolen from. However given his current situation he thought it best not to ask any more about the con man in question. He had to smile though, you were definitely unlike any woman he’d met before. And certainly unlike any bounty he’d tracked down in the past. But the amusement was short-lived at the sound of your disgusted scoff as you scrunched the poster into your clenched fists. Your hands shaking in the apparent anger that came aflame in your wide eyes. Your nostrils flared as you spat bitterly at the offending words you’d read. “Murder?! I killed those O’Driscoll’s because they were robbing a stage coach full of women and children! Was I supposed to just do nothing?!”You roared furiously, the skin of your fingers turning red as you ripped up the poster into shredded pieces. “Colm O’Driscoll is a goddamn monster! I know exactly what he and his men are capable of! And I’d kill every last one of those bastards if I could!” Arthur was taken aback by your outburst; the anger that exploded from you at the simple mention of Colm O’Driscoll. It reminded him of Sadie. That raw fury for the gang that had clearly hurt you in some way. Maybe killed a loved one? Or tried to harm you. Or god forbid had hurt you and you’d somehow managed to escape them. The man knew himself what they were capable of. After suffering at the hands of Colm and his men. So in that moment he made a decision. Some may have called him a fool for it. To waste such wealthy pay out but that didn’t matter to him. Unsheathing his hunting knife and reaching across with his other hand to take your wrists and cutting away the rope that bound them. “Wait-what are you doing?” You asked timidly. “You’re a good woman Miss Y/N.” He replied, slicing the ties around your ankles before taking a firm grip of your hand and pulling you to your feet. “And any enemy of Colm O’Driscoll is a friend of mine. I know what that son of a bitch is capable of too and I ain’t gonna be the one to stop you helpin’ decent folk that need it. So go on Miss, get outta here while ya can. I’ll send away any other Bounty Hunters I see.” Arthur could see you were both confused and cautious at his unexpected actions. But in all honesty he found himself quite intrigued by such a woman as you. For one that at first seemed so sweet and timid to only then learn your striking readiness to kill in order to save an innocent soul. The Outlaw was trying to live an honorable life; always choosing to do the right thing. Or help a stranger in need; no matter what was requested of him. He’d gladly do it with an open heart. But sometimes the choices were not always clear to him. And people like you, Charles and Sadie; were the ones he truly admired. The people could do good or the right thing without even taking the time to think about it. It was a natural instinct he wished he could have himself. You stood frozen for a moment; rubbing soothing fingertips around your irritated wrists and watched him carefully. But he was sincere and genuine in his offer to let you go. A chance you clearly weren’t willing to let pass by as you turned on your heel to dart back down your intended trail into the forest. Though to his surprise you stopped. Those piercing eyes turning back to take one last glance at him as you smiled warmly. “Thank you, you’re a good man Arthur Morgan.” His lips twitched a second time at your words as he fought away a knowing smile and the readied words he always uttered on the tip of his tongue. “Aw you don’t know me Miss; go on get! Before I change my mind.” He chuckled. You nodded and he fixed those blue orbs your way until he couldn’t see you anymore. Shaking his head at the events this strange morning had brought him before finally deciding to call it a day. Mounting his horse; giving the gelding a loving pat on his neck then led him back into town.

As the weeks passed, Arthur found he couldn’t get you out of his head. His mind replaying that morning over and over. Rereading everything he’d written down in his journal as he remembered it. Those same striking features and piercing eyes staring back at him from the page. The sketch was one he was secretly proud of. In his opinion it did you more justice than that damn wanted poster ever did. And every town he rode into since, he’d always taken the extra time to tear down anymore he saw. Settling into the seat of his saddle as his gelding plodded into Valentine, now calmed from the hard ride over from Van Horn. Arthur looked for a good place to hitch the black Shire; allowing the beast the well-earned rest he deserved. He was making his way down the main street when he caught sight of the Sheriff sat outside his office; cigar in one hand, coffee cup in the other. Waving his arms about dramatically to his deputy who sat beside him. “Strangest damn thing I’ve ever seen my whole life.” He bellowed. His Deputy hanging on his every word. “I send four Bounty Hunters after this woman and not even half an hour after the last one leaves, she walks in like she owns the place, pays off her own bounty in full then leaves without saying a word!”  Both Law men throw their heads back in laughter as Arthur trots on by them. A knowing smirk on his face as he takes a guess at exactly who they were talking about. He reaches the Saloon, hitching his Shire beside a beautiful bay mare; a Tennessee Walker he thinks at a glance, before turning heel and heading up the steps. He’s greeted with the usual ambience of the Saloon before the rowdy patrons show up to disturb the peace with their nightly games of poker and heavy drinking. He debates whether to sit by the table for a meal or by the bar alone for a quiet drink but his decision his made for him when he spot a very familiar face sat alone by the window. His scuffing boots against the wooden floor grabbing your attention as you turn in your chair.

“Arthur Morgan!” You announce to the room as he pulls up a chair beside you. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you again!”

“I could say the same to you Miss Y/N L/N.” He greets warmly. “How have you uh…”

“Been? I’ve been good I suppose.”

“Really? You sure about that?” He challenges, that same amused smirk on his face. “You haven’t run into any O’Driscolls recently?”

He watches your face scrunch up in feigned thought, your lips widening into a grin that he can’t help but find endearing.

“I don’t think I know what you’re talking about Mister Morgan.”

Arthur glanced over his shoulder to check the crowd before leaning in close, his arms rested on the table between you. His gruff voice dropping to a rumbled whisper.

“Really? Because I’ve seen that horse you got hitched outside Y/N and I ain’t blind. Don’t think I ain’t noticed the green bandana tied to her reins. We both know she ain’t yours.” He accused but you didn’t falter. Seeming to appear a lot more confident than the last time you met. Leaning back in your chair cockily, with a bright smile shining back at the Outlaw.

“She is mine…Now. Figured you can’t rightly steal something from someone if they’re dead.” You smirked. “And that O’Driscoll was very very dead when I stole his horse.”

At this Arthur laughed loudly. You had a point he supposed. And if he was honest he was rather glad to hear you hadn’t changed all that much. In fact he even found himself imagining how you’d fit into the gang, even if only for a moment. You and he were strangely similar and he found a deep respect for you and the things you had done. Especially your impressive skills when it came to killing O’Driscolls; he could imagine the delight Dutch and Sadie would find in someone that hated Colm as much as they did.

The sudden screech of your chair legs broke his train of thought as he looked to see you fumbling through your satchel before turning back to face him.

“I gotta admit I was hoping I’d see you again. I wanted to give you this.” You said sliding a clip of bank notes across the table towards him. Arthur’s eyes widening as he took the pile and counted the amount. “And don’t worry this ain’t counterfeit, I promise.”

“Y/N there’s over five hundred dollars here! I can’t take this.”

He moved to hand it back but you refused. His heart betraying him as it skipped it beat the moment you placed your hand on top of his.

“I owe you. It’s half the reward for my bounty. You didn’t have to let me go.” You explained quietly, fearing someone might overhear. “I still don’t get why you did but I’m grateful. After I left, I got some work and earned the rest to wipe the slate clean. But you gave up a lot of money Arthur. And I pissed off a lot of Bounty Hunters when I paid my own bounty. This is my way of saying thank you. There ain’t a lot a decent folk around here but you’re one of em’.”

Arthur had to think for a second, his callous hand slipping from your grasp and rising to rub at the base of his neck.

“Aww Y/N you don’t know me.” He said shyly. The same words he’d uttered so often to every stranger that had assumed his good intentions. They didn’t know him either. Instead only seeing just a fraction of the man he truly was.

“But I’d like too.” It surprised him when you leaned forward to gently press your hand against his forearm. Your eyes shining like your smile and he found himself smiling back in return. Incredibly astounded by how brazen you were being but even more shocked in himself to find he was flattered by it.

“Well then Miss L/N…How about we stay here a little longer and I buy us dinner?”