#every black person here already told these folks they were being stupid and drinking the kool-aid

[blackfilmmakers]

Wasn't the screenshot messages of black people on tiktok saying that they will start eating at McDonald's etc made to show that colonized people in the imperial core too have power over those who are at the imperial periphery?

Anon, sellouts exist in every group-including oppressed groups. Including those under imperialist rule

This is not new information guys, I shouldn't have to baby feed you this

Anyways, where were you when white people all over the world were making the "Haitians eating your pets" memes?

[jinmukangwrites]

Whumptober 2021 - October 3 - "Who did this to you?"

Fandoms: Linked Universe

Ao3

Warnings: major injury, attempted murder, blood, near-death experiences

---

Trouble comes with a smiling face; not that Wild knows that yet. All he sees is an eager young woman with kind eyes and a humble dress, offering to show him where he can get some wine to cook with tonight.

He and the rest of the heroes have been on the road for quite a while now, without a single town in sight. Nothing but various barns to cross their path. This is the first actual town they’ve seen in miles, even though it’s not a very big one. Yet, there is a small inn for weary travelers, and a marketplace near the front entrance of the town where farmers can sell their goods and towns-folk and gossip. The whole group of them are rather low on funds, but the market seemed like the perfect excuse to relax. Spend some money that they just barely have. Pretend to be normal people for just a few hours.

Just until sunset.

It was Wild, Twilight, Warriors, and Hyrule out in the market while the others were making deals with the innkeepers to get cheaper rooms and more beds. Wild wasn’t really sure what the others were wanting to find out in the market today, but Wild was on the hunt for quality ingredients for quality food that he couldn’t make while on the road. He planned on making a meal tonight fit enough for Zelda herself, and he needed wine to do it. Not to drink, of course not, but to soak into fine slices of meat to add extra flavoring. Nothing strong enough to get a man tipsy—and if he ends up with extra wine, he’ll put it in a flask and gift it to the Old Man. Hylia knows he deserves it.

But he couldn’t find anything even remotely related to wine in these small markets. Some stalls sell alcoholic jars of milk, but Wild honestly has never even heard of milk that could be alcoholic, let alone ever cooked with it. By the time the sun was starting to caress the horizon, frustration was bubbling in his belly because of this and all he could think about were those berries he saw on a tree a few days ago that looked perfect for making some of his own wine out of.

Twilight and Warriors were looking at a jewel-smith's stall, admiring the finely crafted trinkets and murmuring to themselves about the ones that would match her eyes, or impress that gentleman at the tavern, and Wild soon lost interest in both the stall and his love-sick companions. He had stood several feet off, leaning against a brick wall, eyeing the closest stalls to him and hoping for even a small sight of anything close to wine set up for sale.

And then he saw her. Trouble, despite him not knowing it. He didn’t even suspect it. Perhaps he’s gotten too used to the threats of other worlds, that he forgot the threats of his own.

She walked up to him, a swish to her brown dress that seemed to almost have a pink tint. Her hair was brown, done up in messy braids and a bun above her head. Wild assumed she was the daughter of a farmer who was selling crops from their farm, so he didn’t assess her too critically. Before he knew it, she was stopped a few feet from him, swaying her dress side to side between her thin fingers.

“Is there something you’re looking for, travelers?” she asked, her voice sweet like sugared honey. Beside him, Hyrule blushed a bit at the ears.

Wild wasn’t much in a good mood at the moment, but he decided that asking for help might be his only option at this point. “I’m looking for wine, or any kind of beverage like it made out of berries?”

The girl hummed, pressing her finger to her chin in thought. “The most popular beverage ‘round here is milk…” she said, and Wild’s shoulders slumped. But then she continued. “Though, I know a liquor shop further in town where they sell all kinds of drinks. I’ll show you the way, but it closes really soon.”

Hope surged in Wild’s chest. Perhaps he would be able to make a fancy meal tonight after all! Feeling in lighter spirits than he had all night, he told Hyrule to inform Twilight and Warriors that he would be going to the liquor shop. Wild barely noticed the slight hesitation on Hyrule’s face before he turned and did as he was asked. Wild should have noticed it. He should have thought more about how eager and smooth talking the girl was, should have been more in tune with his companion’s concerns, but he followed her out of the market anyway.

And now he’s here, laying on the ground in a pool of his own blood thanks to a hole in his stomach. The “liquor store” was nothing more than an abandoned shop several blocks away from the market, but he only found that out when he walked inside and saw the hastily put together lanterns to give the illusion of life, each one placed among dust and cobwebs. Before he could even turn back and question what was going on, the girl was sliding her arm around his side and heartlessly impaling him with a familiarly curved, sickle-like blade.

Her laugh was also familiar as his knees gave out and he crumpled to the floor, wheezing. Though not familiar in a way that he knew her name; he knew her kind.

“Wh-” he gasps, using one hand to clutch at the floor blanketed in bloody dust, and the other to press onto the wound in his stomach like he’s trying to keep everything in. “What-”

“You’re probably wondering why I’m here, hero,” the girl… Yiga chuckles, stepping over his crumpled body to squat by his head. “To tell the truth, I’m not sure either. I fell into a portal… and found myself in a whole new world. And I saw you, and your friends. I can’t tell you how long I’ve been waiting for the perfect moment to take you down. This is for Master Kohga-” Wild’s too weak to fight her off as she reaches for his body, searching his pockets and taking the only healing potions that he had. “-and for Calamity Ganon. I don’t care what happens to me now, as long as you die painfully and slowly, right here.”

Then, she stands up, takes his potions, and leaves, shutting the door behind her as she laughs into the night.

Stupid. Wild is so stupid. How did he not guess something like this would happen? Did he truly let his guard down so badly that he forgot to always be on the lookout for Yiga soldiers? Has he become so comfortable traveling between worlds that didn’t have rogue Sheikah that it didn’t matter for him to worry about them as much?

He’s going to bleed out and die here, all because he wanted some wine to cook with in a town that only sold fucking milk and he couldn’t bother to make sure the person he was following was actually someone with good intentions. He can already feel his vision swirling, and his entire body feels pathetically weak and cold. The pain is unbearable, bringing tears to his eyes.

He coughs up blood, and does his best to prepare himself for a failure’s death, as he’s too weak to even call for help; let alone try and save himself.

Stupid…

His vision swirls white, and then fades black, and he knows nothing more.

-o-o-o-o-

“Something’s wrong,” Twilight says, several minutes after Hyrule told him and Warriors that Wild had gone off with some farmer girl to find a liquor store.

“Something is wrong,” Twilight repeats when they ask a local villager for directions to the nearest liquor store, and they reply the only alcohol this town sells is the milk in the market.

Hyrule is quick to point out the direction he remembers seeing Wild and the girl go off in, and then they thankfully split up to cover more ground. The second there’s no one to see, Twilight changes into his wolf form, sniffing the air desperately for his kid. Wild’s scent is one that he will always remember, it’s stored and locked within his brain, right next to Mipha, Zelda, and all the kids at Ordon.

He finds Wild’s trail after a nerve wracking few moments, and then he’s dashing through dimly lit streets like his life depends on it.

The feeling of something being horribly wrong only gets stronger when he finds Wild’s scent leading inside a run down looking building with dim, flickering lanterns in the windows. Then, the reek of blood hits his nostrils at full force. He shifts back into his human form and bursts into the front door without a single care on what’s on the other side.

The stench of blood is stronger here, even for his human nose. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that his eyes drop to the floor along with what feels like a stone in his stomach. Wild is at his feet, curled up like a child, red pooling around his terribly pale body.

“No-” Twilight drops down to his knees, already pulling out his spare red potion and gathering Wild into his arms. Wild makes a strangled groan through his throat, but his eyes are squeezed closed.

He’s alive though. The thought that he’s still alive is the only thing that gives Twilight enough strength to pull out the cork of his jar and shove the opening to Wild’s lips.

Wild chokes as the liquid enters his mouth, but Twilight doesn’t let up. It’s preferable to drink red potions, but when it comes to drastic situations like this, just getting it in the injured person's body is enough to save their lives. Wild coughs through the liquid and writhes in Twilight's arms, and it’s all Twilight can do to keep the bottle there and shakily whisper every comforting word that he knows. Eventually, color returns to Wild’s cheeks, and his eyes blink open blearily as his choking turns into instinctive swallows.

When the contents of the bottle is gone, Twilight lets the glass jar fall to the floor as he now uses his newly freed hand to check Wild’s wound.

It’s still nasty, and deep, but no longer life threatening. Another potion or some stitches and Wild will be as good as new. For the first time in what feels like years, Twilight allows himself to breath out a sigh of intense relief.

“Twi…?” Wild asks, voice incredibly small.

Twilight holds him just a little tighter, willing his heart to calm down. He’s almost… he’s come so close to almost losing-

“Who did this to you?” Twilight demands with a bite to his tone that he doesn’t mean to direct at Wild.

Wild doesn’t react to it though. He just closes his eyes and shakes his head. “It… doesn’t matter…” he replies in a whisper. Twilight feels anger swell in his stomach and he almost argues back, but Wild talks more despite how much it must still hurt. “Later,” he says. “’M hurt, wanna sleep. Deal with… it later.”

Twilight takes a deep breath, counts to five, then lets it out. He doesn’t feel any less upset. However, he keeps his voice level, deciding that arguing with Wild here will just upset the boy more than help him.

“Okay,” he agrees reluctantly. “I’m going to carry you, okay? I’m out of potions, but Wars or Hyrule should be nearby with some of their own. Then we can go get a well deserved sleep.”

Wild simply nods and relaxes into Twilight’s arms, breathing a sigh and closing his eyes. Twilight bites his lip, then resolves himself to hold one of his dearest friends close to his chest as he stands up. There’s blood everywhere, staining his hands, his tunic, his boots, his pants. But he got here in time. Wild will be okay.

That’s all that matters now. Once Wild has all his color back and his stomach no longer has a hole in it… then Twilight can make sure whoever did this regrets being born.

“I got you, kid,” he says, “I got you.”

[spike-and-faye]

Hello, I require your infinite wisdom please!! :O So I just finished cowboy bebop and I am so confused like who the fuck was Julia. WHAT was Faye's past. I literally never process tv shows and the bebop was not immune to my stupidity LMAO like... I guess the ending just really confused me, from what I gathered Spike and Vicious were friends? But then they weren't? And Julia dated Vicious but also Spike? And he? Went after Vicious even after Julia had died? I am Confusion. Please help. Thank u...

Oh BABEY I am so glad you asked! :) Be prepared for a long answer and I apologize in advance for how incoherent it will probably be.

ALSO Please note: this show is fucking complicated. I have watched it all the way through several times a year, every single year, for over a decade now, and I am *STILL* finding new shit every time I watch it. It's packed with symbols, motifs, allusions and underlying themes that are just so rich. It is so extraordinarily well-written that it could give a lot of classic literature a run for its money. I'm literally working on an in depth literary/film analysis my husband lovingly calls my Manifesto on the series right now. SO PLEASE don't beat yourself up about not catching everything on the first go round.

HEY BTW for anyone who hasn't finished the show, please know there will be MANY spoilers ahead!

Anyways ~

1.     Spike / Julia / Vicious:

The information we get on Spike's past, including Vicious and Julia, is pretty limited considering how big of an impact they have on the story. We get our first glimpse in Session 1: Asteroid Blues, then again in Session 5: Ballad of Fallen Angels, Sessions 12 + 13: Jupiter Jazz, and Sessions 25 + 26: Real Folk Blues. I recommend reviewing these episodes for you Julia and Vicious fix.

What we know:

Spike and Vicious were both members of an organized crime syndicate called the Red Dragons, which is roughly analogous to the Yakuza or the Mafia. Their positions in the organization are not clear, but there are some images alluding to them being hitmen, and they likely rose up in the ranks as they were close acquaintances of Mao Yenrai, a Capo of the Red Dragon.

Spike and Vicious were close comrades. Spike taught Vicious everything he knew about fighting, and the two had a deep trust in each other. Which Spike fucked up ….

^^Vicious looks hot asf here

Julia was Vicious' lover/girlfriend. One night in 2068 (three years prior to the time we watch in the Bebop) Spike is injured, presumably from a syndicate-related fight and he passes out in front of her door. She takes him in and nurses him back to health and he SIMPS HARD for her. We’re all but told he's in LOVE love with her. They start an affair, and Spike tells her he's ready to abandon the whole life - the syndicate, Vicious, Mao, all of it - and they could run away together.

WELL Vicious finds out about this whole affair, and is DOUBLY betrayed because his literal best friend and girlfriend have been having an affair, and tbh I think he was just as jealous of Spike's attentions as he was of Julia's. (Whether or not it’s a sexual thing for Spike … well … I have my own headcanons about that). SO when he finds out they're going to run away together, he gives Julia an ultimatum: you can either kill him, or I'll just kill you both. Spike had written her a letter about meeting him in the graveyard to start their new life together, which she tears up to hide his location from Vicious. (This is the falling ripped up pieces of paper we see in Spike's flash back in Session 5).

^^ r/gifsyoucanhear

**NOTE: There are those who disagree with this view, (looking at you Cowboy Bebop wiki) instead suggesting Vicious and Spike were buds in the past, but then hated each other once they were both considered as potential successors to Mao. That's why Vicious wanted him dead, and he was enlisting Julia (who he didn't necessarily have a romantic connection to) to help kill Spike since he knew Spike loved her. Personally, I think there is plenty of evidence that Vicious also wanted Julia, and in fact was already with her, when Spike started seeing her. If you want me to cite my sources please send an me an ask about it :)

Spike gets the idea, whether by her just not showing up or word around the syndicate being like YO Vicious wants you dead. Despite Vicious' ultimatum to Julia, he was gunna kill Spike either way. SO he sets up an ambush, and SadBoy™ Spike walks intentionally into their trap. Somehow, he doesn't die, though the entire syndicate thinks he did. (Note Annie's reaction to seeing him alive in Session 5). It’s also implied that this is where he lost his eye.

HIS EYE - possibly the most important symbol in the show so I do have to mention it. In episode 26, he explicitly explains to Faye that one of his eyes only sees the past. (PS this isn't dissimilar to Jet's arm… we can get into that another time). Basically, he's constantly living halfway in the past and halfway in the present, and describes the past like a dream he can never wake up from. Because dysfunctional or not - the syndicate WAS his family. (Again - see his relationship with Annie, Mao, and Vicious (prior to Spike's betrayal)). It's his reminder that Julia didn't run away with him, and that he'd left behind that life for her. (He didn’t know she was being threatened until the final episode). Basically Spike is hyper-fixated on what he had and what could've been.

Not long after this, Spike starts bounty hunting because like? What else is he going to do. He doesn't care if he lives or dies but if he has to be alive, he may as well be able to eat. He joins up with Jet Black on the Bebop.

TL; DR: Spike stole Vicious' lover, Julia, so Vicious made Julia choose between her killing Spike or Vicious killing them both. She instead went into hiding and Spike thought he'd been stood up. He fake died and got the hell outta dodge.

2.     What was Faye's past?

Ok let me start by saying Faye is my wife and my life. HOWEVER I hated her the first time I watched this show circa age 13 because I thought she was annoying/vain/shallow (also because #internalizedmisogyny lol am I right fam). Good news! She is all those things! But she's also very lonely and scared and an amnesiac and secretly a sweetie and she realizes she loves the crew of the Bebop like family.

SO my wife's backstory:

she was born in the 1990s (#only90skidsremember). There's some debate over her race/nationality, but due to the images of her hanging out in Merlion Park in Singapore, my bet is that she's Singaporean. She comes from a wealthy family with a big house, and we see some utterly *adorable* film of her as a child/young adolescent in Session 18: Speak Like a Child. I cry everytime </3

^^ Holla for the representation

In 2014, circa age 20, she and her parents were going into space when the shuttle they were on had some kind of malfunction/accident and it killed an unknown number of people, including her parents. At the time, the technology didn’t exist to be able to save her, so she was put into a cryogenic sleep state. Meanwhile, the Lunar Gate accident occurs, breaking up the moon and causing rock showers on Earth's surface. Most people died, moved to Mars, or settled underground.

She wakes up from her cryogenic sleep in 2068. (Also the year Spike leaves the syndicate.) She's 'woken' by the corrupt Dr. Bacchus who plans on charging her for the years and years of medical debt she's accrued. (See Session 15: My Funny Valentine.) Luckily a lawyer takes interest in her case (Whitney Haggus Matsumoto) and tries to help get rid of her debt. The two fall in love, but turns out Whitney is a Scumbag. He's actually Dr. Bacchus's nephew, and faked his death, writing Faye as the sole inheritor to his will. This means she'll take on all his debts. So baby girl has LOTS of debt at this point.

In the intervening years prior to her joining the Bebop, she gambles, cheats, gains a lot of street smarts, and adopts a very seductive character to get her way. She joins the crew on the Bebop in Session 3: Honky Tonk Women.

TL;DR: Faye is Austin powers

YIKES this is so long I am so sorry. Bitches are obsessed with this show. (I am bitches)

3.     The Ending

Okay I'm going to present this in the way, in my scholarly opinion, would be correct, though there are SO many interpretations other than simply 'Spike died :/".

To understand the plot of the last couple episodes we actually have to go back to Session 5: Mao is instructed* to sign a treaty with a rival syndicate called the White Tigers. (*He's instructed by The Van (Council of identical creepy old men) who are the actual head of the dragon. I think we only see them in Session 26.) Well - Vicious is a Bastard Man and he and his fellow mutineers blow up the White Tiger guys' ship and slit Mao's throat. Before he dies, Mao is like "Gotdamnit if Spike was still here this shit wouldn't have happened." Later in the Cathedral battle, Vicious explains to Spike he killed Mao because Mao 'lost his fangs'. He planned on killing Spike for good her, IMO, so there'd be no rival to take over as Capo for the Dragons.

^^These guys are The Van btw

THEN in Session 25, the Van basically catches Vicious and is like “you killed Mao and now you have to go to Time Out.” The Van also decides to just kill everyone associated with Vicious, just 2 B safe. That's why there's a big ass shootout at the Loser Bar where Jet and Spike are chilling, drinking, (missing Faye and Ed and Ein lol) and Shin (younger brother to Lin, who's helping Vicious overthrow the Dragon) explains all this to Spike. OH and PS JULIA IS ALIVE AND HERE IS HER LOCATION :). (**Notice Spike's reaction at this point is different than his reaction in Jupiter Jazz when he hears there's a Julia on Calisto. Much less excited… hmm…).

SO THEN you know we get some flashbacks of the past as previously explained *and* Julia just happens to run into Faye. She recognizes that Faye is one of Spike's friends from the Bebop (she was keeping tabs on him it seems) and picks her up. Faye doesn't know who Julia is but is like damn bitch I'm a little gay for you. (I mean … that may just be my bi ass projecting, but Faye is REALLY struck with her. Look at how she describes her to Jet, I mean come on.)

 Faye's like, 'we should team up' and Julia says 'no thanks but also tell Spike to meet me at *the place*'. Meanwhile back on the Bebop Spike and Jet are talking and Spike goes on about some dream woman who was his other half. (We assume he means Julia … I have my reasons to doubt this … I have a lot of angry DMs about my opinion here lol but I just do not give a fuck (: I can expand on this in another post or you can refer to the title of my fucking blog haha) Personally, I think Watanabe personally left this specific scene open ended, the same way he does with the ending and various other things.

more like SIMP Spiegel

ANYWAY Faye comes back to the Bebop to tell Spike about Julia, and Jet gets intel from a former cop buddy that there's some shit going down with the Dragons. (Again, the Van is hunting down everyone ever associated with Vicious, including your pal Spike). Bebop is attacked, Faye tells Spike what's up with Julia, and he heads out.

 PAN TO VICIOUS chained up - about to be executed - but what's that!? It's a bird!? It's a pla- no it's just a bird. (With one glowing red eye … hm … reminds me of Spike, also the drug Red Eye. Pls let me know if you have any thoughts on this). Just a bird with a BOMB! Explosion (RIP bird c. 2065 - too soon), Vicious kills the elders, his buddies show up and are ready to go fuck shit up.

this show could not be more of an aesthetic

MMMPhhh okay RAINY CEMETERY. Spike and Julia. She draws a gun, explains why she didn't meet him that day, and then hugs him. Now Spike is not *great* at showing his emotions but he literally just stands there. Maybe it's a stoic expression of how sad he is that he never knew she still cared, when it seemed like she dumped him. Maybe he's finally getting some closure on his past. Maybe the past doesn't mean the same thing it used to. (I'll elaborate later on this).

They go to Annie's to get stocked up on stuff, she lets them know she denied knowing Spike was still alive and hey also the Van was assassinated by Vicious and his guys so. Watch out for that. Then her shop is surrounded by Vicious' guys and she dies :(. Spike and Julia escape to the roof, but she's shot and dies in Spike's arms, and says 'it's all just a dream' :(. (Refer to: Spike living in a dream of the past).

Anyway Jet SAID he wasn't gunna go after Spike but. Jet's parental instincts kick in (oh yeah he was shot in the leg earlier btw) and he goes to Sitting Bull to see if he knows where Spike is. He basically says yeah Spike's about to die somewhere. (I want to do a further analysis on all the Sitting Bull scenes.) Well conveniently Spike returns to the Bebop, eats, tells his story about a tiger-striped cat. (At one point Jet asks if he's going there for her, and Spike is like well she's dead now so whatever). THEN we get to the scene where Faye is like HEY YOU CAN'T GO OFF AND DIE ASSHOLE and he's like ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I 've been living in the past so I might as well see if I'm living now. (**This will play heavily into my interpretation of the ending). Faye is pissed, shoots the ceiling and he goes off to the syndicate headquarters to fuck shit up.

He basically John Wicks his way through the building, Shin dies, he and Vicious have the big boss battle and whatnot. He kills Vicious and stumbles back out down the stairs and says "Bang!" and collapses. We pan to the sky and see a star fade away.

Well that explains the plot … now here's what I think happened!!! ALSO may I mention, anon - you picked up on something I feel like a lot of people miss out on. Why *did* Spike go back to kill Vicious if Julia was already dead??

Basically, once it became clear that anyone associated with Vicious was being killed, Spike knew they'd hunt him down, and they weren't beneath Kill-Billing their way to him, (i.e. systematically destroying this companions to get to him). And for all his apparent indifference - he really loves his new found family. Jet is literally like an older brother to him. Ed is a little sister. Ein is well … a very good boy. And Faye? Well the relationship is complicated, and I'm not going to get into the 69,420 reasons I ship them here, but I think it is beyond argument that he really does care for her, even if that just in a filial way. He didn't want the syndicates to kill them for their association to him, or in order to get to him. So he did what he had to do to protect them. *AND NO* I am not saying that he didn't love Julia. But it was clear that his desire was no longer to run away with her. I think he genuinely loved and cared about her, but at some point between Jupiter Jazz Pt 2 and now, he accepted that their time together was over. Now he had a new raison d'etre, which is the Bebop.

I think at this point Spike has 'woken up' to reality (as he implied to Faye in their final conversation in episode 26: "Look at these eyes. One of them is a fake, because I lost it in an accident. Since then, I have been seeing the past in one eye, and the present in the other. I had believed that what I saw was not all of reality...I thought I was watching a dream that I would never awaken from. Before I knew it, the dream was all over." (This is from the sub btw I'm too lazy to look up the dub transcript.) He wasn't going there to die, he's going to find out if he's really alive. This line is fucking cool and everything - but it's implications are multitude. I won't go into them all here but basically : what makes him alive now is that he's free from his past. He's alive because he has this new family and protecting them is all he really wants now. Spike was protecting Jet, Faye, Ed, (and Ein) by going and facing the entire syndicate, knowing that their lives would all be in danger.

SO - did Spike die? Well again - Watanabe has purposely and artfully left this open ended. Well, if we're following the symbolism from Sitting Bull, then yeah, the man is as dead as disco, and wouldn't that be a fitting ending? BUT at the same time, Spike always refers to having 'died' before (meaning when he was ambushed by the syndicate, and they all thought he died, and he pretty much did). Don't forget that in  movie (takes places roughly between episodes 22 + 23, and yes, was made AFTER the series but whatever) he like .. DIES dies. He goes to the afterlife and everything. He wakes up to find he's chilling with Sitting Bull, who's like nah it wasn't your time to die yet. So the fact Sitting Bull confirms Spike will die in the final episode, means yeah, Spike is pretty much dead.

BUT -- okay now hear me out -- could this death in the final episode be a death to his previous life? The person he was in the syndicate? Now that he's extinguished the Red Dragons for good, is it not possible that its merely *that* life which has ended? That's the optimist in me saying that, but if it keeps me from staying up all night crying, I guess it'll have to do. Watanabe definitely wants to leave it up to the viewer, so whatever you think, I feel like there's validity to it.

WELL any anon, sorry for the fucking lecture - and believe me, I could've said MUCH, MUCH more - but I enjoyed this question. I always love talking about this show so please all you fuckers feel free to message me or send an ask about anything any time. I am really slow at replying because #life'sAbitch.

Love you all.

SY,SCB <3

[allycryz]

WOL Challenge #1: Tea

Prompt List Here 

(Doing these out of order and likely not every day)

Nerys x Y’shtola, Nerys x Emet-Selch

Immediately post 5.0 in the Crystarium, Hurt/Comfort* (*I plan on him coming back, just not sure how yet)

--

They need this celebration.

She drinks and toasts and smiles and accepts their congratulations. The relief on their faces and their voices–it must hurt. The sharp but gratifying pain of disinfecting a cut.

Nerys stays for a few hours and drinks cup after cup of water. Alcohol might dull the pain but she's too fragile and none of these people need to see her crumble.

The natural flow of a party happens, breaking into small groups for long conversations or dedicated drinking. Everyone will assume she is with another group. That's when she leaves. When they look for her (and they will, especially Thancred and Haurchefant) they will start with her rooms. And she will want that comfort but not now, not yet. 

The Cabinet of Curiosity is never locked. 

"The Exarch believes our wealth of information should be available to all." Moren had said, which seemed ironic even then. She is still a little angry at Urianger, but at least he has never pretended to not be secretive. At least, not in this same bold way.

The single attendant nods to her as she passes to the lower floors. Her feet take her to her favorite spot, even knowing it's twisting the knife. The fairy tale and folklore section is small and the evocative purple binding of the book jumps out at her.

Nerys removes Collected Folk Tales of Lakeland from the shelf. Traces the raised letter of the covers and all at once she can feel his lips against her ear. His teasing her into a reaction while commenting on her reading material.

"I wish the ones I heard as a child were collected somewhere."

"Ah, but they lose magic that way, don't they?" He breathes in her ear. "Some in the telling, but far more when we commit them to the page."

"Stupid, foolish," she mutters to herself, to his ghost, feeling rage and sorrow rise up in her. He had never lied to her, but there were so many stories he had never told. If he had, maybe they could have avoided all of it. If he had stopped to consider that maybe they–sundered beings though they were–could understand loss and hard choices and sacrifice. 

She is so sick of people not telling her things. 

She is so sick of people she loves dying for others to live on. What if there had been a way? To save them all without killing a man she loved?

Nerys puts the book away as her lips and chin start shaking. The dam in her breaks and she can do nothing about it. Not when her body recognizes you are alone and it is quiet and no one is here and you need to break down.

So she breaks down.

Somehow she manages to get to a table and chair, muffling her sobs in her hands. Struggling to keep quiet when she wants to scream and howl. The attendant is far enough away but she takes no chances.

Whatever strength is left in her is gone. Whatever joy she found in the last hours is gone. Just like Ardbert and just like…

She reaches the post-sobbing stage of crying, to where tears run down her face and she sniffles but the worst has passed. Nerys wipes at her eyes with her sleeves. There are no tissues here, she will have to leave or just sniffle for a long time.

Someone walks down the stairs. 

Nerys uncurls herself, scrubbing roughly at her cheeks. It won't fool anyone. Maybe they won’t mention it. She turns in the chair.

Y'shtola reaches the floor and walks towards her. In each hand she carries a large mug with steam wafting from it. 

"We're not supposed to have food or drink in here," Nerys croaks.

"Will you tell Moren?" Y'shtola asks, a bemused expression on her pretty face.

"Not if you don't." Nerys accepts her cup, cradling it in her hands. It's red tea with the perfect amount of cream added to it. When she sips, she finds it's also the strength and sweetness she prefers. 

She would choose black tea over red most times but it is late and she shouldn't have something that will keep her up.

"It's perfect," she says. "Ah...will you sit?"

Y'shtola nods and takes the other chair at the table. A long silence stretches over them as Nerys watches the steam rise. It isn't uncomfortable and they might both be happy to sit in quiet like that the rest of the evening.

But there is a hint of expectation. Y’shtola would like to know what has Nerys so distraught, if she doesn't already.

"I…" Nerys swallows. "It could have been different. It should have been different."

Y'shtola raises her cup to her lips, sampling her own tea before setting it down. "What would you have done differently?"

"I didn't know then what I know now. Or could have guessed but–there must have been a moment I could have reached him. Some way I missed."

Y'shtola's voice is soft. "He could have also chosen differently. I wish he had."

Nerys looks up at that. There is a gentle sadness in Y'shtola's expression. She is not one for regrets, making it all the more jarring. 

"You do?"

"I do not excuse a single thing he did. Nor, do I think do you."

"If he lived, it wouldn't be a matter of 'all is forgiven'," says Nerys. Just as it hasn't been for Yotsuyu or Fordola. And the scale of their crimes are far different compared to Emet’s. There are many who will never forgive them and they are allowed to do so.

Just as...if he had lived; she would not have demanded any of her comrades or allies forgive him. 

"But he might have made some amends. And he might have come to terms with the fact that our cause was as just as his, even if we are sundered." Y'shtola shakes her head. "He liked us, truly. Perhaps we could have changed his mind."

And Nerys, broken down and tired and her guards gone, says it out loud. "I think I was falling in love with him."

And Y'shtola reaches out and clasps her hand. Her fingers are warm and strong and Nerys hasn’t held them since the night they almost lost her in Rhalgr’s Reach. "I had a notion."

Nerys lets out a shaky, choked breath. "It was far too recent to have done anything. Not that...even if it had started when we first met, who was I in the grand scheme of his life? Even if I was someone he knew once before the sundering… I am not them now. None of us are."

She hasn't told them any of Emet's insinuations from the Ladder, what Hythlodaeus said, Emet's shock when Ardbert joined with her.

But Y'shtola doesn't need that to understand. "Mortals and immortals alike find reasons to control others. None of them are valid in my mind."

"No, no you're right. I...guess I am indulging a little much in pity right now."

"You can indulge tonight. I keep thinking similar things about our friend." Y'shtola squeezes her fingers. "In another lifetime, he could have been so much more to us."

Nerys looks at her and feels like she could say anything. Confess anything. Y'shtola's presence gives her strength she thought she had spent. It always has. No wonder Nerys is in love with her.

She could actually tell her that now, in this sacred space of trust and honesty. And how farcical, that now when she thinks she could actually say it, could brave the possibility of Y'shtola turning her down-

-it is not the right time. Y'shtola deserves a confession not tied to grief or other people. She deserves for a time wholly dedicated to her. Even if the response is "thank you but I don't feel the same," Y’shtola deserves that care and kindness as her friend and as the person she is.

It is the type of dramatic irony so present in the comedic plays Emperor Solus commissioned during his reign. All they need are siblings in disguise and a throughline on the fluidity of gender and attraction to make it a true Solus Comedy.

Instead, she says "Y'shtola...will you stay with me a while? We can talk about anything at all, I just...would like your company."

Y'shtola smiles. "I picked the large mugs for a reason."

[goldenmazzello]

Lay all your love on me | Part 1

(I don't own this gif. Credits to the owner)

Warning: Flashbacks. Language. Mentions of poor mental health, angst.

W/C: 2.8k.

A/N: Hello! This is the first part of Lay all your love on me. You can find the next parts on my pinned masterlist here.

MASTERLIST 

Your last day on set has finally arrived. It's amazing how time flies when you're busy doing things you really love, surrounded by magnificient people. It makes you forget about your every day routine and to have some fun from time to time.

Everybody was getting their make-up done for the last day of filming. As you entered the trailer in order to get yours done, a sweet, delicate voice called you.

"(Y/n)! Are you ready for our last day?" Lucy asked with a bright smile on her face while sitting on her personalized black chair, which had her name written at the back.

You smiled. "To be honest, I'm not doing too well, I'm gonna miss you guys so much." You said with a pouty face. Lucy said she would miss all of you too. 

“Oh, nice baby bump!” 

You furrowed your brows but then you remembered. You were wearing a fake silicone belly, since your character was going to be pregnant in that scene. 

“Yeah, he’s kicking so hard.” You joked. 

You sat on your chair as your assistant helped you put your wig.  You laughed at your reflection in the mirror. "I still can't used to this wig." You found it odd to wear a blonde wig.

“At least they didn’t give you a perm!” Joe appeared holding two cups of coffee on each of his hands. “Here you have, my wonderful wife.” he approached you and gave you one of the cups. You laughed at his comments. 

“Thank you, Mr. Deacon.” You thanked him and left a kiss on his cheek.

Joe bringing you coffee on set every morning became a habit, one you were very delighted with. He was so kind with you that you swore your heart could just melt for every little thing he did for you. 

And while drinking your coffee, you remembered your very first day on set and how you and Joe started talking. 

Filming had already started by your first day on set. Today, you would meet the entire cast of the wonderful movie you were going to take part in. You felt an overwhelming joy for being part of such an incredible project, not only because it was a big step in your career as an actress, but also because you were a Queen fan. And it was your very first time in London.

Your very first scene was Freddie’s birthday party. You greeted all of your new cast mates before paying attention to the director’s indications. 

You sat between two of your cast mates. One of them was wearing a long-haired blonde wig and the other a long-haired brown one with a strange fringe. You were wearing a wig as well. It was a black-haired one with a fringe and low pony tails falling over your shoulders. Your eyes had a beautiful emerald eye-shadow which you weren’t very comfortable with but you didn’t care, you were another person now, it was your job.

As they started filming, you kept a conversation with the actor that played John Deacon’s role, your husband, of who you didn't remember his name. You smile at each other and them you both joined the conversation that the others were having about Freddie’s life as his mom stood up and looked for family pictures.

The director decided to take some breaks in between the scenes. It was a good opportunity to introduce yourself and to make some new friends. 

“Hey, nice to meet you. I’m Ben.” said the blonde one who was next to you and you told him your name. The other actors joined him and all of you started talking. There was something strange in one of them, the one who was next to you and introduced himself as Joe. Why was he talking so weird? 

“Why are you doing a bad American accent?” You asked him laughing. He furrowed his eyebrows and opened his mouth but didn’t say anything, he looked as if he was trying to find the words to say. “B-but, t-that’s my voice.” he said confused. 

“Oh shit, I’m so sorry.” You said and covered your face with your hands. That’s why you don’t have friends, stupid, you said to yourself. 

Your face was burning and you felt absolutely embarrassed. How long have you been on set? Three hours? And you were already causing trouble. 

He laughed. “Nevermind. What an awesome compliment. I mean, I’ve been working on it so hard and you thought that I was actually British but...What’s wrong with my voice? I think it’s a pretty convincing American accent. Anyway, thanks for the compliment.” 

“I’m really really sorry, I don’t know why I said that.” Your face was still red. You wished the Earth would swallow you, you wanted to disappear from his sight. He put his hand on your shoulder.

“Hey, you don’t need to apologize. I really meant what I’ve said, it was a nice compliment, I’m prouder of myself now!” He assured you and gave you an expression that indicated everything was okay and there wasn’t anything bad at what you had said, he wasn’t mad at that. 

You weren’t very convinced but after getting closer to him the following days, you realized that he was telling you the truth and there wasn’t anything you should worry about. After that, you both talked about each other’s lives. You found out he lived in New York, just as you. He was from there but you were from New Jersey. You told him how you ended up moving to New York to study and work on your acting career. Since that day, you both became very good friends. And the same thing happened with Ben, Gwilym, Rami and Lucy, you became close to them because of your new friendship with Joe. 

“Let’s take a picture for Instagram.” Joe suggested. You stood next to him, with your right hand covering half of your mouth showing surprise and Joe put one of his hands on your fake belly and the other did the same as yours. 

Lucy took the photo. 

@Joe_Mazzello: Say hi to the Deacon family! @(y/n)(y/s/n) #BohemianRhapsody #Queen #DeaconFamily 

~

The director was giving the last indications for the scene. We will rock you. You were on a sofa next to Joe, having a conversation as Ben did the same with the actress who played his wife and the one who was Gwilym’s wife sat there looking at him, while he was looking at Rami, completely annoyed. The girls were very good actresses but unfortunately, they weren’t very close to the rest of the cast and won’t be joining the future tour press since they have another projects in the pipeline. 

“You look so funny in that blonde wig.” Joe teased you, knowing that you hated it. 

Actually, Joe wanted to tell you that you looked beautiful, as always, but he wasn't bold enough to do it.

"Shut up or I'll take your wig off." You threatened him, he mocked you and rested his head on your shoulder.

And after that, Gwilym ordered everybody to join him. He came up with the beat of a new song he had been working on. Suddenly, all of you were clapping your hands at the third beat as Rami appeared and apologized for being late. He asked what was going on and Gwilym explained he wanted to give the audience a song they could perform and be part of it and you all began to sing and clap your hands.

"Cut!" The director shouted.

And everything was done. There were no scenes left, nothing else. After that, Rami suggested to go and have coffee. All of you were sat on the floor and drinking your coffee.

"I can't believe it's our last day." You said.

"I still remember the very first time you were on set." Gwilym said. "And the odd American accent." he moved his gaze from you to Joe and laughed.

"Oh no, please, I'm still ashamed of that." You begged him not no bring that back.

Memories from set were mentioned as you took a sip of coffee. You had a big smile on your face as you remembered probably one of the best days of your life and the best memory on set.

"Who's coming over?" You asked Rami, who was taking his crown off and put in on your head, you laughed.

"I don't know, darling. Maybe some fans." He shrugged. He got used to talking like Freddie.

After Freddie's party scene in Garden Lodge, the director suggedted to take a break and said that they had some guests on set that day.

"I thought we were going to film the I want to break free music video now." Gwilym said thoughtful with his hand on his chin.

"Hey mates, look who are here today!" Ben said as he, Joe and Lucy stood next to you, Rami and Gwilym and pointed at the door.

You couldn't believe your eyes when you saw them.

Brian May and Roger Taylor were a few feet away from you. Brian and Roger, from Queen, your favorite band, your idols.

"Hey folks, How are you doing today?" Asked Brian with a charming smile. 

Everybody greeted them but you. You were in shock, your face was as white as a sheet and your jaw was slacked. Lucy seemed to notice you and held your hand. 

Joe put his hand in your back and rubbed it softly. “Let’s go outside and catch some fresh air.” 

“Hey, who’s this pretty lady?” Roger asked. He took off his black glasses. 

“(Y/n) are you okay?” Lucy asked worried and the four men next to you turned to look. 

Oh God, you were absolutely nervous. Never in your craziest dreams you thought about having this opportunity. You knew that Brian and Roger sometimes visited the set but you didn’t think they would do it a day you were there. 

“I-I-I’m (Y/n)...” you extended your shaky hand. “Oh sorry for this, but I’m a big fan of Queen and...Oh God I can’t believe it!” Roger laughed and took your hand and shook it. You thought you were going to faint. You could feel your knees weaken. 

“No! I’m okay” You were shaking.

“Wow, it’s nice to meet you. I’ve seen some pictures of you here on set with these amazing people, you’re doing amazing.” He said and Brian nodded. 

“We’re finally meeting!” Brian said and you smiled with watery eyes. 

Joe wondered what made you deal with so much pain, you'd never said anything about that. He felt his heart broke at the mere thought of you being in pain.

Brian and Roger were absolutely grateful for your words. 

“I feel like I’m dreaming.” You laughed nervously. “You guys don’t have an idea of how much I appreciate you, your music helped me to heal so much pain and I will be forever grateful for that. I wanna show you something.” You said as you uncover your left wrist from your sleeve. You had a beautiful butterfly tattooed and under it, a lyric from one of your favorite songs by Queen, Spread your wings. “I’ve had this for over 12 years now and one of my biggest wishes was to show it to both of you someday and to thank you for everything."

“I’m glad our music help you in any possible way.” Brian said “And your tattoo is amazing. John would be very pleased If he saw it” You smiled. 

“I love it.” Roger said. “Hey Bri, why don’t we take a photo with her for Instagram?” 

“That would be nice.” 

Oh my God. 

"Let me be your photographer." Rami asked Brian for his phone and took some photos of your tattoo and others of you with them. A few minutes after that, your phone buzzed. Queen has tagged you on a post. 

@OfficialQueenMusic: “So glad to meet a fan today that will be part of our upcoming movie. Thank you for sharing your story with us @(y/n)(y/s/n) #BohemianRhapsody” 

That was, by far, the best day of your entire life. 

“Hey, come back to Earth, where are you?” Ben asked moving a hand in your face. You shook your head. 

“I was thinking about the first time I met Brian and Roger.” You blushed and he laughed.

“Oh, the day you almost pass out” Ben joked and you slapped him on his arm. “Hey, Am I telling a lie?” 

“Of course I almost pass out, my eyes were lucky to see Brian and Roger in person.” You and Ben giggled. 

“I’m going to miss you, do you know that?” Ben asked. 

“So do I!” You hugged him. Smiling. "You know I'm going to visit you."

Those weeks on set made you realize how lucky you were to find such incredible people. After years and years of being alone in your misery. After the countless nights you cried yourself to sleep and feeling like a piece of shit for being so alone in this world, everything was making sense now. 

You never told them about what you had been through. Being a teenager wasn’t easy. You wanted people to destroy the concept that your teenage years are supposed to be fun and those are the best years of your life because when you hit your late 20s, responsibilities are hard to manage and everything seems to be falling apart. Why couldn’t you be happy now?

Now, that you were 30, that everything was left behind. You wished you could say that you were a happy teenager and you didn’t have to fake a smile and pretend everything was okay. There were days you barely could get out of your house and see other people, or even worse, some days you couldn’t get out of bed and shower because there wasn’t any motivation at all. And no one understood. No one knew how hard it was being you, having such an stressful life that you worried about every little thing and it seemed you would never be at peace. You never felt safe. How hard it was to interact with others without thinking that they just did it to be nice to you or that they were desperately waiting for you to shut your fucking mouth. Isolation didn’t feel right. Loneliness didn’t feel right. Nothing felt right at all. You couldn’t keep pretending to be happy, you needed a reason to keep holding on, something that made you believe that your life was going to change, you wanted to be back on your feet and to know that all of that pain was gone.

Maybe it wasn’t so hard to be you, and eventually, you would find out where you belonged. You felt it was taking forever and you couldn’t wait for things to get better. You knew that someday things would be better and that your day would come. Sometimes you wished someone would save you, but you knew that you had to save yourself. If only you could find what you've been looking for. "How could this happen to me? "was the only thing that was always on your mind. You were sick of this life, you wanted to scream. You felt out of place, you were sick of feeling so left out.

And at that moment, you knew that your 18-year-old-self would be proud of you. Proud of the woman you had become and that now, all of your worries were left behind. You didn’t have to worry about that again, but it was still hard to open your heart and tell people about it. You weren’t embarrassed, it was part of you, part of your story but you didn’t want people to pity you. 

You didn’t realize you were almost crying until Joe spoke. 

“What’s going on?” He hugged you. Your vision was blurry, it was difficult for you to see clearly. You wiped your tears with your thumb and you chuckled. 

“I’m very emotional today. I’m grateful for everything that this movie brought me, especially the five of you.” 

There was a broad smile on Joe’s face. “Well, I’m glad you say that because you won’t get rid of me so easily, huh?” He joked. Joe always knew how to make you smile. But he was right, you lived like 30 minutes away from him, you would see each other everyday. “I have a list of places we’re visiting after coming back to New York.” 

“That’s why I love you.” You hugged him again. He smiled.

Joe felt something on his chest. He wished that I love you meant something else than being loved as a friend, but at the same time, he didn’t want to feel like this, he didn’t want to be in love again. Since his last girlfriend cheated on him with his friend, he couldn’t feel anything for someone. All of his dates failed and he decided to take some time for himself.

But there was something Joe couldn’t deny, when you were near, everything seemed so easy, he could look into your eyes and forget the world. 

“I love you even more.” 

[skullrock]

the partners, chapter ten - Steve x Reader

chapter ten - how soon is now?

series summary: you and Steve are police apprentices at Hawkins Police Station in the fall of 1986. you get along famously, but there’s something Steve is hiding, and there is an unknown evil lurking in Hawkins. [friends to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff]

chapter summary: In the aftermath, you and Steve find comfort in each other. 

warnings: swearing and an overwhelming amount of fluff

word count: 2k

a/n: here’s the Spotify playlist that goes with the series, and you can catch up here. this is it, folks. we have the epilogue left. if you stayed with me this entire time - thank you. this is my first longfic and it was a blast. thank you for the kind comments and interactions with this story. it means everything to me. one more chap to go babes. hope you enjoy this one <3

===

Steve has a lot of housekeeping to do.

He talks to your parents on a payphone at the hospital once a day. They’re in Europe and it’s taking them a while to get back, so they communicate this way. It’s awkward and weird for Steve to introduce himself, stumbling over his words – “Hi, I’m Steve Harrington. I’m your daughter’s partner. Like, at the station? But we also – we might – yeah. Anyway, she’s hurt pretty bad.” They tell him how much they appreciate him though, and he figures he’s had worse “meet the parents” scenarios before.

In between waiting to see you and sleeping on the floor, Sam Owens takes him into an empty conference room within the hospital. Steve tells him everything – the gut feeling that something was off about the Chief, the meddling of the evidence, the underground base, the bar, the building permits, everything. Owens nods solemnly as Steve speaks. It’s a lot to get through, and by the time Steve’s done explaining, his throat hurts.

“It’s taken care of,” Owens says simply, patting the top of Steve’s hand. “And we are looking into other properties to make sure they aren’t infiltrated, too.”

Steve nods. He doesn’t know if he can even trust Owens right now, but he’s too exhausted and worn to put up much of a fight.

“Are you doing okay?” Owens asks.

Steve doesn’t know how to answer. He leans back in his chair and lets out a long breath. Finally, he says, “I haven’t been doing okay for a long time.”

Owens nods sympathetically and pulls out a paper pad and pen. “We have some of the best therapists in the country, if you’d want to take a look at the programs. I’ll give you the information.” Owens pauses to write, then looks back up with a smile. “I’ll prescribe you some Ativan, too. Just to take the edge off.”

Steve nods weakly. Owens shoves the paper towards Steve who takes it and folds it into the uniform he is still wearing. He’s been asked numerous times to go home to clean and change, but he refuses, scared to lose the chance to see you if he’s gone when you wake. Owens leans back in his chair now, hands crossing over his chest. “I have something I want to talk to you about.”

Steve nods again.

“You exhibited… phenomenal skills when dealing with this case,” Owens starts. “Your attention to detail and drive to continue is something to be admired. The willpower you have and how strong you’ve been –“

“I haven’t been strong,” Steve interrupts. “I just… hid the pain very well.”

Owens shrugs. “You’re still a tough son of a bitch.”

Steve laughs.

“Your expertise is something that could really be helpful in the FBI, or CIA.”

If Steve were drinking, he would do a spit-take. “Are you serious?” he asks incredulously, leaning so far forward he almost falls out of his chair. “Me? FBI? CIA?”

“Just something to think about,” Owens says. “If you think you’re interested, give me a call. But before then….” Owens eyes shine. “We need an interim police Chief until we can get someone better in there. What do you say?”

Steve blinks. “Are you asking me to be acting Chief of Police in Hawkins?” Owens nods and Steve scoffs in disbelief. “Bullshit. I’m just a kid.”

“A kid with a hell of a lot of knowledge on all the things that have happened in this town. A kid with the will to keep going and do what’s right.” Owens sighs. “Look, you’re not going to have all the power – you’re just a sitting Chief. You’re already part of the force, so see it as a promotion. Just until we can find someone new.”

Steve swallows hard, his head racing, but he can’t help the smile that curves the ends of his lips. “Jesus.When do I start?”

He can’t wait to see his dad’s stupid face when he tells him.

===

Steve eventually does leave the hospital, because he wants to change and shower and buy you something nice. The thought didn’t even cross his mind until the Party showed up, all sporting either flowers or chocolates or movies for you. Robin and Dustin hug Steve tightly, and Steve’s eyes beam when he tells them of his promotion.

“He even said I could be part of the FBI,” Steve says lowly.

“Congrats,” Robin says. “Now please go change your clothes.”

And so he does, changing into the same outfit he wore the first time you both hung out. He grabs the most expensive bouquet at the florist, knowing full well he was about to be broke, then uses what little he has left to spare to buy you chocolates. He goes for a card but decides that he should probably use his words. Also, you probably couldn’t really read right now, what with the enormous concussion you’re sporting.

He’s sitting on the floor with the bouquet in hand – he insisted it was personally delivered – when the nurses tell him he can see you. He jumps up and pauses – his palms are sweaty, his heartbeat is through the roof, and he feels dizzy. It’s like being on a first date, or something; but he figures that’s what happens when the love you’ve been suppressing for months comes to you in one night.

You’re sitting up in bed and eating Jell-O when Steve bursts in, holding a huge bouquet of every flower known to man and a box of chocolates. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think it was Valentine’s Day.

“Hey,” you say, smiling broadly and taking him in. Last time you saw him was in a dimly lit bar lounge. He looks a lot more handsome here.

“Hi,” he says back. He stills before kicking into action, walking towards you. He awkwardly places the bouquet beside the other flowers people had brought and he sits the chocolates on your tray. “I figured maybe you’d like something that wasn’t hospital food.”

“I don’t know,” you beam. “Hospital Jell-O is pretty good.”

Steve laughs quietly as he sits on the chair next to you. You’re looking pretty rough – sporting a black eye, bruises and cuts over your face, your ribs wrapped up and your legs bandaged. Every movement hurts you and the concussion has you feeling dizzy and downright miserable. But all you did when you woke up was ask for Steve, and now he’s here. The sight of him adds ten years to your life and subsides the pain.

“You, uh,” he says. “Still look beautiful.”

You snort. “Okay.”

“I mean it!”

“Hotter than Mia Sara?”

“Always,” he grins, but it falters. “I need to talk to you.”

You put your Jell-O cup down. “Steve, we –“

“Please.”

You sigh and nod curtly. He sighs as well and runs a hand through his hair before starting. “It’s the worst feeling in the world to know that I got you into this. This was all my fault. And… and if I was just straight with you from the start, you wouldn’t be in this mess.” He swallows hard and fights off the painful feeling in his throat, signaling tears. “I was a dick. A total, complete asshole. And I don’t deserve for you to accept my apology. But I will tell you every single day for the rest of our lives that I am so, so sorry.”

“I’m not mad at you for this,” you say. “I’d die over and over again if it meant saving you and your cute ass.” You pause to let Steve roll his eyes, then continue. “I’m mad that you told me you didn’t love me. I’m mad at the mixed signals. I’m mad that you used to – you used to pick me up and twirl me, hold my hand.” You bite your lip. “Steve, you looked at me like I was the only girl in the world.”

“Because you are,” he says, reaching out and clasping your hand. “You are everything to me.”

“Then why did you say you couldn’t love me? Because you didn’t want me to get caught up in everything?” Steve nods, avoiding your eyes. You laugh. “Steve, here’s the thing. When someone loves someone, they’d go to the ends of the earth for them. When you told me you didn’t love me, it just spurred me on. It made me mad, yeah, but I still loved you. Nothing you could say could change that.” You laugh again and gesture to yourself. “Dude. I’d literally die for you. I almost did.”

Steve can’t stop the tears now, and they feel warm as they run down his cheeks. He shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut. “I thought that if I acted like I didn’t love you, they couldn’t hurt you.”

“I understand,” you say gently. “I know. But no evil can stop love, Steve. And you’re kind of an idiot for trying to think otherwise.”

Steve laughs sadly. “Calling me an idiot, just like old times.”

You gently grab his chin and tilt him towards you. “If there’s one thing I have learned in the past – however many days I was out – it’s that you’re not an idiot, Steve Harrington.”

Steve’s eyes fall downward. “Then what am I?” he asks quietly, his voice cracking.

“You’re smart,” you start. “You’re brave. You’re strong. You’re funny. You’re caring. You’re kind. Fast learner. Wholesome. Helpful. Inspiring.” You don’t notice that you’re leaning forward until you’re right at his lips. You smile softly. “Devilishly handsome.” You rest your forehead on his, your thumb caressing his. His hand cups your face and your eyes brim with tears. “You’re incredible, Steve.”

When your lips meet, it feels like everything lost has been found. It feels like the missing pieces are finally set into place. Like the void within your chest has been filled. It’s warm, gentle, adoring. Steve’s thumb caresses your cheekbone and he melts into it, a smile forming on his lips. He feels like everything is right. He feels like he’s home.

When you part, you both can’t help the comically large smiles that form on your face. Steve’s thumb continues its course on your cheekbone as he whispers, “I’ve wanted to do that since you first walked into the station in that stupid blue uniform.”

You shake your head. “Bet you tell all the girls that.”

The next kiss is passionate, hands touching wherever they could reach. It’s intoxicating – Steve is a better kisser than you thought. Your hands tangle in his hair and you pull him towards you. Despite the dizziness in your head, you continue – it’s been entirely too long of a wait. He gets up, ready to climb on top of you, when a voice behind him shouts, “Excuse me!”

Steve whirls around and finds a nurse, arms crossed, and eyes narrowed. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Uh, I’m – helping her – with her Jell-O.”

“Helping her with something, alright,” he huffs. “Hands off. I don’t care if you’re her partner or not.”

Steve blushes deeply and you do, too, biting your lip and trying to hide your bashful smile. Steve sits again, grabbing an unused pillow on your bed and using it to cover himself. Yeah, it’s probably a bad look to get a boner when the girl you love is lying in bed, concussed and broken, but this is Steve. What can one expect? The nurse checks on your vitals and gives you some painkillers, leaving with a stern look towards Steve.

You look to him, holding his hand again. “What now?”

Steve sighs. “Now you sign about a hundred documents saying that you won’t tell anyone what you saw. And then you get better and we both go to therapy.” Steve smiles softly. “And then after that, I have a thousand dates to take you on.”

“Just a thousand?” you tease.

“I’ll take you on more if you’re good.”

There’s a comfortable silence. You both just want to be near each other, hear each other’s breath, the rustling of clothes. 

“Steve,” you say quietly, playing with his fingers. “I love you.”

It’s music to his ears. Softly, he says it back. “I love you, too.”

“Partners?” you ask.

Steve smiles. “Partners.”

===

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[im-gay-and-mentally-unstable]

~Vampire! Nicphie Au~

Sophie was bored. Not in the way she felt most of the time, the curse of being centuries old, she was horrendously, unexplainably, unorthodoxly bored. She wanted to scream, to destroy, to set fire to her mansion and never look back, to do something that wasn't so plain and mundane. Instead, she sat next to the window in her bedroom, nails tapping on the surface. As she watched the pouring rain, quickly turning into a storm, she wished for a miracle.

Where were the good old days? She yearned for them. The rush, the pretence, the intrigue, the bloodshed. Life now was, to the liking of the ordinary folk, more peaceful. And she detested it. Blood and death had their magnetism. She didn't expect their simple little brains to comprehend it, of course.

But there were days where she was worshipped as a goddess. People brought her their treasures just for the price of a small smile, she seduced monarchs, then drained them of blood and left with their finest jewellery. And now she was forgotten, a mere monster in the face of mortals.

It was just her and the stupid, dilapidating mansion she spent all her time stuck in. She had to lower herself to drinking the utterly disgusting animal blood, since the hunt for prey became too dangerous. To her misfortune, people didn't just come to her gates and wait to get slaughtered.

Well, they usually didn't. But now, the universe has listened to her pleas and sent her a fun thing to play with. Before her door stood a woman, tall and muscular, curiously inspecting the Victorian architecture of the house.

Sophie's expression brightened, she was delighted by the turn of events. She almost jumped to her feet in anticipation of a feast, but then stopped herself and regained her dignity and composure. “Just nice and easy darling, you can't scare her away,” she told herself as she reapplied her lipstick and fixed her hair and graciously came down the stairs. She was sure she was a sight to behold, even though she's never seen herself in mirrors.

As she opened the front door, the woman didn't seem to be bothered even a slightest bit.

“Well hello darling, may I ask what are you doing here?” asked Sophie, trying to make her voice as pleasant as possible.

“Trying not to get hit by a lightening,” said the woman sarcastically.

“A truly spectacular idea. I was thinking about why are you on my porch though.”

“Oh. Of course. I can leave if you want me to, I just assumed this house was abandoned. I wanted to hide from the storm.”

“Why don't you come inside? It's too cold for you here.”

She hesitated, but then gratefully accepted the invite, she was already soaking and shivering.

“Don't worry, darling, I don't bite,” said Sophie, smirking at her own joke.

Sophie finally managed to get a good look on her as she took off her coat and hat. She forgot just how mesmerizing humans were. How soft her skin looked to touch, how lively and gleaming her eyes were, how she smelled like black coffee and old books...

No. Not all humans were quite as charming, that was for sure. She hoped her blood would taste at least half as good as she smelled like.

She wanted to try already, but she contained herself. All the good things need time, right?

“So, what's your name, darling?”

“Nicola.”

“Pleasure to meet you. I'm Sophie. Would you like some tea?”

“Isn't it too late for tea?”

“That's where you are mistaken, it's never too late for tea.”

“Really, I don't want to cause you any trouble.”

“Oh no, don't worry, it's a pleasure to have a visitor. I'm quite lonely here.”

Nicola already wasn't paying attention to her, she was curiously inspecting Sopie's long time collection of books and paintings, most of them centuries old. She definitely was going to stay for a while.

Sophie guided her to the dining hall, also used as a ballroom before, in its long-gone glorious times, and let her seat herself as she walked into the kitchen. The shrivelled, old silhouette of her servant stood there, his face blank and eyes empty. He was the only one now, before, she had plenty of them, ready to make her tiniest frivolous wishes come true, but they were gone now, died of having too much of their blood removed or old age.

“Make us some tea, will you?”

The man nodded.

“Good.” Sophie already begun walking away. Just looking at him disgusted her, she despised old people, she always did, maybe because she was eternally young and beautiful and was scared of being like them one day. But there was no way she would and it kept her satisfied.

When she came back, Nicola was inspecting the gramophone Sophie kept at one of her shelves.

“It's a bit dusty but it still should work,” she nonchalantly commented. The other woman turned, surprised by the lack of noise Sophie made.

“I would be surprised. It would need some serious fixing, it was maintained terribly and it shows.”

“Nonsense, it works just fine,” said Sophie and tried to turn it on, but then failed.

“See?”

And then Sophie slapped it and surprisingly, it started playing. Nicola almost choked at the sight. “You're not supposed to do that.”

“But it worked, so I see no problem.”

“You could have damaged it beyond repair, do you have any idea how much this stuff costs-”

Sophie chuckled. “I bought it. “

“Well, but you still shouldn't be so careless, it's a true rarity-”

“It sure is,” interrupted Sophie, not seeing anything important about it. But then she had an idea. She smiled and asked: “Would you spare me a dance?”

“I don't dance.”

“Truly a pity. Come on, just one quick round,” Sophie gave her the most charming and adorable smile she could manage. And Nicola reluctantly agreed.

Dancing was the room's purpose. It was made for this, even after years of waiting to fulfil its cause. The notes filled the perfectly acoustical room. The pure sound was only interrupted by their footsteps and quit banter.

Sophie couldn't wait for the next part of the evening, her personal favourite. The hunt. All of her body was aching to finally enjoy some tasty food, but she stayed patient. Her visitor was quite a pleasant company and she hasn't danced in years and she preferred giving her victims false sense of safety.

As the song was getting to its climax, they were getting nearer each other, their bodies intertwined. Sophie could feel her heath, the warmth and the softness of her skin, her strong, gentle arms around her waist, her breath so close to her face.

And Sophie realised how striking she was. What a waste is it going to be when she is going to be drained to a bloodless shell, left to die, long before fulfilling all her dreams and goals. Maybe if she lived longer, she could have been captured into a painting or a sculpture, just like the ones that Sophie loved so much to collect. Maybe she would make a good servant... Sophie quickly dismissed the thought.

She enjoyed her being so close and Nicola seemed to feel the same way. Suddenly, she was painfully aware of every place their bodies touched. What was the last time she felt like this? Was it even this century?

As the last notes were played, their lips collided, both leaning in at the same time with the same intention. As their lips touched, Nicola just closed her eyes and enjoyed the moment for a while. And everything seemed fine for a while, just like things were meant to be this way.

But then she remembered the odd, otherworldly cold and the sharpness of her teeth and against her brain's wishes, she pulled away.

“You're a vampire,” she remarked.

“Of course I am, darling. You aren't surprised? That's unfortunate, I didn't want to spoil the fun so soon. So, I suppose you aren't in for another dance? Ah, a shame, really. Now, would you mind if we skipped the formalities and went straight to the part where I make you my dinner? No? Ah, you don't want to die, do you?” Sophie scoffed. “Well, of course, you can try to run away. I'll give you a headstart, how kind of me, don't you think? Go on darling, I don't have all day. One...”

She let go of her and Nicola trailed off, disappearing behind the numerous corridors. Sophie counted to ten loudly, enjoy the way each word rolled from her tongue. She wasn't in a hurry. If she ran after her, it would be no fun, no mortal could ever equal to a vampire. And of course, running in high heels would be too bothersome.

So instead, she strolled slowly, enjoying her inevitable victory. Oh, how she missed this. The joy running through her veins, keeping her wide awake...

She walked behind the first corridor, not expecting Nicola to be there. The thrown knife caught her by surprise. It missed only by millimetres. Nicola lurked in the shadows, waiting for her. Her eyes lacked any trace of warmth or mercy.

“What? You thought I would go down without a fight?”

Another knife flew at Sophie. The shot was deadly and precise. She certainly knew what she was doing.

“You're going to have to try little harder than that.”

Another knife Sophie barely had time to dodge. Her irritation grew with every second. She didn't play games she wasn't sure she could win. And this was one of them.

“I've come prepared for you. I mean, I came here specifically for you. Do you honestly think I just came to your door by chance? I don't want to spoil the surprise for you, but people actually notice if you don't wear anything other than Victorian gowns and avoid going outside at day.”

A vampire hunter then. Words can't describe the way Sophie despised their kind.

“What? You are not so brave now the tables have turned? Or are you just not used to people at your level?”

Sophie scoffed and recomposed herself after barely dodging another knife, puzzled by where did she hide them all. “The fact that you consider yourself my equal amuses me. Well, about the time I actually put in a bit of effort, don't you think?”

She ran at Nicola. With one slash, she was going to rip her throat. It would have worked on almost everyone. But Nicola dodged and caught her hand and spined. Sophie unwillingly ended up pushed against the wall. Instantly, her arm shot up to Nicola's neck. The only thing stopping her from ending it was another knife, pushed against her chest, one stab away from her heart.

“This is quite unfortunate. What now? Do we kill each other?” stated Sophie calmly, fully aware of the checkmate situation they were in.

“That's pretty pointless, don't you think?”

“I'm not too keen on dying either.”

“Great, so let me go,” said Nicola.

“And what will stop you from killing me?”

“And if I wanted to, I'd have a full right to do so. You've murdered innocent people.”

“And what makes you think the vampires you've murdered weren't innocent?”

“You drink people's blood.”

“You eat animals. There's no difference.”

“I'm vegetarian.”

“That's your personal choice. I can't survive without blood.”

“Can't you survive on animal blood?”

“Listen, this is quite a tough moral debate to have and I'd rather not have it while being pressed to a wall with a knife this close.”

“I can't let you go.”

“Oh, am I that irresistible?”

“That's not what I m-”

Sophie leaned in closer, her lips almost touching Nicola's ear. “Really?”

“Yes. I don't want you shredding me to pieces the second you let go of me.”

“You don't trust me? You're very right not to do so, but my feelings are still hurt.”

Nicola sighed. “So, are we going to stay like this forever?”

“Just until you give up.”

“Just say forever then.”

“Why don't we spice things up a little then?”

“What-” The rest of the sentence was cut off after Sophie kissed her.

After a long time of trying to figure out who takes the lead, they had to breathe, well, Nicola had to breathe. “Maybe I'm staying for a cup of tea. Or two,” whispered Nicola between gasps for breath.

Sophie smirked and nodded, pulling her closer yet again. She was going to keep this one for a while.

[zombiejoepino]

The Scavenger. CH: 3 (Cobb Vanth x OC fanfic)

Chapter 3: The Search 

simpFandom: The Mandalorian

Word count: 3636

Summary: Plog is searching from town to town for anything related to the missing Scavenger. The Marshal finds she is gone already.  

A/C: If you havent read the first parts, they are here and here. Also you can check them on my wattpad 

"I'm telling you, this is too much. I'm not paying for that piece of trash." The pale hooded man rose his arms and signed at the tiny hooded figure.

The Jawa just shook his arms and argued back that it was a fair price. It might be an old speeder but it works. He was trying to explain and then folded his arms, telling him to take it or leave.

Plog just frowned for a moment and handed him the bag with credits. The Jawa took the time to count it and shook his hand. He steps aside to let him check the old imperial speeder. The weapons were down but, it moved. For him, it looked like they put together whatever they found and just label it as imperial to get a fair price.

He muttered in his language and took off in the speeder.

He didn't like Captain Qod that much, yet, it meant protection for him. His gambling habits got him in a lot of trouble, Qod stood up for him in exchange for information. Plog was useful and sneaky to get intel from strangers or anyone. He knew everything about the town, what kind of drink you like, how many Hutts went around before they were all gone, even knew about the lone Jedi that years before helped that farm boy. He never saw them again.

Now, he was just an errand boy, looking for two bounty hunters and their prey. Probably they killed each other and tried to take the canister, who knows. There was a small chance that the woman was dead already. After all, it was the Captain's words to bring her dead or alive, he didn't care, he wanted back was his prize.

Plog wasn't exactly loyal to anyone but, he owed Qod, and the man was good at finding traitors and take them down personally, like the time he just threw one of his crew members out of the ship cause he giggled about his heist plans. Qod didn't like pranksters or jokers, he was serious with his matters. He had little tolerance for stupidity but, Plog a lucky card, he was silly and clumsy, yet, he was useful.

The first stop would be nearby towns, asking the right folks about two lousy hunters wouldn't be so hard. Those two weren't exactly low profile. They were loud, show-offs, always trying to demonstrate how strong they were, picking fights cause they could, ally with other hunters that were stupid enough to trust them and take the bounty from them. No honor amongst thieves.

But those stops would be useless. If those two are on the run, they would go to Mos Eisley's spaceport and take passage with anyone, leave with the canister forever. He hated the whole road to Eisley cause that meant problems; dust, Tusken Raiders, and long cold nights in the middle of nowhere. He loved the comfort and the luxury in the city that he disliked those dead areas and sleeping in the ground. That annoyed him the most.

...

The sunbeam made its entrance through the thin curtains aiming right at his face. The first rays were warm but not burning ones like the mid-day ones. He opened his eyes and quickly scanned the area. He studied the dirty white walls and dusty ground, the armor placed in a chair next to a helmet.

Cobb sat up and stretched a little. He had no idea how long he slept but it was time to start his duties. An idea bolted in his head and made him rushed to the room.

It was empty.

He sighed and shook his head, looking around last night's disaster; shattered glass on the floor, the bloodied and dirty bandages. He rubbed his temples to think.

Maybe it was the best if she was gone but he felt responsible for the girl. He was not a smooth-talker with strangers and worst, with women. He was rough with her and pushed too much. He didn't even ask if she was feeling better.

When you corner an animal, they jump on you, he thought. No reason why the girl snapped at him.

Cobb picked up the glasses and bandages, putting them into a small bin. Then, he fetched a clean shirt and tossed away the dirty one. He ran his fingers through the primitive like star-shaped scar with dots and hashes on his back. He hated every side of it, what it meant but, it was a reminder to keep fighting.

A knock at his door interrupted his thoughts and rushed to put on the long-sleeved shirt. By the entrance, there was a slim guy with a hat and big rounded shades. He had small scars over his cheeks. When the Marshal stepped out, full armor and everything, he waved at him.

"Morning Marshal! How was last night's watch?" Marc flashed a friendly smile and shook hands with him.

"Nothing new, son. Creatures chasing each other. Not sign of the Dragon yet." Cobb adjusted the crimson bandanna across his neck.

"That must be a good sign, right? Maybe it's gone."

"Or just hunting somewhere else. Anyway, is the list ready?"

Both men walked together across the town making their way towards the bar. Cobb could hear Marc talking but was not paying too much attention, he kept wondering if the stranger was gone, maybe lost in the dunes, limping away from Sand People, or worst, found by the large Dragon.

His mind kept drifting. He thought about his time as a slave, how the women had it worst than anyone. He hoped that The Mining Collective or the Red Key Raiders wouldn't find her. The whole idea of what they do to young girls just made him sick.

He felt bad for thinking that and worst for not being able to help her. Damn, he wished she would listen to him and understand he had no shady intentions.

"And we need fuel." Marc's voice finally made some sense and snapped the gruesome thoughts in the Marshal's head.

Cobb frowned thinking about it and he started to nod. Marc rose a brow noticing the lost gaze and rephrased again.

"For the speeders. And extra for the young lady, your guest."

"My guest?" Cobb said.

"Aye, she got up early. Limped around and waited for the old Weequay to open the joint."

Cobb tried to act as cool as possible and told Marc to look for him later. He would fetch a soup and get them ready to go. The Marshal made his way into the joint and scanned the area looking for her.

The young redhead was near the counter having lunch; blue milk and slices of Ahrisa. She dipped the bread in the liquid and took a small bite. She finally looked at the Marshal but didn't say much. Just gave him a slight nod.

Cobb tried his best not to smile, he was glad that she was still around.

"Everything ok, Marshal?" Weequay spoke at him while he poured down a drink and slid a wooden bowl for him.

The Marshal nodded, gulped down his morning drink, and then took the bowl. He noticed the bartender's uneasy eyes when he looked back at the young redhead.

"Is it safe to keep her around?" The old one lowered his voice.

"Just for a few days, pal. Let's give her a break." Cobb sipped from the bowl.

Nath just kept her gaze down her plate and didn't dare to look back at the armored man. She was shamed about her behavior but was too proud to apologize. She heard his footsteps approaching her and looked up at him.

"Thought you were gone." He flashed a pearly smile.

Nath just shrugged and looked away. "I was about to but I was hungry, so, I hopped my way out and got here."

"You know you could ask for help, kid."

"You seemed tired. I don't wanna give you much trouble." She took another bite from the bread.

"How's the leg?"

"Better, it hurts at times but it's not that bad."

"Good. I'll bring more bacta spray then."

"Going somewhere, Marshal?"

"Out of town to get supplies. Do you need anything?" He placed the bowl on the table like he was about to sit down with her. He gave it a second thought and stood still.

"Just the fuel. I was hoping to put together a speeder with whatever was left from the crash."

"Whatever you were riding is gone. The rest is with us."

"Are they working properly? Maybe I can check them for you cause I took some pieces from them." She tried to stand up but the leg stung at that moment. She cursed quietly and sat back.

Cobb chuckled and placed his hand over her shoulder while looking at her.

"Don't sweat about it, kid. I'm sure they are ok" He reached the bowl and sipped it while reading out her expression. She didn't say anything but after giving it a long thought, she nodded at him.

"Well, you should trust me on this. They are gonna break down before you exit the town." She took another bite.

...

The streets were packed with junk dealers and other black-market folks, trying to shove you whatever piece of trash droid or strange food they had around. Plog just kept walking between them, trying to keep them away from his pockets.

He wasn't exactly a flashy man but, these lowlives can't tell the difference and are willing to steal anything they can find.

The pale man was uneasy for parking the speeder outside the dirty joint, Jawas or other scavengers always stopped long enough to take a piece or two. If he needed intel about the bounty hunters' whereabouts, that was the only place where he could go.

A smoky atmosphere crashed his face, followed by music and indistinct conversations between the folks around. Some helmets looked back at him, just checking the new stranger. Others just ignored him, no one started for too long.

Plog just moved around to catch up with the Zabrak bartender. He had mean looks, a horned head but quickly asked him if he needed a drink. Plog slid the credits on the counter and, the Zabrak took them fast.

"What are you looking for?"

"More like who. I dunno if you saw these guys around." He took out a puck that flashed the hologram of the two bounty hunters. The Zabrak examined the blueish image and made a face.

"Yeah, those two were around a couple of nights ago. They go around like bounty hunters but ain't exactly from the Guild. They got a reputation for joining bounty hunters from the Guild in their quests. When they have the proper opportunity, they shot down the Guild member and take the puck. It worked the first two times but those two are stupid. While they were drunk, they didn't stay quiet about their achievements and got The Guild's attention. There's a price for their heads so, my best guess is that they must be dead by now."

"Do you know who they were tracking the last time?"

"Some old Quarren."

"Did you see a woman or someone else with any of them?" Plog said.

"Not, I mean, the Quarren met with different people that day, all of them male. He even cut a deal with a scavenger." The bartender paused while his thoughts drifted for a moment.

"Now that I think about it, I can't tell if it was a woman or not. He or she wore a long tunic and mask. But I remember that scavenger cause those two followed him after taking down the Quarren. It was strange they just left him there to follow him or her. "

"Anything peculiar about the scavenger? Did they come back?"

"I haven't seen them after that day and the scavenger, I didn't pay much attention, you know how they are. Carrying trash bags, stealing whatever they can. Arguing with Jawas. Nothing else." The Zabrak poured himself a drink and shrugged. "Maybe talk to the Jawas." He joked.

"Yeah, right. They are gonna rip me off." Plog shook his head and left the counter. He was running out of ideas.

...

Her body plopped under the biker speeders, checking the cable hitches, patching up the fuel tube, and reached a small screwdriver from her bag as she adjusts the loose shift gear. Fixing things always made her feel better in any situation. She didn't mind the heat, the sweat, or the oil stains on her clothes. What mattered to her was making the speeder work.

Basic 101 for scavengers was being able to take someone's trash and turn it into a decent vehicle. Stealing was allowed if you didn't get caught. Cantinas were the best place to wait for your next hit. There is always someone that gets too drunk and passes out in the middle of the street.

That was the chance to take the finest pieces fast as you could before others showed up. It was a never-ending battle with Jawas. They were always in groups and worked faster, but if a human was smart enough, it would take the best parts first and leave the rest for the little scoundrels.

Nath didn't think of herself as the best mechanic from her town but, she was a pretty decent one. She kept a low profile most of the time and no one bothered her when she put together speeders or podracers, only if they paid a fair price.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the approaching footsteps and a voice.

"Thirsty?" He spoke and stopped next to the bike. The Marshal looked down at the curious woman and shook a small bottle with water.

"You bet but, I wanna finish this." She peeked out to look at him and return her attention to the bike. Her hand tried to reach a wrench.

"You should take a break, kid." The Marshal lowered down to hand her the wrench and smiled at her.

She puffed her cheeks and rolled her eyes. "Told you, I'm not a kid." She took the tool from his hands. Seconds later, her hand reached out of the bottle.

"Where did you learn to do this?" His eyes studied the bike and the tools around the ground, followed by small pieces from other ships or speeders.

"I was raised by scavengers, learned a few tricks from pilots, and picked one or two things from Jawas." Nath sipped the water. This weather was unbearable at times.

"Ever thought about starting your shop?" He kept examining the items around and, picked something that looked like a knife. It had old blood or oil stain. He couldn't tell by the color.

"It crossed my mind but I didn't worry too much when I worked f..." and she paused before she gave away something else. "Business is hard, you gotta commit yourself to one place and it's not my style."

"Staying in one place is not that bad, at least you can call it home." He shrugged and looked at her working.

"I'm not sure about that. I've been moving around since I was a kid, so home is not exactly something I look for."

"We all need one at some point."

"Not when you are being hunted down." She muttered to herself and tried to change the conversation. "What about you? Why Marshal and not bounty hunter if you have that armor?"

"Long story. But killing for pleasure is not my thing." He admitted.

"And killing in the name of the law is?" She chuckled.

There was a small silence, Cobb kept a serious expression and smirked.

"If they pull, I put them down." He said.

"So, you made your own rules for this town?"

"There's not much to follow, just don't step over your neighbor kinda thing. We look after each other."

"That's interesting. From where I come from, you have to watch your back all the time. I guess that's why I'm not made for places like this."

"You can't tell if you haven't tried it"

"Are you asking me to stay, sir?"

"I'm just saying."

"Sure." She flashed her tongue at him and kept her head down under the bike. Then she groaned when the oil leaked down her clothes and hands. "Dank farrik!" She yelled.

The Marshal chuckled and shook his head. He reached for an old rag to hand it to her. She snatched it from his hand to clean her dirty face.

He couldn't help himself to think that she looked cute with the dirt and oil stains across her fair skin and flushed delicate face. The contrast between those two ideas got him thinking but scratched the idea off his mind when the pale gaze met his.

Her eyes had a peculiar way to look at someone. This time they were friendly, curious about him, unlike last night. He swore that those soft blue eyes were cold and sharp with him, just like ice or whatever it looks like. He never got the chance to leave this planet, but he knew stories about those other worlds and snow.

Nath crawled out from under the bike and thumbed up at him.

"Ready to go, Marshal." She smiled at him.

"Thanks. And you can call me Cobb, you know."

"Well, I like calling you Marshal." She teased him. Cobb chuckled and held out his hand to help her.

She pulled herself up with a swift move but bumped her chest with him. His first reaction was to hold her still and not let her fall. She rested her hands over his chest. Their gazes lock for a moment and they froze right there.

Being close to him allowed her to see his features a little better. Even though his hair was grey already, he didn't look old. She thought that he was trying to look older than he was. She found herself studying his features again. Even breathing was something she didn't dare to do.

Cobb noticed a few looks from the locals and quickly moved his hands away to give her space.

"Good work, kid. I think the boys and I are ready to go." He excused himself and smiled at her.

The redhead smiled back, dusted off the sand from herself, and took the bottle from the ground. She took a large sip to refresh from the heat.

...

The tiny hooded figure just kept studying his speeder and nodding vigorously. He signed those pieces he wanted and, Plog just rolled his eyes. He looked around many times, making sure no one else was watching him with the group of Jawas and took out the small puck. He displayed the image of Nathsca and, they yelled gibberish in anger.

His jawaese was pretty bad yet, he understood briefly that the woman was around taking what rightfully belonged to them, that she had no reason to be a scavenger. They saw her taking off. She left behind most of her belongings but, she clung to an old silver canister. They wanted the canister. It was shiny.

Plog shook his head at them and quickly kept the puck back in his pockets. He paid the tiny hooded figures and pushed them away from his path. Some of them cursed at him but picked the pieces they wanted from the speeder.

A Jawa rushed after him and pulled his sleeve, Plog looked quite annoyed and folded his arms. "What now? I told you, anything you want but It needs to keep working."

The Jawa shook his head and signed at him while he whined. Plog squinted his eyes, listening to with attention, trying to put together all the ideas but he was pretty sure what the tiny one just told him. This was the first time that he met a Jawa that wanted something for himself.

"Off the map, you say?" He lowered to his level. The Jawa nodded as it explained quietly about the lost sandy areas in the west, an old mining place near a small town called Mos Pelgo. People thought it was gone, but this little guy saw the town; just farmers. When the speeders chase down the young scavenger, they were on the path to this town.

Plog slid a bag with credits for the little Jawa that rushed back with his kin but kept the bag for himself.

West. The unexplored dead area. He would go and tell the Captain with the risk of finding lone and empty dunes, taking the risk of getting attacked by the sand people, or worst, a Krayt Dragon. Qod was way scarier than the dragon. The dragon would eat you and, that was it. Qod would take his time to torture you before killing you.

The pale man jumped back in his speeder. He needed to get supplies, fuel, and a blaster. He thought about bringing muscle but, it was hard to trust anyone these days. Lone dunes or not, he was not gonna let some stranger or sand people take advantage of him. Shooting first and fast. Basic survival skills. He gave a second thought about bringing muscle.

tagged for the readers and thanks for reading too :3 : @simpfields @fandoms-will-be-the-death-of-me @sithcajunvalkyrie  @qrangcr  @rachel2003 @wolfangelwings @storytellerandwriter25  @beyond-antares @youmademeanolyphant  @kenobilover1009 

[judgement-free-sideblog]

Occupational hazards

Barry Berkman x Reader

Three part series: It was just another job, he doesn’t even had to kill anyone, but the way she looked at him was more dangerous than the bullets.

Part I Part II Part III

Angst with a happy ending

Warnings: Violence, cursing, blood, stalkers.

Part I

“I remember telling you to fuck off and stop calling me” You say answering the phone the fifth time it rings, knowing too well he won’t stop until you do “I made myself clear, don’t call me, don’t contact me, keep your stupid flowers and presents to yourself and stay the fuck away from me”

“Oh my little Y/N” Says his drunk voice in the other end “You know you like it, this little number of yours, pretending you don’t need a man will end as soon as you feel lonely, why don’t we speed things up and simply let me come up with you?” He said and you froze, how does he knew you were at the second floor of your house? You looked outside the window but couldn’t see anything, nervously you closed your sleeping robe with a tight knot suddenly feeling exposed “You don’t have to be so shy, I already know what is behind that” He said and you toss the phone aside, but you could still listen to his laugh, when will this nightmare end??

“Fuck you Richard!!!” You scream at the phone, but he had already hung up. You closed all the windows and went straight to your bathroom cabinets, it had to be there.

You finally found it, a few years back when your name was still unknown and your main job was stacking candles and towels in a store, and before you had a sociopath for an ex, you became friends with this weird and really sweet bald guy on Pottery Barn, you helped him redecorate his room and you even talk once in a while over the phone, or at least until last year when he said he was going back to Chechnya to visit his family, but before he went away, and after he met the charming man you were dating and seeing the bruises in your arms he gave you a card and told you, if you ever need to get rid of that guy just call this number.

You light on a cigarette, and sit on the floor of your bathroom thinking, what does get rid of meant? Hank, judging by his tattoos, was not an entirely innocent folk, but at this point you were desperate, and you cursed yourself for ever start dating a man like that, the all charming and thoughtful movie producer, you knew your career will be damaged forever if you kept avoiding him but coming back to be treated like garbage and not being able to eat, dress or think on your own was not an option. You finally gathered the courage and dialled the number.

“Fuches” a raspy voice said on the other end.

“Hi, ammm” you were not sure what exactly where you going to say.

“Who is this? Hello?? Who gave you this number? Are you there?” The man seem angry and a bit condescending in his tone and somehow his rudeness made you speak up.

“Yeah, I’m here” You started with more confidence “I got this number from NoHo Hank, he said you could help me to… to get rid of someone”.

“Ahh” The man was calmed now, almost happy “Well in that case any friend of Hank is friend of mine, but I warn you madame that won’t be cheap” He said and you stand up from the floor glimpsing at yourself in the mirror, shocked to see how pale you looked, and how scared you actually felt.

***

Barry entered his apartment begging for Jermaine or Nick to be there and use them as an excuse to tell Fuches to fuck off, but it was empty except for the never ending amount of trash that always was in their comon space, he stopped trying to tell them to clean like three months ago and now he only limited to hide in his room away from the beer cans and chips bags.

It didn’t matter that much really, at least not before, as long as Sally was there to talk to him or as long as he could call her, but then she got that part in a big movie, and he was happy for her, that was her dream and he would never get between her and her dream, but then she stop being around the class due to rehearsals, and then she change a beer in Residual’s to fancy and expensive dinners with her costars and then one day she simply said goodbye.

But he had come to the conclusion that he deserved that, he took away Mr. Cousineau’s happiness so it was only fair for him to lose it as well, and Sally was still his friend, as long as he could find a 5 minutes gap to talk in her busy schedule every other week.

He was still on the class, and he was getting better or at least he no longer missed his lines, and he had even recieved a callback for a commercial, but he didn’t get it in the end.

And now Fuches was coming back to screw up everything again, Barry looked at the clock, 4:02 he would be there any minute, for a brief moment his mind travel to his gun under his bed, and how just one year before he was desperate to see him and kill him from once, but then Mr Cousineau started making questions, and to suspect, accurately, that he had killed Moss, and Fuches chose to come clean, or at least enough to settle things down.

He told Gene the Chechens killed Moss and that they wanted to implicate Barry, so he called the cops on him so Barry would take the blame and end up in jail, he played his Part as a poor looser, alone and miserable well enough and Barry chose not to kill him, as long as he would stay away from them, and he had kept his promise until that morning. He would say no, obviously but he needed to say it to his face to reassure him or to himself that it was all done.

A knock on the door put him in alert, and he muttered a simple “Come in” keeping himself away from the entrance. Fuches entered the room with an almost curious expression on his face, he looked at the trash an made a disgusted frown, and then looked at Barry from head to toe, he looked paler or maybe just tired, he for sure was, that stubborn woman was by far the most picky and difficult client he ever had by far, but with enough luck Barry may solve it.

“Nice place” He said finally with a sarcastic grin

“That’s my roommate’s doing” Barry answered in a monotone “Coffee? beer?”

“If you are really being nice I’ll take the beer” Fuches said and without waiting for an invitation he found a place to sit.

“I’m not.” Barry answered and sit in front of him. “What do you want?”

“Ahh there it is” Fuches roll his eyes “I got a job for you, and I think you may like this one…”

“What the fuck man?” Barry interrupted mid sentence. “We haven’t seen each other in almost a year, I was very clear then as I’m now I don’t want to do that anymore”

“Boy listen, is way easier and you’ll get pay three times more than previous works” He said completely ignoring him.

“I don’t give a fuck about the money, I told you I don’t want to work for you” Barry put both hands over his face, this was exasperating.

“Fine, now look at me like you were about to kill me” He said taking Barry by surprise.

“What the hell are you talking about?” He said after an uncomfortable silence.

“Look kid, a week ago I received a call from a crazy actress, you may know her Y/N something” He started

“Is not Y/N Y/L/N by any chance?” Barry asked, remembering something that Natalie and Sasha said about her.

“Yes, that one, complete basket case” Fuches continued “She asked me if I could eliminate her ex boyfriend, some Hollywood big shot that I genuinely couldn’t care less about. I said yes sure, I’ll send someone to do it, then she change her mind and called me back, and said she simply wants to scare him, but she wants to meet the guy she is paying. And she hated him, and I show her my folder of other employees and well…”

“Oh come on man, that’s on you, you shouldn’t have my picture there” Barry said now understanding what had happen.

“Yeah I get that, but the thing is I said to her you no longer work for me, and she offered the triple, and I told her that if she wanted you so badly then she would have to convince you by herself, and that’s why I’m here, I need you to go see her, say no and then she would pick one of my guys and I’ll be out of your life forever” He said like if he was offering the most interesting deal ever. “Take it as an acting job” He add when Barry didn’t respond “You get to meet a pretty and famous actress, and you can scream to her everything you just said to me, also I’ll pay you”

Barry remained silent for another moment thinking about the situation, it seemed like an easy deal, and some extra money wouldn’t be that bad, and if he played his cards well enough he could even make sure Fuches to stay away form him for good.

“Fine I’ll do it” he said after a while “But is just this and it’s over, no more phone calls, no more jobs no anything, I turn down this woman and that’s it.” He said seriously.

“Consider it done son, just one more deal and I’m out of your life” Fuches said happy, and then got up the chair and started leaving “You have to meet her tomorrow in a restaurant, I’ll send you the address” Barry nodded and watched him leave, then he went to his room to search something about the woman he was about to meet.

Y/N was a gorgeous woman and a talented actress, but apparently the media didn’t like her very much since she had a reckless life style, there were many pictures of her smoking and drinking, and she had a long list of ex lovers, and the most prominent of those was some guy called Richard Maverick, he recognized that name, it was the director and producer of Sally’s movie, more of a reason to not working for that woman, since the guy didn’t seem like a bad person, and she did.

***

Sparkling bubbles were moving in your glass of water, it have been sitting there since the waiter pour it, but you were to nervous to touch it, it was a nice table, out in the terrace of the restaurant and you were sure anyone walking by the street would be able to see you, so it worked perfectly for your plan, now everything else depended on the man you hear approaching behind you.

“Snow White?” He asked and sited in the spot in front of you, he was clean shaved and wearing a black blazer over a dark green tshirt, definitely not what you expected from someone of his profession.

“Is from Notting Hill, the movie with Julia Roberts, don’t you like it? God you really are tall, how much is it like 6'3”?“ You said unable to stop yourself, but concentrating on his face, there was something sad about his blue eyes, almost melancholic.

"6'2” and no I don’t think I saw it, the oscar winning one?“ He said a bit ashamed by his poor Hollywood trivia knowledge.

"Oh absolutely not, some old romantic comedy, you should see it some time.” You said, and the whole situation felt more and more surreal “Well I’m Y/N Y/L/N, nice to meet you Mr. Berkman, or do you prefer Block?” You said please to se the surprise on his face.

“Berkman is fine, how do you know?” He said examining your face.

“Well is not every day that I have to hire a professional assassin, so I needed to get some references, and your employer was distracted enough so I could stole this from him, here you can have it back” You said sliding his picture across the table. “I saw a couple videos of your callbacks, you shouldn’t stoop that much when you read it would help in the auditions”

“So this is what you do?” He said and his tone was calm but there was fury in his eyes “You manipulate people into working with you, making then feel like you know everything about them and pretending to be nice and polite? Well I have news for you, first of all I don’t work for Fuches, and second, you can put out all of this glamorous crap that you have on me and the answer still be no, I don’t this anymore”

“Would you like to order?” The waiter said before any of you could keep speaking.

“Sure, shrimp risotto for me, and for my dear friend… what do you want honey?” You said smiling at him.

“The same sounds fine” he said and smile back at you changing his tone immediately. “And red wine?"He asked you with a checky wink and you nodded. "Red it is” The waiter nod and walked away.

“Not bad, you are a quick responder, I like that” you said looking as the man walked away. “But you don’t know shit about me” You spat at him once the waiter couldn’t hear “Glamorous crap? Oh let me guess you read one of the many articles about how much of a whore I am? I have a drinking and smoking problem is that it? That I have slept my way into every work I ever had, and how little I deserved my career, and how much good it was for Richard to walk away form me even when he still loves me? Well that’s all bullshit” There it was again, even when you were trying to escape he was still holding you in his hands. “Well the magazines that work for him doesn’t tell I went to drama school, they didn’t say I have a dying mother that gets every penny I make, they didn’t say that I could count the men I slept with the fingers on one hand I will be sparing 2, they don’t say he forced himself on me more times I can remember, or how he enjoys sleeping with every woman that works for him no matter the age just because he is The man”

“Go the police then, tell them that, why do you need me?” He said, but with less confidence than before and it was obvious his mental image of you was crumbling.

“The L.A. Police that gets donations from him every year? I’m a whore, to them, to Richard, to you and to everyone. I have no voice” Fortunately the waiter arrived with the food and you could stop to think, talking about this made you feel exposed, and you were questioning if it was worth the trouble at all.

“Why me? If you need him out of your life so bad I’m sure Fuches have someone right for the job” He said and started eating avoiding your gaze, you didn’t have an appetite anymore but force yourself to do the same.

“Have you seen the guys that work for Fuches? They look like hobos and meth heads, he is not some random dude, he is rich and powerful if he dies people would ask questions and eventually that would come back to me, also he would die loved and mourned, and he doesn’t deserve that.”

“And scared him off is better how? If someone goes to him and beat him it would come back at you faster and worse” He said taking a sip of his wine.

“Men always think physically right?” You said drinking as well and looking at him “I never said beat him, I told fuches I needed you specifically and he said he doesn’t work for me anymore, he is an actor now, and then I knew you were exactly what I needed. I don’t need some hitman to go beat the crap out of Richard even if he deserves it. I need someone to escort me from my apartment to work, and to public events and keep him away from me.”

“Those are called bodyguards and I’m pretty sure there are legal business that can provide their services to you” He said condescendingly.

“Like the one that is at my house right now and doesn’t even know I went out?” You said smiling “Or the one that give my alarm password to Richard so he could read his script? Legal people can be bought, and they have things to lose, that doesn’t work for me, he is a monster and a criminal, so I need someone outside the law to outsmart him” You said to him and the shadow of a smile formed in his lips before he spoke.

“So you think I’m a monster too? Look I’m sorry for you, your situation must be horrifying, but I leave that life behind, I’m no longer that guy and I don’t want to be, I’m sorry but I don’t want my past mistakes to keep haunting me, I’m tired of that. I’m sorry” He said, and you believed him but you couldn’t lost this chance.

“Mr Berkman, can I call you Barry?” You started and he nod affirmatively “Barry do you ever have nightmares about your mistakes?”

“Every night” He answered

“But when you wake up, when you go to work, when you talk to your significant other, when you are eating, those mistakes are dead, those people and those lifes you took they remained where you leave them. Your mistakes don’t call you at 3 am to remain you you are a slut, your mistakes don’t sell naked pictures of you to magazines to make you feel miserable because you are no longer sleeping with them. Your mistakes don’t force you to go down on them in order to don’t recast your part and then don’t threaten to ruin your career and leave your mother without her cancer treatment.” You said and a tear finally find it’s way down your cheek. “Fine I get it, you want to be a better person, well so am I, I need to run away from this and I’m so desperate that I called you, but it’s okay I have no way to force you into this, you don’t have to be sorry about me” you said hopeless, and he remained silent for a couple minutes looking at you occasionally and then his plate now almost empty.

“What exactly would I have to do?” He said finally “I’m not accepting, I just want to know” he add before you could react.

“Offering me your arm in social events, walked me to my apartment at nights, and take me to lovely lunches like this one every few days, basically being a human purse, just looking handsome and put together next to me, and let the magazines and the media make their assumptions”

“I’m not a prostitute” He said and you found the statement ridiculously funny.

“And I wouldn’t pay you to fuck me sunshine” you said with a grin “But I have learned that men respect other men’s "property” more than a women’s NO, and if I start seeing a handsome, blue eyed, literal war hero from the Midwest he would look like an asswhole if he keeps pushing how much he misses me in interviews"

“Fine” He said looking straight to your eyes “I’ll do it, when do you want to start?”

“Well if you consider the three girls with her phones out that just crossed behind you on the street, I would say I already owe you overtime, but tomorrow is fine, I would send you my address and other details with my publicist”

“Don’t you think is better if we have the least amount of people involved in this?” He said with an uncomfortable look on his face.

“Adrian is like a sister to me, I trust her my life.” You said and he seemed conformed with that answer “And Barry, thank you”.

[remywrites5]

Written in the Stars

Sirius sighed, a deep, heavy sigh that only a man just recently out of his twenties could muster. James gave him a pointed look in response. “Prongs, don’t look at my like that!” Sirius whined, throwing his arm over his brother and best friend. “You’re 30thbirthday isn’t for ages! You don’t know what I’m going through.”

           “My birthday is in five months, Pads,” James reminded him, rolling his eyes at his overly dramatic friend.

           “Yes, five months!” Sirius said, draping himself over James as if he couldn’t bear to be standing anymore. “That’s almost half a year away. Half a year of being in your twenties still!”

           “It’s not that exciting,” James grumbled, pressing a kiss to Sirius’ head. “You know I’ve already basically become an old man anyway.”

           “I know,” Sirius said, taking a moment’s reprieve from his woes and narrowing his eyes at James’ cuddly jumper. “Any day now you’re going to have dementia and a bad back.”

           James shoved his friend away. “Don’t be a prick, I was trying to help you!”

           “Jamie,” Sirius whined again. “I wasn’t being a prick. I’m just terribly jealous of you. You’ve got a wife and a great kid. A house on a cute little street. If you weren’t my best friend I would probably hate you for your stupid perfect life. But because I am so very kind I choose to be happy for you.”

           James snorted and pushed his glasses up his nose haughtily. “Gosh that’s big of you, Pads.”

           “Isn’t it?” Sirius said with a grin. He linked his arm through Jamie’s. “I mean what have I got to show for my thirty years?”

           “Just because you’re not married with a kid doesn’t mean you don’t have anything.” James reminded him. They were on their way to their local pub for a birthday drink or five. Lily had stayed home with Harry so that James could go out and wallow with Sirius. He’d known Sirius was going to take turning 30 pretty hard because he’d been making a lot of ‘soon my life will be over’ comments. As his brother and closest friend, it was his job to make sure Sirius didn’t do anything too stupid on his birthday. “You’ve got your on garage where you do a job you love and get to be the boss. You’ve got that unbearably posh flat that your Uncle left you. You’re an attractive bloke that people want to shag.”    

           “Yeah but nobody loves me for me!”

           “I do,” James said, sliding his hand down and entwining their fingers. “And Harry does, Peter does and Lily too.”

           “Wormtail,” Sirius said, growling slightly as he said it. “Couldn’t even be bothered to come out tonight to celebrate with us.”

           ‘His company sent him to Belgium for the month, Pads.”

           Sirius continued on as if James hadn’t spoken. “And Lily tolerates me because she loves you. It’s not the same thing.”

           James couldn’t help beaming at that. “Isn’t that just fantastic?”

           “Yes, it’s fantastic, Prongs,” Sirius said with a sigh. “Your life is fantastic. That was my whole ruddy point!”

           “Alright, fine, you win,” James said, opening the door to the pub and letting Sirius go in first. “My life is fantastic.”

           Sirius at least took a bit of glee from being right and walked into the pub. It wasn’t terribly busy considering it was a Sunday night and folks had work in the morning. Just the usual degenerates and alcoholics sat at the bar drowning their sorrows. At least Sirius felt in good company.

           “I’ll get the drinks,” Sirius said, pushing James towards a booth. “Get our usual.”

           “No way are you paying tonight.”

           “James, I’m a strong, independent woman. Now go get our booth.”

           “Yes, there’s such a crowd here tonight I better hurry,” James said sarcastically but gave in. He headed towards their usual booth in the corner, right next to the pool table so they could claim it easily when wanted.

           Sirius leaned against the bar and waited to be served. With a quiet night it didn’t take long before the bartender got around to him. “What can I get you?” he asked, smiling kindly as Sirius.

           “You’re new,” Sirius responded, cocking his head to the side and evaluating this bartender he’d never seen. “Where’s Tom?”

           The bartender chuckled softly. “You must only come in on the weekends,” he said, grabbing two glasses from under the bar in preparation of Sirius’ order. “I work Sunday through Thursday and then Tom takes over for the weekends. So not new, just new to you.”

           Sirius eyes flickered up to the bartender’s, meeting his gaze after he’d been looking elsewhere. The bartender was wearing brown corduroys and a black button down shirt. Sirius wanted to pull a Queer Eye on this poor soul and Tan France this bitch. Although honestly, he was much more Jonathan Van Ness than Tan.

           “I’m Sirius Black,” he said, holding out his hand. “And it’s my birthday.”

           “Happy birthday, Sirius Black,” the bartender said, shaking his hand. “I’m Remus Lupin.”

           “I’m 30 today,” Sirius informed him, sharing his woes. The bartender was cute and Sirius was in the mood to flirt. “Do I look it? Keep in mind that if you say yes I will have to stab myself with a pool cue.”

           Remus laughed. “Thirty isn’t so bad. I turn thirty in a few months. My birthday is in March.”

           “March what?”

           “The tenth.”

           “So you’re a Pisces.”

           “I guess,” Remus said with a shrug. “If you go in for that kind of thing.”

           “Pisces are artistic, empathetic, romantic,” Sirius eyes glinted with mischievous. “And just happens to be compatible with my sign, a Scorpio.”

           Remus laughed loudly and startled a few of the patrons. He covered his mouth with his hand to try and stifle it. Sirius grinned proudly in response. “Oh, you are shameless,” Remus said once he’d calmed down a bit. “I think only someone as gorgeous as you could get away with chatting me up over Astrology.”

           Sirius preened. “You think I’m gorgeous?”

           Remus rolled his eyes. “You know you are,” he said, leaning in conspiratorially towards Sirius. “See, no one without a huge helping of self-confidence wears leather trousers that tight.”

           Sirius laughed and leaned in towards Remus as well. “If you’d like you can take them off of me later.”

           Remus blushed prettily. “Like I said – shameless.”

           “That’s not a no…” Sirius sing-songed, chewing lightly on his bottom lip.

           Remus smirked. “Don’t get too drunk tonight,” he said, standing up straight. “There are rules about that kind of thing.”

           Sirius felt himself swoon. “Feel free to cut me off after three. I’ll be happily buzzed but still able to consent.”

           “Why don’t you tell me what you want and we’ll start with one?” Remus asked as he glanced down pointedly towards the empty glasses on the bar. “On the house by the way.”

           “Awfully kind of you.”

           “You’ll pay me back for it later,” Remus said suggestively. Sirius decided right then and there that Remus Lupin was his new favorite person. It took every bit of Sirius’ willpower not to reach across the bar and run his fingers through Remus’ thick curls.

           “One pint of lager and a gin and tonic,” Sirius said thickly around the lump in his throat.

Remus made the drinks quickly and efficiently. Sirius watched him work and very much enjoyed the view. He was almost upset when Remus finished and pushed the drinks across the bar towards him. “Enjoy your evening, Sirius.”

           “Oh I will now,” Sirius told him with a cheeky wink. He headed back to Jamie with the drinks in hand and slid across from him in the booth.

           “Took you bloody long enough,” James said, taking a long pull from his drink. “Had a good chat up with the bartender then?”

           Sirius bit his bottom lip and nodded. “He’s taking me home with him tonight.”

           “Christ you work fast,” James said, shaking his head in amusement.

           “Just because it took you years to bag Evans doesn’t mean we’re all so hopeless, Jamie.”

           James shrugged. “Got her in the end though, didn’t I?”

           “Still one of life’s greatest mysteries, mate.”

           “Oi, don’t think that just because it’s your birthday I won’t smack you.”

           “Violence is not the answer, Jamie.”

           “It is sometimes,” James grumbled, downing more of his drink.

           “Besides, no messing up the merchandise. I need to look good for Remus tonight.”

           “Remus?” James echoed in confusion.

           “The bartender,” Sirius said, glancing over at the bar. Remus was talking with Alastor, one of the bars regulars. When he caught Sirius staring he gave him a little wave and then turned his attention back. Sirius felt almost giddy. “I just want to do horrible, beautiful, depraved and sexy things to him.”

           “I don’t want to hear about it,” James said, finishing off his beer. “Let’s play pool.”

           Sirius lost at pool but he couldn’t even bring himself to care. Ever since they were old enough to drink they’d been keeping score of their games. Sirius was up on James by a good twenty game lead. He could afford to lose a couple. Besides, Remus was so distracting that he couldn’t have focused on the game even if he’d wanted to.

           “Oi, mate, I’d better get going,” James said, checking the time on his phone and seeing how late it was. “Otherwise I’ll be dead in the morning.”

           Sirius nodded and pulled James into a hug. “Thanks for my birthday, brother.”

           James smiled and hugged Sirius back tightly. “You’re welcome, old man.”

           “Hey!”

           James laughed and pulled away. “Happy birthday. Now go enjoy your present,” he said, looking over at the bar. “Love you.”

           “Love you too, Jamie.”

           Once James was gone, Sirius slid into one of the stools at the bar to be closer to Remus. The bar was mostly empty as it was getting close to last call. Only a few stragglers remained and Sirius wished they would bugger off so he could finally be alone with Remus.

           “Hi there,” Remus said, walking over with a small smile. “Sorry about your defeat.”

           Sirius waved him off. “No big deal. I let Jamie win.”

           “Is that so?” Remus asked, resting his elbows on the bar and putting his chin in his hand. “Because I rather thought it was because you were missing shots being too busy staring at my arse.”

           Sirius laughed. “Maybe it was that a little bit too. Not that I can see it that well in those monstrosities.”

           “What’s wrong with my trousers?”

           “Oh darling, where do I even begin?”

           “I think a kiss would probably make the most sense,” Remus said with a grin. “Then maybe a proper date. Fall madly in love. Move in together. Adopt some babies. Get a puppy. I mean, it’s meant to be, right? Written in the stars and all that.”

           Sirius chuckled. “If you weren’t so very, very cute I might take offense to you making fun of me.”

           “Only a little,” Remus replied, laughing softly in return. He reached into the pocket of his ghastly trousers and pulled out his phone. “I googled Scorpio while you were playing pool. It says here that you’re very vindictive, paranoid, possessive, destructive and clingy.”

           “Let me see that” Sirius said, grabbing Remus’ phone from his hand. He took a moment and then glared at Remus. “You were only reading all the bad things about my sign, you wanker!”

           Remus laughed outright and held his hand out for his phone. Sirius handed it back to him reluctantly. “Yeah, well I also noticed the part that says Scorpios are the most passionate of all the zodiac signs. Any truth to that or is it bollocks like the rest?

           Sirius leaned across the bar and kisses Remus with everything he had, finally – finally – getting his hands into Remus’ hair. Remus’ lips were soft and pliable under Sirius, following him wherever he wanted to go, echoing his movements at every turn. As far as first kisses went it was pretty bloody spectacular. “What do you think?” Sirius teased, breaking the kiss but staying close to Remus.

           “Not bollocks, then,” Remus said breathlessly. Sirius took it as a point of pride.

           “I’ll make a believer out of you yet, Remus Lupin,” Sirius told him with a grin.

           Remus huffed out a laugh. “You can try,” he said stubbornly as if challenging Sirius. Sirius felt more than up to the task. “Now, I believe I owe you twenty-nine more kisses for your birthday.”

           “It’s technically not my birthday anymore,” Sirius informed him. “It’s after midnight.”

           “Sirius, shut up and let me kiss you.”

           Sirius shut up and let Remus do just that.

[artificialqueens]

Hot as Hell and No A/C, Chapter 3 (Branjie)- Blackhighheels

(Read at AO3)

Three

Jose knows it might not be the best idea to come to this run down bar, but he is bored and he needs a drink. Since he left Los Angeles he hasn’t been to any clubs or bars and this shack is the only thing nearby in the middle of motherfucking nowhere.

The offer is somewhat limited and so he orders a whiskey, since that seems to be the only thing they have beside shots and beer. He remains sitting at the bar and the woman behind it, Lindsey, is a hoot and he likes talking to her. From what she’s telling him she used to be the queen bee around here, about forty years ago, until she got pregnant too young and out of wedlock and found herself working in this bar to keep a roof over her head and care for her son.

He’s so engrossed in Lindsey’s stories that it takes him a while to realise that a couple of guys by the pool table are talking about him. The words ”Faggot”, ”Gay” and ”cocksucker” are a dead give away and he doesn’t think they’d say that about anyone but him around here.

”Hey, assholes! Got a problem with my gay ass?” He yells at them. It might be the alcohol or simply his frustration about the town and what it does to people, but he isn’t willing to just take it and keep him mouth shut. And he’s not afraid of them. He’s had his share of fights in his life, both because of the area he grew up in and also because of him being so obviously gay.

The four men, or boys, come closer and he can already smell the cloud of beer that surrounds them.

”Did you faggot just call us assholes?”

”If you’re the assholes who just talked smack about me, then yeah, I did.” He turns around in his bar stool and is glad that it gives him a bit of a height advantage.

”You better watch your mouth you filthy cocksucker.”

”Mmmh…. Sucking dick’s only filthy when it’s done right. You ever tried it?”

Jose expects a punch or kick, maybe something thrown his way. He doesn’t expect one of the guys spitting right into his face.

”Guys like you are dirt and god will take care of you,” the smallest one says. He seems to be believer amongst them.

Jose doesn’t want to talk anymore though. They just spit at him. He’s done talking. Before the god-fearing idiot has even finished speaking, Jose smacks the fucker who spit at him right across the face with the back of his hand.

”Imma end you, you motherfuckers. No one spits at me, bitch! You got hands, show me! Show me!” he yells, as blood drips from the drunken teenager’s nose.

”Hey!” Lindsey grabs him from behind. ”No fights in my bar. House rule. If you really wanna beat each other up, take it outside. But I’d advise all of y’all to just leave it. You four shouldn’t even be in here or drinking, and you,” she turns to Jose ”better not make more enemies than necessary while ya here. This is a small town.” Jose looks at the four teenagers in front of him, then throws a couple of dollars on the bar and leaves. So much for grabbing a drink and enjoying a night out.

***

Brock walks out of the stable when he hears a voice he would recognise everywhere. He also knows the car parked in their driveway.

”Fuck,” he curses quietly and hurries towards the house, wiping his hands on an old rag as panic settles in his stomach. This can’t be happening! Also, he is painfully aware that his hair is a mess, he is sweaty, dirty and his clothes are stained. Usually when he sees Jose, he at least gets a chance to shower beforehand.

For the last two weeks Jose has driven Rachel and him home after each dance practise. Sometimes they stop for ice cream or food on the way back. Brock is aware that Jose only makes little bets with Rachel, bets he always loses, and then has to invite them to whatever it is he promised her. Brock wouldn’t be able to buy ice-cream and take-out three or four times a week for three people.

The time he spends with Jose and Rachel has become the highlight of his life. He doesn’t mind walking half an hour to a dance studio and then watch for nearly two hours in the overheated studio as his niece prances around the room with other girls. The short drive back with Jose makes it all worth while.

He is the funniest and kindest guy Brock’s ever met. It feels a bit like having a friend, a real friend for once, and Jose is probably the only person he can really be himself with. He can giggle when he feels like it, talk with his hands and even admit that he likes colourful sprinkles on top of his ice-cream.

However, none of it explains why Jose is here now, parked in front of his parents’ house. It’s already too late, Brock realises when he makes his way around the front-porch and find both his mother and father standing on the porch talking to Jose.

”Aw, that’s too bad you can’t tell me. Thought I’d save them the long walk, now that I’m in town anyway.”

”Sorry, we can’t help ya,” his father says in a brusk tone.

”Ok, never mind. Thanks anyway,” Jose turns around to leave. That’s when he spots Brock. Immediately Jose’s face lights up. He is looking really good today, wearing a white wife-beater, a short black and red flannel shirt and tiny black  shorts. ”Hey Brock!”

”Hello,” Brock replies as neutral as possible and it takes a lot not to return the smile. He is very aware that his parents are watching their interaction with stony expressions. ”What are you doing here?”

”Thought I’d ask you and Rachel if I should drive you to dance practice today. I have to take care of some shit here in town and could take you back with me. Don’t think ya got your car fixed yet, huh?” Jose still smiles and casually leans against his Porsche. He looks like someone straight out of an ad or a tv show. Already Brock’s stomach tightens because he knows what he has to do.

”I’m sorry Sir, but that’s not necessary. Rachel and I can manage on our own. Thank you for the kind offer though,” he declines and watches the smile melt off Jose’s face when the icy tone of Brock’s voice registers with him.

”Brock! You know him?” His mother asks. She sounds surprised. What did she think? That some stranger would just show up and offer driving him and Rachel?

”This is Jose. He is Rachel’s dance teacher for the next couple of weeks. Jason hurt himself.” He informs both of his parents.

”You done with the hay?” His father stops any further explanation.

”No, not yet. I just heard voices and thought I’d check on ya.”

”I don’t need ya checking, that’s what we got guns for. I need ya working!” His father barks.

”I better get going,” Jose says quietly and his eyes appear to be so large and defeated that Brock nearly drowns in them.

”Thank you again for the offer but we can manage,” he says and softens his tone. He doesn’t want to decline. If he had a choice, he’d gladly drive around in Jose’s car all day and talk to him about everything and nothing. But it’s not an option he has.

He can’t move, he can’t do anything when he watches Jose get into the car and then drive off, leaving dust and a hint of cologne in the air.

”Don’t ya have work to do?!” his father asks him from the porch and snaps him out of his daze. Quickly he hurries back to the stable to work, to hide and to hopefully forget about the scene he was just a part of. He swallows a couple of times to keep the tears inside that his stupid overly emotional heart wants him to cry for how he just treated Jose.

***

”Care to tell us what that guy wanted today?” Brock’s father asks as soon as he sits down at the table for lunch.

”I told you, he’s Rachel’s dance teacher and I know nothing more than you do. He wanted to drive us to her dance class.”

”How’d he know your car’s broken?”

”We were late a couple of times,” Brock sighs and takes a piece of bread, rips a piece off and stuffs it in his mouth so the words he really wants to speak won’t burst out.

”I don’t like ya hanging with that folk! It’s bad enough that Ada allows Rachel to take dance lessons at that place. You being around these faggots a couple o’times a week… ya know what the people in town gonna say if they see this gay guy here? Ya know what the minister’s gonna say? You stay away from them, ya hear me!” His father is basically yelling at this point.

”I take Rachel to dance class because no one else has the time to do so, not because I wanna hang out there. I don’t know this guy any better than I know Jason, so what’s the big deal? He is a good teacher and Rachel likes him.”

”Stop eating before we said grace!” His father slaps the bread out of his hand, which drops to the floor. ”And Rachel shouldn’t be anywhere around these faggots, this music or these whore dance moves! It’s not right! Their lifestyle and everything they do’s offensive to the lord and every god fearing Christian. They don’t belong here and I want none of my family have anything to do with them. If you wanna hang out with these sinners you get your ass out of my house and better never come back.” Now his father is really yelling.

”How else is Rachel supposed to get there? By the time the lessons are done it’s dark out. It’s too far for her to go on her own. It’s not safe!”

”If I had a say in it she wouldn’t go there at all! But ya sister is letting her kids do whatever! If she lets them run with the wrong crowd, they should know what’s waiting for them!”

It’s nothing Brock hasn’t heard before. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen or felt before. He knows if he speaks another word now the fight will most likely become physical. Brock has never raised a hand against his father, but for a while now he’s taken to defending himself and his mother when the beer gets to his father’s head again.

He hates how he judges Jose without even knowing him. He even hates him for judging Jason. For a split second he wants to scream at him that he’s a sinner himself, gay like them and that even all the beatings he got as a child and teenager didn’t take it out of him.

Then he glances at his mother and her wide, scared eyes let him bite his tongue and lower his head. ”I’ll tell Ada I can’t take Rachel anymore.” He leans over and picks the bread up off the floor and uses the second to wipe his face clean of any emotion. Fury is still burning in his gut, nearly making him sick as he swallows it down and nearly chokes on it.

This is not the time though, not the time to risk it all for nothing. Jose will be gone again in about three weeks and their tentative friendship will become only a memory. What does it matter if he stops it all now, goes back to life how it was before Jose got here and starts living his harsh reality again three weeks earlier? His father probably just saved him a lot of pain and heartache. Brock knows that Jose and his friendships means too much already and he’s gotten too used to it.

”Good. Brock, can you say grace?” His mother ends the discussion with a grateful look and Brock knows he’s made the right decision.

***

”Hey, uncle Brock,” Rachel greets him after the mass on Sunday, when they are all still standing in front of the church.

”Hey honey,” he smiles.

”Can you take a look at my bike? The breaks’ not working and mommy can’t fix it,” she asks him and of course Brock follows her to her bike on the other side of the lawn. He doesn’t care that his good pants get dirty as he kneels down beside the small bike. It’s more important that his niece has a functioning bike, now that she has to ride it to dance practise and back. Brock doesn’t like it. He worries about her constantly, but there is nothing he can do.

”It’s just a bit loose, honey, that’s easily fixed,” he assures her.

”Thank you!”

”Do your lights work? I don’t like you riding your bike in the dark after practise, so we have to make sure at least these are working.”

”Can I tell you a secret?” Rachel whispers after checking that they are alone.

”Always.”

”I’m not driving back on my bike. Vanjie takes me until we reach our house and then waits with the lights turned off until he knows I’m safely inside.”

Brock feels a warmth spreading through him that nearly knocks him on his ass. He grasps the bike to keep his balance. He should have known Jose would make sure Rachel is safe. It’s so much like him that Brock feels like weeping. It’s only been three days, but he already misses their talks so much and hearing about how he cares for his niece only makes him miss Jose more. If only he could just talk to him sometimes.

”That’s very nice of Vanjie. He’s a very good guy,” Brock tells her just as quietly as she told him her secret.

”Then why do you hate him?”

”What? What makes you think I hate him?” he asks surprised and slowly gets up.

”Vanjie asked why you not taking me anymore and if you’re sick or something. I told him ‘bout the stuff grandpa said and that you can’t take me ‘cause they’re offensive and sinners and you don’t wanna be around him and can’t be his friend.”

Brock nearly crumbles to the ground for real this time. ”Rachel, how do you know about that talk?”

”I wanted to see you but then I heard the yelling through the open window and ran off. I don’t like grandpa when he’s mean like that.”

He takes a deep breath and runs his hands through his curls. There are so many things wrong with what Rachel just said and what she overheard. But there are also things he can maybe fix.

”Honey, I don’t agree with grandpa. Vanjie is a very good and nice guy and don’t let anyone tell you anything else about him or Jason, ok? ” Rachel nods her head. ”The only reason why I’m not taking you anymore is because grandpa gets very upset about these things and he’s scared that people will say mean things about me in town.”

”Like the things they say about Jason?”

”Yeah, like that. And he doesn’t want that for me or any of us. And I don’t want to make grandpa angry.”

”Uncle Brock? I like Jason and Vanjie.”

”That’s good. Make sure you tell them. They sure need to hear it.” He strokes his hand over Rachel’s strawberry blond hair.

”Will you tell them, too? Vanjie was really sad that you not there anymore. He said, he thought you was his friend.”

”I’ll tell him,” Brock agrees.

”Promise?” Rachel goes in for the kill.

”Promise,” he says and knows he now really doesn’t have choice but to talk to Jose. Rachel will know.

***

He waits until his parents are in bed and then sneaks outside to the orchard behind their house. It’s far enough so he won’t be overheard, dark enough so he won’t be seen and close enough to the cellphone tower so he’ll have reception.

Jose has given him his phone number the first week, but he has never used it and he hasn’t given him his own. It simply hadn’t been necessary. Jose said to use the number if he needed a ride or if Rachel couldn’t come to practise. Brock had no such excuse for giving him his number.

He takes a couple of deep breaths and then finally brings his thumb down on the dial button.

”Hello?” Jose picks up after only a couple of rings.

”Hey, uhm, it’s me, Brock,” he stutters and feels stupid already.

”What’d ya want, Sir?” Jose’s tone is snide and Brock knows he deserves it.

”Rachel told me she talked to you and I think I need to clear some things up.”

”You made it more than crystal yourself what you really think about me. Ya don’t need to drag Rachel into this.”

”I’m not! I just think, like… it’s not what it seems.”

”So you not avoiding me like the plague ‘cause your father’s a bigot asshole who thinks just talking to me will sully your reputation?” Jose is yelling at him through the phone, then he suddenly stops. When he continues his voice carries the hurt he must be feeling. ”God, I hate this motherfucking town and all of y’all religious lying assholes.”

”I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry. You’re so nice to Rachel and to me and helped us out so much and just…I’m sorry.”

”If you’re really sorry you’d have come here and told me this shit in person like a man. But I guess you just as much of a weaselly liar as the rest of these fucked up wanna be cowboys in this town. Grow up, start thinking for ya’self and learn how to make an apology real.”  Jose hangs up on him and Brock stares disbelievingly at his phone.

At first he is shocked and sad. He’s just lost the only friend who really knew him. Not only that, but he also thinks badly about him now. How can he think that Brock agrees with his father? He must know that he doesn’t have a choice, right? He thought Jose knows… That’s when Brock gets angry himself. He is so sick of all of these people and their opinions about him and his life and what he is supposed to do and to think. He’s used to it from his family and the town and the parish. But Jose? How dare he!

Before he really knows what he is doing, he has run inside, grabbed his mother’s car keys and is on the way to the dance studio. Jose wants him to talk to him in person? He can have it!

***

Brock bangs on the front-door and his hand is still in the air when the door is ripped open.

”What the fuck are you doing here, bitch?”

”You told me to talk to you in person, didn’t you?” Brock raises his voice as well.

”Aaaah and of course the good little christian boy always does what he is told,” Jose sneers. For a second Brock wants to punch him. Instead he pushes past him into the apartment. Jason or whoever else is around, really doesn’t need to hear this conversation.

Jose lets the door falls shut and crosses his arms over his chest. ” Say what you gotta say, then leave.”

”Why are you acting like this?”

”Acting? Acting bitch! Imma show you who’s acting! You lucky I’m not kicking your ass right now for pretending to be my friend, acting all nice and cute while we eating ice cream and then you suddenly stabbing me in the back, pretending you don’t fucking know me and stop talking to me without any explanation. I don’t need any more backstabbing hoes in my life.”

”Do you have any idea what my father would have done, if he knew we were hanging out after dance practice? If he knew we were so much as talking on the regular? I don’t know who he would have shot first, you or me!”

“I’m not scared of your asshole father. I don’t give a shit about him! But I give a shit about loyalty. And you not who I thought you were! You not fucking loyal! If you’d been at that fucking bar last week, you’d have spat on me too and tried to beat me up, just ‘cause you scared of your father. You pathetic!” Jose is full on screaming at him now.

”So you got a taste of what it’s like to live here for one night? Do you know what it’s like to live here every fucking day of your fucking life? When they beat me up as a kid ‘cause I was too girly, my dad beat me up again when I got home. They threw rocks at me, spat at me and slapped me all the way through school. I couldn’t tell my parents, the teachers didn’t care and I didn’t even understand what the fuck was wrong with me!” Brock starts pacing in the small living room.

”You’re the only person who knows. The only person who knows that I’m…” he can barely get the word over his lips. ”…that I’m gay.” There, he’s said it out loud for the first time in his life. Well, yelled it at Jose. ”And you know what happens when that gets out? When only a rumour will spread? What you experienced at the bar will be my life every fucking day and worse. My parents will kick me out, I’ll lose all of my family and I’ll have nothing, NOTHING left. Maybe that’s what I deserve for being that way, maybe that’s really god’s way of punishment. But I’d rather live a lie every day for the rest of my fucking life than to lose the little I have left.” Tears are dripping from Brock’s chin by the end of his confession. He’s laid it all out now to Jose, a guy he barely knows and just because he’s the first one who has shown him any kindness. Fuck! What if… what if he tells people? What if he is so angry he will take revenge and..

”Hey, it’s ok. I understand,” Jose is suddenly standing in front of him and places his hands on his upper arms. That’s when Brock realises he’s shaking. ”It’s ok.” Jose tries to wipe his tears away with the back of his hands, but they fall faster than he can wipe them off. ”Come here, boo, sit down. You still shaking like a fucking tree,” he says. Brock has to laugh about the mishap.

”Leaf,” he corrects through his tears and hiccups.

”Smart ass. Imma get you some water,” Jose smiles and disappears for a moment, before he comes back with a bottle of water and some tissues. Brock takes the water and drinks it down, before he accepts the tissues and dries his face and his eyes.

He feels stupid now for getting so upset, for crying, for yelling all of his secrets at Jose and for coming here in the first place. ”I’m sorry, I shouldn’t…” he starts but Jose stops him.

”You know what, boo? You look like you need a hug. That ok?” Jose asks him with a tender and worried look.

”I’m not good at hugging,” Brock shrugs self-deprecatingly and looks down.

”You lucky, ‘cause I’m the best at giving hugs.” A moment later Jose slowly pulls him in his arms and hugs him tightly. It’s a strange feeling for Brock and he can’t remember when he has ever hugged anyone other than his sister or his nieces and nephews. Then however, he slowly relaxes against Jose’s warm body and lets the last couple of tears fall.

So this is what it feels like, he thinks. It’s nice and soothing, comfortable and exciting. He feels safe and cared for. Jose starts running his hands up and down his back and if Brock could, he would start purring like his favorite kitten. He closes his eyes and enjoys the feeling.

After a while, he turns his head, his nose bumps against Jose’s neck and the scent of cologne gets stronger. Jose’s hand slides up his neck and into his hair. When Brock looks up and their eyes meet, it only takes a split second and then Jose brushes his lips against his. It’s not even a peck, more like a butterfly like touch, but Brock wants more. He stops thinking as he leans up and captures Jose’s mouth in a soft kiss.

When he pulls back his brain suddenly starts working again and he jumps back. ”Oh my god!” he covers his tingling lips with his hand and stares at Jose.

”Please tell me that’s not been your first kiss,” Jose begs, equally wide eyed.

”No! But.. Like… we can’t do this. I can’t..not… here… I’m…”

”It’s ok, Brock. It don’t gotta mean nothing. You can go back to ignoring me now. I get it, I promise. No hard feelings.” The hurt in Jose’s voice tells Brock something else though.

”I don’t wanna ignore you.” He tells him honestly. ”But I can’t… do this here. It’s too risky.”

”Alright. Friends then?” Jose smiles.

”Friends,” Brock nods. ”Just… no one can know.”

”‘Cause I’m too fucking gay for this town, I know, Miss Thing. Then you better get your secretly gay ass outta here, before anyone sees you.” The words are harsh, but the smirk on Jose’s face and the hug he gives him, let Brock know he really means it.

”We could get ice cream again some time?” Brock suggests when he is already halfway out the door.

”Text me tomorrow if you still feeling that typa way and we can do that.” They smile at each other for a moment and if Brock wasn’t such a coward he’d kiss him again. Instead he quickly leaves and vows to himself that he will text Jose in the morning and make sure he won’t lose the only friend who now really knows all of his dirty secrets and still likes him. Despite it all. Maybe because of it.

TBC

[a-simple-imagine]

Always pt.2

Requested by a few nice readers: You meet up with Nat with the information she wanted but things between you become a little... tense.

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Words: 2.5k+

A/N - I don’t know how I feel about this. I liked it but then it came to posting it and now i’m not so sure. 

WARNING - Mentions of Guns, knives, stabbing, strangulation, blood, swearing, alcohol and like one suggestive reference

PREV //

It hadn't taken you long to find the guy Natasha had been referring to or more so information about him. He was like a legend. Everyone knew of him but the story was embellished. You weren't sure what or who to believe. Luckily, you only wasted one bullet during your interrogation.

So many places she could have been, you find the redhead in some obscure little café. Walking straight past the hostess who insisted on trying to assign you a seat in the mostly empty establishment. You slide into the booth across from where Natasha seemed to be enjoying a panini with a side of curly fries. Reaching over you grab the edge of her plate and slide it into the middle of the table. Picking up a fry and dramatically taking a bite.

"Hey,"

"Funny. I don't remember asking you if you wanted some?" Natasha teased, head tilting as her emerald gaze settled on you. You offer her a tight-lipped smile, holding her gaze as you slowly reach for one half of her panini. You hadn't stuck around for breakfast and you were starving so it was the least she could do. But knowing Nat the way you do, you expected it wouldn't be so easy. As you grab the warm sandwich, you spy her hand rising. Weapon of choice; a fork. A small smirk takes over your lips. Your hand snaps back as the prongs of her fork slam into the table.

"Aww, someone's getting slow," you stick out your bottom lip, a sympathetic expression adorning your face before firing a wink in her direction. Sinking your teeth into the warm bread, cheese stringing as you pull it away from your lips. Natasha leans back in her seat.

"Do you have a reason for being here or are you just trying to steal my lunch?"

You shake your head, picking up the drinks menu and glancing at the options. "I told you I'd find you later."

"So you have information for me?" The redhead asks.

"Maybe," you simply shrug. She'd have to work a little for it. "Maybe not. Let's enjoy lunch first, shall we?"

"Enjoy my lunch." Natasha corrected, sitting up to grab a fry off the plate. "How about you get your own?"

"No thanks, I'm okay sharing yours." You insist, waving your hand dismissively as you continue to enjoy what you had already stolen. You drop the menu to the table. "I will have a Bloody Mary though if you're offering."

"It's like two in the afternoon and I don't think I was offering."

Your brows furrow as if it's insane she'd bring up the time of day. "So? It's called day drinking Natasha, look it up."

She rolled her eyes but did, in fact, get up and head for the bar. You wait for her return, shoving the last piece of the panini into your mouth

"Here," She popped the drink down on the table next to you before slipping back into the booth.

"Urgh," you groan extra loudly. "Thanks, babe, you're far too good to me." You take a satisfying sip.

"So," Natasha leaned forward onto her elbows. "What information have you got for me?"

"I will tell you," You lean forward too. Grabbing a fry and slowly placing it into your mouth. "If you promise not to leave as soon as I do."

"Why do you care if I stick around?" Natasha wondered. There were many ways you could answer that question but none that would essentially sum up why exactly you care. And so, instead, you just take another fry into your mouth before slumping down in your seat.

"I couldn't find out much about your guy. It all seemed like bullshit. I did shoot someone though- that was fun." You tell her, slipping out the booth to grab a paper straw. Dropping it into the glass and taking a sip.

"And?"

"And what?" You ask, confused.

"The fuck? You can't just say you shot someone and then stop talking?"

"Oh! We're still talking about that?" Natasha's expression remained relatively blank but you knew her too well. She was getting fed up and you were living for it.

"It's no big deal, he was useless. I only shot him in the thigh, he'll be fine." You explain with a soft, almost innocent smile.

"So what exactly did you find out? What was his name?"

"I don't know." You pop another fry into your mouth with a satisfied smile before putting her out of her misery. "He doesn't tell people his actual name. The most definitive thing I could get was the shark which is stupid. He sells to suppliers who then sell it to folks like me and you."

"So we get a rat to lead us to the cat."

"We?" You question. "When was I part of this mission? I have better things to do, thanks."

"Like what? Get wasted by yourself." Natasha questioned.

"Yeah. My handler won't give me any more jobs at the moment because you fucked up the last one so what else have I got to do?"

"Tell you what," Natasha starts. "Set up a meeting and I'll buy you all the alcohol you want."

"And dinner?" You add, sitting up in your seat.

"I just got you lunch," Natasha countered signaling to the near-empty plate sat between you.

"No you didn't, I just ate your lunch- well half of it and that's completely different." You fire back defensively. "You can't just show up here whenever you want and expect me to do shit for you. So dinner, all the drinks I want and dessert then I'll consider helping you."

"Dessert?"

You nod, crossing your arms over your chest. "I added another condition."

"Fine but-"

"But nothing." You interrupted sharply. "This isn't a negotiation."

"But-"

"No!"

"Y/N-"

"No." You huff. "It's either yes or no."

"Fine," she rolled her eyes. "Yes."

"Great!" You down the rest of your drink before slamming the glass against the table and siding out the booth. "I'll go set up a meeting, you go put on something pretty."

"We're doing this tonight?" She questions, watching you carefully.

"Dinner? Yes. Meet up? I don't know." You casually shrug and head for the exit.

"Don't shoot anyone this time." She calls from across the restaurant. You hold up your middle finger as you walk knowing she's probably looking but not giving her satisfaction of checking.

A few hours pass by before you see her again. It had taken some work but after talking around, you finally found someone who was willing to admit they sold enhanced weapons. They were actually a little braggy about it which was distasteful but a lot of criminals are. They're annoyingly edgy or at least try to be. You return to your apartment to shower and change into something a little less 'I stalk and kill people' but nothing too fancy. You then met Natasha downtown. The redhead walks a few steps ahead of you as you try to decide where to eat. "Stop staring at my ass,"

Your eyes snap up, a soft chuckle passing your lips. "I'm not,"

"Yeah you are," Natasha nodded, turning her head to look at you. A smirk on her lips. You speed up a little and take her hand in yours; pulling her abruptly into a nearby restaurant on the strip. You're lead to a table for two where you order some drinks and search over the menu.

"When do you go back?" You eventually ask. Wondering if her little mission had a deadline.

"When the job is done."

"So the longer I drag this out..."

"The longer I have to stay." She finishes and you smile a little. Only to have it diminish a second later. "I'll probably leave sooner though if you keep messing me around."

"I'm not doing anything of the sorts." You insist defensively. "I set the meet up for tomorrow night. I hope that's okay?"

Natasha just diverts her gaze to the waitress who finally returned with your drinks. The young woman was a pretty blonde with an assortment of freckles peppered over her skin. Your jaw tenses as she stands waiting for you to order. Natasha says hers first and then you. You watch the other woman who seems to be more interested in the waitress whose walking away than you right now. You take a large gulp of the Malibu sunset you ordered.

"I don't remember you being this much of an alcoholic."  Natasha ponders. The glass lingering at your lips lowers to the table.

"Yeah... well... I don't remember you being an avenger for the US Government. People change."

"Why are you so against my job? We're doing something good."

With a humorless huff of a laugh, you can't help but roll your eyes. "You should know as well as anyone that the world isn't that black and white. You're no better off than you were before."

"I've saved the world multiple times. What have you done?" It was out of character for Nat to get so defensive.

"What I get paid to do. Just like everyone else except I don't go around acting all high and mighty."

"Because you have nothing to be proud of," Natasha growls. "I've done a lot of bad shit in the past but I'm trying to be better. I didn't want to be a monster anymore."

"Oh, so I'm a monster? Thanks." Voice dripping with sarcasm you pick up your drink just to stop yourself from talking. Natasha knows how hard it is to get out of this business. It wasn't as easy as just handing in your notice. And honestly? It was easy money. It wasn't like you we're going around killing anyone who didn't deserve it.

"I didn't say that."

"You implied it." You reply as calmly as you can. Not wanting to cause a scene right now. "I do what I have to to get through the fucking day, Natasha."

Another silence follows only this time it's more awkward. You're visibly showing off your annoyance while every time you glance at her she's just staring down. If anything she looks a little sad but perhaps that was just you wanting her to feel bad about her words.

"Shield would have you," She says quietly after a moment.

"I'm fine where I am."

The dinner proceeded quietly- too much so. You couldn't bring yourself to say anything of value. All you could think about was her new view of you and your profession. It takes a special kind of person to be able to stomach your job. It was rough and dangerous more so for others. But you had never had someone consider what you do monstrous. Admittedly you didn't have a lot of friends. You spent a lot of time traveling and forced to lay low in hotel rooms. Natasha had been someone who had saved you a long time ago which resulted in a friendship that very quickly ended up sexual. You provided each other with relief from the otherwise insane thing that was your lives. But apparently, since running off to become a superhero she had come to think of you as trash. She did, however, stick to the deal and gave you everything you had requested. When the end of the meal came, the woman invited you back to her place which was surprising considering the situation. Part of you wanted to just leave but as always you ended up in bed with her. It felt... different this time. A little rougher. A little rushed. It just wasn't what it normally was and by the end, you were both lying on opposite sides of the bed. Facing away from each other.

With tired eyes, you awake and you're alone in bed. A soft sigh leaves your lips as you stretch out your arm to where she had previously been. You push yourself into an upright position, staring out into the darkness.

"Nat?" You call out but there's no response. That's when you spy a dark figure standing in the corner of the hotel room. Your eyes narrow, trying to figure out who it was but you couldn't make out their face. "Natasha?"

Again, no answer. But the figure moves closer. You try to move but you're frozen in place. Hands envelop your neck as you stare into the darkness. Getting tighter and tighter. Your hands claw at their hands, gasping for the smallest amount of air. Your head feels like it could explode but the majority of the pain is in your throat.

"You deserve this."Is all you hear as your consciousness slipped away. Everything going, Black.

You jolt awake, your heart pounding in your chest as your hands shoot up to check your neck. Remnants of tears rest on your cheeks and your breathing is ragged. A pair of arms suddenly envelops you and in your panic, you grab a small blade from under your pillow and dig it into the arm. The grip tightens as you hear Natasha's familiar groan.

"Calm down." She whispers surprisingly softly, as her body presses up against you. "I'm here, Y/N. It's Nat."

You lay like that. Still. Natasha presses a kiss against your skin as your breathing slows. When you're calm enough, you shuffle out of Natasha's grip and go get a first aid kit. The room is cast in a picturesque glow from the moonlight and table lamp. You sit on the bed cross-legged in nothing more than a pair of panties. Natasha held her arm out and you yank the knife out. You gently hold her arm, inspecting the wound as you clean up the blood spilling down her arm.

"I'm sorry," you announce quietly. Feeling really guilty about the whole ordeal. "I didn't... mean to stab you."

"It's okay I didn't expect you to." Your gaze briefly moves to her face which wore a warm smile. "Are you okay though? You seemed to be freaking out back there."

"I..." You trail off, not wanting to share your trauma. "You just got in my head with the whole monster thing and I keep a dagger on hand in case I get like attacked or something. When you grabbed me, I panicked and I stabbed you."

"What were you dreaming about?" Natasha wonders softly. You drop your head before shrugging.

"Do you wanna go to the hospital? I've cleaned it up and I can wrap it in a bandage but I don't know if you need anything else?"

"It’s not that deep so I'll be fine. Let's just go back to bed, yeah?" she gently places her free hand on top of yours which rested on your thigh. You nod a little, grabbing the gauze and beginning to wrap it around her arm.

"Here," you offer up some pain killers and a glass of water which she takes happily. You put your equipment back in its box before placing it off to the side. Switching off the light, you lie back down in bed. Breathing heavily as you stare into the darkness. Your body tenses as you feel her arms wrap around you again, pulling you closer. After a moment, you relax into her touch as tears brim your eyes. 

"I'll keep you safe," She mumbles quietly and despite your earlier attitude, you’re glad you came home with her. 

"Natasha,"

"Yeah?"

You hesitate. "...Thank you,"

[sick-raven]

Ghosts of the Past - Chapter 8

Chapter 1 + warnings

AO3

Previous chapter

Chapter 8

Life was going well. Work was great. Jonathan was good to her. He didn’t even make rude comment when lending her his Edgar Allan Poe collection. They never officially said anything about their relationship. There was something and they didn’t name it. Miranda thought about it as two broken people licking each other’s wounds.

Things were good.

So why did this happen?

Maybe… No… but maybe… All was good… So why would he?

She was sitting in the hall of her flat. Crawled in the corner, phone in her hand, stared at it. She could ruin all these good things with one question. But she had to make sure. Final touch to the doom. Final nail to her coffin.

She called Jonathan.

“I don’t have time now, Miranda, I am working,” he greeted her.

“One question.”

“Hm?”

“Are you giving me something?”

Silence on his side. She made him angry. She knew it.

“Nothing you don’t know about.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Are you okay?”

She turned her phone off. It wasn’t his doing.

The room was black as shadows devoured it. Their tendril grew closer to her and soon they will get her too.

***

Miranda stood on the edge of the roof and she looked down. The lights of cars were running through the streets like some colourful game of Pacman. The sound carried through the air. Gotham was so noisy. Would anyone hear her scream?

“Miranda?”

Somehow, she knew he will find her here. Somehow, she hoped he will, but it angered her nonetheless. She looked over her shoulder to acknowledge him. Batman stood there ready to jump after her, if she made that one step into nothingness.

“Hey B, what’s up?” she giggled.

“Are you high?” he asked surprised.

She looked down at the pavement and back at him. “About ten floors.”

“Miranda, this is not you. Step down, please.”

“What do you know,” she hissed annoyed.

“It’s the drugs making you do things.”

“Are you going to blame Jonathan again?”

“Step down.”

She turned on one leg, nearly lost her balance, then stepped down the rail. Walked to him, throwing her arms. “Happy? That you moved the inevitable for a minute?”

“You need to stop…”

“What? Seeing Jonathan?”

“Miranda…”

“Will you school me about danger again? I’m not the clown, Bruce! It’s not the same!”

“Okay,” he resigned. “Tell me.”

She fell quiet from surprise. She scratched her head. Tell him? All? She never told the truth. But she will be dead soon. At least here she can be sincere. She sat at AC.

“I’ve been seeing ghosts for over a decade now. The charm kept them at bay. I figured I was crazy. I visited every expert in existence. Schizophrenia professional. Split personality doctor. Anxiety shrink. Whatever you imagine, I was probably there. I did all in my power to get rid of the ghosts to no avail.

So, three years ago, I decided I’ve had enough. Just make sure your charm is safe, Miranda. I could live with that. It’s like a handicap. I am pretty much carrying a bomb around that can kill me. But people live with worse, you know?”

She played with the necklace, dinging silently.

“And then I started to notice them. The shadows. I tried to rationalize them. They are the League. They try to kill me. I made them up. I keep seeing normal things and overreacting. You know? But deep down I knew it’s not true. Deep down, little Miranda was screaming at me to fix this. So, I found another professional and moved to Gotham.

See, Jonathan Crane didn’t make me this. I was this before I came here. He didn’t make me worse, the decay just caught up with me. I never really believed he can help me, you know? But I hoped. Maybe his drugs will melt some part of my brain. Fry me hard and make the ghosts disappear by accident. And if not… Hey, at least my body is useful for science.”

She rubbed her eyes. “It’s not the same. This is not – I would leave if I wanted – situation. This is – I see no reason to stop – situation. Nothing can fix me. But at least I am still doing things, trying to enjoy life. And if I kill the ghosts by accident in the process, who can blame me for being a good pet?”

“Miranda…” Batman sighed and sat next to her as if they were old friends. “You are still in very bad place.”

“Tell me about it,” she laughed. “No, I like Crane. But I will die soon. I might as well rip myself out before I start to suffer.”

“I know someone who might be able to help,” he suggested.

“Please, don’t say magic.”

He kept quiet.

“Oh my god! It’s not magic!”

“Do you have anything to lose at this point?”

“My dignity!” He looked at her. “Shut up, I know,” Miranda snapped. Then she sighed. “What’s his name?”

“John Constantine.”

***

They found John Constantine gambling in New York bar. Cards in one hand, cigarette in the other, shit-eating grin on his face. He was winning this round just like every round before that.

“Sorry, lads, looks like I won again. New round?”

“Forget it,” grumbled his opponents.

“I’d like to play.”

“Bloody hell, it’s the Bat!” Constantine drank his whiskey in one gulp. “What do you and the nice lass want?”

Miranda couldn’t see any way this man could help her. He looked like a mess. Blond hair that didn’t see brush for days. Trench coat and red tie made him look like some sort of exhibitionist ready to run wild in a park.

“He said you could help me with ghosts,” Miranda said.

“Try psychologist, love.”

“Been there, done that.”

Constantine puffed cigarette smoke with no indication he cares. Miranda was just about to ready to turn and walk out.

“Ever heard of survival curse?” asked Batman for her.

“Might have. What’s in it for you?”

“She is cursed.”

Constantine looked at her. “Nah, she ain’t. She would have them crawl all over her.”

Miranda grew angry. Would she now? She does! They are here! “If I die it’s on you,” she grumbled and took down the charm. She left it on the table.

She lost her breath immediately.

“Bloody hell take it back!” shouted Constantine and forced the charm in her hand. She gasped for air. “I haven’t seen it this big yet.”

“Can you help?” asked Batman.

“I don’t know. Let’s go.”

“I will leave you to it, I need to get back to Gotham.”

“Say hi to Nightwing for me,” grinned Constantine, but Batman was gone already. “Creepy, isn’t he?”

“I can see him go. It’s stupid when you know what to look for,” shrugged Miranda.

Constantine’s lair – yes, it was a lair, it looked like basement vault mixed with museum of curiosities – was surprisingly warm and welcoming. “Don’t touch anything, one curse is enough,” he warned her as they passed several objects. She could only guess what they were used for.

“So magic is real, huh?” she whispered to herself.

“I’m afraid so, pet. It’s dangerous thing. I would recommend not playing with it.”

“Too late.”

“Sit down.” There was a space between all the things. The ground was clean concrete. Constantine took a chalk out of drawer. “For how long are you cursed?”

“It will be eleven years soon.”

He looked at her shock in his eyes. “Eleven? That’s impossible.”

“Thank you.”

“How did you… Let me guess. The bell,” he pointed at her charm. “Your ghosts must be pissed off as hell for letting them wait so long.”

“Yes, and yes.”

“Where did you get it?

Her time was coming. She remembered stumbling, blinded by ghosts, constantly feeling them grabbing at her heart prepared to squeeze the life of it. She shuffled through market full of spices and sweets without taste. A man has seen her, took her hand and led her to a side street. She was so blinded she didn’t even realize the danger. But he took her to a shop not unlike this hideout. The owner saw her and gave her the charm. Just like that. No payment necessary.

The ghosts were gone. When she came back later with money and to say thank you, she couldn’t find the street nor the shop.

“You were lucky,” Constantine said. “Faery folk is not always so nice.”

“It’s not working anymore. They are getting through the charm. It’s weak. Or they grew stronger. I don’t know.”

Constantine nodded. He started drawing at the concrete, explaining as he did. “Ghosts are work, you know? If someone dies there is echo left after them. Sometimes it’s weak, sometimes it’s strong. Exorcism doesn’t help. Sometimes facing them head on and figuring what they want can stop them.”

“They want me dead.”

“Maybe. Anyways, I cannot promise we’ll get rid of them. But I can make your charm stronger and bound to soul.”

“A what?”

“Make it so nobody can take it off but you.”

Miranda looked at him amazed. “Really? Yes, do it!” Was she really that desperate she was ready to believe his words? Batman wouldn’t take her to some conman, right? She had nothing to lose either. She just wanted this to work. Please, please let it work.

“I will need you to come here, love.”

He finished the circle full of runes and pentagrams. She looked at it unsure. “You gonna sacrifice me?”

“No. But fair warning. People around me die often.”

“That’s fine, me too.”

He lit another cigarette. “This circle will protect you while I work on your thing. I will need your blood too.”

“Are you sure they won’t get to me?” she asked as he handed her knife and bowl. She cut herself without hesitation but taking off the charm was different commitment.

“It’s a barrier ghosts can’t cross. The inner circle is protection symbol, the ring around it is made of blessed salt. Never leave the home without it, it hurts most of supernatural beings. As long as you don’t break either they won’t get to you.”

“And you saw them, right?”

“No. I felt them. I could see them if I focused more. But they are real, if that’s what you are asking.”

“I just… overwhelmed.”

“That’s okay, love. You just sit there and let me do my job.”

“Wait, wait. What about the payment?”

“Payment?”

“You don’t look a man who does this from good of his heart.”

He chuckled. “I will help. If you want to pay me after, I drink whiskey, love money and shagging.”

“You’re funny. My treat later then.”

“Now would you give me the thing so we can kick these ghosts to bollocks?”

She took down the charm. Hand trembling, she gave it to Constantine. Ghosts appeared immediately, hoovering around the circle. She gasped, but they couldn’t touch her. The choking feeling didn’t come. She laughed nervously.

“It’s working.”

“They are pissed,” agreed Constantine.

“Will you be okay?” she realized he is out the circle with them.

“Yeah, they are after you. They are blind to anyone else.”

Miranda sat on the floor. She watched Constantine throwing things in the bowl. He poured ugly looking liquid in and dropped her charm there. He kept mumbling.

“Why are you doing this to us, Miranda?” she heard, and she jumped. They were… She understood what they were saying!

“It hurts.”

“We are lonely without you.”

“You killed us.”

“No,” she hissed. “I just didn’t die.”

“We feel empty without you here. Come to us. You are our sister. We belong together.”

“Don’t listen to them, pet, they are just trying to get to you,” Constantine said between his mumbles.

Miranda held hands on her ears.

“You promised to die with us.”

“We all agreed.”

“Die!”

When is it going to be over? She couldn’t take their words. She wanted to live, that’s all. She just left while they finished the business. Not her fault they committed suicide! That was on them, not her!

“Hold on, it’s almost finished.”

“He can’t save you, Miranda. We won’t let him.”

She raised her sight. One of them moved to Constantine.

“Watch out!” she screamed.

Too late.

The shadow hammered Constantine to the side. He screamed and flew across the room. He hit his head on a shelf and dropped to the ground. Bleeding. Not moving.

“Fuck! Constantine! John!” she shouted through laughter of ghosts. “You damn freaks!”

“Give up, Miranda. Just come out.”

The charm was too far. Even if she ran, she couldn’t get to it. Ghosts would catch her.

Fuck!

Nothing close enough to the circle. Nothing useful anyways. Her bag she could reach. But for what?

She grinded her teeth. She was trapped. Like a rat in slow heating cage. “Constantine!” she tried again. No answer. Great, they just killed her only chance for semi-normal life.

She sat down again. Hidden her face, covered her ears. Their voices resonated the room. Mocked her. Annoyed her. Making her feel like shit. She would cry. She couldn’t. Minutes turned to hour. Hour turned to several.

Nobody will help her.

She could call for help, but what can anyone do? The ghosts will just cut them to pieces. Kill them, like they did to Constantine.

Lost.

She won’t give herself up.

She needed that bag. Eyeing it she realized she could reach, grab it fast and bring it to the circle. She breathed in and prepared.

She grabbed.

A ghost cut.

She screamed and retraced. The bag safely in her hand, but on her arm was long cut bleeding hard. She quickly took off her sweater and tied it around the wound. It kept bleeding. Her only fear was the blood smearing the circle

She had her bag. What now?

“No saving yourself,” said ghost.

She knew.

“Constantine, if you are alive, I will not let you die,” she said towards him. Nothing.

She took out the pill bottle.

Doctor’s orders.

Next chapter

[illegiblewords]

FROM UMBRA

Summary: The Warrior of Light is an instrument of death and always has been.

Black Mage origin.

There are not twelve patron gods of Eorzea but thirteen.

People forget that the Traders, who share freely with each other what would cost the world dear, remain two deities. Nald deals in metal and grain, jewels and fine cloth, all luxuries and necessities alike. If he’d walked alone, perhaps his worship would have been more widespread. Perhaps people would not hesitate to speak his name.

Because Nald’s brother is a merchant too, and his wares are lives, and theirs is a shared office.

***

At Thal’s Respite, beneath death’s curved scimitar, a shadow waited, and watched, and was silent.

It wasn’t a very large shadow. New, delicate fingers curled in upon themselves experimentally. Opened again.

The man who entered paid no mind at first, his steps heavy beneath the weight of his grief. This was a pilgrimage and a plea. Immin Asher left his cart laden with personal effects behind, glasses crooked atop his nose.

Saewynn, his wife, would be dead by morning.

No.

Saewynn was already dead. The primal puppet that took her body would have its strings cut. Just the same, Immin prayed her passage would be swift.

It wasn’t something he wanted to see, Twelve help him.

They were supposed to build a life together. They were supposed to make a home, to have children, to tease each other old. He tried not to call it theft.

The shadow murmured, as if in conspiracy, eyes intent upon the visitor. Immin froze, and squinted, and stilled again.

There was no cry. Only the wide and patient gaze of an infant.

In his heart, Immin understood this was compensation.

***

Eight years, Cenric did not fit in with other children.

It helped not at all that he wandered Thanalan with his adoptive father. Immin formed ties. People smiled to meet him, as they did most merchants who sold them goods. Whether his own habit came first or the nerves Cenric cannot remember. Either way, silence earned few friends in his early life. Most were content to avoid him.

The strangeness of his features made it worse.

“Duskwight blood,” Immin told him evenly when asked. Initially, Cenric had accepted that. He’d always been tall for a midlander, even then. The pale irises, the sharp nose, the cold, absolute darkness of his skin… that wasn’t a combination common in desert-folk. The elezen had it, though.

When a hyuran boy with pointed ears came searching for elixers, Cenric didn’t say a word.

Maybe more distant heritage was enough to look like him. Maybe it manifested differently between cases.

Maybe.

Immin was the closest thing most could get to a healer in these parts. Wealthy, foreign conjurers busied themselves in battle alongside mercenaries. The common man relied on peddlers with salves and eyedrops and inexpensive remedies. These were traveling medics who knew practical ways to treat the body’s ills. His father was well-educated in such matters.

Cenric learned to follow directions, to grind herbs into paste, to pass surgical knives and bandages upon request. He could press rags into the jaws of patients so they wouldn’t sever their own tongues in fits of pain. He learned that sometimes death is inevitable, and that more than stillness death empties a person’s eyes of direction. Sleep was not comparable. Death divided bodies between being people and being things.

Such were their realities. And from his quiet, from the shadow fixed about his form, from his unflinching examination of wounds or corpses, from his citation of unspoken truths, from how he would occasionally stare, mouth agape, as if into the soul itself… rumor about Cenric took root.

Voidsent was the most common. Thal’s spawn, next. The latter seemed to unnerve his father more than the former on occasions gossip became indiscreet.

“No voidsent could have been so unguarded,” Immin had explained softly, sitting side by side on the cot their inn provided. His eyes, green and framed by unkept black hair, did not meet Cenric’s own. “It was a miracle that I found you when I did. You’d never have lasted, being alone that way. Like any babe I had to find you milk. Burp you. Keep you clean and warm. Thal’s spawn…” His father scowled then, and Cenric thought for a moment he was going to say something ugly. Instead, his expression shifted. Smoothed. With an exhale, Immin continued, “If Thal trusted me with something so precious as his own son, then I should count myself blessed. Don’t trouble yourself.”

Forgetting was easier when they were alone in a cheap room, watching Dalamud ascend. Listening to the hum of blowflies while under a thin, shared blanket.

That was enough for him. The people who watched and those who looked away. Kids who played at which would be brave enough to tap his shoulder. Adults who muttered comments under their breath or suggested Immin leave him somewhere, for his own good… they were passing scenery.

He had a father. They ate breakfast together and scoured the land before sunup for supplies. They laid traps for beasts and separated helpful plants from useless or dangerous ones. They crafted splints when those were running short and tended the daily needs of their chocobo. And in evenings they would read, or practice numbers, so that when the time came Cenric would be able to pursue his own craft.

There was no one else. They needed no one else.

It was enough.

***

Fourteen, they came to stay in a town called Mirage. Their journey took them far across the Sagolii, with their time in the Forgotten Springs nearly a week past. Regionally unique sabotenders grew there. According to the miqo’te, potent remedies could be distilled from venom in their needles. It was an opportunity.

Travel proved difficult. They kept to their wagon during the day, ate little. Drank what was needed and no more. Upon arriving Immin’s beard had become an unruly mess—his skin raw and peeling in places. Cenric had been checking his own chin periodically for stubble, but so far nothing.

The journey left them both thinner than they began.

Most inhabitants of Mirage were hyuran, with only a few scattered lalafells. Constructed around an oasis, the trees and clay buildings offered a welcome respite. Gone were the dunes, gleaming white under the sun. In its place came soil, interrupted by scrub and grass.

Few visitors came this far south, the innkeeper told them over cups brimming with water. “Easy,” Immin murmured as he took his own. Cenric could hardly breathe for drinking, found himself empty in but a few moments. He couldn’t have replied if he’d wanted to. Thankfully, the next one was easier.

Their arrival was unusual enough to mark a community event. It was an occasion for exchange of not only supplies but news and tales from the road. Barely contained curiosity lurked in the scrutiny of all who saw them.

“We have an opportunity to do some good here,” Immin would say later, having listened to local hurts and determined how best to attend. “We’ll stay a while. Make sure they’re well and can manage once we’ve left.”

It seemed fair. He had yet to learn the price of kindness.

***

A jackal lay some distance beyond their gates, its eyes filmed over with a yellow-green mucus. Most of the fur had worn away, revealing countless sores and lesions. Its belly was swollen like an airship balloon. Insects swarmed at the anus, clustered on its tongue and nose until neither was visible anymore.

“Don’t go near it, Immin cautioned the townsfolk. To their credit they did not.

But the flies went where they pleased.

***

Malena Saei fell first. She was nearing her sixty-eighth year, hair fading from its original brown into gray. Her irises were blue against weathered, copper skin. When she smiled, it dimpled her cheeks. She left three generations behind her.

Immin forbade Cenric from accompanying him as he examined the body. “It’s an unnecessary risk,” his father explained, wrapping a cloth over his mouth. Hempen robes covered him from head to toe. “You don’t know what to look for, and it isn’t worth the exposure. Stay with her family.”

The entire house stank of bile and shit. Cenric tried to keep his expression empty as he offered sympathy lest disgust show up instead. When it was time for questions, he kept his voice low.

Maybe they’d noticed something. Maybe others could be saved.

It spread to Malena’s grandson next, and her daughter after. Despite meeting with both, Cenric found himself mercifully spared.

The stares he faced turned hard after that. From then on, every new incident spread whispers like a disease.

***

This was the anger of Nald’Thal. Of that there could be no doubt.

Perhaps someone overheard when he asked Immin if this was his fault. If maybe they should leave. There was no fixing this.

(“That isn’t true,” his father told him. His hands were painfully tight on Cenric’s shoulders, eyes unblinking and wide and furious.

“Don’t you dare say something so stupid in front of me again. Do you understand? Never again.”)

Perhaps any offering would have sufficed, and this was just the obvious one. A quiet young stranger with his whole life ahead. A weighty exchange without personal investment. Maybe the Twins could be tempted.

Maybe then the town would be left in peace.

A knock, loud and frantic. His father already out administering aid. The room was, at the moment, his alone.

Something’s gone wrong, Cenric thought. So he let them in.

***

They dragged him, hands bound, to a cave just past the town limits.

Desert nights were freezing compared to daylight. The sky remained clear and two moons, mismatched, circled overhead to bear witness. Bumps rippled across his skin, setting his hair on end.

What are you doing? WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

Silence. They wouldn’t even look at him.

Someone must have heard. Someone must have.

Nobody came.

Gathered in shadow and stone before a makeshift altar, there was something animal in the way the townsfolk watched him enter. Wide eyes that caught the moonlight, wild and empty. No hate, no anger. Families, from elders to children, ringed the space.

“Kneel.”

The mayor, a stout midlander with thin lips. His eyes creased when he laughed. In the moment, his body seemed animated by something that didn’t understand the skin it wore or its warmth.

Cenric found himself speechless, frozen. One of his escorts kicked him from behind, catching his knees. Of course he crumbled.

“You should gag him,” said the highlander woman quietly, unwinding a kerchief from her hair. It was the first time she’d said anything since he’d seen her, since she’d shoved him face-down into the inn floor. Since she’d dragged him here. “He wouldn’t shut up the entire walk over. We can’t afford distractions like that.”

Mutely, pressing his mouth into a firm line, the mayor complied. When Cenric tried to struggle he found fingers digging into his scalp, his arms. Forcing him still. The fabric tasted sour, like old sweat.

Before them, resting across several crates, was a pair of scales. A dagger. The blade rippled from hilt to tip.

“To the Blessed Traders who enrich our lives, we’re bound to pay with our lives in turn…”

Cenric’s vision swam, burning, transforming his surroundings into a series of inarticulate shapes. The townspeople who held him did not relax their grip. His throat constricted.

Why?

He was shaking badly, pulse pounding in his skull. Drowning out the rest. Air whistled hard and frantic through his nose, arms trapped behind him, prayers echoing incomprehensible through the cavern.

I’m no one. I’ve never done anything important.

His cheeks were slick. The mayor wasn’t looking at him, but at the community he would be sacrificed for.

“…in this time of hardship, we all see the need for exchange…”

Voidsent. Child of Thal. Child left as a gift to the Twins, stolen in error. It made no difference.

He wasn’t supposed to be here.

Movement. The dagger before his eyes, held in broad hands.

“First we divide the offering in equal shares. Being as the heart carries life from our leftmost side, we’re weighted all of us toward survival. This’s the imbalance we must correct to make an appeal.”

It felt as if a worm, impossibly large, wound through him. Coiled in his stomach. Cenric retched hard against the gag, but nothing came of it. He found himself wrenched backwards by his hair.

The mayor met his gaze.

“We had none of this, before you came here,” he said quietly, as if reassuring himself. “Immin’s normal enough but every one of us can see something’s not right in you. Probably not even hyuran.”

Not enough.

Flesh splitting at the bridge of his nose. White pain, searing. The knife jerked to either side in a diagonal motion as it was dragged away by another set of hands.

His father’s hands.

“CENRIC!”

***

Back under the Sagolii sun, waves of heat rippled through the air. All they touched was made immaterial. Cenric found himself wandering as if in a dream.

“Run! Get out of here, I’ll be right behind you!”

Immin was not right behind him. Or maybe he was, for a while. The elder Asher tore his son’s gag loose before Cenric gathered himself to bolt. He hadn’t wiped the blood from his face yet. His hands remained bound. The wound felt crusted over.

There were a few people following him initially. Shouting to each other. Some babbling and hysterical. The words didn’t register to him then, and they made even less sense in hindsight. The world had tilted, dark and unsteady around him with each step.

It was the first time he felt truly certain he was going to die.

One foot in front of the other. Again and again and again, until his lungs burned. Head down. Push forward.

He had no direction in mind. No map and no compass. Just away.

Cenric didn’t stop when the voices faded, or the town itself, or the moons overhead. There was no time to cover his tracks. All he could do was outlast them, outrun them, and hope Immin would prove more determined.

Wrists swollen, throbbing behind his back. Mouth paper-dry. Weaving as he went, dunes sloping up and down underfoot like waves.

It took some moments to notice when he stopped moving. The sand seemed to shift before him, flickering like light through water. His head was full with the sound of his own wheezing.

When he crashed into the earth, it was inevitable. Cenric considered attempting to rise, then remembered he had nowhere to go. It would be the same blind march for days yet. The sun had already passed its peak, but its descent would take hours.

Maybe… maybe with rest things would be better.

***

He could not tell how long he remained there. Awareness faded in and out intermittently. Golden light on sand. Deep orange, bordering red. Silver against a darkened sky.

His head ached, heavy and thick and cotton-filled. With his legs he half-heartedly tried to bury himself in sand to stop his own shivering. After a time Cenric settled on collecting a pile of it to curl around instead.

Then, nothing.

Nothing for a long time after that.

***

It was probably a dream.

Lukewarm water crept down his throat, nearly making him choke. A skin pressed to his lips, insistent. He coughed, and for the first time there was moisture enough for resistance.

The face that obscured his vision was shrouded in white cloth. Cenric found he couldn’t focus on it. Mismatched eyes, one light and the other dark. Impossible to say if blindness caused the inconsistency.

A string of shells dangled from the figure’s neck, rattling gently. The skin pulled back for a moment. Careful. Patient.

It returned only once he'd grown quiet. Cenric drank for as long as he could. Impossibly, a great deal remained by the time he relinquished his hold.

There wasn't enough of him present to say thank you. Cenric barely registered being dragged, being carried onto a cart. Awareness was altogether gone by the time they started to move.

***

A hushed conversation, separated by cadence. If asked he would not have been able to tell whether one man spoke or two.

The subject of debt was raised. Properties and inheritance and routes to travel by.

His head rested on a sack of grain. His face was sticky with ointment but seemed clean otherwise.

Sometimes, wordlessly, he found himself prompted to drink. To eat, something tough and gamey he couldn’t place.

These moments were always fleeting. Sleep took him before there was opportunity to ask a single question.

Boy.

Sand clung to his lashes, to the corners of his eyes.

Cenric.

Heed me.

Light, filtering through canvas. A cold hand on his shoulder. The shrouded figure beside him. Grain and shells and the rocking cart.

You cannot stay here.

What comes next belongs to you. What lies behind has been claimed.

“M-My…” Immin. “My father,” he croaked, “…I have to…”

Naught remains. It is done.

Silence. A lone heartbeat.

The figure, with its mismatched eyes, refused to look at him.

All will be well. We come to a familiar place.

There will be time enough for the rest.

***

A settlement in Southern Thanalan. The Sagolii behind him. The sky shrouded in dust.

“Merchant brought you here,” said the village elder beside his cot, her gaze dark and intense under a tight bun. “Said you would’ve died, else.”

These people had been kind. They remembered and allowed him to stay regardless of memory.

“Did he have a name?” Cenric asked hoarsely, hands in his lap. From the corner of his eye, he sees her head shake.

“Don’t think he wanted you chasing after him, son. We did trade and that was it. Oh,” she paused. Blinked. Found a pocket and rummaged there.

“Said I was t’give you this. So you’d listen.”

He held out his hand, and as if offering payment she placed a pair of wedding bands in his palm.

Immin and Saewynn. Reunited at last.

***

At sixteen, Cenric dedicates his life to half-truths.

Charity has its limits and his has been reached. He begins with a hempen set of clothes. A satchel. What gil won’t be missed. Young man like him shouldn’t want for work, his hosts argue. Folks can always use another pair of hands.

Right?

He learns quickly that what his hands can accomplish is limited. There’s no competing with the Ala Mhigans, who can carry twice as much without breaking a sweat. You need familiarity for an apprenticeship and he has cultivated little. Cenric finds himself half-grown and empty of potential as door after door shuts in his face.

He is no healer. What stock his father possessed was lost with him. Still, Cenric remembers how to bandage a wound. He knows what plants will stop scarring. If he can’t locate an exact match he goes by resemblance and prepares it just the same.

He spends his funds on vials and stoppers and tricks to look older. A bandana here, some kohl there. He repeats the slogans of an honest man as if he has any right to them. People respond.

Cenric does not form ties and he does not linger. It’s only a matter of time before the rest of them turn, after all.

***

Eighteen, he has almost stopped caring. His competitors are reliable but expensive. He can only retaliate with cheap potions and outrageous claims. A dazzling smile. Cenric plays at being exotic, draped in bright fabrics that do nothing to disguise the shadow cast over him.

Enjoy relief in the latest remedy from Thavnair! Impress your wife with a bottle of Menphina’s Favor! Cure even the most stubborn ills with Phoenix Down, yours for only 800 gil!

He remembers true medicine less with each passing day. The effort spent searching won’t put food in his mouth or guarantee a sale. If customers thank him afterward because a remedy worked, Cenric assumes faith and fortune are responsible. There isn’t enough substance in his work to justify gratitude.

The visions have been coming more often of late. He finds himself dragged into the memories of menders and brass blades, struggling out apologies with a laugh. Through his own headaches and vacant expressions he has found fanatics. Runaways. Murderers. Sometimes knowing makes a difference. Usually it doesn’t.

Tonight he finds himself in a tavern, the air tinged by fish and torch smoke. Ouzo clouds his glass while anise unfurls over his tongue. He sits alone, searching for relief in the apathetic hum of conversation that surrounds him. Just a stranger passing through. No one of consequence.

“You.”

It comes from the entrance. Snarled, almost animal. Cenric doesn’t turn to look. It’s not a voice he recognizes and he has no interest in engaging.

People have been passing behind him for hours. Some sloppy, some heavy, some quick.

When Cenric gets jerked off his stool, he doesn’t expect it. A hand, female, locks to his arm. Drags him across the floor toward the exit.

“Stop! What are you—“

He is hurtling, backwards, down the steps. Out of the tavern. The fall doesn’t quite wind him but his elbows have been scraped raw against dust and gravel. His eyes are wide as he finds his assailant.

Hellsguard woman. Late thirties. Hair tied back, red skin muted under the stars. His lips move, tracing the fragments of her name.

Say… Stay… Stray…

Ember. Stray Ember. A customer.

He doesn’t have time to gather the rest before her boot is in his gut, driving the breath from his body.

“LIAR! YOU LIAR, I COULD'VE SAVED FOR YIYIRUJI MOONS AGO!”

His head pierced, front to back. Pounding like a heartbeat, like a hammer bringing shadows forging form. The memories of others.

Not now.

A child, slick with sweat. Lungs catching against each inhale. Round, gray face. White lashes. She clutched her mother’s hand tight as she could manage.

“I COULD'VE GONE TO UL’DAH!”

He is in Mirage, twin moons mirrored in the stares of a mob. Maggots weave around bone. Air grows saturated with rot.

There is pain in his stomach, neither hot nor cold but sharp. Twisting. The cough forces Cenric inward and he tastes iron.

Stray Ember isn’t done. Tears stream down her chin even as she bares her teeth. He knows then she will hate him until she dies.

“BY THE TIME THEY TOLD ME WHAT YOU’D GAVE HER DOVE WAS IN THE LAST STAGE OF BHOOT’S BLESSING!”

She had a small, upturned nose. Broad smile. Freckles. Showed talent for weaving even at nine cycles.

Lone Dove was terrified when she passed and nothing could protect her. I don’t want to go… mama please, I…

Sightless. Corneas filmed over. Lips gone blue, tongue swollen.

Her toys have already been burned.

“Enough!” Cenric’s voice sounds distant to himself, “I-I can’t—“

They tore at his father’s clothes, his eyes, his skin for getting in the way. Hydaelyn traded away a kind man for a cheat.

I should count myself blessed.

It was a mistake to take him. It had always been a mistake.

Immin gave his life to protect his son. Cenric took a girl from her mother to protect himself.

There are nails dragging through his hair, locked in place. He struggles to anchor himself in that, his fingers twisting tighter.

“SHUT UP! MY GIRL’S GONE BECAUSE OF YOU! SHE COULD’VE GOT WHAT SHE NEEDED IF NOT FOR YOUR GODSDAMNED CHOCOBO FEED!”

“Hey! Enough of that!” A man’s voice. Maybe the one who’d prepared his ouzo.

Scuffling across the dirt.

“LET ME GO! THIS FILTH KILLED MY DAUGHTER!”

“Take it up with the blades then.” More scuffling. Cenric doesn’t move, doesn’t look up. Doesn’t release himself. Focuses on the hitch and burn of breath. “I’ll not have more of this around my business.”

There is a wet hiss. It takes him a moment to recognize it as spit.

Not at him.

Silence from the figures.

Then, very quietly, the barkeep says “Go home.”

Stray Ember doesn’t say another word.

She doesn’t have to.

***

Cenric doesn’t know how long he stays there. Something has been severed inside him. There is an impossible distance between his mind, his body, and the world outside.

“You too. You’ve caused enough trouble here tonight.” Shuffling. Blood in his mouth, pain like knives in his ribs. His arms and legs move of their own accord to obey.

She will not have been the first of his victims.

***

He fades in and out of awareness for some time. Days, months, years. It doesn’t matter.

Often he finds that he is hungry and the air rests thick with spices. His clothes are torn, his hair a tangled mess. Sometimes there are coins at his feet. Mostly, people avoid looking at him.

His world is heat and wingbeats, insects and vultures and airships and the murmur of strangers. Dust clings to him. Cenric stops talking.

He sleeps when he can behind the boxes of Pearl Lane, testament to the glorious city that is Ul’dah. He offends shopkeepers whose image is tarnished on his account. More than once he finds himself beaten back with a broom or dragged away by his shirt.

Parasites take what others earn. That is their nature and he knows his.

***

Cenric wonders, as he sinks back into himself, if there will come a time when he does not resurface. If this empty beggar who moves without thought or foresight or even a name will simply waste away.

As in all things, this is for the gods to decide.

***

Whispers of Dalamud’s descent don’t frighten him at first. Everything here is ugly. So far as endings go it isn’t a bad one.

Then slowly, slowly, he begins to look up.

***

As the sky erupts into flame and a dragon’s scream rings across Hydaelyn, Cenric is fixed in place once more.

You will remember this moment for the rest of your life. However long that takes.

He can taste the smoke. Around him people run, weep, cling to each other. Children shriek for parents who have left them behind. Prayers for protection erupt from masses ready to trample all in their path.

There are things no man can escape. Bahamut is one of them.

Standing, his gaze locked on the inferno swallowing Eorzea, Cenric can only laugh.

***

The city becomes unbearable following the Calamity as refugees pour in. Aether burns and missing limbs grow familiar. Native residents regularly fight against newcomers. With too much company on the streets, he leaves.

Thanalan itself has been scarred, crystals jutting uneven across the landscape. The year that follows is unusually dry. In the name of business water itself becomes expensive. Gridania and Limsa Lominsa profit. Those who can’t manage waste away.

Cenric goes without when he can, a decision based only somewhat in practicality. The world is dizzying, parchment-dry, unfocused. He is destitute.

And he’s taken enough as it is.

Today Cenric sits under an awning at The Coffer and Coffin. Shade proves only marginally cooler, but marginally remains better than not at all.

He won’t stay here. He only needs somewhere to rest without beasts.

When a miqo’te barmaid carefully presses a cup into his hands, at first he doesn’t follow.

“I can’t afford it,” says Cenric hoarsely. His hands tremble as he tries to return the gesture.

She’s younger than him, maybe seventeen. Sweat makes tawny strands of hair stick together. Her eyes are blue and her smile is sincere.

“That’s alright,” she says casually. Evenly. Pressing her hands over his so he won’t spill. “I can.”

Cenric is struck still and silent, unable even to blink. The miqo’te quirks her mouth and slowly lets go. Straightens. Walks away without looking back.

It’s a terrible waste. Nonetheless, he finds himself sobbing and unable to stop.

***

By twenty-four, his turn has come.

Initially he ignores it. A persistent cough. Pain that grates like swallowed needles. Unsteadiness across his limbs and skin gone ashen. Fire under his eyes.

When he can no longer keep food down it becomes real.

His vision blurs the first time he’s sick. Sour, meager results that wrack his entire body regardless. Cenric leans against the walls of Camp Drybone to keep steady. His lips are slick in the aftermath. Of course people give him a wide berth and pretend not to see.

It’s disgusting.

The Church of Saint Adama Landama has been treating those they can and burying those they can’t. These are things he has no right to, no desire for.

Besides. Thal’s Respite isn’t far.

***

Hear.

Myotragus goats bleating low. Horns locked in tests of dominance. Crashing hooves. Grunts from passing tuco-tucos. The steady thrum of insects. Distant, muffled wings circling in endless repetition.

No wagon wheels. No muffled conversation.

Instead, a persistent throb through his temples. Hitching when he breathes.

Silence stretching on and on in missed opportunities.

Nobody would notice. Cenric wants, desperately, to scream.

He doesn’t.

His throat hurts.

Feel.

Blowflies gnawing at the back of his neck. Dirt under fingernails. Clammy, twitching flesh. His own perspiration. Fluid viscera he imagines will erupt from his lips. Shaking, shoulders to fingertips. Being flayed alive by the sun.

Azeyma the Warden takes confession. With her golden fan and unwavering gaze, maybe she still expects something more.

Keep moving forward. Don’t look up.

It’s too late.

Think.

Stain [Smite] Suffer [Sin] Serve [Spite] Stumble [Save] Strive [Steal] Grieve [Turn] Lie [Leave] Pray [Lose] Cure [Tell] Sunder [Sleep] Fall [Stay] Plead [Hate] Feel [Want] Shoulder [Bleed] Weep [Learn] Follow [Flee] Roam [End] Falter [End] Seek [End] Wish [End]

No more.

***

No more.

***

Through stone and shadow the passage goes.

Through the womb of Hydaelyn herself, well-worn.

She stands beyond what the Twelve are, what they ever could be. Disciples call her Mother. They know her through the blind, unquestioning devotion of children.

There is truth in this… if an incomplete one. She cannot keep them forever. Fragile, temporary things are made precious for being so. They live with the promise of death at her blessing.

And so Thal waits within the earth, watching over this seat of creation. He memorizes those who arrive, those who exit. Souls birthed in the Lifestream—unscarred by trials ahead.

Thal seeks out the shapeless. He whispers, gently, I await your return.

They will not be alone in the dark.

In this place a man delirious, convinced of his own divinity, comes to kneel.

***

To the Blessed Traders who enrich our lives we’re bound to pay with our lives in turn. From the start, mine has been yours. Any gifts were not charity but an investment. I can never own myself… those who linger with me fall one by one into your hands. You’ve taken—

No.

I gave these people as my expense.

They call you Nald’Thal the canny, Nald’Thal the fair. Judge and equalizer and Prince of Hagglers. You, too, are Twins and Traders and the God of Two-Tongues.

Please, I…

                            …I…

There is nothing left. I have nothing to offer you. This is all I am. My debts are endless. I’ve cheated others out of their lives. Your seven hells are mine to walk.

It… it burns everywhere…

The people of Mirage thought my worth enough to bribe you, once. If this is true then take me.

Please take me.

I can’t be an instrument of your will.

All Hydaelyn moves out of reach. There is no one else. I’ve… I’ve turned into a creature so empty the only thing left is my beating heart.

Life means something to you, doesn’t it?

DOESN’T IT?

…

I don’t mean to offend. There’s… there’s nowhere to go. Anything spent on me could be used better on another.

Why am I here?

Immin was worth saving. Lone Dove was worth saving. My customers, the people of Eorzea... you could have left any of them. They deserved it.

We lie and steal and destroy each other over nothing. I can’t stand to look.

And still there are exceptions.

You take the virtuous then leave snakes behind.

Spare them. There are few enough as is.

***

…to the blessed traders who enrich our lives we’re bound to pay with our lives in turn aether born fire-walker your will sees us to rest we entrust ourselves to your sight forged of oschon for peace and prosperity and an ending you do not weep for father azeyma lives in the earth with you her fan brings no breeze the air is hot and thick and breathless your domain a silent place that does not stir have you forgotten the sound of your own voice have you known what it is to live and fail have you been alone do you know what it is to die how can a god pass judgment without being judged nald’thal lord of departures of flame and sand whose coin purse overflows who knows not what it means to starve what it means to spoil the legacy of one who loved you nald’thal who holds shells and souls and precious stones as if their worth were equal nald’thal who cannot know mercy without knowing pain who are you to weigh mortal affairs?

***

…to the Blessed Traders who enrich our lives we’re bound to pay with our lives in turn…

I’m sorry.

…to the Blessed Traders who enrich our lives we’re bound to pay with our lives in turn…

Forgive me.

…to the Blessed Traders who enrich our lives we’re bound to pay with our lives in turn…

Punish as I’ve earned.

…to the Blessed Traders who enrich our lives we’re bound to pay with our lives in turn…

Let it end.

…to the Blessed Traders who enrich our lives we’re bound to pay with our lives in turn…

Please let it end.

***

Rain falls over Eastern Thanalan like a broken fever. Yuyudana, priest of Thal, works behind a partition to break bread with visitors. Hyur and Roegadyn pilgrims often find it difficult to read age onto Lalafellian features. With only the barest flush remaining in his cheeks, Yuyudana can declare himself firmly middle-aged. The hood of his robe conceals a head edged in gray and he does not begrudge himself the omission. It is a convenient vanity.

Across from him sits one of two companions. U’thac Tia is a counterpart from Nald’s Reflection, arrived nearly a month past to compare notes on scripture. U’thac is a man who left clan and kin behind for a life of spirituality. The argumentative zeal he holds for his faith proves amusing and exhausting in turn. A wiry, sun-dark miqo’te—U’thac might have been a contender for Nunh had he felt so inclined. Good or ill, this proved beyond his interests.

The other is a more straightforward case. Memesu Mesu hails from Ul’dah, a woman dedicated body and soul to thaumaturgy. With brilliant yellow eyes and a chestnut complexion, Yuyudana estimates her to be thirty cycles or so. U’thac took her for far younger at first. Fortunately for him the caster was amused, and she occasionally calls him “kid” as a gentle reminder.

Memesu means only to pay respects. Nald’Thal has been good to her. Through years of piety and labor she now enjoys a life of small luxuries. Each comes as a blessing she knows could be withdrawn between heartbeats.

Memesu took leave to pray before breakfast. The sun has yet to rise and as she went the world was silent. Later she will hike to the Burning Wall, practicing spells along the way. Take her lunch at the nadir and make her way back before sundown. It is a period of routine and quiet reflection, away from the complications Ul’dah has to offer.

U’thac, still groggy, slumps across the table even as Yuyudana sets it. Initially he’d tried to lend his assistance but found it graciously declined by his host. “I am not your mentor,” Yuyudana had said, “or your parent, or your superior. Be at peace.”

There is precious little of that in such times.

When Memesu returns, eyes wide, gasping between words due to haste, Yuyudana listens in silence. Begins to walk before U’thac has finished gathering himself.

Bahamut was a shock. With the advance of Garlemald and her sister evils, despair is not uncommon.

***

Cold hands on his sleeve, on his arms, in his hair.

First we divide the offering in equal shares. Being as the heart carries life from our leftmost side, we’re weighted all of us toward survival.

Cenric does not miss a beat in his recitations even as he struggles. Twisting, bending into himself, thrashing, stumbling as the world tilts sharply to one side.

Someone he doesn’t recognize speaks a language he barely understands.

Sleep.

The candles glow brighter, out from the center of his vision before darkening at the edges. As if his joints have been unhinged he is dragged by his own weight to the floor. Eyes fixed on the ceiling, magic pumping through him like a drug.

When he opens his mouth again there is no sound.

***

A palm on his forehead, beyond temperature. Smoothing sweat-matted hair out of the way, thumb traveling back and forth.

You have time yet.

He cannot tell who speaks, only that the tone reminds him of Immin.

Rest.

I would see you well.

***

A bitter, chemical taste. Traces of glimshroom. Syrup gliding across his tongue. Cenric tries to cough, to spit it out.

This time a small hand covers his lips. “Swallow.” The order comes from a man, his voice high but steady.

Cenric’s back arches as he tries to break free, to twist his face out of reach.

More hands trapping his shoulders. His torso.

“You need this. Swallow.”

The sound building in him is animal, desperate. A gateway for the medicine. It goes down. When they let go he wails and it is mindless.

***

I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

***

Every time, the same routine. They try to explain. They try to convince him. They want this to be easier.

His arguments come out of order and none are taken seriously.

Sometimes when he sleeps Cenric thinks someone sits with him.

It’s easier not to wake up.

***

“Hey.”

A female voice this time. Flat. Neither impatient nor pitying.

He doesn’t move.

“I know you’re awake. Your eyelids don’t move the same way.” A beat. “It’s just me. Come on.”

Reluctantly, Cenric looks.

A Lalafellian woman. Older than him. She keeps her hair long and neat, face framed in darkness. Behind her he finds the interior of a small, dimly lit hut. Decoration proves sparse, books the greatest extravagance in sight.

It doesn’t hurt anymore.

“Good. We had doubts you were even Spoken.” Silence. “What’s your name, boy?”

This catches him. He’s been grown for some time now. Cenric would be surprised if his visitor was even ten cycles his senior. “…Cenric,” he rasps. Shakily, he sits up. Finds a straw mattress beneath him. “I’m Cenric Asher.”

“Cenric,” she says smoothly, “you owe me. I traveled from Ul’dah to Eastern Thanalan for some peace and quiet. You’ve stolen my time through this affair.”

He looks down, unsure whether to apologize or not.

She could have ignored him.

“All I ask in return is a little cooperation. Do that and there’s no loss. Can you manage?

Cenric finds her face once more. The tense jaw betrays what would otherwise read to him as indifference. He exhales.

“I don’t care. Use me how you will.”

She studies him for several moments. “Fine,” she says at length, “I am Memesu Mesu. Do try to be honest with me. It can only serve us both.” Her fingers press together delicately. “Were you trying to get yourself killed?”

The question deflates him like a blow. Cenric rests his head in one hand, searches for language he can answer with.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs eventually.

“Do you want to die?”

“I…” He stops, catches himself mouthing the question back mutely.

The Traders refused him. Their trap remains. Cenric shuts his eyes.

“Everything, everyone I touch I… it’s like an infection. If dying ends that then so be it.”

Memesu leans back in her chair. It creaks. “So says the Son of Thal, eh?”

He starts, finds her again. Memesu’s expression is almost scornful, a bitter smile twisting across her lips.

“You’re a fool,” she declares, “and a blasphemer. Probably a little mad. But you do have an obscene amount of aether at your disposal. I’d be remiss if I didn’t touch on that snatch of fever-speech.”

He stares at her. Memesu folds her arms and narrows her gaze.

“You’re remarkably hyur-shaped for someone who thinks he’s born from the Twins,” she comments. "Nald'Thal is nothing if not meticulous. You’d need an exceptional share of authority to perform judgment in his stead. Kind of egotistical, don't you think?”

Cenric shrugs. Focuses on knees, buried under a blanket.

“Anyway,” says Memesu, “what you are doesn’t matter. If you’ve got natural talent for killing, maybe you should learn how to direct that properly.”

“I don’t want to kill anyone,” he whispers.

The lalafell sighs. Takes another moment to respond. “Is that so? It sounded to me like you’ve done your share already. Here I thought you might like saving people for a change.”

This time, he listens.

***

For lives unjustly taken, life is owed. For the unjust taking lives, death is owed.

For those he can yet save, a thaumaturge brings salvation.

For those he can yet stop, a thaumaturge brings pain.

Restitution and retribution. Thus is the will of Nald’Thal known through his disciples.

***

Cenric bathes in the Yugr’am River at U’thac’s suggestion. “It’ll be good for you,” he’d said. Moreover, the smell was unbearable. An unspoken plea in the miqo’te’s eyes was enough to make that point perfectly clear.

He can’t remember the last time he’d bothered cleaning himself. Weeks, months. There had been no reason. He would die in disgrace. It was the only future left he could see.

And yet.

If the Twelve intended him to survive through their service, at a certain point he would need to do better. For efficiency if nothing else. Filth made it easy to get sick and difficult to recover. The results would benefit no one.

In darkness he unwinds the black bandana, steps first from his slops and then his kurta. Yuyudana has provided robes, which rest neatly on a small rock nearby. It crosses Cenric’s mind that the bones of his knees, his hips, his wrists, even his face have all started to protrude strangely. He looks less hyuran than before, maybe less than he ever has. Closer to something priests would exorcise than anyone deserving aid.

He wonders if this idea has occurred to them.

The water, when he advances, is cold. Goosebumps raise across his skin as slowly, gingerly, he wades in to his waist.

Cenric ducks under.

His hair is a long and tangled wreck. Being wet only disguises this slightly. It drifts past his neck, comes to float near the surface. Cenric holds himself in silence, eyes open, watching the silver scatter of light over stones and plants and fish. He remains for as long as he can bear.

His vision stings afterward. Gasping, he can’t tell if the cause is exposure or something else. For a time he simply waits, breathing hard through his nose, hunched so that his lips are partially submerged.

He thinks of nothing, pretends that this time instead of no future he has no past.

Only one moon remains. Maybe the sky aches for losing Dalamud, but better that than the blow which scarred Eorzea.

***

For a time, his sleep is dreamless.

He eats what he is given. He cleans the shrine. He recites his prayers without expectation.

Memesu waits.

***

Why is it, the student asks, that only Ul’dah worships Nald and Thal separately? Ul’dah who holds them in such esteem?

You see, the Traders share a secret title. One which most would call sacrilege.

In scripture our god of wealth and death exists as Oschon’s creation. Nald’Thal comes forged from Hydaelyn herself, a force of order over his kin. The statues and murals are not ambiguous. His solitary form rises from flame and rock and is whole.

In good manners, the thaumaturge explains, people will claim both brothers exist in a single body. That they share freely with each other what would cost the world dear. That there are not twelve patron gods of Eorzea but thirteen.

Time and again, they shy from the possibility that Nald’Thal is simply insane.

***

Cenric sits on the floor, draped in a white cotton tunic. It might have been snug on a Roegadyn but anyone else would find ample room. Behind him, Memesu stands on a cot holding shears. Gold earrings dangle on either side of her face.

“I fought at Carteneau, you know,” she mentions casually. There is a soft hsssssshhhh. Click.

Hair hits the floor. Coils.

He starts to shake his head, aborts the gesture partway through. Stills. “…you saw Bahamut?”

Memesu snorts. “I’m sure everyone this side of Hydaelyn saw Bahamut.” Click.

“That’s probably true,” he concedes. The dragon is what everyone knows, everyone remembers. He can't imagine the proximity. “What about the Warriors of Light?”

“Pff.” Gentle tugging at his scalp. Cenric does not open his eyes but leans into the motion. “I wasn’t of rank to see their like. Not that I’d remember. Stop moving.” Click.

Cenric hesitates.

“What do you remember, then?”

For a time, the only sound comes from blades and a thousand strands cut short. This lasts for several minutes. Cenric resigns himself to secrets.

Then, “I used to think I was special too. As a twin. My sister was Memeni. We studied together.”

Was.

The exhale hits him slowly, quietly.

“She died?”

He can feel the shrug in her hip against his shoulder.

“It was Carteneau,” says Memesu. “Of course she died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Click. “It had nothing too do with you. If you keep trying to claim responsibility for every misfortune you find, you’re going to get self-important.”

Cenric only grunts, quiet and non-committal.

Click.

Click.

Click.

“Carteneu was so much worse than people remember. Only four years later and already we hurry to dispose of details.” There is a hard undercurrent to Memesu’s voice, but what contact she makes remains light. Careful. “I remember the arcanist from Limsa who didn’t dodge a magitek canon in time. Miqo’te. Spells come faster in that discipline, so there’s less stress on distance than thaumaturgy. Girl got careless.” Click. “The mess smelled like rotten eggs and charcoal. Her face was… melted.” Click. “I try not to look in those situations. They only make casting harder. But she was so close.”

Cenric doesn’t move. Doesn’t say a word.

Memesu continues. “One of our own gladiators, an Ala Mhigan, took to mutilating any pureblooded Garleans he could catch. The man had a string of eyes hanging around his neck. I’m pretty sure one enemy officer wet himself before he started to beg. Not that it particularly mattered.”

Click.

“Memeni… didn’t anticipate what she was getting herself into. She saw magic as a way of being useful to craftsmen. My focus has always been theoretical. Right side.” Startled, Cenric lets her guide his jaw to get a better view of his profile. Click. Click. “Meni used to think I was a priss. She preferred to develop magitek kettles alongside alchemists. See if she could find a way to capture light like the Mhachi did. She still enjoyed fishing when she could, even though it smelled awful. Never outgrew the braids she wore growing up. ” Memesu sighs. “…just understand she died afraid, in pain, and with things left undone. My sister didn’t even resemble herself at the end.”

Cenric is very still. Thinks carefully.

“…I wish it could have gone differently,” he says at last.

Memesu’s mouth slides up in a small, crooked smile. She tousles the neat, ear-length hair before her. “So do I.”

***

Black magic (like its patron, like the desert itself) has two faces.

Heat and light, movement and sound. Ever hungry. Ever expansive. Astral fire rains from the stars, heaven stretched pitiless across the land. This he will someday channel, will someday master.

First though, the other. Cold and darkness, unmoving and silent. What constricts and what preserves. Umbral ice that creeps with every heartbeat to harden blood and bone.

Threaded between are words for sleep and lightning. The language of angels, the promise of their rebuke.

Cenric’s spell bends him backwards, stiffening the pit of him. It winds up his spine and curls off his tongue. Hands shape aether into figures it was always meant for.

He is left wanting in the aftermath.

***

“Wishes are cheap,” Memesu tells him. “We have a responsibility to live in a way that honors our dead. Their chance is spent. This is the best we can do.”

***

All creation has its opposite. Hydaelyn knows this, as she must. It is her nature and her mistake.

The brightest fire still leaves ash in its wake. Rain-black clouds will thread themselves with lightning. There is meaning in contradictions, meaning in change.

What she perceives comes through a kaleidoscopic awareness. Fractal visions of men, women, beasts varied as the stars above. Breathing and undead stand locked together against a current which threatens to drown them. Such is the Lifestream.

For now all exist as creatures delicate and fleeting. They call out for protection, for their Mother who will surely save them. Who will surely answer.

Hydaelyn gives her blessing, if not her favor. How can she favor any with such a multitude? It is a careful, pragmatic choice. Instinctive. Neither more nor less than what is destined.

Her champion will be complete in every way she has sundered herself.

***

Before long, it is time for U’thac to return.

Nald’s attendant is closest to his own age, perhaps four or five cycles older. The intersection of worship between Qarn and Mhach has been reviewed, notes taken, passages dissected. There is no further need for his presence as Southern Thanalan beckons him home.

The morning of his departure is a leisurely one. Bright and warm, holding the promise of manageable heat in later hours. Yuyudana wakes before the rest of them and prepares a meal of bread, tea, tuco tuco sausages, and vulture eggs. Memesu inquires after the route he has planned. It is a familiar path.

They all seem surprised when Cenric offers to escort the Seeker to Highbridge. In the ensuing silence he wonders, briefly, if he’s made a mistake. But U’thac claps a hand to his shoulder and replies, “I’d be glad for yourrr company. Walk with me.” Cenric hears a grin in his voice before he sees it, and some of the tension winding down his spine dissipates.

They say nothing at first. U’thac has no chocobo, carries his belongings with him in a pack of middling weight. Only when the hut is out of sight does Cenric tell him, quietly, “I want to thank you.”

Dark eyebrows rise. He finds himself the subject of an amused, if puzzled, scrutiny. “It was no trouble. I played a small rrrole.”

He shakes his head. “I’d be dead if you hadn’t been here.” Pressing his mouth into a line, Cenric focuses on the sound of grass crunching underfoot. Better that than the attention he’s brought upon himself. “I invited the easiest ending I could find. The others wouldn’t have been able to stop me alone.”

A rumble from U’thac’s chest, deeper than his voice. “Don’t be so sure. Even a lalafell might have managed the fight you put up.”

“You brought me back.”

The miqo’te shuts his eyes, shaking his head. “Aye. But rrrespectfully, you weigh almost nothing.”

Despite himself, Cenric finds a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Just the same.”

This earns a snort. U’thac Tia folds his arms behind his head and returns the expression. “Very well. If you insist, I suppose I’ll accept your gratitude.” Lidded eyes flit up to the hyur’s face. “But if you must hold me to account, there is a matterrr we should discuss.”

Cenric nods his assent, says nothing.

U’thac twitches an ear lazily. Doesn’t slow. “I was raised to love the Warden Azeyma. This has not lessened overrr the years, even in my service to Nald’Thal. Scripture tells they rrrule the Heaven and Hell of Fire together. Why is that?”

Cenric shakes his head. “You refer past my studies.”

U’thac flashes his teeth, which are very white. “It is not a matterrr of study.” Then he pauses. Appears to consider his next words carefully. “…Azeyma the Unblinking pays witness to all we do. Every kindness, every sin. It’s why she presides over confession. I find Nald’Thal also places great worrrth on such things. The Traders use our deeds to decide the weight of a soul upon death.”

The priest sighs. Lowers his arms to his sides. “Ul’dahns often believe that they can buy passage to Thal’s Halls. They forrrget that the gods have no use for something so fleeting as coin. It’s the principle of currency, of value, that Nald’Thal stands for.”

Cenric looks down. It feels as though someone has filled his chest with lead.

The Traders use our deeds to decide the weight of a soul upon death.

“…why are you telling me this?”

A hand comes to rest, not unkindly, on his shoulder. “Don’t despair,” says U’thac, “you’rrre alive yet. All I mean is that the time you have left matterrrs. You can still help people. You can still save lives. That counts, too. You are more than your mistakes alone.”

Sightless. Corneas filmed over. Lips gone blue, tongue swollen.

A child who knew her mother couldn’t save her.

It took hours for Lone Dove to die.

“Don’t make the mistake,” says Cenric, numbly, “of telling me I can balance against what’s been done. I don’t know how many I’ve killed. I ran away. I told myself that if I didn’t see it, it didn’t happen. The only reason I stopped was because someone caught up.”

They are no longer walking.

He finds himself turned, firmly, to face the miqo’te. “Cenric.” Green eyes. Thin pupils. Smile gone. “Underrrstand. I would not tell everyone what I am telling you. There are those who would use charity as a means to securrre paradise. Any good they did would be for themselves. I am not worried about that now.“

A tufted tail lashes behind the priest in agitation.

“If you care about causing pain,” says U’thac, “use that. Save otherrrs from it. You have a resource the dead lack. That is invaluable. Do you follow?”

Cenric blinks. Blinks again.

Breathes.

“I follow.”

***

He gives his word before they bid farewell.

***

Yuyudana finds his charge eager for more tasks to perform. Initially he says no.

Cenric seems better than he was. Although naturally lean, the more alarming edges he’d acquired are filling in. Sometimes he participates in conversations. Quirks his lips. Suggests solutions to day-to-day inconveniences. The hollow look he’d held initially has faded. Strange as the man might be, he actually resembles a person now.

There remain moments when something appears to possess him. His skin drains to gray, his vision loses focus, any control he might have had over his body slips. These instances are always silent. It can take moments or a few minutes for him to regain his senses. Sometimes the aftermath sees him mute and trembling. Others he only exhales and apologizes before excusing himself.

It had been difficult to tell at first, but Yuyudana suspects now that Cenric can’t be more than twenty-five cycles in age. This revelation added to his condition has made the priest reluctant to allow undue burden. He can focus on his education and practice with the thaumaturge. More than that is unnecessary.

He ought to be in the prime of his life right now.

And yet, idleness seems not to suit him. Despite orders to the contrary Yuyudana still finds floors swept, supplies stocked, shelves ordered. This occurs at odd hours when it would be impossible to catch the culprit responsible. He has yet to find Cenric taking time to rest that is not dedicated to sleep, food, or other necessities.

“You have hobbies, yes?” the lalafell asks one afternoon, while Memesu hunts a wandering couerl. Cenric pauses over the text in his lap.

“…there hasn’t been much opportunity,” he replies. After some uncertainty he adds, “I prefer to keep busy. It’s something worthwhile.”

Yuyudana considers this for several days afterward. Much of the exchange remains unspoken, a barely-scabbed over wound they are both taking care to avoid.

It would be a mistake to press the subject.

***

Eventually, he relents. Preparing offerings is simple enough so far as tasks go. Company would be welcome.

His request is received with disbelief. The hyur stares, wide-eyed and frozen and apparently lost to words.

When Cenric collects himself, it’s the first time Yuyudana sees him truly smile.

“Thank you.”

***

He waits for her at the entrance to the Burning Wall, as the sky begins to darken. Spires of aether twist and pierce the land, cradling rock formations in ways that almost seem deliberate. The structure glows gently against the sunset.

Memesu approaches as a patch of night, eyes bright under a wide-brimmed hat. A collar conceals her expression. Cenric doesn’t wave but raises a hand tentatively in greeting. Memesu mirrors this.

“Have you been waiting long?” she asks, approaching the stone Cenric sits on. He scoots over before she can ask, and the lalafell hoists herself to sit beside him.

“A while,” he admits. “I needed to think.”

Memesu snorts quietly, but doesn’t criticize. It’s the very reason she came to this corner of Eorzea herself, after all.

“If I’m honest,” Cenric goes on, “there’s something I want to ask you about.”

Thin eyebrows lift as she studies him. “And you’re in an honest mood, I trust.” It is not a question, although he imagines it ought to be. Under her gaze he feels like an insect pinned to a board for dissection. “What ails you?”

It’s a subject that’s worried him for months. He’s imagined himself hesitating, phrasing things a thousand ways, talking around the issue instead of defining it in any intelligible manner.

“Why,” he asks simply, “are you trying to save me?”

She stares at him, her mouth forming a tight, thin line. After some moments Memesu only says, “Are you asking me not to?”

“No,” answers Cenric. It occurs to him this might even be true. “But you know what I’ve done. It’s just a strange amount of effort for a… for a liar.”

This is the most delicate way he can phrase it. Whether it’s for her or himself he couldn’t say.

“Not so strange,” she replies, “for a sick beggar who could be someone better.” Memesu plants her palms behind her, leans into them. “I detest waste.”

He contemplates this for several moments. The breath he’d been holding escapes.

“Tch,” she mutters eventually, tilting her face toward the sky. “Apologies. It’s not just that.” Cenric glances back. The lalafell’s expression is almost peaceful. She continues. “I detest suffering, too. Seen enough. Something in this Twelve-forsaken world will be better because of me.” A wry smile ghosts over her mouth. “Lucky you.”

Yellow eyes glint against the light. Cenric shivers, but asks nothing more.

***

Yuyudana, returned from a burial ceremony at the Church of Adama Landama, finds him holding a book he isn’t reading. Despite candles, the hut is darker than the new-evening sky. Cenric has his chair positioned so close to the wall that simply by leaning right he’ll find its support. He does this, eyes unfocused, trapping a page carefully between ink-black fingers.

“Are you well?” asks the priest. Rather than start, Cenric only blinks. Winces. Rubs the bridge of his nose with one knuckle.

“Aye,” he mumbles. Hesitates. Looks down at the text. “Only distracted.”

The funeral had been for an elderly goldsmith. Lalafell. He’d left behind a wife, four children, more grandchildren. They made a comfortable living without managing opulence, and had covered the expenses for all sprite cores necessary in the last rites.

Ice, to halt corruption. Lightning, to expel the sins of mortal life. Fire, to cleanse any remains for their return to the earth. Channeling each element with subtlety, in conjunction with appropriate embalming procedures, was essential to preserving the body’s integrity. A more delicate practice than most thaumaturges employed today, but linked nonetheless.

The goldsmith had been a gruff and distant man, but a good one. His family had seemed almost hesitant in their grief, unsure whether such open displays would meet his approval.

There is a seat across the table. Yuyudana takes it.

“If I may,” he says, “you might find it helpful to exorcise the matter.”

Cenric stares at him, irises startlingly white and inscrutable in the moment. He does not speak.

Yuyudana shakes his head, rueful. “Ah, pay me no mind. The day bleeds over. For all I know you may be busy contemplating our axebeak problem.”

A faint smile crosses the hyur’s lips. “They are rather loud,” he replies. The expression passes, replaced by something tense. Cenric’s eyes flit down. “But no, there… maybe you’re right. I’ve avoided this.”

Gently, he slides a leather marker into the book. Closes it. Folds both hands on the table in front of him, resting between perched elbows. The way he leans forward makes him seem smaller than he is.

“I was raised by a man named Immin Asher,” says Cenric. He still doesn’t look up. “Maybe I was abandoned. Maybe it was something else. Either way, he took me in. In every sense but blood, he was my father.”

A beat. Lips pressed firm then slowly, deliberately relaxing.

“Immin taught me what he could. The last time I really studied it was with him. Letters, arithmetic, histories… things of that nature. Strict man, but he made sure I understood.” Hesitation. Fingers knitting together tightly. When he continues it is quiet, cautious. “…long dead, now.”

Yuyudana takes in the shoulders, the false scrutiny directed more to avoid sight than take anything in.

He decides, privately, that this is shame.

“You miss him.” There is no need to ask. Cenric nods anyway, the gesture stilted.

“I do.” The breath snags almost imperceptively, and now the pale eyes skirt toward the door. Back again. His head dips. “Immin owed me nothing, and still he… whatever else I doubted, it was never him. He could have settled with keeping me safe, but he wanted me to be happy too and I—look what I’ve done.”

At this, the edge of his words begin to strain.

“He would’ve been alive if not for me,” says Cenric, “and he would be so disappointed if he knew what came after. I should have thanked him, honored him somehow. There’s no apologizing for something like this.”

“Be at peace,” says Yuyudana softly. The younger man closes his mouth. Waits. “You said yourself that your father wanted you to be happy.

Silence. Cenric’s jaw rigid against the workings of his throat.

“I don’t want,” he says eventually, hoarsely, “to be someone he would regret.”

***

When the time comes for Memesu to return to Ul’dah, neither of them is truly prepared.

She has enlisted a chocobo porter, having gathered her belongings in a pack that nearly matches her size. The overly decorated cauldron she prefers. A small collection of incense. Spare hats and meals and gathered materia. It seemed like so much more, spread out as it was. The space will feel emptier without her.

They avoid the subject before her departure, reviewing skywatcher predictions and how she’s raided the Golden Bazaar without actually addressing their separation. Cenric can feel Yuyudana’s eyes on him through the evening.

He approaches when they turn in for the night, but it catches in his throat. “Sleep well,” he bids her, before turning to his own bedroll.

She says nothing.

***

Standing before the bridge together, so early stars have yet to truly fade, she has a gift for him.

“I want to be sure,” she mutters, “that you don’t embarrass me at the ossuary. These clothes will ensure you blend in well-enough. As for the rest…”

A weathered staff, faint discoloration to mark the grip of its previous owner.

“…it was my sister’s, once. Would’ve been good for naught but scrap if not for you. Do try and take care of it.”

He can’t answer, choked with questions and protests and gratitude that threatens to bring him to his knees. So he simply nods and holds the bundle close.

Memesu has her gaze trained on the horizon, deep blue crawling into lavender. “Friend of mine, Brendt, should be fine to give you a ride. You’ll have until the third umbral moon to summon a blizzard properly and enlist yourself with the guild. Cocobuki will be the one to talk to, though their secretary can be an obstacle in her own right…”

“Memesu.”

Cenric hears himself speak as if divorced from the act. Memesu starts. Meets his face. Averts her eyes again. He kneels.

The lalafell has her arms folded in front of her, clutching both elbows, brow furrowed. A mask of impatience. He hesitates, then smiles.

“I can never repay what you’ve given me,” Cenric murmurs. “I promise it won’t be in vain.”

Now, she looks at him. There is something terrible in her expression then, eyes shining, mouth parted in an unspoken reply

She blinks, rapidly, and it is gone. In it’s place sits a grin, the likes of which he’s never seen before.

“I'm going to hold you to that, Asher.”

***

He kneels before the altar and bows his head. Nymeia lilies rest over stone, crisp and bright and dying. They lie bound together between gold bands. Candles flicker against the damp.

“Duality lies at the essence of all things,” Cenric recites. “The sun rises in the east, only to fall in the west. Just as life rises in birth, only to fall in death.”

There is no echo here. Instead, the cavern seems to absorb all sound. His prayer comes muted, private.

He doesn’t need to look upon his god to know him. Thal’s likeness has a narrow jaw. High cheekbones. Thin lips. His eyes shut in the impression of patience.

“It’s been some time,” says Cenric, “since I asked anything of you.”

This sees no answer, as expected. He exhales slowly.

“I have little to offer,” the hyur continues, “but these are my most precious possessions. It’s past time the rings were returned to your care.”

Maybe nothing changes. Maybe the air grows heavy with expectation.

It is very dark.

“I know death lies before me,” Cenric says. “Hopefully life does also. But before I take myself from this place, I…”

He closes his eyes in turn. A twin to the idol.

Eventually, he whispers, “You’ve seen too much of me for this.”

No disagreement. No encouragement.

Then, “I beg you. Watch over those I’ve delivered into your hands. Give comfort to their loved ones, their families. Help them find some measure of peace.”

A drop of water glides down its stalactite, plummets to a shallow pool below.

The collision resonates.

“Guide my hands,” Cenric says. “Keep me from my old mistakes. Help me preserve more than I destroy.”

By such frail firelight, one can almost imagine that Thal is alive.

***

Hear.

A beating heart. The turn of a wheel. The voice of a goddess, neither commanding nor beseeching.

Her invitation.

Feel.

Warmth and sunlight. Dust like stars or stars like dust. Uncertain footing. Certain steps.

Think.

A beginning.

A promise.

A purpose.

An answer.

***

May the Traders nurture our fortunes as They kindle the flames which burn within us all.

***

It is in the wake of Ultima, as the Seventh Astral Era dawns, that a visitor approaches Mirage.

The settlement is smaller, wearier than it was some twelve years past. It marks itself in worn buildings, sparse vegetation, sparser people. What few remain band together against the elements and forgotten tragedies. As much as anyone can be, they are comfortably abandoned.

The sky blazes blue overhead. From the north, through heat that makes sand ripple like water, comes a behemoth. The stranger reclines almost lazily atop its back, his seat swaying with every step. Metal ornaments clatter from the harness in the way that bells clatter.

Perhaps this Warrior of Light makes a joke of his title. Beyond a strange complexion, he presents himself with every morbid luxury black magic has to offer. Gem-studded robes, a broad-brimmed hat, fitted boots... matching in darkness, they serve only amplify it. A mado brush, his exception, rests across both knees.

Reactions vary according to age. Younger residents gawk at the mount and the visitor, attaching neither name nor history nor title. Only power and perhaps some small wealth.

Most who know better go inside and quietly shut their doors. Others freeze. Few have courage to whisper to one another as Cenric Asher dismounts, impassive as he ties his beast to a pole once used by chocobo porters.

It could break away if it wanted to. It doesn’t.

Irises without color scan what residents remain.

Stop.

Teeth emerge from under lips curling involuntarily. His eyes widen.

“You,” he says, and at twenty-six cycles his voice is deep and steady as he gestures with the staff. “Come here. There’s a small favor I would ask.”

Two figures. One, a boy of perhaps ten. Dusty brown hair, a large-boned frame typical of his people that only promises to become more pronounced with age. Dark eyes. A nervous smile in return.

And there, positioned just in front of him, is his highlander mother.

She’s likely approaching forty, now. The same stubborn set to her jaw, same narrow eyes, same auburn hair. Something tired lining her cheeks, perhaps, but with those features frozen in horror as they are such details take a back seat.

The boy tugs her elbow uncertainly, glancing between the outsider and the dread he evokes. Cenric’s smile grows as if it has a life of its own. Devoid of warmth. He tilts the end of his brush in a small, leisurely circle. Beckoning.

He does not, even for an instant, look away.

The woman forces a smile in turn. Delicately removes her son’s hand. Begins to advance.

“Ah,” says Cenric, “both of you, if you please. It won’t be long.”

For several seconds, they remain caught in each others’ scrutiny. There is an animal tension in the way they grin at one another.

“Come with me,” murmurs the highlander woman, “it’s alright.”

She, with the boy in tow, closes the gap.

“Forgive me,” says Cenric, tilting the staff to rest against his shoulder. Unblinking. “For all the fond memories I have of this place your name escapes.”

“Eona,” she says, almost a whisper.

“And yours?” says Cenric, attention shifting to the child.

Nothing.

“His name,” says Eona, placing a hand on her son’s shoulder, “is Varin.”

She squeezes gently. Reassuringly.

Cenric’s expression remains unmoved.

“I don’t mean to stay,” he says lightly. “There’s a visit I should have made long ago. Circumstances.” Finally, he looks away—gaze darting to the inn, fallen from use. He licks his lips nervously. The smile doesn’t drop.

“I’d like to see my father’s grave,” he says, with the air of someone requesting the price of bread or discussing weather.

Silence.

“I’m sorry,” breathes Eona, “there isn’t one. We… we burned the body afterward.”

Cenric’s expression remains frozen. The only change comes from the way his face gradually drains to gray.

“Can you show me,” he replies evenly, “where the remains were destroyed?”

Eona opens her mouth. Closes it again. Looks at her feet and nods.

“Follow me.”

***

They walk in an uncomfortable silence. The mage’s eyes flit between buildings, between faces. He grips his staff tightly, close to his chest. Varin, holding his mother’s hand, sometimes glances back at him. If Cenric notices he gives no indication.

The location they arrive at isn’t marked. Perhaps one hundred yalms from the entrance to a nearby cavern. It takes some moments for the Highlanders to realize their charge has fallen behind.

“…Mr. Asher,” says Eona.

The Warrior of Light has gone still, gaze fixed to the cave. Features blank. He does not respond.

“Ma,” whispers Varin, “we should go.”

Eona exhales through her nose. Her lips thin.

“Mr. Asher,” she repeats, louder this time.

Cenric flinches. Turns.

The space is distinguished by a small, rocky outcropping. No trees grow, no markers stand.

“This is the place,” says Eona, gesturing. “Immin… your father didn’t deserve what happened.”

A slight inclination of the head in acknowledgment. Nothing more.

Very slowly, cautiously, she begins drawing Varin away toward the town. Keeping distance.

“Tell me,” says Cenric abruptly, without inflection, “do you love your son?”

Eona watches him for several moments. Searching.

When she answers, it is the most natural thing in the world.

“I would die for him.”

The Warrior of Light recoils as if struck. “You…” she thinks he means to say, his mouth working around an idea he won’t voice. Cenric is very still after that, and then he only brings one hand to his eyes. Keeps it there.

“Go,” he says quietly. “Leave me.”

Eona remains motionless. She watches with the silent revelation that what stands before her is only a man, neither more nor less.

“Ma,” Varin whispers louder. Insistently. His mother nods, and the smile she offers him is apologetic.

“Sorry, love,” she tells him. “Come on.”

When they depart, Eona doesn’t look back.

***

Alone, Cenric kneels before an unremarkable space. His shoulders tremble and shudder occasionally. No sound escapes.

After what might be minutes or hours or an eternity, he uses his staff to leverage himself upright once more.

“Thank you,” he says to the empty air.

Black magic is a destructive discipline. It cannot be used to give or create anything new.

It can, however, change what exists irrevocably.

A familiar power arcs chest to limbs. It drives through earth and fingertips both, reconnects in a blaze of electricity. Again and again and again. Lightning branches through sand like nerves or veins, like paths between stars or frost on glass.

There is still no gravestone left behind. Immin’s body has long since scattered to the wind and it would be dishonest to pretend otherwise. This place where he left the earth, however, will bear a scar.

[useraew]

Jordan Connor x Reader 

Summary: The yearly visit to the Country Club with your family consisted of your father’s Tennis Match,Jordan Connor’s cocky,arrogant ass and what leads you two hooking up? Maybe it’s the way he touches the reader. 

A/N: I can’t take full credit for all this idea, not all of it was mine. But enjoy my version of the concept of Country Club Jordan.  

The sun reflecting off of my phone as i watched my Father and Brother play a quick match to themselves. Every round my brother would hit the Tennis ball my Father would hit it back, back and forth it went on and on. My brother noticed my stiff body and the yawns i created with the force of my mouth. 

“Y/n, if you’re tired then go back to the Mansion” I nodded my head at Tyler, my brother as i waved goodbye to him and my dad. “Bye babygirl” “bye dad” The walk back to the Mansion, made my eyes grow tired. Taking a cut through the Country club trying to steer clear of Jordan Connor, the cocky,arrogant asshole who always tired very hard to get under my skin. 

As turned a corner, i ended up meeting yours truly’s chest. Jordan smirked right as he noticed it was me who ran into him. “Well hello y/l/n” I rolled my eyes at him as i tired getting past him. “Hey, wait y/l/n don’t be like that i actually wanted to say good luck to your father and Tyler on the Tennis Match” I stood up a little bit straighter as i positioned my head to the side. “Do you think i’m stupid Jordan?” “No, of course not, it’s just i mean every year your father and brother say they’re gonna win but they don’t and i just wanted to say good luck y/n” 

I could easily read through Jordan as i made a disgusted look at himself. “Listen Jordan, and listen good, i don’t care about how much good luck you give to my family, i still don’t like you, you arrogant,cocky, asshole” Jordan became in disbelief on how i was acting as he touched my arm. I quickly pushed him off as i still tryed to get passed him. “It’s not my fault your family sucks at Tennis” As those words came out of Jordan, my left eye started to twitch at him as he finally gave me room to walk. 

“You know Y/n, you’re smoking hot when you’re angry baby” I groaned at the sight of him. “SHUT UP” I made my way back down to the Mansion i was staying at and sighed in relief as i finally lost Jordan.        

--

Waking up the next morning, i changed into a skirt,black blouse,and my black heels. Every year in the morning of the Match they always had an brunch with both families that were competing in the Match. I dried having to see Jordan. As i followed my brother to the cafe at the club, with every step i took, the more i grew anxious and wanted this brunch to be over already. 

Entering the Cafe, the room filled with people and my eyes wondered as a holler that came from the other direction of the room made me jump. Jordan smiled at my family and i as he motioned for us to sit at his table with his folks. Leaving the seat next to him empty i had no choice but to sit next to him. I stayed quiet as Jordan’s dad and mine continued to banter back and forth. Jordan watched me here and their as i played with my food. 

Taking a sip of my drink, without realizing in the moment a hand touched my inner thighs. Fingers that went cold as they touched me made my eyes grow big. Jordan’s eyes met mine as i looked at my brother who happened to be absent at the table for a moment. A little sigh of relief as i knew he was gone for a bit. 

My voice got quiet as i directed it towards Jordan. “What are you doing?” Jordan took a bite of his food and quickly chewed and took a gulp in as his eyes met mine again. “What Y/n you don’t like this?” I licked my lower lip as i happened to get stiff all over my body by just feeling Jordan’s fingers. “You don’t like how my fingers feel against your gorgeous thighs” His whisper advanced in my ears once i went quiet again. 

Jordan’s dad and mine ended up leaving the table early leaving myself and Jordan. Finishing my drink and my food, i finally stood up only to have Jordan grab my hand and take me up to his room.  Catching the elevator which was luckily vacant, my body was nudged up against the elevator wall, holding on to the handle, Jordan’s thumb taking a hold of my cheek. He looked at me in the most offbeat way. 

“Y/n, do you know how an angel gets it’s wings?” I shook my head unsure of his question. His index finger laying on top of my lips once he completely found his next set of words. “well, in this scenario you’re the angel and i’m the one who’s going to fuck his angel to give them their wings, you like the sound of that?” In the moment i wanted nothing more than to get smart with this smart ass. “I mean i don’t know Jordan, can you even handle fucking me, let alone touching me?” 

I gave out a laugh as the elevator door opened. Jordan groaned angrily at myself taking my hand leading me to  his own room. Watching Jordan turn the door knob, he swiftly moved us inside and locked the door. I paid attention to him as he walked into his bathroom while taking a look at the his bed. The opening of a cabinet and it shutting came as he grinned at myself, walking back in the room. 

Noticing he was holding a condom, he placed it back on his bed as his hands took a hold of my face. I didn’t stop him from any of his actions as his lips moved against mine. I didn’t want to believe what i was doing, but he was making feel so loved. I’ve never felt this in any way at all, everything was new. The absent of our clothes on the floor, the on going of moans filled his room as i was left bare. 

He’s mouth made it to my ear while i bit my lip observing him in the naked state he left himself in. “I’m pretty sure i can handle fucking you angel” His finger found it’s way inside of me,making move around as i started bouncing on the bed. “Now be a good angel cumslut of mine and say my name” His finger continuing to leave me in a overwhelming state as i finally answered him. “Jordan” 

Hearing his name made him go faster as i could tell i pissed him off. Jordan’s mouth met my ear again as he basically barked in my ear. “Cumslut that’s not my name” I gave out a small chuckle at him as his finger exited myself. “ you never told me what your name was” Smirking at him, he placed his hand around my throat and got on top of my body. 

“Daddy is my name and you’re gonna be a good little cumslut or i’m not gonna fuck you like the goddess you are” I nodded my head at him as he was quick to get  angry again. “ANSWER ME ANGEL” “yes Daddy” “good girl” He let go of my throat as he took the condom out of the package and proceeded to put it on his member.  

He motioned me to sit on his lap as are lips found their way back to each other. I was quick to push him down so i was on top, the motions back and forth of are bodies as i was riding him. i just listened to his whines and moans. Are fingers meeting as he held on to my hand as i went down on him. “God damn angel you really are getting your wings.” 

---

Later hours after my amusing hook up with Jordan, i got myself ready for the Tennis Match. Meeting up with my family at the Tennis Court, i found a seat with my Mother and noticed Jordan and his dad talking to my brother and my dad. His eyes gazed at mine as he smiled and winked at me. “It seems as if that boy likes you dear” I sighed and nudged at her, “you have no idea mom” My mom giggled and gave her attention back to the match. 

Once the match started i watched as Jordan was hitting the ball in a very skilled manner. My dad and brother went back with all their strength with their tennis rackets. Back and forth the ball kept moving from both sides. I watched how intense my father was getting from his body language he was giving off. Through out the rest of the match everyone grew worried some on how this years match would end. 

It was the last hit to tell the winner and Tyler was serving the ball. Tensions were running high on the court as i watched Jordan hit the ball and it going out of bounds making my father and Tyler the winners of the match. The crowd was in cheers as they announced my family being the winning team. I felt bad for Jordan and his father as i walked over to my folks. 

The only person left on the court was Jordan after everyone cleared out. As he noticed my appearance he stayed quiet. “hey are you okay?” He shrugged his shoulders at myself as he watched the ball he just threw at the wall. Grabbing the ball before he could take it. “what’s wrong” i waited for a answer as he rolled his eyes. “i just have never lost with my dad ever, i feel weird” “It’s okay to lose sometimes Jordan” He took the ball from me as he repeated his actions. “for god sakes y/n, i probably sucked in bed earlier” 

I let out a laugh remembering earlier the hook up we both shared. “you weren’t bad, i mean you could of been in more control but i do enjoy being in control.” Wrapping my arms around Jordan’s neck i looked into his eyes and smiled. “some how i ended up liking you and that says a lot about me, so stop being so hard on yourself you’re making it hard for me to even like you.” Out of the blue Jordan picked me up and had me over his shoulder. 

“Hey what the hell Jordan” He laughed at me as he kept walking. “i’m gonna finish what we were doing earlier angel” I laughed as some people noticed the position i was in leaving the tennis court. 

“wait Jordan” As i hanged on to him i waited for his reply. “Yes pretty girl” I giggled at the compliment. “Did i get my angel wings?” hoping for a positive answer i wrapped myself tighter around him. “yes angel and you look so damn good on top of me too by the way.”  He wrapped my legs around him, both of us laughing as we found our way to his room again. 

xxx

@sweet-fogarty @sweetpeas-babygirl @savagebbygrl @serpents-queen @southside-sweets @mildly-human @sweetsfuckingpea @inlovewsweetpea @swxxtpeas @sweetpeagorls @imcgining

[rrrawrf-writes]

pt. 1 | pt. 2 | pt. 3 

i’m not very happy with this one, but i think winn actually gets out of the elevator now???

“We’re still waiting on the stupid cops,” Mitch bemoaned. “I knew we should’ve asked Hayburn for more feds, you can’t trust the NYPD to do their jobs.”

“No, Mitch,” Javier said quietly, while everyone in the ballroom stared at the two people in black body armor as they walked in from the balcony, “you can’t come upstairs.”

“Charrans -”

“We got it handled,” Javier hissed into his earpiece. Rick focused his glassy eyes on Javier and frowned.

“You talkin’ to me?”

Javier turned and grabbed Rick by the elbow. “DSA,” he muttered, “we need to get you out of here.”

“What?”

“Maaaay I have your attention, please.” The voice came from one of the Fellguard’s members who had smashed through the glass, but while it was low, Javier couldn’t tell if the voice belonged to a man or a woman. He didn’t care. The two of them had assault rifles slung from their shoulders. “We’re only here for two things, folks, so if we could beg everyone’s cooperation, this can be over and done with, with no harm done.”

Javier scowled and backed up, tugging Rick with him - but he stopped at a commotion near the back of the crowd, which had shifted towards the exit to the hallway.

“The other two Fellguard are up here, Javier,” Holly said, despair in her voice. “They don’t have rifles, but they’re blocking the exit.”

Javier closed his eyes for a brief moment, resisting the urge to curse, and letting his breath out in a slow hiss. “Kitchen?”

“Clear.”

“Go over there,” he ordered, but Rick just stared blankly at him. Scowling, Javier gave him a push, and the half-drunk, idiot senator’s son got the hint. He pulled his handgun from his shoulder holster as they moved.

“We’re looking for the reason you’re all here,” the ominous voice continued, their words carrying clearly over the murmuring crowd even though they had no microphone. “And little Ricky Hamsford. If we could just get those two things right up here -”

Their partner murmured something, stretching out a hand. Masks and black clothing hid the identity of the Fellguard members, but Javier realized which one she was when an invisible force slammed three or four auction attendees out of the way, creating a clear line of sight from Fellguard to Rick and Javier.

Rick’s glazed eyes widened with panic. “No,” he blurted out, stumbling back; his gaze fell to Javier, and he hissed, “Give that to me -”

“What -”

Javier was too surprised to stop the other man from wrenching the pistol out of his hands. Hissing, Javier grabbed for him, but he was just barely too slow; that same telekinetic force took hold of the senator’s son and dragged him forward. The female member of Fellguard made a swiping motion, pulling the pistol out of Rick’s drink-weakened grip.

Javier cursed.

“I’m almost there, Charrans,” Mitch reported. “Even found some of these idiot cops to come with.”

“Denvall!” Javier had told him to stay put. 

“You’re welcome.”

Rick tumbled to the floor at the first Fellguard member’s feet. They wrapped their hands around the rifle, then lifted a heavy boot and planted it on Rick’s shoulder.

“You’re the one selling Wildcard’s weapons, aren’t you?” they purred. Javier paused, then shot a look over his shoulder, looking for Holly. The DSA had no idea where Wildcard’s weapon had even come from; the auction company had protested that they didn’t even know what it was, and they wouldn’t give out the seller’s name.

“Guess which senator isn’t getting elected next year,” Holly muttered.

“Where is it now?” the rifleperson demanded, pressing the muzzle of the gun against the back of Rick’s head. They looked up, their narrow eyes scanning the room. “Anyone in here who happens to know, you’d better speak up, or Ricky here is getting his brain blown out in twenty seconds.

Javier sighed, then moved forward.

“Javier, wait,” Holly hissed.

“I’m up here,” Mitchell reported. “Tell me when you want us to take these idiots out.”

“Ten seconds,” said the rifleperson. Javier took another step forward, reaching into his pocket, but then Holly breezed by him, sucking in a great, deep breath as she went. Her gun was already in hand.

Holly controlled how much people noticed her. Javier of course, had never been influenced by her reflexive power to ignore her - she hadn’t tried to make people notice her until she became an adult and realized that being successful required having the spotlight at times - but he could guess that, right now, she had pulled everyone’s gaze straight to her in her neat blue blazer and slacks like a magnet in a tin of iron shavings.

The rifleperson’s head snapped up to stare at her; on the ground, even Rick craned around to look, despite the very real threat of a bullet to the head. Javier felt unease trickle down his spine, but he took advantage of the distraction by telling Mitch, “Now. Holly’s distracting them. Don’t let her catch you, too.”

“Who the hell are you?” the rifleperson demanded. They snapped their rifle up to point at Holly, and Javier reached for the pistol he no longer had, even though he knew it was gone. The female member of Fellguard, the telekinetic, flexed her fingers.

“Holly Black, DSA,” she snapped, pointing her pistol at the rifleperson. “Put the weapon down.”

Javier bulled forward, even as the doors at the back of the crowd burst open with calls of “DSA!” and “NYPD, FREEZE!” So many things could go wrong with this - Holly was going to get herself killed. Sweet Mother of ---, please, not Holly -

The telekinetic hissed, and then she made a grabbing motion. Holly’s gun ripped out of her hands. The female agent yelped - and then to her horror and Javier’s, she was pulled up into the air. Her hands went to her throat; Javier could hear her gasping for breath as he rushed forward.

And somehow, not a single person’s eyes strayed from the poor, choking agent.

Javier wanted nothing more than to shoot the telekinetic in the head - but he didn’t have his damn gun, and instead yanked his switchblade from his pocket. The knife flicked out almost eagerly, and a second before Javier bulled into the telekinetic, he dragged it down his wrist and into his palm.

“D’you practice that smug look in the mirror, or does it come naturally?” Winn snapped at Rembrandt. 

He twirled the electric baton around by the cord and grinned slyly down at Winn. “If you act like you’ve already won, Mr. Yale, it’s very demoralizing to everyone else. It doesn’t do to let anyone know what you’re thinking. Of course, then there’s people like you, who apparently live the philosophy of hoping everyone else will get so sick of hearing you talk that they’ll just shoot you in the face to get you to shut up.”

Winn tipped his head back against the wall, shifting uncomfortably on the hard metal top of the elevator. “You never managed it, prick.”

“And believe me when I say, I regret not having your tongue cut out every time I have to listen to you yapping like a chihuahua.”

Winn’s face reddened. Before he could think up something clever to say - which Rembrandt would undoubtedly turn about again, the bastard - his mind picked up on a sliver of hope.

A gun was coming up the stairs. A gun, and a badge - a police officer. Winn sucked in a breath, and then launched himself to his feet so quickly that his arm screamed in pain, and he almost tripped over the raised escape hatch.

“Hey!” he shouted, startling Rembrandt. Winn even remembered to cover his watch and Rembrandt’s earpiece transmitting to it, so at least whichever of the agents was listening in wouldn’t go deaf. “Over here!”

Rembrandt looked down the hall. Winn couldn’t see the officer, but his power tracked the man - the clothes were shaped somewhat like a man, anyway - as he stopped at the far end of the hall. Rembrandt, eyebrows arched, didn’t move from his spot.

The policeman paused where he was, and then Winn heard a muffled, deferential voice say, “Evening, Mr. Rembrandt.”

“Good evening, officer,” Rembrandt returned, as if the two had met on the street. Winn stared up at Rembrandt, who continued his lounging, and then a slow realization dawned. Winn’s stomach sank as the policeman backed up a few steps, then turned and went back to the stairs.

“Wait.” The word came out first as a hoarse, disbelieving whisper. Winn licked his lips, and then called again, “Wait! Come back!”

“Well,” Rembrandt said, as pleased a cat lapping up cream - or the blood of a decapitated mouse. “Looks like you’ve really gotten the shaft, Winn.”

The telekinetic woman couldn’t even turn her head to see Javier coming - not until he tackled her, the both of them hitting the floor hard. She cried out, and so did Holly, a moment later, as the agent dropped to the ground. Javier slid his bloody palm across the Fellguard woman’s face - at least, as much as he could see of it under the mask - and then he rolled off of her, his arm stinging.

“Pendejo!” the woman shouted. She glared at Javier as she pushed herself to her knees.

“Ysabel!” the rifleperson shouted. They half-turned, still with one shoe planted on Rick’s back. Ysabel raised her hands and made a grabbing motion at Javier, and -

Nothing happened. Her eyes widened behind the mask - his blood was smeared across her temple and into her hair - and she backed up a step or two. The woman was clearly used to relying on her powers, because her reflexes weren’t fast enough to stop Javier from swinging his foot into the side of her head.

The rifleperson swore and lifted their gun, as everyone else in the room, released from the spectacle of Holly’s power, scattered for cover. Holly coughed as she dragged herself to her feet, and then she gave a hoarse shout. “Hey!”

Almost like their nose was attached to a line, the rifleperson’s head swung around to glare at Holly instead. Javier started for them, panic leaping into his throat as Holly pushed herself up.

Javier rammed into the rifleperson just as a shot went off. Holly hit the ground again as Javier and the Fellguard member toppled over. He managed to land on top; Javier had no idea if this person even had a power, but that didn’t stop him from leaving a bloody handprint on their neck. Straddling them, Javier grappled for the rifle.

He knew this model. Javier found the catch to release the magazine, his fingers slick with his own blood, and then he slammed the magazine into the other person’s face. Several times.

“You’ve got the bloody cops working for you?” Winn yelled at Rembrandt. He snorted.

“Why are you complaining? You’re working for them.”

“I am not.”

Rembrandt rolled his eyes. “Don’t play stupid with me, Winn, I can tell when you’re lying. Everyone can.” He straightened up from the wall, swinging the baton back and forth with his other hand tucked into his pocket. Winn glared at him, wishing the bastard would fall down the shaft. Wishing he was brave enough to just shoot him. “Actually, you being here is a relief. I didn’t want to have to doublecross Fellguard myself - you’re so much better at stabbing people in the back.”

Now, Winn was angry and confused. “What?”

Rembrandt smiled down at him, like a parent explaining something to a very dull child. “Did you really think I want Fellguard running around with any more of Wildcard’s weapons?”

“More? Wait - “

“But then I saw you, and, well, there’s no way you could be here as a mere waiter, Winn. You really think it’s a coincidence you pulled a comm linked to their frequency out of my pocket?”

Winn reflexively glanced down at the earpiece cradled in his aching hand. Deuce. Deuce.

“It would be easier for me to just unleash you on them. You’ve already even started - you stole the weapon before any of us even got here.” Rembrandt grinned down at him. “Even you can be useful sometimes. I’m assuming the police are busy arresting Fellguard now? I hope they’d at least be able to kill Hamsford, first, that’s a necessity.”

“No one’s gonna ------- die,” Winn snapped, tightening his fingers around the pistol. He thought long and hard about shooting Rembrandt right then, right in his smug little smirk - 

“Hale?”

“Holly!” Winn backed up against the wall again, angling to the side as if he could see down the hall. Rembrandt frowned, turned, and startled in surprise; Holly was right there, and no one had noticed her. Winn could have kissed her.

She was pale-faced, and her blazer was no longer on her shoulders, but wrapped around her abdomen. She had a gun pointed awkwardly at Rembrandt, her other hand pressed against her side. The blazer and her white shirt were soaked with blood.

“Oh,” said Rembrandt. “Not the cops, then.”

Winn felt a grin spread across his face. “All right, Holly?”

“No.” She grimaced. “Who are you?”

“I found him down there,” Rembrandt said blandly, tucking the electric baton behind his back. “I had called down to maintenance for help, but I suppose they’re busy.”

“He ------ put me in here, Holly!” Winn snarled. “Where’s Charrans? What happened upstairs?”

“He’s coming, Hale, hold on.” Holly narrowed her eyes at Rembrandt, then ordered, with a hitch in her voice, “Back away.”

Obediently, he held up his hands and stepped back. Holly moved closer to the edge of the elevator shaft, squinting down at Winn. “Are you okay?”

Winn’s eyes widened. “Behind you - “

Rembrandt rested the electric baton, humming with electricity, against Holly’s back.

She gasped as the current surged through her, and then pitched forward. "Holly!" Winn shouted, bolting forward. He couldn't expect to actually catch her - she definitely weighed more than he did - but maybe he could break her fall -

He achieved that much. Winn yelped as Holly's full weight bore them both to the ground; her head made a sickening crack against an upraised bit of metal. Winn yelped as his arm seared with pain; he pushed Holly off of him and looked up.

Smiling, Rembrandt saluted Winn with the baton, and walked away.