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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 6 months ago

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1968 [Chapter 9: Dionysus, God Of Ecstasy]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 5.9k

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The October surprise is a great American tradition. As the phases of the moon revolve towards Election Day, the candidates and their factions seek to ruin each other. Lies are told, truths are exposed, Tyche smiles and Achlys brews misery, poison, the fog of death that grows over men like ivy. The stars align. The wolves snap their jaws.

In 1844, an abolitionist newspaper falsely accused James K. Polk of branding his slaves like cattle. In 1880, a letter supposedly authored by James Garfield—in actuality, forged by a New York journalist—welcomed Chinese immigrants in an era when they were being lynched by xenophobic mobs in Los Angeles and San Francisco. In 1920, a rumor emerged that Warren Harding had Black ancestry, an allegation his campaign fervently denied to keep the support of the Southern states. In 1940, FDR’s press secretary assaulted a police officer outside of Madison Square Garden. In 1964, one of LBJ’s top aids was arrested for having gay sex at the Washington D.C. YMCA.

Now, in 1968, Senator Aemond Targaryen of New Jersey is realizing that he will not be the beneficiary of the October surprise he’s dreamed of: his wife’s redemptive pregnancy, a blossoming first family. There is a civil rights protest that turns into a riot in Milwaukee; this helps Nixon, the candidate of law and order. For every fire lit and window shattered, he sees a bump in the polls from businessowners and suburbanites who fear anarchy. Breaking news of the My Lai massacre—committed back in March but only now brought to light—airs on NBC, horrifying the American public and bolstering support for Aemond, the man who has vowed to begin ending the war as soon as he’s sworn into office. The two contestants are deadlocked. Election Day could be a photo finish.

Nixon is in Texas. Wallace is in Arkansas. In Florida, Aemond visits the Kennedy Space Center and pledges to fulfill JFK’s promise to put a man on the moon by 1970. He makes a speech at the Mary McLeod Bethune Home commending her work as an educator, philanthropist, and humanitarian. He greets soldiers at the Naval Air Station in Pensacola. He feeds chickens to the alligators at the Saint Augustine Alligator Farm Zoological Park.

But it is not the senator the crowds cheer loudest for. It is his wife, his future first lady, here in her home state where she staunched her husband’s hemorrhaging blood and appeared before his well-wishers still marked with crimson handprints. In Tarpon Springs, she and Aemond attend mass at the Saint Nicholas Greek Orthodox Cathedral and pray at an altar made of white marble from Athens. Then they stand on the docks as flashbulbs strobe all around them, watching sponge divers reappear from the depths, breaking through the bubbling sapphire water like Heracles ascending to Mount Olympus.

~~~~~~~~~~

You kick off your high heels, tear the pins and clips out of your hair, and flop down onto the king-sized bed in your suite at the Breakers Hotel. It’s the same place Aemond was almost assassinated five months ago. He has returned in triumph, in defiance. He cannot be killed. It is God’s will.

You are alone for these precious fleeting moments. Aemond is in Otto’s suite discussing the itinerary for tomorrow: confirmations, cancellations, reshufflings. You pick up the pink phone from the nightstand on Aemond’s side of the bed and dial the number for the main house at Asteria. It’s 9 p.m. here as well as there. Through the window you can see inky darkness and the kaleidoscopic glow of the lights of Palm Beach. The Zenith radio out in the kitchenette is playing Satisfaction by the Rolling Stones. No intercession from Eudoxia is necessary this time; Aegon answers on the second ring.

“Yeah?” he says, slow and lazy like he’s been smoking something other than Lucky Strikes.

“Hey.” And then after a pause, twirling the phone cord around your fingers as you stare up at the ceiling: “It’s me.”

“Oh, I know. Should I take off my pants, or…?” He’s only half-joking.

You smile. “That was stupid. Someone could have bugged the phone.”

“You think Nixon’s guys are wiretapping us? Give me a break. They’re goddamn buffoons. They’re too busy telling cops to beat hippies to death.” You hear him taking a drag off his joint, envision him sprawled across his futon and enshrouded in smoke. “Everything okay down there in the swamp?”

You shrug, even though Aegon can’t see you. “It’s fine.”

“Just fine?”

“My parents were there when we stopped in Tarpon Springs. They kept telling everyone how proud they are of me, and I just felt so…dishonest.”

“Of course they’re proud. If Aemond wins, the war ends and more civil rights bills get passed and this hell we’ve all been living in since 1963 goes away.”

“I miss you,” you confess.

“You’ll be back soon to enjoy me in all my professional loser glory.” He’s right: Aemond’s entourage will spend Halloween at Asteria. You’ll take the children trick-or-treating around Long Beach Island—with journalists in tow, of course—and then host a party with plentiful champagne and Greek hors d’oeuvres, one last reprieve before the momentous slog towards Election Day on November 5th, a reward for the campaign staffers and reporters who have served Aemond so well. “What are you going to dress up as?”

“Someone happy,” you say, and Aegon chuckles, low and sardonic. “Actually, nothing. Aemond and Otto have decided that it would be undignified for the future president and first lady to be photographed in costumes, so I will be wearing something festive yet not at all fun.”

“Aemond has always been somewhat confused by the concept of fun.”

“What are you going to be for Halloween?”

You can hear the grin in his voice as he exhales smoke. “A cowboy.”

“A cowboy,” you repeat, giggling. “You aren’t serious.”

“Extremely serious. I protect the cows, I comfort the cows, I breed the cows…”

“You are mentally ill. You belong in an asylum.”

“I ride the cows…”

“Cowboys do not ride cows.”

“Maybe this one does.”

“I thought you liked being ridden.”

Aegon groans with what sounds like genuine discomfort. “Don’t tease me. You know I’m celibate at the moment.”

“Miraculous. Astonishing. The Greek Orthodox Church should canonize you. What have you been doing with all of your newfound free time?”

“Taking the kids out sailing, hiding from Doxie, trying not to step on the Alopekis…and playing Battleship with Cosmo. He has a very loose understanding of the rules.”

“He does. I remember.”

“He keeps asking when you’ll be back.”

“Really?” you ask hopefully.

“Yeah, it’s cute. And he calls you Io because he heard me do it.”

“Not an appropriate myth for children, I think.”

“Cosmo’s what, seven years old?”

“Five.”

“Close enough. I think I knew about death and torment and Zeus being a slut by then.”

“And you have no resulting defects whatsoever.” You roll over onto your belly and slide open the drawer of the nightstand. Instead of the card Aegon gave you at Mount Sinai—you’ve forgotten that you’re on Aemond’s side of the bed—you find something bizarre, unexpected, just barely able to fit. “Oh my God, there’s a…there’s a Ouija board in the nightstand!”

Aegon laughs incredulously. “There’s a what?!”

“A Ouija board!” You sit upright and shimmy it out, holding the phone to your ear with one shoulder. The small wooden planchette slides off the board and clatters against the bottom of the drawer. “Why the hell would Aemond have this…?”

“He’s trying to summon the ghost of JFK to stab Nixon.”

“Oh wow, it’s heavy.” You skim your fingertips over the black numbers and letters etched into the wooden board. There’s something ominous about the Good Bye written across the bottom. You can’t beckon the dead into the land of the living without reminding them that they aren’t welcome to stay.

“Aemond is such a freak. Is it a Parker Brothers one, like for kids…?”

“No, I think it’s custom made. It feels substantial, expensive. Hold on, there’s something engraved on the back.” You flip over the Ouija board so you can see what your hands have already felt. The inscription reads in onyx cursive letters: No ghosts can harm you. The stars were never better than the day you were born. With love through all the ages, Alys.

“What’s it say?” Aegon asks from his basement at Asteria.

You’re staring down at the Ouija board, mystified. “Who’s Alys?”

Instead of an answer, Aegon gives you a deep sigh. “Oh. Yeah, she would give him something like that. Fucking creepy witch bullshit.”

“Aegon, who’s Alys?” She’s his mistress. She has to be. It fills your skull like flashbulbs, like lightning: Aemond climbing on top of another woman, conquering her, owning her, binding her up in his mythology like a spider building a web. And what you feel when the shock begins to dissolve isn’t envy or pain or betrayal but—strangely, paradoxically—hope. “She’s his girl, right?”

“Please don’t be mad at me for not telling you,” Aegon says. “There wasn’t a good time. When I hated you I didn’t care if he was fucking around, and then after what happened in New York I didn’t want to hurt you, I didn’t know how you’d take it. It’s not your fault, there’s nothing wrong with you. She was here first. He’d have kept Alys around if he married Aphrodite herself.”

“I’m not mad.” You’re distracted, that’s what you are; you’re plotting. “Where is she?”

“She lives in Washington state. I’m not sure exactly where, I think Aemond moves her a lot. He doesn’t want anyone to see him around and start noticing a pattern. Neighbors, shopkeepers, cops, whoever.”

“Washington.” Just like when Ari died. Just like when Aemond didn’t come back. “Who knows about her?”

“Just the family. Fosco and Mimi found out because when they married in, the fights were still happening. Otto and Viserys demanding he give Alys up, Aemond refusing. It’s the only thing he ever did wrong, the only line he drew. He said he needed her. She could never be his first lady, but she could be something else.”

“His mistress.”

“Yeah,” Aegon says reluctantly. “Are you…are you okay?”

“I’m okay. What’s wrong with Alys?”

“What?”

“Why couldn’t Aemond marry her?”

“I mean, she’s the type of psycho who gives people Ouija boards, first of all,” Aegon says. “And she’s…she’s not educated. Her family’s trash. She’s older than Aemond. Hell, she’s older than me. She would be an unmitigated disaster on the campaign trail. She unnerves people. But Aemond, he…”

“He loves her,” you whisper, reading the engraving on the back of the board again. “And she loves him.”

“I guess. Whatever love means to them.”

A thought occurs to you, the first one to bring you pain like a needle piercing flesh. “Does she have children?”

Again, Aegon sounds reticent to disclose this. “A boy. Aemond’s the father.”

“How old?”

“I don’t know, I think he’s around ten now.”

And that’s Aemond’s true heir. Not Ari, not any others he would have with me. That place in his heart is taken. He couldn’t mourn the loss of our son because he already has one with the woman he loves.

Out in the living room of the suite, you hear the front door open. There are footsteps, Aemond’s polished black leather shoes.

Aegon is asking: “Are you sure you’re okay? Hello? Babe? Hello? Are you still there?”

“I’m fine. I gotta go.”

“Wait, no, not yet—!”

“Bye.” You hang up the phone and wait for Aemond to discover you. You’re still clutching the Ouija board. You’re perched on the edge of the bed like something ready to pounce, to kill.

Aemond opens the bedroom door, navy blue suit, blonde hair short and slicked back, his eyepatch covering his empty left socket. He’s begun wearing his eyepatch in public more often—not for every appearance, but for some of them—and whoever finally convinced him to concede this battle wasn’t you. His right eye goes to you and then to the Ouija board in your hands. He doesn’t speak or move to take the board, only studies you warily.

“I know about her,” you tell him.

Still, Aemond says nothing.

“Alys,” you press. “She’s your mistress. You’re in love with her.”

“I did not intend to hurt you.” His words are flat, steely.

“I’m not hurt, Aemond.”

“You shouldn’t have ever known about this. I apologize for not being more discrete. It was a lapse in judgment.” But what he regrets most, you think, is that his secret is less contained, more imperiled.

“What we have is a political arrangement,” you say. The desperation quivers in your voice. “You don’t love me, you never have, and now we can be open about it. You need me to win the White House, but that’s all. Your true companion is elsewhere. I want the same thing.”

He steps closer, eye narrowing, iris glinting coldly, puzzled like he couldn’t have understood you correctly. “What?”

“I want to be permitted to have my own happiness outside of this imitation of a marriage.”

“No,” Aemond says instantly.

Your stomach sinks, dark iron disappointment. “But…but…why?”

“Because I don’t trust you to not get caught. Because I need to be sure that I am the father of the children you’ll give birth to. And because as my wife you are mine, and mine alone.”

Tears brim in your eyes; embers burn in your throat. “You’re asking for my life. My whole life, all of it, everything I’ll ever experience, everything I’ll ever feel. I get one chance on this planet and you’re stealing it away from me.”

“Yes,” Aemond agrees simply.

“So where’s my consolation?” you demand. “You get Alys, so where’s mine?”

“What do you want?”

You don’t reply, but you glare at your husband with eternal rage like Hera’s, with fatal vitriol like Medusa’s.

“You think I don’t know about that little card you keep in your nightstand?” Aemond is furious, betrayed. “You used to hate him.”

“I was wrong.”

“Because he was at Mount Sinai and I wasn’t? Three days undid everything we’ve ever been to each other? Our oaths, our ambitions?!”

“No,” you say, tears slipping down the contours of your cheeks. “Because he’s real. He doesn’t try to manipulate people into loving him, he doesn’t pretend to be someone he’s not, when he’s cruel it’s because he means it and when he’s kind that’s genuine too. And he wants to know me, who I really am. Not the woman I have to act like to get you elected. Not who you’re trying to turn me into—”

Aemond has crossed the room, grabbed the front of your teal Chanel dress, and yanked you to your feet. The Ouija board jolts out of your hands and lands on the carpet unharmed. Your long hair is in disarray, your eyes wide and fearful. You try to push Aemond away, but he ignores you. You can’t sway him. You’ve never been able to. “Aegon has nothing to his name except what this family gives him,” Aemond snarls, hushed, hateful. His venom is not for his brother but for you. You have upended the natural order of things. You have dared to deny Zeus what he has been divinely granted dominion over. “You would jeopardize his wellbeing, his access to his children? You would ruin yourself? You would doom this nation? If you cost me the election, every drop of blood spilled is on your hands, every body bag flown home from Vietnam, every martyr killed by injustice here. What you ask for is worse than being a traitor and a whore. It is sacrilege.”

“Let go of me—”

“And there’s one more thing.” Aemond pulls you closer so he knows you’re paying attention. You’re sobbing now, trembling, choking on his cologne, shrinking away from his furnace-heat wrath. “Aegon isn’t capable of love. Not the kind you’re imagining. He gets infatuated, and he uses people, and then he moves on. You think he never charmed Mimi, never made her feel cherished by him? And look how she ended up. I’m trying to carve your name into legend beside mine. Aegon will take you to your grave.”

Your husband shoves you away, storms out of the bedroom, slams the door so hard the walls quake.

~~~~~~~~~~

Parading down streets like the victors of a fallen city, jack-o-lanterns keeping watch with their laceration grins of firelight. Hecate is the goddess of witchcraft, Hades rules the Underworld, Selene is the half-moon peeking through clouds in an overcast sky. The stars elude you.

The children—ghosts, pirates, princesses, witches—dash from doorstep to doorstep like soldiers in Vietnam search tunnels. They smile and pose in their outfits when the journalists prompt them, beaming and waving, showing off their Dots, Tootsie Pops, Sugar Daddies, Smarties, Razzles, and candy cigarettes before depositing them in the plastic orange pumpkins that swing from their wrists. Only Cosmo, dressed as Teddy Roosevelt with lensless glasses and a stuffed lion thrown over one shoulder, stays with the adults. He is the last one to each house, approaching the doorway reticently like it might swallow him up, inspiring fond chuckles and encouragement from the reporters. He clutches your hand and hides behind you when towering monsters lumber by: King Kong, Frankenstein, vampires with fake blood spilling from their mouths.

Aemond wears a black suit with orange accents: tie, pocket square, socks. You glimmer in a black dress dotted with white stars, clicking down the sidewalk in boots that run to your knees, silver eyeshadow, heavy liner. You almost look your own age. There are large star-shaped barrettes in your pinned-up hair, bent glinting metal. As the reporters snap photos of you and Cosmo walking together, they shout: “You’ll be such a great mother one day, Mrs. Targaryen!”

Fosco is Ettore Boiardi—better known as Chef Boyardee—an Italian immigrant who came through Ellis Island in 1914 with a dream of opening a spaghetti business. Helaena, Alicent, and Ludwika are, respectively, Alice, Wendy, and Cinderella; Ludwika clops along resentfully in her puffy sleeves and too-small clear stilettos. Criston is Peter Pan. Aegon wears a white button-up shirt, cow print vest, ripped jeans, brown leather boots, a cowboy hat that’s too big for him, and a green bandana knotted around his throat. He stays close to you and Cosmo because he can, here where the journalists expect to see him being a devoted father and active participant in the family business of mending a tattered America. Teenagers are fleeing their families to join hippie communes and draftees in Vietnam are getting their limbs blown off and junkies are shooting up on the streets of New York and Chicago and Los Angeles, but here we see a happy family, a perfect family, a holy trinity that thanks the devotees who offer them tribute. Otto, who neglected to don a disguise, glares at you murderously. You have failed to give Aemond a living child. You have dared to want things for yourself.

Back at Asteria in the main house, the children empty their plastic pumpkins on the living room floor and sort through their saccharine treasures, making trades and bargains: “I’ll do your math homework if you give me those Swedish Fish,” “I’ll let you ride my bike for a week if I can have your Mallo Cup.” While the other adults ply themselves with champagne and chain smoke away the stress of the campaign trail, Aegon gets his Caribbean blue Gibson guitar and sits on the couch playing I’m A Believer by The Monkees. The kids clap and sing along between intense confectionary negotiations. Cosmo wants to share his candy cigarettes with you; you pretend to smoke together as sugar melts on your tongue.

Now the children have been sent to bed—mollified with the promise of homemade apple pies tomorrow, another occasion to be documented by swarms of clamoring journalists—and the house becomes a haze of smoke and indistinct conversation and music from the record player. Platters of appetizers have appeared on the dining room table: pita, tzatziki, hummus, melitzanosalata, olives, horiatiki, mini spanakopitas, baklava. Women are chattering about the painstaking labor they put into costumes and men are scheming to deliver death blows to Nixon, setbacks in Vietnam, Klan meetings in Mississippi. Aemond is knocking back Old Fashioneds with Otto and Sargent Shriver. Fosco is dancing in the living room with drunk journalists. Eudoxia is muttering in Greek as she aggressively paws crumbs off of couches and tabletops. Thick red candles flicker until wax melts into a pool of blood at the base.

Through the veil of cigarette smoke and the rumbling bass of Season Of The Witch, Aegon finds you when no one is looking, and you know it’s him without having to turn around. His hand is the only one that doesn’t feel heavy when it skims around your waist. He whispers, soft grinning lips to your ear, rum and dire temptation like Orpheus looking back at Eurydice: “Let’s do some witchcraft.”

You know where Aemond keeps the Ouija board. You take it out of the top drawer of his nightstand in your bedroom with blue walls and portraits of myths in captive frames. Then you descend with Aegon into the basement, down like Persephone when summer ends, down like women crumbling under Zeus’s weight. You remember to lock the door behind you. You’re not high—you can’t smoke grass in a house full of guests who could smell it and take it upon themselves to investigate—but you feel like you are, that lightness that makes everything more bearable, the surreal tilt to the universe, awake but dreaming, truth cloaked in mirages.

Aegon has stolen three red candles from upstairs. He hands one to you, keeps a second for himself, and places the third on his end table beside a myriad of dirty cups. You glimpse at his ashtray and a folded corner of the receipt that’s still tucked beneath it, and you think: I have my card, Aegon has his receipt, Aemond has his Ouija board. I wonder what Alys likes to keep close when she sleeps. Then Aegon clicks off the lamp so the only light is from the flickering candles.

He tosses away his cowboy boots, hat, vest and is down on the green shag carpet with you, his hair messy, his white shirt half-unbuttoned. He’s taking sips of Captain Morgan straight from the glass bottle. He’s lighting a Lucky Strike with the wick of his candle and then giving it to you to puff on as he places the planchette on the board. “Wait, how do we start?”

You exhale smoke, setting your candle down on the carpet and then tugging off your own boots with some difficulty. “We have to say hello.”

“Okay.” Aegon places his fingertips on one side of the heart-shaped planchette and you rest yours lightly on the other. He begins doubtfully: “Hello…?”

“Is there anyone who would like to send us a message from the other side this evening?”

“You’ve done this before,” Aegon accuses.

“I have. In college.”

“With a guy?”

You chuckle, taking a drag as the cigarette smolders between your fingers. “No, with my friends. It’s not really a date activity.”

“I think it’s very romantic. Candles, darkness, danger, who’s gonna protect you when the ghosts start throwing things around…”

“You’d fight a ghost for me?”

“Depends on the ghost. FDR? You got it. I can take a guy in a wheelchair. Teddy? No ma’am. You’re on your own.”

“Which ghost should we summon?”

Aegon ponders this for a moment. “John F. Kennedy, are you in this basement with us right now?”

“That is wrong, that is so wrong.”

“Then why are you smiling?” Aegon says. “JFK, how do you feel about Johnson fucking up your legacy?”

“That is not the kind of question you’re supposed to ask. We’re not on 60 Minutes.”

“JFK, do you haunt the White House?” Aegon drags the planchette to the Yes on the board. “Oh no, I’m scared.”

“You are a cheater, this is a fraudulent Ouija board session.” You put your cigarette out in the ashtray and then take a swig from Aegon’s rum bottle. “JFK, are we gonna make it to the moon before 1970?”

Aegon pulls the planchette to the No. “Damn, Io, bad news. Guess the Russians win the Space Race and then eradicate capitalism across the globe. No more beach houses. No more Mr. Mistys.”

“Give me the planchette, you’re abusing your power.”

“No,” Aegon says, snickering as you try to wrestle it away from him. In his other hand he’s clutching his candle; scarlet beads of wax like blooddrops pepper your skin as you struggle, tiny infernos that burn exquisitely. Red like paint splatter appears on Aegon’s shirt. You grab the green bandana around his throat, but instead of holding him back you’re drawing him closer. The Ouija board and all the world’s ghosts are momentarily forgotten.

“You’re dripping wax on me—”

“Good, I want to get it all over you, then I want to peel it off and rip out your leg hair.”

You’re laughing hysterically as you pretend to try to shove him away. “I’m freshly shaved, you idiot.”

“Everywhere?” Aegon asks, intrigued.

You smirk playfully. “Almost.”

“Okay, let’s get you cleaned up.” Aegon sets his candle down on the carpet and strips away tacky dots of red wax: one from your forearm down by your wrist, another from your neck just below one of your silver hoop earrings, wax from your ankles and your calves and right above your knees. His fingertips are calloused from his guitar, from the ropes of his sailboat. They scratch roughly over you, chipping away who you’re supposed to be.

Then Aegon stops. You follow his gaze down. There is a smudge of wax on the inside of your thigh, extending beneath the hem of your dress, glittering black and white fabric that hides what is forbidden to him. Aegon’s eyes are on you, that troubled opaque blue, drunk and desperate and wild and afraid. With your fingers still hooked beneath his bandana, you say to him like a dare: “Now you’re going to stop?”

His palm skates up the smoothness of your thigh, and as he unpeels that last stain of red wax his other hand cradles your jaw and his lips touch yours, gently at first and then with the ravenousness of someone who’s been dying of thirst for centuries, starving since birth. You’re opening your legs wider for him, and his fingers do not stop at your thigh but climb higher until they are whisking your black lace panties away, exploring your folds and your wetness as his tongue darts between your lips, tasting something he’s been craving forever but only now stumbled into after four decades of darkness, trapped in you like Narcissus at his pool.

You are unknotting his green bandana and letting it fall to the shag carpet. You are unbuttoning the rest of his shirt so you can feel his chest, soft and warm and yielding, safe, real. The candlelight is flickering, the thumping bass of a song you can’t decipher pulsing through the floor above. Now beneath your dress Aegon’s fingers are pressing a place that makes your breath catch in your throat, makes you dizzy with need for him. He looks at you and you nod, and he reads in your face what you wanted to say months ago in this same basement: Don’t stop. Come closer.

Aegon lifts your dress over your head, nips at your throat as he unclasps your bra, and you are suddenly aware of how the cool firelit air is touching every part of you, how you are bare for him in a way you’ve never been before. You catch Aegon’s face in your hand before he can see the scar that runs down the length of your belly and say, your voice quiet and fragile: “Don’t look at me.”

Pain flashes in his eyes, furrows across his brow. “Stop,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead as you cling to him. Then he begins moving lower and you fall back onto the carpet, no blood on Aegon’s hands this time, only your sweat and lust for him, only crystalline evidence of a betrayal you’ve long ago already committed in your mind.

You’re combing your fingers through his hair and gasping as Aegon’s lips ghost down your scar, not something ruinous or shameful but a part of you, the beginning of your story together, the origin of your mythology. Then his mouth is on you—yearning, aching wetness—and you thought you knew what this felt like but it’s more powerful now, more urgent, and Aegon is glancing up to watch your face, to study you, to change what he’s doing as he follows your clues. And then there is a pang you think is too sharp to be pleasure, too close to helplessness, something that leaves you panting and shaking.

You jolt upright. “Wait…”

Aegon props himself up on his elbows. His full lips glisten with you. “What? What’d I do wrong?”

“No, it’s not you, it’s just…it’s like…” You can’t describe it. “It’s too…um…too intense or something. It’s like I couldn’t breathe.”

Aegon stares at you, his eyebrows low. After a long pause he says: “Babe, you’ve come before, right?”

I’ve what? “Yeah, of course, obviously. I mean…I think so?”

He’s stunned. He’s in disbelief. Then a grin splits across his face. “Lie back down.”

You’re nervous, but you trust him. If this costs you your life, you’ll pay it. He pushes your thighs farther apart and his tongue stays in one spot—where you touched yourself in the bathtub in Seattle, where you wanted him when he slipped his fingers into you for the first time—and suddenly the uneasy feeling is something raging and irresistible like a riptide in the Atlantic, something better than anything you knew existed, and you keep thinking it’s happened but it hasn’t yet, as you cover your face with your hands to smother your moans, as your hips roll and Aegon’s arms curl under your thighs to keep you in place so he can make you finish. It’s a release that is otherworldly, celestial, terrifying, divine. It’s something that rips the curtain between mortals and paradise.

It’s always like this for men? That’s what Aemond has been getting from me, that’s what I’ve been denied?

As you lie gasping on the carpet Aegon returns, smiling, kissing you, running his fingers through locks of hair that have escaped from your pins. “Not bad, right little Io?” he purrs, smelling like rum and minerals, earth and poison. Now he’s taking off his jeans, but before he can position himself between your legs you have pushed him onto his back and straddled him, pinning his wrists to the floor, watching the amazement ripple across his flushed face, the desire, the need. You tease Aegon, leaning in to nibble at his ear and bite gingerly at his throat, never harming him, never claiming him, grinding your hips against his and listening as his breathing turns quick and rough. Then you slip him inside you, this man you once hated, this man who was a stranger and then a curse and now a spell.

Aegon wants to be closer to you. He sits up as you ride him, hands on your face, in your hair, kissing you, inhaling you, shuddering, trying not to cry out as footsteps and laughter and thunderous basslines bleed through the ceiling. You know he’s been high on so many things—things that corrupt, things that kill—and you hope you can compare, this brief clean magic.

He can’t last; he finishes with a moan like he’s in agony, and as the motion of your hips slows, you take his jaw in your grasp and gaze down at him. “Good boy,” you say with a grin. Aegon laughs, exhausted, drenched in sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead. He embraces you so tightly you can feel the pounding of his heart, racing muscle beneath bones and skin.

He’s murmuring through your disheveled hair: “I gotta see you again, when can I see you again?”

You don’t know what to say. You don’t have an answer. You unravel yourself from Aegon and dress yourself in the red candlelight: panties, bra, dress, boots, all things that Aemond chose for you, all things he bought with his family’s money, all things he owns. Aegon has nothing to his name and neither do you. You are—like Fosco once said—pieces of the same machine.

“Where are you going?” Aegon asks, like he’s afraid of the answer.

“I have to go back upstairs to the party before someone realizes I’m missing.”

“Are you serious?”

“I am.” You kneel on the carpet to kiss him one last time, your palm on his cheek, his fingers clutching at your dress as he begs you not to leave. “I have to, I have to,” you whisper, and then you do.

You grab the Ouija board and planchette off the green shag carpet, hug them to your chest, and hurry up the steps. The first floor of the Asteria house is a maze of cigarette smoke and clinking glasses, guests who are dancing and cackling and drunk. From the record player strums Johnny Cash’s Ring Of Fire. You slip unnoticed to the staircase.

In the blue-walled bedroom you share with Aemond, you carefully place the Ouija board and planchette in the top drawer of his nightstand exactly as you found them. Then you go to your vanity to try to fix your hair. As you’re rearranging clips and pinning loose strands back into place, the door opens. Aemond is there, feeling beloved and invincible, looking for you. He crosses the room and closes his long fingers around your wrist. He wants you: under him, making children for him, possessed by him.

“Come to bed,” Aemond says.

“Not right now. I’m busy.”

“You aren’t busy anymore.”

“I told you no.”

He wrenches you from your chair. Instead of surrendering, you strike out, hitting him in the chest. You don’t harm him, you’re not strong enough, but genuine shock leaps into his scarred face.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you hiss. You can’t let Aemond undress you; he will find the evidence of your treason, he will see it, feel it, taste it. But that’s not the only reason you stop him. “Every goddamn night I give you what you want, and exactly how you want it. Tonight I’m saying no. You want to take me? You’ll have to do it properly. I’m not going to give you the illusion of consent. You remember what Zeus did to all those women, right? Go ahead. Act like the god you think you are. But I’m going to fight you. And if those people downstairs hear me screaming, you can explain to them why.”

Aemond stares at you in the silvery light of the half-moon. You glare boldly back. At last he leaves and descends the staircase into an underworld of churning smoke, returning to the party to sip his Old Fashioneds and decide what to do with you.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon ii fanfic #aegon ii x reader #aegon targaryen x you #aegon ii x y/n

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lamemaster · 7 months ago

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Loving the Maelstrom

Pairing: Maedhros x Reader

Genre: Fluff

Summary: Perks of marrying a writer. Nelyafinwe pov.

AN: Istg I get the most random ideas while working out.

Curvo bounced the fussing Tyelpe in his arms, his brow furrowed in concern. "What's wrong with her?" he asked, his voice laced with worry.

Maitimo sighed for the what felt like the hundredth time that evening. He glanced across the room at you, your face lit by the flickering firelight. A vicious smirk was etched upon your lips, your eyes gleaming with an unsettling intensity as you stared into some unseen distance. "She's writing a villainess," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else.

The murmur seemed to quench everyone's curiosity, at least momentarily. Except for Tyelkormo, who perked up at the revelation. "A villainess?" he echoed, his eyes wide with fascination. "Is that why Kano's been playing such… ominous tunes lately?" he asked, directing his question towards a very tired-looking Nelyafinwe.

Before Nelyafinwe could muster a reply, Moryo, ever the impatient one, interjected. "Makalaure, for the love of Illuvatar, can we please have a normal tune?" he pleaded, his voice laced with exasperation

Both you and Kano paused for a fleeting second. Your minds snapped into the present world before grinning widely and Kano launched into another melancholy somber tune. This time, accompanied by your booming evil laughter.

Such perhaps was the fate of loving a writer. He had known it well as Kano’s brother. A songwriter and musician's angst was familiar to Maitimo. And yours was similar yet, so achingly different.

Where Kano’s music seldom bled into his life, your words lingered in a pervasive presence. The angst of separated lovers, fervor of a brewing war, or the grit of a dwindling hero, you were lost in your worlds even before Maitimo met you.

And when he did meet you, he also met your worlds. Gay, morose, bleak, grand, your worlds were his now. Your character settled into his thoughts. And sometimes, they carried a part of him or his family. Small fragments of your life that bled into your worlds.

He liked your never-ending ramblings about a crooked character or exceptionally hard-to-write down plot. And he witnessed your fall into the world who possessed your mind and heart.

Despite the differences in art, you and Kano were inseparable in the creation of art. His tunes often rang out from your and Maitimo’s home as you scribbled away another tale. While Kano’s music was given a direction of melodies from the stories you wove into the tunes he tinkered around with.

And this was the rare occasion where both you and his brother were taken by a story so bewitching that from the strums of Kano’s harp to the rouge of your lips- all was tainted with a lingering shade of sinister.

It had been a week since your robes had been swapped for uncanny dark silken gowns, very much not your usual choice of color, your nails were painted a hue darker almost bloodlike. Even the decor of your study had shifted ambiance similar to that of the Maiar of Namo.

On several occasions, Maitimo had seen you stir your dinner with a smile so venomous that he sniffed his food twice before eating it.

You donned a gait so seductive that he, almost was tempted to discard the weekly family dinner with his parents. Yet, despite the unease that gnawed at him, Maitimo couldn't deny the jolt of excitement that shot through him when your newly painted nails, tipped with a crimson that seemed to mock innocence, brushed against his arm.

“I just hope sister-in-law and Kano are not going down the Mairon route of life.” Curufin’s words brought Maitimo back to the present.

The dinner had ended surprisingly well. Kano’s company had perhaps allowed you to shed the world that captivated you these days for a few moments. You were back to your normal self smiling by his side. Helping his mother and brothers set up the dinner table as twins climbed all over Maitimo.

It was only later in the night when his breath shuddered. He gasped as your lips ghosted over his ears. Filthy words spoken without a care of the oddly lonely alley on the way back to your home. Words so daringly sacrilegious that they would have sent a Vanya to the halls of Irmo.

Maitimo however, was nothing if not immune to the intricacies of your play and definitely not a faint-hearted Vanya. Pulling you closer in his arms, he indulged your little world. Tracing the shape of your lips with his fingers, he kissed you with a wicked smile.

Nelyafinwe loved every part of you. Even the fucking crazy ones.

(This one definitely more than the angsty lovers)

#silmarillion x reader #the silmarillion #maedhros x reader #fluff #maglor #maedhros fluff #drabble #Caranthir #little Tyelpe

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avxlyse · 1 month ago

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Awash In Crimson Wine - Chapter 3

A/N chapter three PLEASE don’t comment about how quick i’m updating I am gay and unemployed.

Agatha’s eyes fluttered open to the same unsettling warmth from the night before. She was drifting again, suspended between sleep and wakefulness, but this time she knew what was coming. She could feel her body melting into the sheets, her muscles relaxed, her mind slipping into a haze. The softness around her beckoned her to stay, to linger in the comfort of the dream.

But this time, she recognized the presence. The heat wasn’t her own—it belonged to Rio.

The succubus appeared at the edge of her consciousness, moving through the dark like a flame against shadow. Agatha’s pulse quickened as Rio’s touch ghosted across her skin, the sensation of fingers tracing a path from her collarbone down to her wrist. Agatha clenched her hands into fists, trying to resist the pull, but the dream wouldn’t let her go.

"Fighting me again, darling?" Rio’s voice dripped with amusement, smooth as honey. She leaned over Agatha, her lips brushing close to Agatha’s ear. "You know you can’t win here."

Agatha struggled to speak, to force her mind to reject the overwhelming sensation of Rio’s presence, but the words tangled in her throat. Her body betrayed her—an electric pulse of desire shot through her limbs, making her back arch involuntarily.

"Shh," Rio whispered, sliding her hand down to Agatha’s hip. "Let go, Agatha. It’s easier that way."

For a fleeting moment, Agatha wanted to surrender. The temptation to give in, to feel that raw power coursing through her again, was overwhelming. It stirred a hunger she had long kept buried, a need that only Rio seemed to ignite. But then, through the fog of the dream, Agatha’s rational mind clawed its way back to the surface.

"No," she growled, finally finding her voice. With a force of will, she wrenched herself free from the haze, breaking the spell of the dream.

Agatha bolted upright in bed, gasping for air. The sheets clung to her sweat-dampened skin, and her heart pounded in her chest as though it was trying to escape. She cursed under her breath, her head spinning as the remnants of the dream clung to her consciousness like cobwebs.

She wasn’t going to let Rio win.

Shaking off the lingering sensation of Rio’s touch, Agatha dragged herself out of bed and into the cold, harsh light of the morning. She washed her face, ignoring her reflection in the mirror, and dressed with purposeful haste. She couldn’t afford to be distracted by Rio’s games. Not now.

Agatha spent the better part of the morning in her study, poring over ancient grimoires and scrolls, searching for a solution. The room smelled of old parchment and candles, the air thick with the energy of half-forgotten spells. She was looking for something—anything—that might help her reclaim the power that had been stripped away by Wanda. Every page she turned was a reminder of what she had lost.

But no matter how hard she tried to focus, Rio lingered at the edge of her thoughts. The succubus’s presence was like a shadow, always just out of reach, teasing her with memories of the dream and the heat that still clung to her skin.

Hours passed, and Agatha buried herself deeper into her research. She found a few promising leads—ancient rituals and spells that hinted at ways to restore lost magic—but nothing concrete. Nothing powerful enough to counter the succubus's influence, or to truly bring her back to her full strength.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the room, Agatha sat back in her chair, rubbing her temples in frustration. She could feel the weight of the day pressing down on her, the fatigue settling into her bones. But at least Rio hadn’t shown herself again. Not in person, at least.

Maybe she’d managed to keep the succubus at bay.

Just as that thought crossed her mind, the air in the room shifted. The temperature rose, ever so slightly, and Agatha’s breath hitched in her throat.

"Miss me?" Rio’s voice was a velvet whisper, impossibly close.

Agatha’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing as the succubus materialized in the corner of the room, draped in that same loose silk robe, her dark hair falling in effortless waves over her shoulders. Her gaze was playful, mischievous, but there was something else there—a glint of intent that Agatha couldn’t quite place.

"I was wondering when you’d show up again," Agatha muttered, pushing herself up from her chair. She moved to the center of the room, keeping her distance from Rio, though she knew it wouldn’t matter. The succubus could close the gap in an instant if she wanted to.

"I was giving you some space," Rio said, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "Letting you think. You seemed… tense." At that, Rio placed her hands on Agatha's shoulders and began to knead her sore muscles. The warmth of her touch seemed to momentarily melt all of Agatha's tension away, and she sighed and closed her eyes as she leaned in to the touch.

Agatha’s eyes snapped open as she pulled away and crossed her arms, her posture defensive. "You’re wasting your time. I’m not interested in your games."

Rio chuckled softly, the sound low and rich. "Oh, but you are, Agatha. You just don’t want to admit it." She took another step closer, her bare feet making no sound on the floor. "Tell me—did you enjoy your dream last night?"

Agatha’s jaw tightened. "Stay out of my head."

"I can’t help it," Rio said, her tone playful as she twirled a strand of her hair around one finger. "You’re practically inviting me in. All that frustration, all that desire… It's intoxicating."

Agatha glared at her, but Rio only smiled wider, knowing exactly how to push her buttons.

"I know what you want," Rio said, her voice softening, turning almost coaxing. She moved closer, her gaze locking with Agatha’s. "I can give it to you. All of it. Your power. Your strength. You want it back, don’t you?"

Agatha’s heart skipped a beat, but she kept her expression neutral. "What’s your angle, Vidal? You’ve been dangling this offer in front of me like a carrot. What do you really want?"

Rio’s eyes gleamed. "I want you to see reason. You can’t fight this alone. You need me."

"And what do you get out of it?" Agatha pressed, her suspicion growing.

"Let’s just say, we have a… mutually beneficial arrangement," Rio said, her lips curving into a knowing smile. "I help you regain what was stolen from you. And in return…" She trailed off, as though savoring the moment. "You let me stick around. Keep things interesting."

Agatha felt a chill run down her spine. There was something in Rio’s tone, something beneath the surface, that hinted at a deeper, more dangerous game.

"And if I refuse?"

Rio’s smile faded slightly, her eyes narrowing. "You won’t. Because you can feel it, can’t you? That hunger inside you. The need for control. Power. You can deny it all you want, but it’s there. And it’s growing."

Agatha’s heart was still racing as she stared at Rio, the temptation woven into every word the succubus had whispered.

But this time, Agatha didn’t let Rio close the gap between them. Her jaw clenched, her fingers twitching as if ready to cast a spell, despite knowing she didn’t have enough power to fully deal with the succubus. Her mind was clearer now than it had been during the dream. She wasn’t going to let Rio have the upper hand.

"I don’t need you," Agatha said sharply, her voice cracking through the stillness of the room. "Whatever you're selling, I’m not buying."

Rio raised an eyebrow, her smirk fading as her playful demeanor began to slip. There was an edge in her eyes now, a flash of irritation. "You’re lying to yourself," she said, her voice colder, sharper. "But it doesn’t matter. You’ll see soon enough."

Agatha opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, Rio’s figure began to shimmer, fading into the air. "This isn’t over, Agatha. You’re not as strong as you think."

In the blink of an eye, she was gone.

The room was silent again, but Agatha’s thoughts were anything but calm. Rio was pushing harder now, escalating her presence and influence. It wasn’t just a game of seduction anymore—there was an urgency beneath the surface that Agatha couldn’t ignore.

With a frustrated exhale, she turned back to her desk, her hands shaking slightly as she shoved aside the texts she had been reading. The truth was, Rio wasn’t wrong. The hunger for power was eating away at her. Every day without her full strength felt like a slow, inevitable unraveling. She needed to fix this, fast, before Rio found another way to worm her way in.

Agatha paced the room, her mind spinning. She needed more than just ancient spells—she needed a way to block Rio’s influence completely. But nothing she had tried so far had worked. The binding spell hadn’t held, and her defenses were weakening. She could feel Rio slipping into her thoughts, like a whisper she couldn’t ignore.

And Rio had hinted at something more—something she wasn’t saying. Agatha could feel it, like an itch beneath her skin. There was a bigger plan at play, and it wasn’t just about regaining power. The succubus had a goal, a deeper intention, but she was keeping it close to the chest.

Agatha leaned against the wall, her fingers drumming against her arms as she mulled over the possibilities. There had to be a way to trap Rio, to get her to reveal her true purpose. But how? How could she bait the succubus into showing her hand without letting her get too close?

Then it hit her.

Maybe the answer wasn’t in fighting Rio head-on. Maybe the way to beat her was to give her what she wanted—at least, for a moment. Agatha wasn’t powerless, not entirely. She still had her cunning, her centuries of experience. And she had something Rio craved: the promise of untapped, raw magic.

A plan began to form in Agatha’s mind, one that would require careful execution. If Rio thought Agatha was finally ready to surrender, ready to seek her help, she might drop her guard. And in that moment, Agatha could strike.

It was a dangerous game, but Agatha had played dangerous games before.

She pulled a nearby grimoire from the desk, flipping through the pages quickly until she found what she was looking for. A summoning spell—not to call on Rio, but to invoke a barrier between them. It wasn’t strong enough to sever the connection completely, but it might give her the upper hand in the short term, enough to protect her mind while she set the trap.

She spent the next hour preparing the ritual, her hands moving with purpose as she gathered ingredients and whispered incantations. The candles burned brighter than before, casting the room in an intense, golden glow. The air around her felt thick with magic, charged and volatile, as she worked through the final steps of the spell.

When the ritual was complete, Agatha felt the barrier settle into place—a thin, fragile layer of protection between her and Rio’s influence. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do.

She stood in the center of the room, her chest rising and falling with steady breaths as she contemplated her next move. If this was going to work, she’d have to make Rio believe she was giving in, that she was desperate enough to accept the succubus’s offer. And then, when the time was right, she’d find out exactly what Rio wanted—and take control of the situation.

There was one problem. Agatha knew that if she played this game, if she let Rio in just enough to get what she needed, there was a very real chance that she wouldn’t be able to shut her out again. The line between control and surrender was razor-thin, and once Rio had a foothold in her life, it would be nearly impossible to uproot her completely.

Still, it was a risk she had to take. She couldn’t afford to keep losing ground—not to Rio, and not to her own growing need for power.

"Fine," Agatha muttered to herself, her resolve hardening. "Let’s see how she handles this."

The next night, Agatha sat in the same room, the candles burning low as she waited for Rio to make her move. The ritual had left her drained, and she could feel the pull of sleep tugging at her eyelids. But she knew better than to let her guard down.

And right on cue, the air in the room shifted again.

Rio appeared, materializing like smoke in the shadows, her form languid and predatory. Her eyes gleamed as she stepped forward, a slow smile spreading across her lips.

"You’ve been thinking about my offer," she said softly, her voice curling through the air like silk.

Agatha straightened, meeting Rio’s gaze with a cool, calculated expression. "Maybe I have."

Rio’s smile widened, but there was a flicker of suspicion in her eyes. "And what have you decided, darling?"

Agatha took a slow breath, letting her voice drop to a low murmur. "I’ll accept your help. But on my terms."

Rio’s eyes flashed with interest. "Go on."

Agatha didn’t flinch. "You want to help me reclaim my power? Fine. But I want to know the real cost. No games. No tricks. You tell me everything."

The succubus’s smile faltered for just a second, but she recovered quickly, her eyes narrowing with amusement. "You’re smarter than most, I’ll give you that. But I’m not the one playing games, Agatha."

Agatha crossed her arms, her gaze sharp. "Then prove it. Tell me what you’re really after."

Rio’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes as she took a step closer. "All in good time, darling. But first… you’ll need to trust me."

Agatha didn’t blink. "Trust is earned, not given."

Rio’s laugh was soft, almost too quiet. "We’ll see about that."

#agatha all along #agatha coven of chaos #agatha harkness #agatha x rio #agathario #agatha spoilers #marvel #marvel mcu #wanda x agatha #mcu #ao3 writer #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #ao3 link #ao3feed #marvel cinematic universe

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crime-wives · 3 months ago

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tagged by: @horsetailcurlers2 @emily-prentits and @shrrpteeth :)

rules: answer and tag nine people you want to get to know better and catch up with

favorite color: deep blues, crimson red/burgundy, and sage green

last song: sesame syrup by cigarettes after sex

currently reading: this is how you lose the time war by amal el-mohtar and max gladstone. (technically i haven't started it yet, but i do intend to) also in fic i'm rereading miss swan goes to storybrooke by coalitiongirl

currently watching: criminal minds! (i am so deranged about this show it's not even funny. emily prentiss my beloved!!)

currently craving: nothing in particular, perhaps some strawberries.

coffee or tea: coffee unless it's indian masala chai (i don't know if that technically counts as tea? but i'm including it)

hobby to try: recently i've been getting into crocheting, but other than that i think embroidery/sewing is really cool! (also been meaning to pick oil painting back up, it's been a While)

current au: i started working on a jemily affair au. very sad, very gay. something about the fact that the love was there and they both kept losing each other over and over again. fleeting glances and lingering hands and somber wedding bells. although, i do have to put it on the backburner to finish my sqsn fic.

no pressure tags: @mostlikelyshutup @benwvatt @morallygreykoifsh @peridotglimmer @jareauism @general-alder @sucker-for-emily-prentiss @lenakluthor @sssammich

#tag games #this was fun!!#personal

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chaos-vulpix · 10 months ago

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Meme Trash Kingdom Masterlist (Ver. 2.0)

Oh dear god, I've been putting this off for way too long lmao

Ninjago: Legacyverse AU (by @weekend-whip)

Playlists (Characters):

Antonia: Polaroid Angel

Bridget: A Sound Mind

Cole: Earthen Soul | Fault Lines of the Heart | Tectonic Tribulations

Harleigh: Vagabond Phantasm

Harumi: Innocence is Fleeting | Descent into a Long Quiet | Beneath a Jaded Mask

Jamie: Butterflies atop Heartstrings | Wayward Comet in Stardust Sky | Astral Dreamer | Liminal Wavelengths

Jay: Static Azure

Jesse: Fuchsian Heart | Marvellous in Misery | Revelations in Amaranth | Lovelorn Blossoms | Orchid Spirit

Kai: Passion in Crimson | Heart of Wildfire | Ablaze with Emotion

Lloyd: Viridian Prophecy | Emerald Promise | Evergreen Fate

Miranda: Bionic Sweetheart

Nya: Riptide's Call

Olivia: Shark-Toothed Frenemy | General Miss Demeanor | Lady of the Undertow | Oceanic Huntress

Pixal: Digital Scion

Skylor: Snapshots in Amber

Sunni: Clear Skies Ahead

Zane: Frozen Circuitry

Playlists (Shipping):

Aftershock (Cole / Jesse): OG / 1st

Final Frontier (Jamie / Olivia): 1st | 2nd

Jaya (Jay / Nya): 1st

Kailor (Kai / Skylor): 1st

Llorumi (Harumi / Lloyd): 1st

Pixane (Pixal / Zane): TBA

Playlists (Other):

High School Daze: TBA

Ninjaball Frenzy: (Spotify Links)

Rockshot Afterparty: TBA

Rockshot Rave: Cole | Tox (Spotify Links)

Incorrect Quotes & Random Headcanons

IQ Compilation 1 | IQ Compilation 2

Just Dance (Cole)

#the ninja legacy whip #legacyverse #legacyverse playlists #incorrect quotes #all the one-off incorrect quotes will have a separate compilation post eventually

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imogenkol · 5 months ago

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pairing: Imogen Kol (oc) x Bix Caleen word count: 6.4k rating: mature (18+) warnings: depictions of violence and trauma tags: gay rescue, traumatic backstory flashback, angst, hurt/comfort, *checks* yeah the repressed feelings are still here read it on ao3! / previous chapter

Summary: Imogen comes to Bix's rescue after her arrest and torture

“Bix Caleen!” The booming voice of an Imperial officer shouted as soon as his line of sight made contact.

Panic flooded throughout Bix’s system. She glanced desperately at Brasso who managed to barely keep a neutral expression.

“Get to Zorby’s,” he said under his breath. “Run.”

“Kol,” Bix signaled in a tense whisper.

Brasso gave a single, subtle nod. “Go.”

With the Stormtroopers closing in, Bix quickly turned on her heel and sprinted through the crowd. Escape was futile, she knew. Bix only had one hope now — a ruthless former Inquisitor who had as many reasons to run from the Empire as anyone. Imogen wouldn’t be able to arrive in time to stop what was going to happen, but she made Bix a promise, and that’s what the mechanic held onto.

–

“Tell me what you plan to do,” Brasso’s gruff voice said through the comms. “I can help.”

“Stay out of my way,” Imogen answered impatiently.

“You can’t expect to do this cleanly by yourself,” he argued.

Doing things cleanly was never an option, which was why she needed Brasso to steer clear of the situation. One way or another, Imogen would get the job done. “Then you know nothing about what I’m capable of.”

“If you get her killed –”

“If you continue to question me, Brasso, the Empire will be the least of your worries.” As irritated as the scrapper made her, Imogen managed to keep her tone leveled. “Do your part in the funeral and keep the Imperials distracted. That is what you must focus on. I won’t allow anyone else to hurt her once I get there, that’s all you need to know.”

Before Brasso could say another word of protest, Imogen switched her comms off. In the quiet solitude of her ship, she slumped forward with her head in her hands. Imogen spent so many years burying any emotion attributed to weakness that she nearly forgot how constricting fear could be. An invisible hand that may as well have been her own grasped her by the throat and made it difficult to swallow. In the discomfort, her heart sped up in sporadic bursts, pounding hard inside her ribcage like it needed to break out.

This is the price of compassion.

Imogen attempted to convince herself to cut her losses. She’s abandoned more for far less. Yet the thoughts were weak and fleeting. Nothing – not even the Empire – could stop her from setting a course for Ferrix immediately. Fear may have gained ground in her mind, but she will not give up her mechanic. Not to them.

A few months ago, Imogen would have surprised herself with how little time she wasted. There was no shortage of creative ways to deal harm in the Empire. Her own hands once enacted cruelty with merciless purpose in their name. In a different life not too far from this one, Imogen could have easily been the one to inflict untold horrors upon Bix. The fabricated scenario fueled a familiar pit of rage within Imogen. A rage she willed to eclipse her weakness. A rage to be weaponized against any who stood in her way.

Under the cover of an overcast night sky, Imogen inconspicuously landed The Crimson Huntress on Ferrix. Maarva Andor’s funeral would begin not long after the sun rose. That was her window. Cassian slighted the Empire, coincidentally giving Imogen the opportunity to exploit their arrogance. With all eyes on the service, she would get Bix out safely.

Imogen sensed an unspoken echo in the silence that settled in Ferrix. Something more malevolent than squads of Stormtroopers had reared its head since she last visited the planet. She felt it seep through the very soil beneath her boots as it coiled inside her. Dread has never been a stranger in her heart, but this feeling left her more disturbed than previous experiences. Imogen balled her hands into tight fists and held her head higher in preparation.

In the empty square where the hotel stood, Imogen noticed a silhouetted figure suspended by a rope. She stopped dead in her tracks as her blood went cold. Everything within her willed it not to be Bix. Anyone but Bix, her desperate heart prayed. Imogen will not accept being too late.

As she cautiously forced herself to approach the figure, she soon made out the details of a vaguely familiar man. Relief relaxed some of Imogen’s tenser muscles, but her steps still faltered before the body of Salman Paak. She had never regarded the man with anything other than indifference. Honestly, Imogen couldn’t have cared less about him, yet she stared up at his lifeless corpse swaying gently in the breeze and scowled thoughtfully.

No. Salman Paak would not haunt Imogen… but he would haunt Bix.

The hotel sat in the vicinity of where Paak had been hanged. Bix might see his body in their escape and the thought didn’t sit well. Against her every instinct and judgment, Imogen took a moment to cut the poor man down. She moved his body out of the street for someone else to recover him. Perhaps that eventual someone would spare Paak’s son from the grisly sight as well. Imogen felt surprised she even thought of the boy at all. It wouldn’t matter if he saw his father like this or not. The man was still dead.

Now that she had wasted precious time on a foolish endeavor, Imogen steeled herself and headed for the hotel. Nighttime came with more than just the advantage of darkness. A skeleton crew of no more than half a dozen Stormtroopers guarded the entrance and patrolled the perimeter. Imogen easily slipped past them and found the tunnel Brasso mentioned.

After she settled into a semi-dry corner with a view of the street through an old grate, Imogen had nothing else to do but play a tedious waiting game.

To pass the time, she decided to reach within herself and meditate. The old Jedi practice had been one of the few things instilled in Imogen from childhood that she couldn’t shake. Whenever doubt poisoned her resolve, she found a rare solace in meditation.

Breathe, Imogen, the ghost of her old master’s voice echoed in Imogen’s mind. Let your thoughts fade away. Strip yourself of purpose. There is only you and the Force. Each slow inhale and exhale silenced even the barest whispers at the back of her consciousness. Trust that the Force will guide you.

Suddenly, a memory pooled like blood behind her closed eyelids as clear as the very day she lived it.

The once peaceful temple fell into the corruption of war. Screams of agony and calls for aid bounced off the walls. Blasterfire hung so thick in the air that it stung Imogen’s eyes and burned her lungs. She could barely discern the shadows of her brethren losing the desperate fight for their lives all around her. Destruction sunk its relentless fangs into seasoned masters and naive padawans alike. Mercy seemed a lost concept.

This was no war, Imogen realized. This was a slaughter.

“Imogen, this way,” Rejna commanded as she led them through the chaos.

Imogen sensed her master’s despair at the carnage that unfolded. She knew it made Rejna unfocused. Vulnerable. Weak. Contagious as any disease, those demons made a fervid attempt to consume the young Jedi as well. To protect herself, Imogen closed her mind to her master’s emotions and rushed after her.

She deflected incoming blaster bolts with her green-bladed lightsaber as they made their escape, but the clone troopers were endless. Both master and apprentice knew it was only a matter of time before they, too, would succumb to the treachery of their former allies.

Fury pushed against the desperation driving Imogen forward. How could she allow herself to be fooled? How could Rejna not see this outcome? How did it slip by every wise master on the council?

Feeling the rage in her apprentice, Rejna threw a stern glance. “Control yourself, Imogen.”

Of all the times to be scolded like a misbehaving pet, this had to be the worst. Imogen never understood the Order’s aversion to anger in the past and even less now. After all, anger was simply a tool like any other – one that could very well save her life in the face of this merciless destruction.Yet the ever astute master would rather devote precious time and energy to chastise her ward.

Anger gave way to something more poisonous within Imogen. Disdain.

Searing pain exploded throughout her shoulder and down her arm. Imogen cried out in agony as the scent of her own scorched flesh made her stomach spin. A second blaster bolt flashed across the hall and grazed the back of her hand as she attempted to deflect it with her saber. The shot knocked the weapon out of her hand and sent it clattering across the floor.

As Imogen struggled to stay on her feet through the blinding pain, Rejna sent the clone trooper’s next volley back at him with her lightsaber. Red bolts clashed with her blue blade and tore into the soldier’s armor. Imogen seized the opportunity to retrieve her own lightsaber.

The young padawan scrambled forward and fell to her knees, her uninjured hand grasping for the hilt half hidden in a brown robe. Imogen noticed her saber had rolled against the body of another padawan. They appeared around the same age as her. She thought maybe they had been present during some of her lessons. She wondered where their master was – if they were dead like their apprentice. She wondered if she and Rejna would be next.

There is no death, there is the Force.

Imogen froze as she stared into the blank faces of the bodies around her. A part of her she tucked away long ago envied them, for they had been freed from the confinement of the Jedi Order. They could no longer be stripped of passion or identity. They wouldn’t have to endure shame for feeling different. Was their end not the will of the Force? Did true balance not require a clean slate to start over?

Then, like the parting storm clouds, Imogen saw a way out.

The firm hand of her master clasped onto her upper arm and yanked her to her feet. “Do not lose focus! We must –”

In the blink of an eye, Imogen ignited her lightsaber and drove it into Rejna’s chest. A look of utter disbelief shattered the trance Imogen had been in and she realized exactly what she had just done. She pulled her blade back and watched in shock as her master sank to the floor.

“I-I didn’t mean…” the words trailed off. She did mean it. As the life flickered out of Rejna’s eyes, Imogen realized she’s meant it for a very, very long time.

Clarity lifted a weight off her shoulders and Imogen accepted the profound relief that settled deep within her chest. That is until a thick shadow crested over her head and silenced the madness of it all. Imogen watched it consume the ruined temple, a chill coiling around her bones as it refused to spare her. Even the bright green light from her lightsaber got snuffed out, but it quickly returned as a blade redder than the blood pooled around her feet.

The darkness suddenly abated. Imogen’s gaze landed back on the corpse in front of her. The fatal wound inflicted by Imogen’s hand still tore a burnt hole through the body’s chest, but she did not recognize the face as her master’s anymore. Instead, the empty expression of Bix Caleen stared up at nothing, yet saw everything.

Imogen turned away from the vision as sickness crept up her throat. She refused to give it power over her. The hilt of her lightsaber grew heavy – nearly too heavy to hold. Her fist shook with the effort, but she held on.

She did not care if this was the will of the Force. Imogen had a will of her own and it wouldn’t be the first time she made others bend to it.

Every steadied beat of her heart sharpened the drive towards her current goal. The former Jedi became utterly determined in the dark, damp tunnel underneath the hotel.

She was ready.

The distant sound of instruments caused her eyes to finally open. Sunlight streamed in through the grate and warmed her cold face. Imogen noted a battalion of Imperial Stormtroopers stood at attention for the funeral proceedings. Whether Cassian Andor intended to show or not, Imogen couldn’t say, but at the very least the Empire did not expect her presence. She intended to be gone with Bix before Maarva’s brick even touched the memorial wall.

While the secret entrance gave Imogen easy access into the building, Imperials still occupied the hotel. An officer sat stationed at the front desk. Two Stormtroopers flanked him, but there were likely more than that on the upper levels. The officer straightened at Imogen’s unexpected arrival and the troopers immediately aimed their blasters at her.

“The funeral service is being held on the main street and the hotel is off limits at the present time. I must ask you to leave,” the officer stated.

Imogen approached purposefully, keeping her gaze locked on the officer.

His voice adopted more authority. “This is your final warning.”

The hunter closed in on her prey. There was a shrill crackle. A bright flash of red. Two brief rushes of air. Both of the Stormtroopers at the officer’s side crumpled to the floor, beheaded. Before the officer could react, Imogen held the humming crimson blade a mere inch from his throat. His head flinched away from the lightsaber, but he otherwise froze in terror.

“Where is Bix Caleen?” she asked calmly, almost conversationally. Her cold, focused expression was anything but.

Whatever confidence he had disappeared in the red light reflected in his irises. “I don’t know who that is.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Imogen saw the man try to subtly reach for his comlink. “I wouldn’t bother, you’d be dead before you utter a word.” She leaned in, letting the heat of her blade singe the surface of his skin. It seemed to hum a little louder with bloodlust. The officer grimaced and held his breath. “I will ask once more. Where is Bix Caleen?”

The Imperial officer waited until his lungs gasped for breath. “They’re holding her in room eighteen. On the third level.”

No sooner than the last word to leave his lips did Imogen swipe her blade clean through the officer’s neck. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

Old habits die hard, it seems, she thought when a rush of power ignited her veins and comforted her like a long lost friend.

Imogen climbed the stairs two at a time on light feet, her crimson saber practically singing for more carnage. If she found Bix as anything less than intact, Imogen would gladly feed any number of Imperials to her blade. This type of vengeful fire hadn’t burned this bright since her years as an Inquisitor.

Consume me, she used to pray when the inferno roared from the void within her. Burn me up until there’s nothing left. Let them choke on my ashes. Let their clothes catch from the embers.

Now, as her focus remained solely on the retrieval of her mechanic, Imogen silently voiced a new prayer. Ignite me with strength. Fill my bones with flames. Make me unstoppable.

Two Stormtroopers were posted in front of room eighteen. The lightsaber gave away her arrival, but it mattered naught. Imogen easily deflected the first blaster bolt that screamed towards her and dodged the second. A silent fury rippled through the Force and slammed into one of the troopers, rendering their body immobile as it pinned them to the wall. Not bothering to wait until she was within range, Imogen flung her saber at the other. Crimson light danced across the walls of the hallway as it flew. The blade sank into the Stormtrooper’s chest, his pained shout turning into a death rattle.

While still maintaining her hold on the first trooper, Imogen called her lightsaber back into her hand. She didn’t need to see their face to feel the sinking acceptance of death behind the white helmet. Neither did she need to hear whatever last words this person might have. Imogen’s outstretched hand closed into a clawed fist. The Stormtrooper’s armor caved in on itself and crushed the individual within. Their death came slower than their companion’s, but their scream was swiftly cut off.

The hallway went still – the only sound came from the hum of her lightsaber. Imogen glanced around and listened for more troopers. It seemed that, for the moment, the coast was clear. In all likelihood, they set up a base on a higher level with their eyes and ears trained on the gathering below. Imogen could hear chanting out on the street.

Without wasting any more time, Imogen opened the door and rushed inside. Sunlight streamed in through the grated window, but the graying day left a few darkened corners. Imogen lifted her lightsaber to illuminate the room and spotted a familiar presence curled away from the noise outside.

“Bix,” Imogen called.

A flinch disturbed the stillness of the huddled form and she quickly approached. With her lightsaber held a safe distance away, Imogen carefully assessed the utterly broken image of Bix Caleen before her.

There were no obvious signs of physical damage that Imogen could discern, but something terrible had been done to her beloved mechanic. She saw it in the shattered, empty look in Bix’s eyes – the ghastly pallor of her once tanned skin. She looked like a ghost, unpresent in her own body. No amount of denial could mask the pain of seeing her like this. Imogen softly called Bix’s name once more, but she weakly turned away.

“Look at me,” Imogen requested as her heart pounded harder. She lightly placed the tip of her finger under Bix’s chin and urged her head up.

As soon as their eyes met, some life flickered back into the mechanic. She blinked a few times and finally saw the other woman kneeled in front of her. “Imogen?” Bix whispered hoarsely.

Imogen nodded. “It’s me.”

“You came?”

The question had been asked with such earnest disbelief that Imogen felt her chest seize for a moment. “I did,” She confirmed and brushed wild strands of Bix’s hair out of her face. A whisper so swift and quiet escaped Imogen’s lips on its own. “Oh, what have they done to you?”

“I thought I saw Maarva,” she muttered nonsensically. “Earlier.”

“She’s gone. She… left.” Imogen stumbled over the reply. They needed to leave. “Do you think you can walk?”

“I… I think I can,” Bix stammered as she shook herself out of whatever mental anguish clouded her mind.

“Then get to your feet,” Imogen commanded in an attempt to rally the mechanic. She switched her lightsaber off and grabbed both of Bix’s clammy hands. “And do not leave my side.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

With Imogen’s help, Bix slowly stood. She wobbled on her feet as if her legs couldn’t support her own weight. Imogen quickly wrapped her arms around the mechanic’s waist to steady her. The moment of contact only seemed to drain more strength out of Bix. Her body went almost completely limp as she buried her face in the crook of Imogen’s neck and released a devastating sob.

“I’ve got you,” Imogen murmured as she held Bix. A massive explosion suddenly rocked the entire foundation of the hotel. Imogen managed to keep the both of them upright, but debris rained down on their heads. Her arms tightened protectively around Bix and she spoke hastily against her ear “Listen to me, I will get you out of here and take you far away. All I need is for you to put one foot in front of the other.”

A few strained gasps pushed out of Bix’s lungs like it was painful just to breathe, but each exhale came out slightly more steady than the last. The increased sounds of chaos came from outside as a battle broke out. Imogen certainly asked for a distraction.

“Okay,” Bix said. Imogen felt a bit of stability return to the woman in her arms as she cautiously found her footing. “Okay.”

The way out of the hotel was quick and clear. Whatever remaining troops must have left to aid their company. Bix stayed near as Imogen instructed. She kept one cautious hand on Imogen’s arm and the added balance fortified her weakened body with every step closer to freedom. In the few times Imogen glanced over to check on her mechanic, she saw Bix’s eyes wander to the corpses that littered the halls. Bix shivered and hugged herself closer as she stayed glued to Imogen’s side.

“You killed them.”

“Of course I did,” Imogen said.

“Good,” Bix replied bitterly.

While she didn’t think Bix would ever mourn the deaths of Imperials, Imogen felt surprised by the ferocity in her tone. Perhaps she underestimated the woman’s capacity for vengeance. It reinvigorated Imogen’s purpose and she briefly fantasized about destroying more troopers if that’s what her mechanic needed – if that’s what would fix the damage inflicted upon her. She realized she would tear down legions if Bix asked her to. In fact, Imogen hoped that more dared to stand in their way.

They made it safely to the underground tunnel, but it was no longer unoccupied. Imogen ignited her lightsaber at the same moment Cassian Andor aimed his blaster at her chest.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said, her blade at level with his neck.

“I came for Bix,” he stated.

At the sound of her name, Bix perked up and quietly gasped. “Cass.”

Imogen took a subtle step to the side, further shielding her mechanic from him. “Clearly she doesn’t need you. I’d advise you to leave while you still can.”

Cassian firmly shook his head, eyes darting to Bix desperately. “No, I’ll take it from here.”

“You will not,” Imogen warned. “She is safer with me than she is with you.”

“I don’t trust you,” Cassian growled low, body twitching as if he wanted to lunge forward and take Bix from her himself.

“I do,” Bix interjected as Imogen sneered dangerously at Cassian. She shouldered passed the bounty hunter and planted herself in between the two of them. “I trust her.”

Imogen was taken aback by the confidence with which Bix asserted her statement. She couldn’t remember the last time someone said they trusted her – if there ever was one.

“Bix, I…” Cassian shifted awkwardly on his feet before he holstered his blaster. The absence of immediate threat caused Imogen to reluctantly lower her lightsaber, though its crimson glow still hummed in the tunnel. Cassian placed his hands on Bix’s arms protectively as she swayed on her feet. Pain twisted his features as he took her in. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. Maarva, she…”

“I know, Cass.” Her voice cracked.

The two of them tightly embraced. Imogen observed the deep, unspoken understanding that Bix and Cassian shared. The way his arms curled around her warmly. How her hands grasped at his jacket with remorse. While the romantic flame may have flickered out, a spark of love remained plainly enough for even someone like Imogen to see. Their intimacy was unique to them and them alone. Imogen never really envied Cassian for his history with Bix until this very moment.

They disentangled and Cassian quickly removed his jacket. “Head for Gangi Moon,” he instructed as he placed it over Bix’s shoulders. “I’ll meet you there.”

Bix hesitated for a long moment before she finally nodded. “I know you’ll find us. Now, go. Help who you can.”

He nodded back with the barest grin across his lips. “See you soon.”

With that, Cassian turned on his heel and hurried out of the tunnel. As soon as he disappeared from sight, Imogen glanced at Bix, who lightly scoffed at her. “What?”

Bix gave a halfhearted shrug. “Just the way you glare at him.”

Imogen rolled her eyes dismissively. “I glare at him like I glare at everyone.”

“Like they stole something from you?” Bix asked.

The fact that Bix had enough grasp on reality to point such a thing out had to be a good sign. Imogen couldn’t decide on whether she should smirk or bite back with a retort. That is until another explosion created a massive crack in the ferrocrete wall next to them. She caught Bix before the mechanic lost her footing. “It’s time to go.”

Imogen’s mistake was assuming every trooper would congregate on the main street. As soon as they exited the tunnel into a back alleyway, a flash of blue electricity came streaking towards her head. Imogen had just enough time to block the blow of an electrostaff with her lightsaber and came face to face with a jet black helmet.

With a controlled effort, she pushed the trooper back. That’s when she noticed the others.

A unit of elite Death Troopers clad in all black armor circled the two of them. In each of their hands, long metal staffs that crackled with electricity on either end. These were some of the few weapons that could contend with a lightsaber. Imogen knew then, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the Empire had expected her.

The former Inquisitor raised her saber. “Get to The Huntress,” she told Bix. “I’ll catch up.”

“Fuck that,” Bix said. Imogen felt her hand grasp at her waist and pull the blaster free of its holster. “I’m done running.”

Imogen sensed a fury ignite within Bix the same way it had in herself. A quick inspection told her that Bix still struggled to stay on her own feet, but Imogen had enough experience with rage to know it could carry anyone through the worst conditions. She nodded. “Find cover and I’ll give you openings.”

Imogen lunged into action.

She struck fast and precise, barely allowing her opponents any chances to counter. A part of Imogen felt offended that the Empire only deployed Death Troopers to finish her off. She had been prepared for years to face one of her former peers at the very least. Still, while the troopers weren’t exactly trained swordsmen, they were far from meager adversaries. They deflected most of Imogen’s attacks and shifted formation to flank her.

Bix’s supporting blaster fire singed the air and Imogen was grateful for it. The two of them were outnumbered, but they made themselves quite a nuisance for even experienced troopers like these. The blood red saber streaked in all directions, blocking electrostaff strikes and cutting down foes when it could.

Through her connection to the Force, Imogen’s counter attacks had more impact. She slammed two of the troopers into the far wall with a sweep of her arm. Even Imperial Death Trooper armor shattered against Ferrix brick. It took effort to continuously use the Force, but successfully breaking their line encouraged her brutal onslaught.

Imogen parried a heavy blow and the trooper lost balance. As he tried to regain his footing, she spied an opening in the space between armor plates. With a rapid strike, she drove her blade into his chest and effectively pierced the trooper through his heart. Imogen noted with pride that she gained ground. But the blaster fire from her companion had gone quiet.

“I need her alive!” a voice shouted.

Imogen spun around to see an Imperial officer commanding a small squadron of Stormtroopers. A couple of them managed to wrestle Bix to the ground and rip the weapon out of her hands. As they struggled to subdue and drag her away, Bix let out a haunting cry that pierced through the cacophony of war with the sound of broken desperation.

The Empire still needed Bix, Imogen realized. They intended to take her away again. And they would do exactly what they had been doing and worse. Over and over until nothing of her beloved mechanic remained.

A white-hot rush of fury reached a rapid boiling point within Imogen. As if her form were the center of a detonation, an unseen force blasted back every enemy surrounding her. She reached a hand towards Bix and the air filled with the pungent scent of ozone. Bolts of lightning shot out of her fingertips, illuminating the entire alley in blinding light, and collided with every trooper in Bix’s vicinity. The volley left her completely untouched, but the Imperials affected collapsed in smoking heaps.

Imogen locked eyes with Bix and everything froze. The mechanic looked halfway between terrified and awestruck. The bounty hunter was at a bit of a loss herself. It had been years since she conjured force lightning. She nearly forgot she could.

Bix’s eyes flicked over Imogen’s shoulder and suddenly grew even wider. Without a word of warning, Bix scrambled for the blaster just out of arm's length. Neither were quick enough to react. The end of an electrostaff impacted with Imogen’s neck. Her entire body seized as the world disappeared for an agonizing moment. Imogen came to on the ground in time to see the Death Trooper go for another swing. She lifted a hand to push him back with her mind when three blaster bolts exploded his black armored chest. The trooper grunted and Imogen rolled out of the way as his body fell.

Imogen jumped to her feet and glanced back at Bix to see smoke steamed from the barrel of her blaster. Despite the pain in her neck, Imogen actually smiled. She always knew the mechanic had more fight within her than she let on. With a silent call, the saber returned to Imogen’s hand, and she faced the battle once again.

The alley had almost been completely cleared of enemies. Only two Death Troopers remained. Frantic citizens started to flee in every direction from the main street. Most took one look at the red lightsaber and swiftly retreated to safer escape routes, but others ran in between the quarrel as if they didn’t see them at all. The inconvenience caused a tense pause, letting everyone catch their breath.

Imogen glared right into the black lenses of the trooper’s helmet before her. “If Vader wanted my head, he should have come to take it himself. Now I will take both of yours instead.”

They had no response for her. Imogen often wondered if Death Troopers were really droids under that armor or if opinions had been trained out of them years ago. She supposed it didn’t matter. At the end of the day, they were cannon fodder all the same.

As soon as the crowd thinned, Bix drew their attention with her blaster. In a flurry of motion, Imogen feinted left and launched herself towards the opposite wall. It only offered a very brief opportunity, but that was all Imogen needed to flank them. She gracefully kicked off the stone and her crimson blade’s hum sang in her ears as she relieved the two Death Troopers of their heads with one stroke.

Sharp pain still crackled throughout her nerves, but Imogen ignored it. She hid away her lightsaber and grabbed Bix’s hand before more troopers arrived.

Together, they weaved through the panicked streets, blending in with the crowd and avoiding Imperial troopers. Imogen wouldn’t have minded raining down a little more carnage, but her priority remained with the mechanic. Even though Bix managed to keep up with Imogen’s swift lead, Imogen felt the rush of adrenaline begin to seep out of her. And she made a promise to take her far away from this mess.

The Crimson Huntress remained right where Imogen left it. She ushered Bix to the ship’s cot and sat her down. “Hang tight until I get us out of this system.”

“Should we wait for –”

“No. They will have to handle themselves.”

“Imogen –”

The bounty hunter cut her off again. “Cassian is more than capable. I only came for you.”

The ever outspoken Bix scowled, clearly wanting to argue further. If she had more energy, she may very well have, but for now she relented. “Fine. Let’s go.”

With that, Imogen went to the cockpit. She did not intend to stick around for any TIE fighters. Keeping The Huntress low, they flew over the landscapes of Ferrix and eventually ascended through the atmosphere. As soon as she had a clear path, Imogen set a course for Gangi Moon and jumped the ship into hyperspace.

For the first time since Brasso contacted her, Imogen released a long sigh of relief. She finished the job while simultaneously antagonizing the Empire even more. Not a bad day’s work. Of course, she would have to lay low for a bit, lest they pester her with a vengeance of their own. Small sacrifices.

The bounty hunter stifled a groan as the pain in her neck flared. Her hand instinctively put pressure on the wound, which only made it hurt worse. She grimaced as she stood and made her way to the small vanity adjacent from the cot. Bix had curled up on her side and stared off at nothing in particular. Her weary eyes looked heavy. Imogen figured sleep would take her soon and decided against bothering her for now.

Imogen flipped the small mirror open and turned her head to examine the marks on her neck from the electrostaff. The black epicenter looked like a small explosion had been detonated on her skin. Angry red track marks spiderwebbed outward and reached as far as her jaw and lower cheek. Hopefully they’d fade with time, but Imogen would have to live with the scars for now. With a displeased grumble, she began to treat the wound.

“I told them about you,” Bix admitted.

“I figured as much,” Imogen replied nonchalantly without glancing over. “They wouldn’t have stationed Death Troopers with electrostaffs if they didn’t know I would come.”

“I let so many people down. And for what?” The tremble in Bix’s hoarse voice grew more hopeless with every sentence.

Imogen hated hearing her like this, but she forced her focus to remain on the mirror. “One way or another, the Empire always gets what it wants. That’s no fault of yours.”

“You shouldn’t have come.”

“No, I shouldn’t have,” the bounty hunter agreed. Then she turned to look at the mechanic. “But I knew what I might be getting myself into. And I would do it again.”

Bix stared at her for a beat and slowly pushed herself up into a sitting position. She desperately searched for something in the other woman, but Imogen never yielded intent in her expressions. “Why?”

“You know,” Imogen stated.

“Say it,” Bix begged.

How could Imogen claim words she didn’t understand? How could she give any meaningful admission justice? Imogen couldn’t even hold her gaze. “I prefer you alive.”

Disappointment became evident in the way Bix’s exhausted shoulders slumped. Then she scoffed and shook her head. “Right. So that I can sell you parts… fix up your ship...” There was a charged pause before she continued bitterly. “Sleep with you.”

Imogen fixed the mechanic with a hard glare, gray eyes colder than an unforgiving storm. A tense silence seemed to sap all the oxygen out of the ship’s cabin. Imogen rarely had reservations about using other people, but she did not go through such great lengths simply to take advantage of Bix in such a way. Once she sensed Bix’s resolve falter, she firmly said “You don’t have to do any of those things.”

More tears welled in Bix’s dark, bloodshot eyes as her face fell. Just like that, the fight went out of her again. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t fair. I just… I don’t know who I am anymore. I feel lost.”

Her mechanic’s words managed to soften Imogen the smallest amount. At last, an emotion she could express sympathy for. “You’re not alone in that.”

Bix carefully studied Imogen with a mixture of surprise and suspicion. “You’ve never looked lost.”

“I’ve never been anything else.”

It didn’t occur to Imogen until the words left her mouth, but she realized she had never admitted that to anyone. Yet the words slipped as easily as breath from her lips. Strangely, she didn’t feel very weak for how vulnerable she made herself.

The mechanic from Ferrix regarded the bounty hunter differently as if – for the first time – she saw something in Imogen that truly connected the two of them.

A chill of some sort gradually creeped its way up Imogen’s spine and she quickly occupied her hands with closing the vanity. “You should rest, Bix. We’ll arrive soon.”

“I’m not sure if I can sleep,” Bix replied.

Imogen gathered a canister of water and some travel rations. “Then eat,” she said as she walked over and placed the items on the cot.

Bix stared mournfully at the sustenance beside her. “I don’t think I can do that either.”

Imogen pursed her lips. It’s not that she didn’t understand why, she just wanted to be rid of this useless worry eating away at her mind. She thought the foreign feeling would be banished once they left the planet. With a sigh, Imogen knelt before Bix and tore open the ration pack. “Start small,” she urged as she broke off a corner and offered it to her. “You’ll need your strength, Bix.”

The mechanic reached out, but not to accept the food. The tips of her fingers gently brushed the fresh scars on Imogen’s cheek. The tenderness of an unexpected caress caused the other woman to freeze. Bix followed the lines down Imogen’s neck almost methodically, causing an entirely different kind of chill to shake through the bounty hunter.

“I dreamt that Cassian came for me,” she said. Imogen barely heard her. “But I hoped it would be you.”

There were many sentiments Imogen wished she could give voice to, but even the desire to lean into Bix’s touch seemed locked behind some unseen wall within her. It caused Imogen pain to push against it. There was an ache in her chest that had grown – an ache that she found herself craving, and it frightened her. So she gently pulled the mechanic’s hand away and placed the small portion from the ration pack onto her palm.

“Eat,” Imogen requested softly as she straightened and took a step back. “Please.”

She returned to the cockpit, unable to bear witness to Bix’s expression after that. Neither could she bear the thought of leaving her behind for a second time once they arrived at their destination.

#oc insp: imogen kol #ship insp: if i had a heart #fic: if i had a heart #beefy ass chapter but it's one of my favs

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