#i might fuck around and reread the shining and carrie too

[sayitwityachest]

i'm rereading It for the first time since i was 14 and goddamn this book is gud. man idk idk i think king is overrated as fUK but he did the damn thing with this book yessir. starts off GUD. keeps going GUD. literally so much of it is just building suspense and it doesnt matter i dont caaaaare im having a good time. I know that there is That Scene, we don't need to talk about That Scene, but i will talk about how tit obsessed this man is. anytime a female character is about, homeboi WILL find away to mention her boobs. man had stanley's wife's nipples get hard out of fear/panic in a grocery store???? bev's first chapter mentions her boobs so many times it's almost impressive. im barely in the meat of this book and im losing it with the breasteses mentions

[bogbees]

rereading the first chapters to Firefly wedding... sick and twisted SICK AND TWISTED. shinpei does not have a sparkle in his eye until

satoko wipes the blood fr his mouth

it disappears again but it might be there when he first says they should get married. hard to tell

then once more when he watches her dance

then when he tells her he loves her in the grotto with the fireflies (what a freakish little man)

when she scolds him when they plan to have her bought (notable the panel she mentions marriage)

When she asks what would happen if he died

when she shows him her scar

when she calls him out for wanting to escape the island

when he offers to carry the firewood

when he tries to explain what he likes about her

when she's a gross mess crying bc she hurt him by lying (side note FUNNY THAT bc she was saying she hated lying to husbands ab her illness but this is a reverse)

when she's sobbing telling him she can't marry him

he pretty much has the shine to his eyes for the rest of the scene too

when he's relieved? i guess that nothing bad happened to her after the girls attacked her

when she tells him she's glad she met him

when she tells him she doesn't want him to die

when he's lying near dead muttering ab giving her his heart

change of pace SHE looses the sparkle in her eye when he's lying near dead

not a sparkle in his eye but like. seeing her weep openly ab his wellbeing made him super horny?????

side note I'm INSANE ab how he zeroes in on her surgery scar and basically starts worshiping it

sparkle returns when he learns she didn't leave his side

when aoi says it's a mutual love: he gets the actual high school girl kicking feet on bed sort of reaction to this

when she is thankful he came back alive

being sooky and clingy towards her asking her to cuddle

im willing to count that the first shot of his face after she forcibly holds him as a sparkle due to his eyes being completely white, rather than the solid black they are in the next one

when she says she doesn't want to part fr him

when he embraces her himself

when she's like "your warmth makes me feel like we're alive" FUCK OOOOOFFFFFFFFFFFFF

when he learns he gets to run errands with her

going to get dango

telling her he'll set her free

wanting to fuck around the market with her for longer

just before he lifts her and exclaims that he's enjoying it

when he has her up in the air above him

when he's looking at her while picking out the geta

laughing with her

when he's reading her letter

telling her he was happy to get the letter

telling her smth ab her that he likes

seeing her hold his response letter

when he asks to see her face and she opens the door wide enough

god

[chadillacboseman]

Just reread the ask of Kung Lao and Liu Kang dealing with their s/o that had an abusive ex… reading it made my heart happy and hurt at the same time. Brought back some things.. could you do movie!Hanzo and Fujin doing the same?

I hope you are in an okay headspace after reading it! It was hard for me to write as well. Always make sure to check out my TWs in the tags :) I'll put everything that might possibly be triggering under the cut~

THE ORIGINAL PROMPT

--

Fujin watches your name appear on his cell phone when the device begins to vibrate across the table in front of him.

It had been a suggestion of yours, that he start carrying a phone. So that you could reach him "in case of emergencies", an idea he had scoffed at- if a wind god couldn't sense when his loved one was in danger, what good was he? You had laughed as you pressed the device into his hands- "Just humor me, Fujin."

Tonight, you were out with some friends, enjoying drinks at your favorite bar. It was unusual for you to call, you almost always took a cab home-

"Fujin-" your voice sounds frightened on the other end, "Can you please come get me?"

"Is something wrong?" he's already standing as he speaks.

"I ran into- into him here"

The wind god feels a stab of rage hit his chest like a bolt of lightning as he storms to the door, his hand already resting on his sword.

---

"Leave me alone- I have nothing to say to you," your voice shakes, but you stand firm against the outer wall of the building.

Your ex's face is screwed up in a half-smile, an expression you remember all too well from nights of screaming matches and painful blows.

"Come on, we left on bad terms," he's sneering like a jackal, "Let's talk."

You flinch reflexively when he takes a step forward and your arms raise in the familiar placative gesture you had so often performed in the past.

Another step forward. Your back is against the cold stone- you have nowhere else to go.

The gust of wind is sudden, with the force of an oncoming car, as it strikes your ex-boyfriend and sends him toppling to the pavement.

"What the fuck-"

Fujin erupts from the squall, tendrils of white wind bursting around his figure as he draws his sword.

"You would be wise to leave," his white eyes are trained on the crumpled figure before him, his face contorted in a snarl, "Before I take the breath from your lungs."

The man scrambles to his feet and disappears into the dark parking lot as Fujin runs to you and you collapse into his arms.

"How did you end up out here alone?" he smooths his hand through your hair as he speaks, "You could have been hurt."

"I was-" you swallow back a sob, "I was coming out to get into my cab. He was waiting-"

Fujin pulls you against his chest as you sob, "I will make sure he never speaks to you again."

You glance up at the wind god's face, full of fury like you've never seen before- the very air around him is mobile, almost electric.

"Fujin, it's alright- after that, I doubt he's coming back."

He looks down at you and touches his forehead softly to yours,

"If he does, I will tear him apart."

---

Hanzo watches you from across the room, his face painted with amusement as you dance with your friends. You're dressed in your evening's best, a shining beacon on the dancefloor among the other patrons.

The pyromancer simply observes from his spot in the shadows, uncomfortable in the clothes you picked out for him.

"It's hard to teach a 400-year-old dog new tricks," you had laughed as you pulled his dark hair into a half-up ponytail, "but you're doing well."

As long as you're having fun, he's glad.

Hanzo watches as your demeanor changes- you're looking at something, no, someone out of his line of sight.

You look tense, frightened, like a prey animal backed into a corner by a carnivore.

The pyromancer stands, reaching for a katana that isn't there, as he moves through the crowd, shoving patrons aside. When he breaks through the crowd, he sees a man speaking to you-

"What did he do to you?" Hanzo's voice is soft, his hand clutching yours. "Almost put me in the hospital, cut me off from my family- got a slap on the wrist."

"Get away from me-" you're snatching your hand from his and trying to back away.

He makes a move to follow and Hanzo steps between the two of you.

"And who's this?" your ex sneers, "A little old, aren't ya, buddy?"

Hanzo throws a punch before you can stop him, sparks arcing from his knuckles in the dimly lit bar. His fist strikes the man in the face, sending him crumpling to the floor in a heap.

The bouncers make a move toward Hanzo, pushing through the thronging crowd as the pyromancer wraps an arm around you.

"Ready?" he murmurs, and you nod in response.

The two of you disappear in a burst of flame and reappear in your living room, the scent of soot singing into your nostrils.

"That was reckless, Hanzo," you breathe, turning to face him.

"I know," his eyes are intense, full of something you can't place, "But he deserved it."

You lean into his chest and he wraps his arms around you, "Thank you, Hanzo."

He presses a kiss into the crown of your head,

"Next time, I'll have my katana."

[criminalmindzjunkie]

I Carry Your Heart With Me (Prologue)

Summary: When your college roommate asks you to be a bridesmaid at her wedding, you pack your bags and jump on a flight to Montana. What was supposed to be a relaxing week on the husband-to-be’s ranch is turned upside down when an old flame decides to make an appearance. Mix in lingering feelings, a meddling bride, and the mother of all misunderstandings, and your week out west turns out to be a whole lot more than you bargained for.

series masterlist

playlist

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader

Warnings: Cursing, mentions of alcohol, mentions of sex

Word Count: 2.5k

           Spencer gets the email on a Tuesday.

           He’s fresh off of a quick trip to a nearby café that sells the most delectable scones, and he’s eagerly unwrapping one and lifting it to his mouth when he gets the notification. The quiet ping is enough to make him pause with the scone midway to its destination.

Because the thing is, Spencer Reid doesn’t get a lot of emails. In fact, there are approximately ten people that even know his email address, and seven of them are currently in the same room as him. Spencer peers over the top of his monitor and scans the room. No one is doing anything indicative of having sent Spencer yet another prank email (thanks a lot, Luke), so he deems it safe and clicks on the email icon.

           As it boots up, Spencer takes a bite of his scone. The warm, sugary dough tastes like heaven in his mouth, once again proving to Spencer that the fifteen-minute walk there is more than worth his time. He’s mid-swallow when his inbox pops up on the screen, and when he sees the all too familiar name on the sender’s address, he inhales a sharp breath that leaves him choking on his pastry.

Mr. and Mrs. Charles Melville

Mr. and Mrs. Jonathan Sewell

Joyfully request the pleasure of your company at the marriage of their children

Cassidy and Mason

Saturday, the twenty-seventh of May

Two thousand nine-teen

           His choking fit garners the attention of every one of his colleagues, but Spencer can’t bring himself to care. All he can focus on is sucking in as much air as possible in between coughs. It doesn’t help that his oxygen deprived brain is currently reeling. Long suppressed memories are fighting their way to the surface, and now it’s not only his lungs that are engulfed in a searing heat, but his heart, too.

           Cassidy Sewell. A fiery, opinionated redhead that Spencer hasn’t thought of in nearly fifteen years. But Cassidy isn’t the reason that he feels like a knife has been thrust into his ribcage, nor is she the reason he is currently aspirating his scone. The basis of his distress is another woman entirely.

           Spencer eventually regains control of his windpipe and when he does, he rereads the email several times. It’s wonderful news - really, it is. And he’s happy for Cassidy. His memories of her are plentiful and he thinks back on them fondly. The only problem is that he knows wherever Cassidy is, you’ll be there, too.

           He really should just delete the email and go on about his business - that would be the smart thing to do. But Spencer’s never really been smart when it comes to you, so he does the worst thing possible and clicks on the ‘view recipients’ button.

           And sure enough, your name falls just above his on the list.

           Which brings up another issue entirely; why is he receiving this email? And, more importantly, do you know that he’s been invited? Spencer can only come up with two possible answers to that question, and both are equally heartbreaking. Either you know he’s been invited and you’re indifferent to the fact, or you haven’t a clue and his showing up would be entirely inappropriate.

           He briefly entertains the possibility of a third option; one in which you knew he’d received an invitation and were hopeful that he might show up. Spencer allows this possibility to live in his mind for approximately two seconds before he’s stomping it out and killing it. That’s just… unlikely.

           “Ooh! Who’s getting married?”

           Spencer quickly exits out of his email and spins around in his chair to find Penelope pouting her lip out at him.

           “No one. Just a spam email,” Spencer lies. His efforts are in vain, however, because Penelope fixes him with an unimpressed glare.

           “I’m going to save you and I both the trouble of me hacking into your computer and offer you the opportunity to try that again.”

           Spencer visibly deflates and mentally curses the creators of the interconnected computer networks. He weighs his options. He could be completely honest and be subjected Penelope’s endearing, yet suffocating enthusiasm, or he could skim a little bit off the top and hope she doesn’t pump him for information.

           Spencer decides on the latter.

           “An old friend.”

           Penelope narrows her eyes at him and he shrinks under her gaze. She might not be a profiler, but she damn sure could be.

           “Then why do you look like you’re about to hurl?”

           “No reason.”

           They’ve reached a stalemate, and Spencer isn’t quite sure what to do with that. Usually, if this were a chest match, Spencer would already have the upper hand. He’s not used to being backed into a corner. At first, Spencer’s sure that he can outlast Penelope’s inquisition, but the longer those seemingly omniscient eyes of hers bore into his own, he can feel his resolve crumbling into nothing. All it takes is her lifting one perfectly plucked eyebrow in challenge for him to break.

           “An ex-girlfriend of mine will be in attendance.”

           Spencer knows he’s fucked from the way Penelope’s entire face lights up upon hearing that little tidbit of information. In a flash Penelope’s dragging over an empty chair and seating herself directly in front of Spencer, eyes shining excitedly.

           “Tell me everything.”

           So, he does.

           And an hour later, Penelope is booking him a flight to Montana.

--

           “I cannot believe you did this to me,” you murmur into the receiver as you stare at your computer screen. Your eyes are zeroed in on the email, but all the words are blurring together into an intelligible mess. All except two.

           Spencer Reid

           “Correction; I did this for you,” Cassidy replies, sounding awfully pleased with herself. If you could see her, you were certain she’d be grinning ear to ear. “You can’t tell me that you’re not the least bit excited at the possibility of seeing him again.”

           “That is exactly what I’m telling you!” you groan as you throw your head against the back of your chair. “Fifteen years is a long time, Cass. I’ve moved on, and I’m sure he has, too. That door is closed.”

           Cassidy snorts, “Well open that sucker back up, because I just got an RSVP from one Doctor Spencer Reid who, and I quote, ‘cannot wait to see everyone.’ This RSVP came without a plus one, might I add.”

           You jolt up in your seat and instantly regret it when your stomach churns painfully as a result. Suddenly, your decision to place your waste basket on the opposite side of the room seems awfully ill advised. The only thing keeping you from lunging for it and expelling the contents of your stomach is the fact that he isn’t bringing anyone with him, which is… something.

           “He’s coming?” you squeak out. “Why would he do that?”

           Another laugh from Cassidy floats out through the speaker.

           “Well, I’d like to think he might be going to see one of his oldest and dearest friends get married, but I think we both know that this has nothing to do with me, and a whole lot to do with you.”

           You’re just about to open your mouth to protest when a head of long, blonde hair peeks through the crack of your door. You only know one man with a head of hair like that, and that man just so happens to be the only other person in your life that lives for taking the piss at your expense. You can’t help but think that you must’ve done something terrible in a past life to be subjected to all of this before noon on a Tuesday morning.

           You wave Damien in, because why the hell not? He’d be hearing about it over one or several bottles of wine this evening, anyways. What was one more spectator to the worst moment of your entire adult life?

           As he takes his seat in a chair in front of your desk, you flash him a tight smile and turn your attention back to Cassidy.

           “You’re reading way too much into this. He probably doesn’t even remember me.”

           “You know that boy does not forget anything,” Cassidy points out.

           Yeah, you think, and that’s what makes not hearing from him for fifteen years even worse. That means the radio silence was a choice.

           “Doesn’t matter. You need to uninvite him. I’m being so serious right now.”

           “I absolutely will not. That’d be terribly rude of me,” Cassidy sniffs. “And you obviously have no choice but to attend, Miss Maid of Honor, so consider this your warning. I was going to keep this a secret, but Mason said that would be cruel. So.”

           You want to argue that the entire thing is cruel, but Cassidy’s indifference to your plight leads you to believe that your protest would fall on deaf ears. To make matters worse, Damien looks positively delighted at the prospect of something exciting happening. He’s literally sitting on the edge of his seat, leaning forward in an attempt to hear Cassidy’s end of the conversation.

           You really needed to pick more sympathetic friends.

           “I’m going to hang up now, because I physically cannot handle being a part of this conversation any longer.”

           “That’s the spirit!” Cassidy trills. “Trust me, you’re going to thank me for this later. Oh, and do yourself a favor and Google search him. You will not be disappointed!”

           At that, the line goes dead. You don’t even have the chance to say something embarrassing like too late, I already do that like twice a year, which is probably a good thing.

           You slam down the phone and let your head fall into your hands, adding in a dramatic groan for good measure. Usually, you like to think you’re a little more level headed, but the Spencer Reid sized hole in your heart that you’d been trying to mend for the last decade and a half was just ripped wide open, so you figure you deserve a moment to panic.

           Damien, however, doesn’t share that same belief.

           “I get that you’re trying to have a moment, and I respect that, but you know how impatient I get and I haven’t seen you this upset since One Direction split up. Color me intrigued. What did dear Cassidy do to get your knickers in such a twist?”

           You lift your head and fix him with a withering look.

           “She invited Spencer.”

           That wipes the smile right off of Damien’s face.

           “Oh, fuck,” Damien swears. Finally, someone understands how extremely not okay this situation is. You let out another despairing groan. “What are the chances he’s actually going to show up?”

           You chuckle bitterly, “Pretty fucking high, if you consider the fact that he already RSVP’d any indication.” You push away from your desk and begin to pace around the room, all while fanning your shirt out because holy hell did it get hot in here, or is it just you? “I mean, I could always back out. It’s Cassidy’s fault anyways. It’s not like she could hold that against me. She’s the one who did this, after all.”

           “Oh, she most certainly would. And you’re not going to going to skip out on the wedding - quit being so dramatic.”

            You snap your head to where he sits and narrow your eyes at him.

           “Oh, I’m not? Who’s gonna stop me?” you challenge.

           You can practically see the light bulb go on inside that blonde head of his. Damien gives you a saccharine smile and claps his hands together.

           “I am. Because I’m going to go with you,” he announces excitedly. You’d think he just came up with a way to end world hunger from the pride that’s practically radiating off of him in waves. 

           You raise an eyebrow at him, “You’re going to come with me? To Montana? Have you ever even been outside of New York?”

            Damien shrugs his shoulders.

           “No, but that’s about to change. Plus, weddings are fun,” Damien pauses, before tacking on, “-bridesmaids are fun.”

           If he weren’t such a damn good friend, you’d throw him out of your office.

           His proposition was tempting. Being in close proximity with Spencer for almost an entire week was going to be harrowing as it was, but add to that the inevitable sight of Spencer in a suit and harrowing graduates to fucking excruciating. Having Damien in your corner to keep you sane was more of a necessity than a want.

           But still, you hesitate, because the idea of both Cassidy and Damien conspiring against you for an entire week sounds like the undiscovered tenth circle of hell.

           Damien apparently senses your apprehension. He lets out an exasperated sigh and pushes up from his seat, walking over to where you stand and placing his hands on your shoulders.

           “I solemnly swear to be on my best behavior. You have my permission to fire me if I act up, Boss Lady.”

           Your shoulders slump under the weight of his hands.

           “You know I can’t fire you,” you grumble, pouting out your lip for dramatic effect. “If I fire you, then I’m stuck with fucking Brenda. And I doubt she’d be as agreeable a drinking partner as you.”

           Damien lets out a loud laugh and pulls you into his arms. You melt into his embrace, sighing in resignation. Might as well bring him along for the ride. It’s not like the situation could get any worse than it already is, right?

           “Brenda is the worst,” Damien agrees as he places a kiss to the top of your head. After basking in his warm embrace for several moments, you pull away and run a hand through your hair.

           “Okay. Okay,” you murmur, more to yourself than to Damien. “I can do this. Worst comes to worst; I can just avoid him. Five days isn’t that long. I can do five days.”

           Damien leans up against your desk and nods in agreeance.

           “Exactly. Five days, in and out – no big deal,” he breezes. Like the absolute bastard he is, he waits until you’re taking a sip from your travel mug before continuing. “And who knows? Maybe the two of you will pick up where you left off and have some slutty wedding sex.”

           Now, there’s coffee all over your white blouse and Damien’s laughing obnoxiously at your expense.

           “You did not just quote One Tree Hill at me,” you choke out between ragged breaths.

           Damien doesn’t waver under the weight of your death glare.

           “I so did. Best show of our time, truly. Chase hit the nail on the head with that one. Weddings are always an absolute bone fest - trust me. Something about all the proclamations of love and eternal commitment gets everyone all hot and bothered.”

           “There will be no slutty wedding sex,” you mutter as you dab at the coffee stain.

           “There will be if I’m going,” Damien trills as he pushes off of your desk and saunters to the door. “Don’t rule it out, babe. No need to miss out on all the fun!”

           You roll your eyes and toss the wadded-up paper towel at him. Damien is quick to shut the door, resulting in the paper towel hitting it with a wet plop.

           Damien’s absence leaves the room uncomfortably silent, save for the sound of your heart nearly beating out of your chest. You hesitantly lift your eyes back to your computer screen, and as irrational as it is, you pray that you’ll see that something has changed in the past ten minutes. Unsurprisingly, his name is still there, just below your own.

           You silently curse the tiny twinge of excitement you feel from seeing his name and exit out of the email.

           Five days, in and out. No big deal.

-

-

-

taglist: @is-this-even-important @evelyncade @usuck​ @m0rce1ddd​ @bauhousewife​ @whxt-to-write​ @spencerwaltergubler​ @lovesicksofi​ @idgafayiowf​ @shadyladyperfection​ @mercy-burning​ @sapphic-prentiss​

[breanime]

Bre can I haz Coco Cruz plz 💞💗❣️ "Who did this?" "Why do you care?" "Can you forgive me?" Pretty plz with a cherry on top? Need some more of my loco Coco puff 😍🍰

“Loco Coco puff” LITERALLY made me lol. Amazing.

Your house was right on the border, just a few miles away from one of the main tunnels the Mayans used. Your family had worked with Alvarez for years, so when your parents moved back to Mexico and left you the property, you took over their partnership with the Mayans. It was a good deal, they provided you with protection and gave you a cut of their profits, and you let them dig holes under your land and use your place as a safe house. It was a win-win.

And you got to ride Coco like a fucking bucking bronco—which was a huge plus.

But you caught feelings—which was not a part of the plan.

Naturally, you tried to swallow them down, act like it wasn’t the highlight of your week when you got to see Coco, but it was hard. Especially since he only saw you as a warm body; convenient and accessible, but not essential to his life.

“I can’t always answer when you fucking call, you know?” Coco said, pulling on his pants. “I got shit to take care of, okay? I can’t be at your beck and call.”

“Who’s asking you to?” You asked back, covering your naked body with your blanket. “I’m just saying, it’s fucked up that you haven’t answered the last four times I’ve called, but you can show up out of nowhere like it’s no big deal.”

“That’s cause it ain’t,” he said back, shrugging into his shirt before throwing on his kutte as well, “What do you want me to say, Y/N? You ain’t my woman, I don’t answer to you.”

You bristled. He wasn’t wrong, but man… That stung. “I just thought…”

“Yeah, that’s your fucking problem,” he shot back, grabbing his keys, “you think too fucking much.” He walked out, slamming the door behind him. A few moments later, you heard the roar of his bike, and you knew he was gone.

Coco felt like a dick.

He knew he was being a dick when he stormed off like that, but usually he could brush the feeling off after a nice ride. But it didn’t go away. He knew he’d fuck things up with you sooner or later, he just hadn’t thought it would be so soon. Fuck.

He was fucking crazy about you.

You were smart, funny, loyal, beautiful—and the fact that you were interested in him blew his mind. So when Coco first had the chance to get you in bed, Coco took the fucking chance to get you in bed. He hadn’t thought he’d get another, but he did. And then it kind of became a thing… whenever the Mayans had business around your area, he’d stop by. And Coco could play it off—for a while—like he was just there to hook up and that was it, but the guys knew the truth: he wanted you—not just as this temporary fling, fun as it was, but he wanted you for real. And he knew he wasn’t good enough for you, so he did what he did best.

Lashed out and fucked up any slim chance he had of being with you.

It’d been two weeks since he’d spoken to you, and every night he checked his phone to see if you called or texted, and every night… you didn’t. Coco spent hours rereading your texts and looking at the picture he had of you. He’d taken it one night while you were asleep, you looked so beautiful, cuddled in his arms, he couldn’t help himself. And now he’d fucked it all up; classic him.

“Ay, Coco,” Angel popped his head in, interrupting Coco’s brooding, “We gotta go; there’s a problem in the desert.”

“There’s a problem in the desert?” Coco repeated, pocketing is phone. “What the hell are you talkin’ about, man?”

“Y/N was robbed.”

Coco was on his feet in a second, his heart racing. “What? When? Is she hurt? Who the fuck—”

“I don’t know, man, that’s why we gotta go,” Angel answered, “Come on!”

Coco was carrying three illegal weapons on him and was a convicted felon, but he broke every speeding law to get to you. Angel, Gilly, and EZ were riding with him, but he was leading the pack. His blood was boiling thinking of you being hurt, and the idea that someone—or someones—broke into your home and terrorized you… He should have been there. Or at the very least, it should have been clear to every lowlife, criminal derelict, and cartel peon that you were with Coco fucking Cruz, and therefore not to be fucked with. But it wasn’t—and that was on him.

When they pulled up to your place, Coco got off his bike without even turning it off. He heard the guys pull in after him, but he needed to get to you, needed to make sure you were okay. And if you weren’t—he was gonna raise hell.

As soon as he had his helmet off, Coco’s sniper eyes were picking up on the damage. Your front door was cracked, and the doorknob was missing. Someone had shot it off. The window was broken, and Coco could see glass on the floor inside. He didn’t bother knocking; he assumed you knew they were coming.

“Y/N—” he called.

He was greeted by the barrel of a shotgun.

Coco stopped, putting his hands up (it was a conditioned response). You were standing in front of him with a shotgun in your hands. “Fuck, Y/N, don’t shoot!” You sighed, putting the gun down, and that’s when Coco saw your eye. You had a black eye. He moved, his hand going to the side of your face, and he growled when you winced. When he spoke, Coco’s voice was low and slow. "Who did this?"

You scoffed. "Why do you care?" You batted his hand away, stepping back.

He blinked. “Wha—cause I—you—you’re my—”

“I’m your what?” You asked, leaning the gun on the wall, “I ain’t shit to you, Coco. You made that clear.”

“That’s… Fuck, Y/N… I…” Coco sighed. “I didn’t mean that, okay? I was being a dick, and I… I’m sorry.” He took a breath. “Please, mi dulce, just let me see your eye.”

You frowned but let Coco’s fingers brush against your eye and cheek.

He took another breath, trying to calm his building rage and channel it into focusing on you. “Who did this?” He asked again.

“Juan and his crew,” you answered with a shrug, your face still in his hands, “He took a bunch of shit, slapped me around a bit—”

“He’s fucking dead,” Coco promised, his blood running cold, “I’m gonna kill all of those bastards…”

You sighed, and Coco felt you relax against him. “I know you’re not… I know you don’t want to answer to anyone, and you think I think too much and read into things, and I promise, I’m not, I won’t, but…” You looked up at him, and your eyes looked so big and sad and scared, and Coco felt simultaneously murderous and guilty all at once. “Can you just hold me for a second-?”

Coco pulled you to him, wrapping his arms around you. This is where you belonged, and he fucking knew that. He always had. “I need you to listen,” he said, his voice muffled by your hair, “I know I don’t deserve it, but just… Hear me out. I’m a fucking dumbass.”

“I’m listening,” you deadpanned.

He chuckled, still holding you. “I was being a fucking pussy before, when I said you’re not my woman and all that shit… It was…” He pulled back, his dark eyes staring down at you. “I didn’t mean that shit. I want you—for real. And I should have said all this before this shit happened to you…” He cupped your face. “I should have been here. I should have protected you, hermosa. I never should have talked to you like that before, and I’m sorry.” He wanted to kiss you, but he wasn’t sure if he had your permission to yet.  "Can you forgive me?"

You nodded. “It’s not your fault that this happened, Coco.”

“No, I mean I’m sorry for everything—for what happened between us before and for this,” he clarified, “I know I ain’t shit, Y/N, and I don’t deserve you, but I—”

You shut him up with a kiss, and Coco sighed into your lips. He held you as close as he could, and as he kissed you, he vowed to himself to always hold you like this—no matter how scared he was. You deserved that, and he wanted to be the one to give it to you. You were both smiling when you pulled back. He opened his mouth to say something sweet to you—

—but was interrupted by thunderous applause and cheering.

You both turned to see Angel, EZ, and Gilly in the entry way, clapping as you embraced.

“Fucking finally,” Angel grinned.

“Taza owes me 30 bucks,” Gilly added.

“Riz owes me 20,” EZ said, nodding.

“The fuck, you assholes were taking bets?” Coco asked, his arms still wrapped around you.

“Hell yeah,” Angel answered, sauntering into the house and carelessly stepping on the broken glass, “We knew from the get that Y/N wanted a nice cup of hot Coco…”

“And clearly you’re an emotional wuss who’s all heart eyes for Y/N,” Gilly said.

You laughed, and while Coco flipped them off, he laughed too. The guys spent the rest of the evening cleaning up your place before the others met them out there, and before they hit the road to track down Juan and his guys, Coco kissed you.

“You know,” you said, smiling up at him, “I’m starting to think there might be some benefits to being your girl.”

“Oh, baby,” he grinned back, “There are. The occasional murder is one thing, but the orgasms,” he leaned in, his lips brushing over yours, “that’s where I really shine.”

You giggled, kissing him.

“Don’t buy that shit,” Angel called from his spot on his bike, “He’s much better at the murdering!”

“Implying that my boyfriend has given you an orgasm,” you deadpanned.

“Hey,” Coco flicked your nose, “watch your mouth.” He leaned down and kissed you again. “The Boy Scout’s gonna stay and make sure you’re safe, and I’ll be back in a few hours, okay?”

You nodded. “Be safe.”

Coco grinned back—there was still the tight coil of rage burning in his chest, but he was on his way to relieve it. Besides, he had you now, for real, and by the end of the night, every motherfucker on either side of the border would know:

You were Coco Cruz’s girl.

*******************************************************************************************

Thanks for reading! I felt like those prompts were PERFECT for Coco!

Everything Taglist: @encounterthepast @jigsawlover10 @gollyderek  @charlylama @realduckvader @teacuplotus @whovianayesha  @lexxierave @loveintheroyalfamily  @fanfictionrecommendations-com  @maxslime-blog @songforhema @lucielandss @themadhatter92  @christinawxxx @anabella-baby @blackcoffeeandgreenteaforme @luminex3 @ashkuuuu @luckysstrikes @carlaangel86 @floralpeaceofmind @dylanobrusso @iaintnofurry  @ymariejp @its-my-little-dumpster-fire @mrsjaxtellerfan @holamor @drinix @rhabakoli @stories-you-wont-hear @king4thesirens @leahnicole1219 @evanlys19  @binbons-is-theloml @aikeia @bitch-imma-head-out​  @witchygagirl @geeksareunique @sparrows-books

Coco Cruz Taglist: @nyxxnoxx

[sebbytrash]

Through His Eyes - Part Fourteen

Summary - Bucky arrives at the compound to start afresh but you and him have a somewhat colorful past, colorful being that you met him once before as The Winter Soldier and it did not go well. New beginnings, yeah? If you can learn to forgive.

Pairing - Bucky x Reader

Warnings - Not much, a little angst, a little implied sexual content 

A/N -  OK here it is, finally managing to squeeze a little writing in whilst the baby is sleeping! I hope this is still something you guys enjoy, love you all so much for sticking with this one for the last (2) years!! 

Through His Eyes Masterlist

You wake--not suddenly, but softly--wake to the morning glow glancing across the room in that gentle, pleasing way it does when you are actually rested. It takes only a few blinks for you to remember where you are, and a few seconds more to realise the implications. To realise that you are still in Bucky’s room, still tucked up beside him in his bed, his feet tangled with yours under those shared covers. You can feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek where he is turned towards you and you close your eyes again. With a sigh, you take a few small moments where nothing but this exists between you, the heat of his fingertips pressing gently against your ribs. 

You breathe him in, long and deep like it's for the last time, and peel your eyes open again. He’s exactly where you left him, sleeping soundly in a way you are convinced he hasn’t in a while, the lines around his eyes the softest you’ve ever seen them. It takes all of your willpower not to smooth your fingers against them just to see what it might feel like to have the freedom for that touch. It aches. 

You untangle yourself from him, using every bit of gentleness you possess not to wake him, and begin the process of locating your clothes and dressing. It’s then that the very real consequences of last night begin to seep into your mind, a virulent fog. How do you come back from this? Is it even possible? Do you even want to? You squash that before it takes root. A sudden, more terrifying thought takes root in its place: Did Bucky even want what happened, to happen? Was it just some messed up guilt-driven way to make up for his past? The contents of your stomach give a lurch and threaten to break free. You leave without waking him, but when you give one last glance before you walk out the door, you see the way his sleeping form has turned stiff and the crinkles in his eyes are a little tighter. He’s awake, and he's letting you leave like the coward you are. 

You ache all over. 

Belatedly, you realise that you're feeling more refreshed and rested than you have in a very long time. Somehow, he is the remedy and also the cause. 

Back in your room, you spend more time under the hot spray of the shower than usual, catch yourself smiling at the pleasant ache over your body and give your brain a little shake. It’s startling how easy it is to get caught up in your thoughts of last night, of him, of how many times you wash your hair before your fingers start to twinge. As you leave the bathroom, you catch your reflection in the mirror, the shine in your eyes evident as though they absorbed it from the room directly. The whites never looked so white. You hate those eyes more than the usual dull, empty ones. At least they were familiar, deserved. 

The cup feels off-balance, like it pulls on your thumb the wrong way or has a crack you haven't noticed, and the coffee inside tastes like liquid guilt. Funny how comfortable you’d gotten sharing your mornings with Bucky, how out of sync you feel with yourself, now. Sitting here alone, your shoulders hunched and protective, guarding the secrets your eyes want to spill. You feel like a painting of yourself, like someone put you down on canvas but didn’t quite capture the essence, or that your edges were blurry and they drew them in with a sharpie. 

“You good?” Sam asks when he appears in the kitchen a little later, flopping down beside you, too much shoulder to be graceful. 

“Huh? Oh, yeah, yep. I’m right as rain.” You hope you don’t sound the way you feel. Caught between the real and the familiar. 

“You sure? You’re usually already knee-deep in a book with your long-haired pain pal by now. Did something happen?” He tries to sound casual, but his eyes are anything but. 

“What? No, no, of course not.” Did you sound flustered? You probably sounded flustered. “Just having some me time, that’s all.” 

“As long as you’re sure.” Always a gem, that Sam. What a bestie to have. 

“I’m sure Sam, I promise. I’m not slipping.” You give him a sad sort of smile, sad that he has to check, the smile because he always does.

“Oh, I knew that.”

“You did?”

“Sure. You’ve got concrete legs these days, steadiest I’ve ever seen you.” That’s what does it, pours that spoken concrete down your spine to force away the curve. Unending faith. The smile near splits your face in two. 

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Bucky says as he sits down next to you, close enough to keep your conversation soft, close enough to feel the heat of his arm drift across your skin. 

“Maybe a little,” you admit, tucking your chin a little even as you attempt a smile. He nods but still doesn’t turn to look at you and for that you are glad. It gives you a few more seconds to arrange your expression into something normal. 

“You don’t have to do that, you know. Hide from me.” He looks at you now, with the same face and the same sharp lines, his mouth still hangs on his face like a question, his eyes still answer in a language you didn't know, and yet, he looks different. He holds himself differently, or looks at you differently, it’s hard to separate him alone and him with you. “You can tell me if you, um, regret it?” 

“I do,” you answer honestly, and then clarify unhelpfully, “and I don’t.” 

“Oh?” he says simply, pushes his tongue under his top lip. “Don’t suppose you could clarify that for me?” 

How do you explain, when you barely know yourself? He deserves as much, you suppose, probably more.

“I wondered, maybe, if I’d been a bit...forceful,” you admit, hesitant to say it and to also know the answer because you suspect that his face would show the truth regardless. 

His mouth goes slack and you are prepared to swallow whatever pride you might have left and beg forgiveness when he leans forward a little. “If you're asking if I wanted it, Y/N, I did. Want you.” 

You forget what answer you wanted, forget to look away from his eyes that reflect an ocean under siege, one that might reach out and pull you from your seat to drown in their depths. You forget to breathe for just enough seconds to notice. This feeling is so foreign to you, this inability to control your reactions, your emotions. The past and present are now so inexplicably tangled you can no longer see the sky. 

You experience them all. Every emotion humans are capable of barrels through you in the span of a second and a lifetime. It feels too much, too many things all wrapped up together for anything sensible to happen. You think back to Sam’s warning, long past messy and into something edged with chaos. 

“But we should, you know, stay friends,” you say finally, carefully looking at the one freckle above his eyebrow.

“Sure,” he says carefully. “If that’s what you want.” 

“It is,” you say, firmly--like standing in sand--and answer his smile with one of your own. 

There’s something about that smile he gives you, like he has too many teeth or they are suddenly razor sharp. There’s an edge you’ve never seen, or he’s never shown you. Somehow, despite the way it's ended, you can't help but feel you've unwittingly entered a challenge. 

You read and reread the same sentence of your book a few times, eyes straining to make sense of the letters as they merge together and it’s only then that you realise day has turned into night long ago. You’re sitting alone; everyone else has no doubt gone to bed back when it was appropriate to do so. There’s a full cup of cold coffee in front of you that you know you didn’t make, and you smother the smile when you realise who likely did. 

Bucky had left a few hours ago, summoned by Fury, and so you assume he’s out on a mission, Sam trailing reluctantly behind him. You’re startled at the sight of him entering the kitchen, the swift downing of a beer from the fridge doing nothing to ease the tenseness of his shoulders. You stand, bones creaking in protest at the lack of use and carry that cold mug over to him.

“I assume this was your doing?” you say softly and watch him jump a little anyway. He was so lost in his thoughts that he never even scanned the room in that compulsive way he does. He doesn’t answer, just swallows a few times like he's swallowing the words themselves. “Bucky, what’s wrong?” 

He sighs, finally, runs a hand down his face and lets his fingers catch on his skin. “I just… sometimes I really fucking hate holding a gun.” His shoulders sag, every ounce of muscle used to hold it in and hold it together now dissipates at the admission, like the secret was made of bone and without it, he’s just liquid. 

Just when you think he can’t unmake you any further, he does it again. One sentence, one look and you are grieving for the man he should be: the one without the ghosts and unending pain. 

You unburden him the only way you know how, by stepping up close and pressing your lips to his with a gentleness you shouldn’t possess anymore. He looks at you once, a fire inside those ocean eyes and kisses you back, just as gently. And then, not. 

He kisses you again, and again, and you wonder if he can taste the salt on your lips the way you can taste it on his.

TAGS:  @manawhaat​ @theashhole @captainrogerss @higherfurtherfasterbby  @peculiar-persephone  @captain-rogers-beard @chrisevansnco @howlingbarnes @poealsobucky @samingtonwilson @vintagevalentinexx @abovethesmokestacks @imhereforbvcky @avengerofyourheart  @carriefish-er @stormy-thomas @danijimenezv   @angelicthor   @betheboo55 @palaiasaurus64 @raxacoricofallapatoriuspotter @johnmurphys-sass @katbird787    @sexyvixen7 @jobean12-blog​  @justreadingfics @justareader @smoothdogsgirl @theliarone @aikibriarrose​ @timeladylaurel @badassbakers​ @earinafae​ @crushed-pink-petals-writes​ @tardis-is-mine​ @httpmcrvel​ @bucky2-0​ @mocking-rain​ @sociallyimpairedme​ @jezzula​ @bless-my-demons​ @ign-is​ @indominusregina​ @-supernatural-coffee-llama​ @alwayshave-faith​ @itsonlysarah​ @superwholocknda @shifutheshihtzu​ @mizzzpink​ @yknott81​ @haven-in-writing​ @xtina2191​ @reniescarlett​ @notsoprettykitty​ @wickedwerewolf​ @ayeputita​ @tori-medusa-belongs-to-bucky​  @tatalopes23​ @pineapplebooboo​ @mizzezm​ @thefridgeismybestie​ @memory-of-a-goldfish​ @supernatural-girl97​ @standing-onthe-edge​ @ruinerofcheese​ @rosescentedblood @mysweetcookie99​

[scone-lover]

@findingniamho​

HAHAHAHA thank you so much for this ask!!! ❤️ This is exciting. Honestly the Egghead fight was one of the most entertaining scenes to write. (Coming up with all the puns was an egg-celent time.) Rereading it just now was like an out of body experience 😂 

Link to the original chapter here - passage & commentary below the cut!

So I have to start with how this scene was born. This is a Simon scene. He’s had a couple fight scenes with Vampire, but I wanted to show him off as the superhero of the city. What was he doing before Vampire appeared on the scene? What are his strengths and weaknesses? Despite the scene’s silliness, it’s also one of the first where we start to get a sense of what Mayor Mage is up to. 

So I knew I wanted him to do the typical defending-the-city thing, and showcase him and Penny as the dread companions power duo.

Besides the plot stuff, my main goal was to make this scene as ridiculously, stereotypically comic book-ish as possible. 😂Hence, Egghead the Villain.

Most of the credit for Egghead goes to my friend -- they’re really into DC and helped me with a lot of the plot stuff in this fic and making things semi-realistic. (Every time you read a clever plot point, it was probably them. 😂) For this non-Vampire fight, my friend suggested a gangster who was doing crimes and bribing the police. Hence this exchange--

“Okay, okay, um-- fuck. Did you call the police?” She huffs. “Yes, and I think they’ve been fucking bribed, because they pretended they didn’t even know who Egghead was! Can you believe that?”

I made him a repeat villain because honestly, I just thought it was more compelling that way. They know who he is already, Simon can grumble about him, they have egg-themed quips at the ready, etc. 😂 

As for the name, Egghead. I love how it came together because Simon is a baker, and I was able to work a couple baking jokes in there eventually. But in reality, it was me begging my superhero expert friend (named t below) to help me out with crafting this villain and coming up with some witty exchanges. A transcript of our conversation with the brainstorming and some of the rejects--

t: the gangster has a nickname right? he has to if he’s a supervillain t: make it a gimmick t: like if he has a red outfit call him mr. red or something t: he has a flamethrower and call him dragon (this made it in, later) me: Vampire already has a flamethrower t: they can be forced to fight him together me: Vampire is at home studying bc he’s a NERD t: ok he can be bald and simon can call him egghead me: THANKS I HATE IT t: simon throws him on the ground at the end of the fight - that was over-easy me: I hate you where do you get this shit t: I mean it’s typical superhero stuff t: he wears yellow and white and deals crack me: This fic is so food themed I love it t: that’s your villain. that’s it. t: listen, if the Flash can have an ice skating villain, YOU CAN HAVE EGGHEAD. And he was born.

(And yes, The Flash does have an ice skating villain. AND SHE DOESN’T EVEN HAVE ICE POWERS.)

Okay, let’s do this! Warning that this is definitely going to go through more than 500 words of the chapter. 😂 

Men dressed in black suits with bright yellow pocket squares. And larger men around the perimeter, wearing grey and holding flashlights. It looks more like a business transaction than anything; there are briefcases and money being passed back and forth, hands being shaken. “Hey!” I call. There are six men, and they all turn to stare at me, and then make a run for it. The flashlight beams dart wildly and I hear a few of them clatter to the floor. Everyone starts yelling at once and looking for an escape.

I basically watched an episode of Brooklyn-99 and crafted the warehouse drug deal based on that. 

“Don’t move. There’s only one exit,” Penny says in my ear. “And you’re standing in front of it.” I stand my ground, but no one comes near me. The suited guys stay slightly behind the muscular ones. Finally, one of them steps forward. “Mage’s Head Boy. Come to tell us off?”

This scene was also an opportunity to have Penny in Simon’s ear! I wanted them to work together more closely than just talking about superhero stuff - I wanted Penny to be invaluable to Simon’s superhero success and in on the action, too. She’s kind of modeled after Oracle from Batman throughout this fic. 

Mage’s Head Boy is a pretty transparent CO reference. 

There are times when I’m grateful for my ability to just have muscles and growl at people and make them disappear, and there are times when I wish I was witty like Vampire. This is definitely the second. I can’t think of a response to that. Luckily, I have a best friend with a head full of wit. “Tell them to fuck off,” Penny says. Then again, maybe not. What would Vampire say? I get hot and frustrated in the face of danger. He seems to get cooler the higher the stakes get. I fall into a fighting stance. “You wish.” The guy takes a step backwards. “But since I can’t bring you to the police, I suppose I’ll just have to teach you a lesson.” “That was good,” Penny says in my ear.

I obviously had to work a bit of Baz jealousy / crushing into this. I like the idea of Penny being super blunt. She’s smart and sometimes witty, but more often she just says it like it is. “Cooler the higher the stakes get” was a direct reference to the similar line in Carry On. With Simon’s last line - this scene was all about showcasing him as a “typical” superhero that you’d find in a comic, fighting a classic comic book villain. So I gave him one of those cheesy lines.

I’m surrounded. There must be fifteen or twenty of them. Eight huge muscular guys, and the rest in suits. They form a loose circle around me. Almost all of them wield knives, but I don’t see any guns so far.

I knew from the outset I wanted this to be a one-against-many fight. At this point in the story I’d set up a good dynamic for Blade vs Vampire, but not so much Blade vs. other city threats. What makes him a trustworthy hero? Simon’s origin story is that he got news attention by fighting off a group - so putting him in this group fight setting was a chance for him to shine.

A man steps out from the shadows. He’s bald, with a straight, dark mustache, and he’s wearing a pristine white suit and a shirt the colour of an egg yolk. “Egghead,” I say in what I hope is a threatening tone. The name sounds absurd. I’m glad the mask covers my mouth, because I don’t think I can keep a straight face. Penny coughs. Benedict Eggerton, better known as Egghead, is a drug lord who wears yellow and deals… crack. (I know.) (He got into crime early; his parents were poachers.) (Okay, I made that one up. I can’t help it.) I put him in jail earlier this year, but he escaped and fled north.

I was laughing so hard while writing this. You can see in the text exchange above where the suit and nickname came from. I was trying to come up with what his first name might be (my first idea was Sunny). I was so amused when I finally thought of Benedict. 😂 The poachers line is also from my friend T, and the “north” is a reference to Scotland, which comes back later as the Scotch Egg joke.

I draw my weapon, trying to look as menacing as possible. “I remember your blade being bigger,” he says, eyeing my kitchen knife. “Is it too cold for you in here?”

PFFFFFT I LOVE THIS JOKE okay so. I originally made Simon forget his sword because I thought the fight would be too easy - and going back to what I said above, he’s kind of returning to his “roots” with this fight - that spark he has that makes him a hero. And then I wrote the line “I remember your blade being bigger.” TO BE CLEAR, this was not originally intended as an innuendo. 

And then my friend said something like ‘he should turn up the heating in this warehouse then’, and I was like OH DING DING DING PENIS JOKE! 😂I’m oblivious sometimes. I’m glad I realized in time because this is honestly one of my favorite villain lines I’ve ever written.

I really, really wanted to give the “too cold” line to Vampire. It would be perfect for him. But Simon always has his normal sword with Vamp, so Egghead it was. And he instantly became an icon. 😂 

I twirl the knife between my fingers. “I can crack you anyway.” “Good effort,” Penny whispers. “But a bit rough on the delivery. 'Take a crack at you' might have been better...” “Sword or no sword,” I continue, “you’ll be an egg wash by the end of this.” “What?” Penny says. “Is that a baking reference?” Egghead cracks his knuckles, and his men rush me.

Much like Penny does later in the scene, I had a tab open of egg-related words up while writing this. I had to work in the baking reference. But a terrible one. There’s a French term for whisking eggs that basically translates to “beating eggs into snow” - and I wish it was a thing in English, because, you know, Simon Snow. Oh well. 😂 

I Google a list of ways to make eggs. Simon needs to win this fight, but more importantly, he needs to get some egg-themed one-liners in there to show them who’s boss. Chances like this don’t come around very often. 

Listen, Penny is very dedicated. I love the idea of heroes just being quick-witted and coming up with these ridiculous quips on demand. But ultimately, I thought it was funnier - and more in character for Penny - to do this. (Even though her Superhero name is Quickwit, oops.) She has the world of Google at her disposal. Egg puns may not seem important, but superhero image and reputation is half the battle.

Simon is being attacked from all angles, but he fights like a whirlwind. The bulky guys attack first, mostly with their fists. Simon kicks their legs out from under them. He throws them across the floor like they weigh nothing. “Behind you!” I say. Simon spins around and disarms the man behind him, twisting his arm, and I hear a shout through my earbuds. He grabs the guy’s knife and kicks him in the stomach, sending him sprawling. Simon Snow faces fifteen men with nothing but two knives, looking like he’s ready to explode.

I loved writing this from Penny’s POV. I am used to writing fight scenes from the POV of the person fighting, so this was definitely a cool challenge. It’s part of why I brought Penny into the scene in the first place - so I could show Simon in third person. Almost like we’re watching a movie and getting some overhead shots. From his POV, you don’t realize quite how awesome he is. So getting to showcase him like this was really fun.

I still have to wonder how Shepard knew… well, everything. 

Don’t tell anyone but I didn’t know yet either

“He’s Scottish,” I tell Simon. “Scotch Egg.”

I know. This one’s bad.

He’s a blur of gold and white in motion. He throws his knife—I have no idea where he learned to do that—and it embeds itself in one of the men’s legs. He rolls across the floor, picking up two more discarded knives.

I don’t do a ton of plotting/outlining with fight scenes, but one thing I decide in advance is where and how everyone gets hurt. I didn’t want Simon to win the fight too easily, but I did need to injure him somehow. So it wouldn’t be too easy, but also to serve as a counterpoint to the socks thing later.

I watched a lot of action sequences to write this fic, especially with the trickier one vs. many scenes. 

Simon tosses him like a sack of flour.

Couldn’t resist the baker!Simon reference.

“Hard or soft boiled,” I whisper. “Which way is it gonna be, Egghead? Hard or soft boiled?” Simon shouts. He whispers to me, “That was stupid.” Egghead raises an eyebrow. “Last chance to leave us alone, Blade.” I consult my list of egg dishes. “Give up before you get scrambled.” Simon twirls his blades. I love it when he does that; he looks like Deadpool. “It’s your last chance to surrender before you get scrambled.”

I loved the hard or soft boiled line at first. And then I wrote it down and said it out loud, just to check, and it sounded SO DUMB. 😂I almost took it out, but then figured—Simon is probably not going to think this through, either.

Maybe the Deadpool line was a bit on the nose here, but I wanted to give readers some really vivid imagery of what Simon looks like right now with these dual wicked blades kitchen knives.

“I prefer my eggs… poached,” he says. 

Even though Egghead has turned out to be quite a serious villain—there are guns, drugs, and a backstory—he is, after all, original master of the egg puns. He would never turn down this opportunity.

Egghead scrambles (ha) to his feet

I think Penny is just me in this.

“Over-easy,” I whisper.

“That was over-easy,” he says.

Not my best. But it had to be in there.

I’ll skip the serious bits, since the plot there is pretty self-explanatory, to this:

I wish he’d asked what we serve, because I have so many egg puns at the ready. Eggs-ecution. Hash-ing out justice. Karma served hard.  

My beta ashspren gave me this line, and I could not be more grateful. Imagine the chapter without this. It would be a shame.

Here are a few egg puns that didn’t make the cut, SADLY:

You're washed out, egghead

*Egghead gets angry* hey, it was just a yolk

I had to go "beat" some eggs

*uppercut* Sunny side UP!

I'll bash in your Eggnoggin’

Some people are just bad eggs

Sorry this is so long—this has been a purely self-indulgent experience. Thanks so much for this ask, I really enjoyed writing this and I hope you like it! ❤️ 

[hanalwayssolo]

Somewhere Between The Music and Lyrics: Ch. 2 - End

A/N: Songs featured for this last half are: Jordan Rakei’s Eye to Eye, Justin Timberlake’s Say Something, Tori Kelly’s I Was Made For Loving You.

Tagging pals! @blindedstarlight @raspberryandechinacea @gowithme @valkyrieofardyn @emmydots @hanatsuki89 @noboomoon @lazarustrashpit @animakupo @mp938368 @boo-dangy @bleucommelhiver

(Links in AO3) Alternate Universes in Which You and I Belong Together: Noctis | Gladio | Prompto | Ignis | Nyx | Cor | Ravus | Ardyn

The primly cultivated front garden and the violet bougainvillea that crept up the walls of the house before you looks nothing like a recording studio. At least, that’s what you have assumed from all the films you’ve watched, anyway. You reread the address on your phone: 1130 Citadel Road. As far as your adequate knowledge of Downtown Insomnia is concerned—plus the guidance of Moogle Maps—you’re certainly in the right street. The numbers 1130 plastered by the metal railing clearly says you’re in the right lot, too. The only thing keeping you now from ringing the doorbell is the anxiety churning in your stomach like a raging sea. Overhead, a security camera is watching your every awkward move.

Maybe it’s not yet too late to turn back, you think.

And as soon as the thought leaves you, you hear the sound of your own voice belting out from a passing car, its windows rolled down and its speakers all the way up for the entire neighbourhood to hear.

Your fingers tighten around your phone. This is the fourth time you’ve heard yourself on someone else’s radio, and it is bloody jarring to say the least.

A part of you is still reeling in from everything that has happened ever since that video got out. Who would’ve thought that the band you admired from the comfort of your earphones would suddenly appear right outside your doorstep? And have you lost your mind that you agreed to collaborate on a song with a band as popular as The Lost Boys? You still wonder how on earth they can consider someone like you after one fucking cover when, in fact, you have no formal training in music in the first place. Besides, you have already been perfectly honest with them—with Prompto, most especially, since he had been the one most eager to know more about you—regarding your background and what you do for a living. Which, frankly, had been a tricky discussion since you’re not that fond of talking about yourself without the hint of self-deprecation. But you did manage. As succinctly as you could, you told the boys that you’re simply a bumbling corporate slave by day and a struggling songwriter by night, with hopes of consistently paying your share on rent and amenities with your pesky Internet-famous friends.

Maybe this is all a mistake, you think this time.

You glance at your phone again to check the time. Or rather, you’re hoping to see a message that they have cancelled the deal. But there’s nothing on your lock screen from any of The Lost Boys except the time that beams four-thirty p.m., a couple of unopened messages from Nyx (“u go blow their minds away but call me as soon as they fuck shit up” the initial sentence says, then followed by three eggplant emojis), Libertus (“drop by @ ostium’s tonight & we’ll celebrate!”) and a missed call from Pelna. Even with your friends’ show of support, you feel like you’re still dreaming. But what if this is really just a dream? What if right now, you’re actually still—

A low voice sneaks up behind you. “Can I help you?”

Startled out of your wits, you turn around and you find a tall man in a gray coat, eyeing you with great concern. He’s carrying a bag of groceries on one arm and a handful of books on the other. There’s something awfully familiar about his stern face, his silver-shaved head and magnetic blue eyes, that you cannot quite put a finger on it yet.

“I, uh—” you hesitate for a moment, scratching your cheek— “I don’t know if I’m in the right place, but would you know if there’s a recording studio nearby?”

“You’re actually standing in front of one.” The man flashes you an amiable smile. Your cheeks begin to burn red. Then, he says, “Wait, are you here for Prompto and the boys? I heard they’re expecting someone coming over.”

You nod. “Well… yes.”

“Perfect.” He jerks his head towards the gate. “I was just about to head inside myself. Please, come in.”

The man ushers you along the gravelly path, up the staircase, and into the blue door. Inside, you are welcomed by the sight of a lovely foyer, its pristine white walls tastefully decorated with framed photos and vinyl albums. A sharp aroma of black coffee wafts through the air. It is impossibly cold.

As the man carefully unloads his things on the center table, he tells you, “They should be in the booth right now. Follow me.”

You trail behind the man down the narrow carpeted hallway. You look around and you see more framed records hanging on the wall. You recognize some of it, and it’s like taking a stroll along an impressive hall of legends: The Beatles, Jackson 5, Joy Division, Nirvana, James Brown, Jimi Hendrix, and a few other names that you’re certain have made it in the Billboard charts. But you notice that most of the photos on a couple of shelves are that of the five-man band The Regalia, and you remember how your mother used to play their songs on the your old stereo, all because she could not get enough of Clarus’s vocals and...

The realization hits you like a speeding freight train.

“Holy fuck.”

The crispness of your words echoes throughout the corridor that the man turns around to look at you with a confused smile on his face. “Is something the matter?”

“I’m sorry. I, um… you’re...” You sigh, trying to quell your utter disbelief. Gods, how could you have been so blind? “You’re… Clarus Amicitia.”

His smile turns into an amused grin. “I am, indeed. At your humble service.” He regards you with a brief nod. “And you’re the fellow with the lovely voice.”

Your heart leaps into your throat. Gods. Did the Clarus Amicitia—living legend of the Insomnian local music scene—just call your voice lovely?

This is too much for you to handle in one day.

“Uh, well, I—um, thank you. Sir.” You smile at him, but you lower your eyes on your shoes, realizing that your words of gratitude came out in a torment. If Clarus had noticed it, he was kind enough to pretend that he didn’t.

“No need to call me sir—Clarus is fine.” He smiles again right back at you. You’re quite certain that your mother would fucking flip if she finds out about this.

As Clarus leads you to the last door at the far end of the corridor, you can already hear an indistinct melody and the swell of the bass vibrating from the room.

“Here we are,” he says, opening the door. “After you.”

Entering the studio oddly feels like stepping into a different dimension. From the homely elegance of the hallways, the whole room is an air-conditioned sanctuary of hardwood floors and neatly-arranged equipment: massive speakers, rack systems, audio mixers and soundboards, and a bunch of other controls you can hardly name. A pair of acoustic guitars are tidily displayed beside a black couch. Here, strangely enough, the air is thicker with the scent of coffee.

And here, behind the glass panel and amidst all the polish is The Lost Boys, oozing a velvety riff and a soulful tune, steered by a flawless voice that belongs to none other than Prompto.

It’s the birth of a star Earlier than sunset It’s the galaxy’s water Flowing like a riverbed

You hold your breath, immediately drawn to Prompto’s honeyed melodies and the guilt of poetry in the lyrics. Of all the times you have listened to their music, you immediately notice how the rhythm departs from their signature sound. Then again, they have been known to take risks, may it be in their own songs or otherwise.

This, you realize, is their true magic. The minutes seem to have stopped ticking. Behind you, even Clarus has fallen silent.

Yes they shine bright like a million Let them bleed twice for a minute Pleasure to have met you You’re my star tonight—

The music stutters into a halt when Prompto’s gaze falls on you, his eyes meeting yours. A bright grin spreads all over his face, and he waves a hand at you, beckoning you to join them.

Clarus waves back at the boys, and rests a hand on your shoulder. “Make yourself at home. Don’t be afraid to let me know if these grown ass men cause any trouble for you. My son, most especially,” he says cheekily. “And might I just say—“ he folds his arms over his chest, his voice now employing a pensive tone— “I’ve had the pleasure of listening to your rendition of Prompto’s song. All these years, and my ears have not failed me. I know a good singer when I hear one.”

A rush of heat rises to your cheeks. “You’re far too kind to me,” you say, unable to help the smile that tugs the corners of your mouth. You spare one look and nod at Clarus as he leaves, while you awkwardly make your way inside the booth.

As soon as you step inside, Prompto greets you with a warm hug.

“Glad you made it!” he says as he pulls away. You actively ignore how good his cologne smells, or whatever scent he is wearing. “I was starting to think you changed your mind.”

“No. Actually… well, I thought about not coming here,” you admit sheepishly. “I got really nervous.”

“Hey, don’t be!” Prompto says brightly in reassurance, looping an arm around you. Okay, he really does smell nice that you can actually forgive his lack of consideration for personal space.

“And you have nothing to be nervous about,” Noctis adds, fiddling with the strap of his bass guitar.

“Did my old man scare you on your way here?” Gladio asks from behind the drums.

“Oh, no. Not at all.” A lie, kind of. But Gladio looks like he’s buying it. To be fair, Clarus didn’t exactly scare you, though scare is synonymous to intimidate—because who wouldn’t be intimidated in the presence of Clarus fucking Amicitia? “Though he did say I should be careful of you,” you say truthfully.

Prompto and Noctis erupt in a gale of laughter. Even Ignis is amused. Gladio shakes his head and with an apologetic smile, he tells you, “Please don’t mind my dad. I promise, I’m completely harmless—”

“I think your father is less concerned with your inclination to violence and more on your inclination to romancing… well, anything that moves,” Ignis chides as he returns his electric guitar on a stand, taking a seat next to the speakers.

Prompto unloops his arm around you and rests it on your shoulder as he says, “Don’t worry about this monster—I got you." At that, you feel like your heart skipped a beat. You could only wish that you're not blushing like a fool. "Though best believe he’d flirt with a lamp post if you dress it right.”

Gladio quickly shoots Prompto a threatening glare, and then he smiles at you. “Please don’t believe them.”

“I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try, I guess?” You laugh, and they do, too. It’s bizarre how being around them reminds you of being around your circle of friends. You shift on your feet a little, hesitant to the comfort of their company. Then, turning to Prompto, you gingerly ask, “Um, by the way. Were you guys recording a new song earlier?”

“Oh, that?” Prompto gives you a sheepish smile. “Not really—we’re just experimenting on some of the lyrics I wrote.” His eyes widen. “Speaking of, not to put you on the spot but—” Prompto dashes to take a mic stand and sets in front of you— “I was thinking this might help you ease into… all of this.”

You glance at Noctis, Gladio, and Ignis, all three of them looking at you expectantly. You narrow your eyes at Prompto. “Are you… trying to make me sing?”

He tilts his head. “Um, yeah. What else?”

“Really? Like right now?”

“Yes, like right now.” Prompto is grinning at you. First, he smells nice and now he’s being painfully charming. “Name any song. We’d play it with you.”

You cross your arms over your chest. “Any song? Seriously?”

“Yup.” Prompto laughs. “Why, you doubt we can’t play something mainstream like Rihanna? Or Queen Bey, even?”

“No, it’s not that—alright, then.” You chew on your bottom lip, and heave a long, shuddery sigh. Static rings from the microphone. You look around and out of the corner of your eye, you spot a spare guitar—in an instant you know it’s a Les Paul, gods bless your poor ass soul—sitting beside a Steinway piano. To Prompto, you say, “Can I borrow that guitar?”

He nods. “Yeah, sure.”

You take the blessed thing, equipping it as carefully as you can. You’re finding it hard to concentrate when all eyes are glued on you. Prompto, most especially. You draw a deep breath, and release your inhibitions in a loud exhale.

Then comes the crisp strum of your fingertips against the chords. The steady pace and pulse. You catch a glimpse of Prompto smiling at you, and that unmistakeable glint of recognition in his eyes. He knows the song. The rest of the boys know it, too. And as if by some form of telepathy, Gladio prepares the percussions. Ignis tunes his guitar, Noctis readies his bass. Prompto picks up another guitar to accompany you as you sing.

Everyone knows All about my direction And in my heart somewhere I wanna go there

It’s almost frightening how easily you slip into their dynamic, as if you have been a part of them for as long as can remember. You can feel yourself slowly relax, the nerves leaving your body and aptly replaced by the swelling notes. The cadence intensifies. It is when Prompto sings along with you that a jolt of electricity runs down your spine.

Everyone knows all about my transgressions Still in my heart somewhere There’s melody and harmony For you and me tonight

This, you realize, is a different kind of sorcery. His voice blends with yours so perfectly that you see Noctis and Gladio exchange wide-eyed glances. Prompto’s eyes locks on yours, and he flashes you that charming smile of his.

And all you can think to yourself is: Where have you been all my life?

Prompto knows that this was supposed to be a temporary arrangement. Still, he finds himself stealing away most of your days.

Not in a bad way, of course. After your first session with the band, he had insisted to accompany you home—quite a long walk, sure, but you said you were fond of walking and he wanted to spend more time with you—which somehow ended up with the both of you hanging out in your couch, exchanging playlists and punch lines and feasting on your Kenny Crow’s leftovers. Thankfully, your roommates didn’t seem to mind him being around the apartment, though he could not help but notice how they would purposely stay longer by the kitchen counter across the living room just to keep a watchful eye on you. Prompto found it equal parts endearing and frightening, but he really could not blame them. If he had someone like you, he would probably do the same thing.

Every second with you, he'd always find himself wanting another. So he treasures each day with you as it drifts onto the next, and all the nights that come along with it. With the limited time you spend with him in the studio writing and making music, he would make it a point to always walk you back to your place, if this is what it takes to be with you a little while longer. If he had to admit, apart from your insane talent, he adores your smile, and how it crinkles the corner of your eyes whenever you talk about your friends or any of your favourite things. He adores it even more when you do it on occasions he tells you a corny joke or two. He adores how your eyes brighten whenever your beautiful mind works its wonders into music. But he adores your laughter the most, how it's like a soothing melody he wants to listen to on repeat, so he tries to crack you up with an abundance of his silliness just to hear that bubbling laugh.

But he has seen you at your worst, too. If he could, he would trade all of his good days just for you to overcome your bad days. He’d write all the songs for you until his hands bleed, if need be.

Such a constellation are you to him. Who would have thought that his own song would lead him straight to you? But still, Prompto wishes he had the courage to say all these things. But as his adoration for you blossoms into something else, he lets his feelings known the only way he knows how: by letting the words leak into the page, letting it dry into a song.

Even though we may be hopeless hearts Just passing through Every bone screaming I don’t know what we should do All I know is, darling, I was made for loving you

You are startled to find Prompto alone in the studio, tuning his guitar.

“Where are the others?” you ask, as if by way of greeting. You drop your things by the couch, taking a seat beside him.

“Um, they’re—they went out to buy some food! Or something,” Prompto says nervously. He avoids your eyes. Weirdly, his nervousness is making you nervous, too. “I, uh—” he takes a piece of paper from his jacket and hands it to you— “I wrote down a couple of lines to complete the chorus. You wanna give it another go?”

You unfold the piece of paper and read the lyrics.

Shit. It’s beautiful. It’s too beautiful that you cannot help but wonder to whom he wrote it for. In the weeks you have known him, you’re aware that he isn’t exactly seeing anyone. The thought of the song has been written for another person makes your heart wince.

“Wow, this is… really good, Prom,” you say as evenly as you can. “I guess whoever’s on your mind when you wrote this must be a lucky person.”

Prompto looks up at you. “Well, yeah. But I think I’m luckier ‘cause I have them by my side right now.”

A strange silence settles between the two of you. The only sound you can hear is your own heart racing in what seems to be a hundred miles per hour. You want to say something, but the words are locked somewhere down your throat.

Prompto sighs. “Look, I’d totally understand if you don’t feel the same way. I just want you to know what I feel—”

“Actually, I do feel the same way,” you say. You bite your lip to stop the smile trying to escape your lips, only to fail miserably.

“Wait, really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Are you serious—”

“Prom, if you don’t stop talking and if you don’t start kissing me right now, I’ll hate you forever.”

In that moment, he crosses the space between the two of you, cupping your face in his hands. This time, the silence sings. Its music dances at the beat of your own heart. Prompto takes his sweet time as he presses a kiss on your forehead, traveling down to the tip of your nose, and slowly but surely, his lips finally finding yours.

[jarryprompts]

Harry making a deal with a demon (James). Prompt Fill

Submitted by @itsacruelirony as a response to this prompt. Thank you!

Warnings for some dubcon so approach with caution. Smutt from the outset so under a cut :)

Harry feels the bile rise in his throat and quickly chokes it back down. He won’t get paid if he vomits on his client. Even if this is his most loyal and kind client, it would still earn him a beating and lose him the day’s earnings. Instead he fakes his pleasure, because he knows this man likes him to be responsive, and gives the appropriate moans and touches. His mind conjures up images of the few boyfriends he’d had in the past and of porn he’d watched - anything to make this even slightly enjoyable.

Finally, with a grunt and one deep thrust, the man finishes, slumping over Harry’s prone body to catch his breath. Harry dares not move, despite how rank the man’s aftershave smells and the way the hands still clutch his hips. Hot breath puffs against his ear. Wet, open mouthed kisses press against his neck and bare chest. A tight squeeze of his hips for a moment causes a strike of fear in Harry’s mind - does he want to go again?

Thankfully, the man rolls off him and pulls up his trousers, zipping his fly with finality. Harry gives a sigh of relief. As the man straightens his shirt and tie and slips his blazer back on, Harry takes stock of his body. No matter how often he does this, how integral to his life it is now, he will never get used to the pain and the humiliation he feels every second of the day. But this is his life now.

“I might give you tip. You make me regret being married.” The man jokes, drinking in the sight of Harry’s still exposed body and winking lecherously. The man fishes a wad of cash out of his wallet and hands it over. Harry gapes at the amount but tucks it away before the man can snatch it back.

“Much appreciated.” Harry needs every penny he can get. Maybe, once the cut for his family comes out, he will have enough to spare for a crisps, water and biscuits. A bland diet, he knows, but he’s not ill or deficient in any vitamins yet, so it’ll do.

The man lingers in the alley, stood in his suit with an honest to God briefcase, looking impossible out of place. Harry doesn’t say anything as he fidgets on his sleeping bag. Will the man just leave already? This is awkward.

“…Everything okay?…” He asks hesitantly. His stomach begins to twist nervously.

“You’re a good person.” The man isn’t looking at him. He contemplates the moss growing on the damp brick walls, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t deserve to live your life like this. I know you, and you deserve a second chance.”

“I’ve my second chance and I blew it. If you knew me, you’d know that. Are you done here?”

The client ignores the dismissal, finally turning back to Harry. His hand holding the briefcase clenches. “I can help you. I have a way to make all of your problems disappear. Poof! Gone. And it’s not money.”

Harry knows it is too good to be true, but so long as the man isn’t offering to buy him completely and fix his problems with sex. A miracle fix for his problems. That is the dream. It could make his money worries go away, get him a flat to live in, stop him ever going hungry, get him back into uni, fix his relationship with his father, cure his sister’s near-incurable disease. Harry has wished on every star, on the first snowflake that falls - he would hunt for a genie’s lamp if he thought they existed.

“Go on.” What does he have to lose?

The man doesn’t answer, instead, he winks and smirks and places his case down on the ground and opens it. Harry can’t see what the man is doing, rummaging around in it as if the inside were bigger than the outside. Harry’s heart speeds in anticipation, and he suddenly aware that he is still naked. The chilling breeze nips at his shoulders as he hunches over his drawn up knees. A spark of irritation flies at the man who delights in building the suspense as he stares at Harry.

Finally, from the inside of the case, the man retrieves a thick book. But it is so much more than a simple book. Cracked, burnt black leather covers, with clasps made of a shining red metal, inlaid with inky black pearls. The pages are crumpled and jagged, something rust coloured stains the parchment. It looks to be a thousand years old at the very least. It is too ancient for a sexually deviant businessman to be carrying around in his man-bag. What is it?

As if he could read Harry’s mind, the man begins to explain. “This book and many like it have been handed down the generations of my family, we are the custodians of the secrets it holds. We gift it to those we deem worthy - and you, I think, are worthy. I see how desperate you are, how low life has brought you. You sleep on the ground, in the dirt, like a common beast, and you sell yourself to the highest bidder. And the lowest. You’re starving. You’re hopeless and dying down here. I see everything and I give this to you.”

The man holds out the ominous tome, pressing it into Harry’s hands. He almost buckles under the weight of it. Thankfully it is large enough to cover his modesty from his creepy client.

“How does any of that make me worthy? And what even is this? What am I meant to do with this book? Sell it, eat it, use it as a pillow?”

He should have known. No power in the world is capable of fixing the absolute mess Harry has made of his life. And now this charlatan thinks a stupid book can fix all of his problems. If a book could fix his fucked up life then university wouldn’t have been such a failure at university. He’s kidding himself even thinking he can get together enough money to pay for a private treatment for Dee Dee. His life is fucked.

The man rolls his eyes and growls angrily. For a moment, Harry thinks his eyes flash red. But a second later it’s gone. He must have imagined it. Low blood sugar probably.

“Read it and you’ll know. Do what it takes to improve your life.”

With that dire instruction, the man slips away down the alley, smart shoes clicking on the pavement. He leaves Harry naked on his thin and patchy sleeping bag, with a medieval book in his lap, feeling more humiliated and taken advantage of than he did when the man was screwing him. A book? If only, he scoffs. 

In the cold silence that Harry has grown used to now, he gets dressed, cleaning himself up and preparing for his next client. Money safely stashed away, he tries to focus on his motivation - Dee Dee, and his family - but his thoughts and eyes drift constantly to the bloody book. So out of place in the modern world. Finally, he give sin to the temptation to open it and read. There’s nothing else for him to do.

Reading it turns out to be a bust, because not only is it in some near illegible fancy calligraphy, but it appears to be in Latin, which Harry only knows from his old boarding school’s motto. He doesn’t know near enough to translate this thing. But, undeterred, he examines the pages and the accompanying illustrations, hoping for something to help him, or at least, entertain him until he has to go in search of a new customer.

Weeks later, as he finishes the last page, Harry goes back to the beginning and starts all over again. And again. And again. With each rereading he understands more and more of the contents. When he realises that it is a Satanic text about demons and spells and evil deeds, he only contemplates throwing it away for a second before starting to read again. It’s not like there’s an abundance of reading material for homeless prostitutes, and besides, it’s actually pretty interesting.

In the dark of the night, when he has no light by which to read his tome, Harry wonders why his client gave this to him, and he mulls over his cryptic words as a kind of lullaby. He hasn’t seen the man since so has no one to go to for answers. While the book is illuminating in many ways, he still doesn’t know what to do.

That is until the day he collects his meagre savings and shoves them into a wrinkled brown envelope. It’s not enough, even with the money he was going to save for himself so that he could eat a little better the following week. Dee Dee’s treatment is expensive, he knows, and this will barely put a dent into it. But he posts it through the flat’s letterbox anyway, when he knows that everyone is out.

It’s as he lets the tears fall down his cheeks, as the realisation that this could very well be his life until the day he dies washes over him, that he understands. He was given the book because he has nothing to lose and everything to gain. So he might as well use what he’s learnt. Harry doesn’t care if this is a ploy to suck him into some cult, or steal his immortal soul or whatever, he really does have nothing left to lose.

So, by the fading light of the day, Harry settles down on his sleeping bag, a demonic book in his lap, and prepares to summon a demon. It’s what the book is for. It details all the requirements - not many - and the consequences - a few - and the risks - too many to list. Harry feels prepared for this, so he confidently recites the required Latin text. Though he stumbles over pronunciation he guesses it doesn’t matter how he pronounces a dead language, and carries on. It’s the intent that matters, anyway.

As he finishes the silence in the alley presses down on him. No birds sing, no cars rumble by, no wind whistles. Harry’s breathing becomes laboured as fear creeps in. What did he just do?

“Hello, Harry.”

Harry shrieks and nearly jumps out of his skin. For where there once was empty space, now stands the most handsome man Harry has ever seen. Well, demon, he supposes, given the ritual he just performed. But he looks nothing like a demon. He’s dressed in an impeccable suit, hair combed back, and completely devoid of a pitchfork and tail. Thankfully the man - demon - says nothing about his scream.

Neither of them speak. Harry tries and fails to break the silence but his jaw merely opens and close noiselessly like a dumb fish. God, he must look so stupid and brainless to this impressive and immortal demon. A puny, pathetic prostitute.

Seemingly amused, the demon takes a step forward and gracefully folds himself down to sit next to Harry. Harry looks up, at the demon, confused.

“Take your time. I know that book doesn’t quite prepare you well enough for demon summoning.”

“I— I— I just summoned a demon?”

“Yes. Me.”

“Do you have a name?”

“… What?” That startles the demon. Harry feels flicker of pride at having shocked someone as powerful as him before the confusion and shock settle in again.

“A name. It’s rude to just call you demon, isn’t it? I’d find it rude if I called ‘human’ or ‘person’ all the time. Surely you have a name.”

“Oh. My real name is rather difficult for your kind to pronounce - much like that Latin you butchered.”

“Sorry. Is there a name you want me to call you, then? One I can pronounce.”

“You may call me James.”

“Very well. Nice to meet you, James.” Harry hold out his hand for the demon - James - to shake, rather surprising himself. And James if the look on his face is anything to go by. “Just go with it. I think I’m in shock.” With a quirk of his lips, the demon shakes his hand.

“What happens now?” The book didn’t explain what to do once the demon has been summoned, it seems to rely on the person working the spell having some sort of natural instinct. Something Harry does not have. If he did, he wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.

“Well, you are obviously worthy, since you have the book. Tell me what you need to do and we’ll work out a deal.”

“A deal?”

“Obviously, I don’t do this for free.”

“No, I… I knew that, obviously. I just… you’ll do it? No matter what? So if I needed someone to die in order to improve my life, then you’d do it? What if I asked you to commit genocide?”

James doesn’t bat an eyelid. “It would be done. For a price.” There is no doubt that the price would be steep, but the fact that he would kill a person, or an entire race of people, for a price - for Harry - is startling. Though, Harry supposes, he is a demon. Demons don’t exactly have morals.

“But I doubt you need me murder anyone, let alone an entire population.” James reassures him. Harry finds he quite likes this man. It might be because he’s the first person to have a proper conversation with him in months. Or because he is undeniably attractive and Harry can feel the stirrings of desire in his stomach. “What is your predicament?”

Harry sighs, his shoulders sagging where he sits and feeling more relaxed next to an omnipotent demon than he has done in a long time. He shuts the book and scrapes his nails gently on the tough cover; absently, he notices how long and dirty his nails have gotten.

“I did something my father can’t forgive.”

“I can’t change the past, Harry. No one can. I’m sorry.” Somehow, Harry believes James.

“I didn’t expect you too. I’d either screw up again exactly the same or be so plagued with guilt about it I’d tell my dad and be back here again. I messed up, got kicked out and I just need to make amends so that I can go back home.”

“And you’re making amends how?”

“Any money I have goes towards paying for a treatment for my sister. She has autoimmune encephalitis and there’s a treatment that might help but it’s experimental and not available on the NHS, so the family have to pay.” There’s something wrong about paying for a child’s medical bills with sex, but it’s the only choice Harry has. No savings, no job, no smart clothes for an interview or a printer for a CV. Being homeless sucks.

“You’re selling your body for your sister. For your family. And how do they feel knowing the money you give them comes from a man abusing your body?”

“I don’t really know. I post it through the letter box when I know they’re out.” Harry fidgets guiltily. He can’t even face his family, how will things ever be okay? “They’d hate it. I’m disgusting and dirty… they won’t want me anywhere near the kids. And too right.”

“So you won’t be allowed near the sister you sacrificed yourself for. Charming.” James doesn’t try hard to keep the contempt out of his voice. It brings a rare smile to Harry’s face to have someone on his side - a smile he fights down because that’s a selfish thought and it’s wrong.

“I guess I need… I would like Dee Dee to be healthy. I want her safe and comfortable, and I don’t want it come at the cost of my family’s financial stability. I want my family to be happy.”

“And what about you? Is there anything you want for yourself?”

“I don’t deserve anything. I’m a lost cause.”

James stiffens beside him, but Harry doesn’t dare look at him. He knows he has a sort of ally, but he can’t see the pity or compassion. Not when he doesn’t have it from his family.

“Very well. I will require something in return.”

No matter what was demanded of him, Harry has nothing to lose. That was what drew him to summon a demon in the first place. And for his sister? He would give anything to see her smile again, to have her laugh and be carefree, without tubes sticking out of her. “Anything.”

“Your soul.”

“And what will you do with my soul?”

“Set you free.”

[jasonindaredhood]

Unforeseen circumstances (Jason Todd x Reader)

My addition to the DCExchange, now they’ve posted it I’m allowed to post it here too. Really hope you like it @maruthor , ❤️  (Btw anyone who sees this, check out her blog she’s amazing :) ) Happy Valentine’s day!  

You remembered this particular Wayne son very well, the handsome young man with the devil-may-care attitude wearing a leather jacket at a formal event was memorable to say at the least… but you had never expected to meet him again under these kind of circumstances. You looked on, arms folded and still rubbing blood of your fingers as the man in your bed woke up. If nothing else you’d managed to stop the bleeding. Jason grunted, trying to block the light shining in his eyes with his hand. “Where the fuck am I?” “ And a good morning to you too, Jason.” His eyes focused on you as soon as he heard your voice. As expected, he attempted to sit up  while reaching for the gun strapped against his thigh. “I figured you’d do that. I only let you keep it in case whatever brought you into this state returned, not so you could aim it at me.” In spite of your explanation you were still looking into the barrel of the gun pointed at you. He was obviously trying to size you up but his head  was still pounding from the night before. “ Or to trick me into trusting you.” Based on what you looked like he just decided that under different circumstances he’d probably try to hit on you, but these were by no means those circumstances. What the hell had happened? And why did your face look strangely familiar to him? You sighed. Somehow you didn’t feel scared in the slightest, somehow you knew he wouldn’t harm you, even if he didn’t. “ Hey if it makes you feel any better, feel free to keep pointing. Might want to sit still though.  You looked pretty beaten up.” “ Well, I’ve survived death so I can take a couple of flesh wounds. “ He sat up straight, only to prove a point. “ Now… who the fuck may you be?” “ I’m y/n. And before you ask I have indeed patched you up as well as I could. Thank god Google’s a thing.” He looked at the bandages around his side.   “ Where did I pass out? You couldn’t carry me far.” You scoffed. “ Thanks. Somewhere near to my house after cursing over that nobody spoke ‘any fucking’ English. Then you proceeded by telling me it looked a lot worse than it was, asking me where the hell you were. “ “ Doesn’t answer how I got here.” You shook your head… as impatient as that night you met and likely as impulsive. You wondered if it had been the right call not to take his weapons from him. “ You actually walked into my room while I was supporting you. You told me you would’ve bought me a drink first but considering the circumstances… do you even remember what happened before you passed out?” He rubbed his head. “ Last thing I remember I was in Gotham. Now I’m…” “ Obviously not. Looks like someone invented a portal gun in real life. You’re in Asia.” “ Portal gun. Gamer?” You smiled. “ Sorta, not much anymore though. Never even played that, just some Skyrim and Nintendo at this point. “

You subtly tried to close down your laptop while speaking to him. “ Hiding something?” He sat up straight carefully while you looked at his weapon. “ Look who’s talking. “ “ That brings us back to the question of the day; why did you help me?” “ What was I supposed to do? Leave you out there in the cold, waiting for whatever the hell got you in this state?” “ Most people would if they found a bloodied up guy on their doorstep. I could be a serial killer, a madman,… It’s not safe to just bring a stranger into your home. You couldn’t even be sure that blood was mine.” “ I knew who you were.”

“ How the fuck did you know who I am? ” You gestured at the red batsign on a chair. “ Well, that thing, for one, would’ve been a dead giveaway.  Before you flatter yourself, it was the only way to get to your wounds. Sorry for ruining the suit. Second, we’ve met before.” “We have?” You nodded, not surprised he wouldn’t remember. “ I was at one of Bruce’s parties, a friend dragged me along. We met there, you looked about as bored as I’ve ever seen anyone. ” He smiled. “ C’mon can you really blame me? There are more fun things to do then sit around and listen about some random upstanding citizens talk about their many accomplishments and look at you expectantly. “   “  So that’s why you ditched the party and drove off on your motorcycle? Your brother didn’t seem very amused. “ Jason chuckled. “Dick never seems amused.” He holstered the gun again. “ So you know who I am. You’ve seen my brothers before. And I’m in Asia you said?” “ Yeah.” “ Shit. How come your English is that good?” You shrugged. “Grew up in Australia.” He got up and walked around in the room, naturally his eyes darted from your violin to a pile of books on your desk. He picked some random books up and turned them around. “ Good taste. “ “ Haven’t read all of them yet. “ “ Too busy rereading other classics?” You smiled. “ Too busy writing. “ He gestured at your laptop. “ Was that what you were hiding earlier?” You nodded.

“ Well I’m up for being a proofreader if you need one. Least I can do after you offered me a place of refuge for the time being.” You shook your head. “ Thanks but no thanks. Not exactly trying to write the next Dante or Shakespeare work here. ” “ Well if you wanna talk books be my guest. “ You grinned. “ I just might take you up on that offer sometime. Want some food? ” Before he had the chance to answer a noise from outside drew his attention. “ JASON! JASON ARE YOU HERE?!” Another voice answered with “ Keep your voice down. We don’t know if we’re the only ones looking for him.” Followed by an annoyed grunt. “He could be anywhere.” “ So how do you feel about meeting my brothers again? “ “ They sound worried I’ll go get them.”   When you arrived outside you found his brothers around the same place where you found Jason. They were trying to follow the blood trail and looked up at  you. Each of the men wore a suit which somehow seemed to connect them to Batman. It made you put two and two together in no time. Dick was the first one to speak. “ Hey I remember you. Y/n? “ You raised your eyebrows. “ You remember who I am?” Damian looked utterly unimpressed at you. “ Isn’t this the girl Jason was asking Bruce about?” “ Yeah.” You were dumbstruck. What the hell were they talking about? Tim butted in. “ He was right, she is pretty. Why didn’t Bruce tell him anything about her?” “ Because he didn’t know anything about her she came with a friend.” “ Also Jason had left the party on his motorcycle… again.”  You were trying very hard to take in all that had just been said. “ I have no idea what all that is about but if you’re looking for Jason, he’s currently in my room.”  Damian looked slightly disgusted at what that implied, whereas Tim just looked impressed. Dick was the only one to ask for clarification.  He seemed the most worried as well, whereas the youngest one just looked annoyed. “ Which condition is he in? “ “ He’s pretty beaten up but he’s talking again and pretending to be fine.” “Would you mind walking us to where he is?” On the way to your place, Dick was the one doing most of the talking. You explained what had happened, what you knew and he filled in the gaps that Jason couldn’t. They had gone after a group of bandits with a secret weapon which would be auctioned off to the highest bidder. Eventually the weapon was used on Jason and they had no idea what it meant until they had gotten one of the henchmen to talk. You noticed there was something he was still holding back. “ What do you still want to say?” “ Nothing.” “ Please give me a little more credit than that.” Tim smiled. “And she’s clever too.” Damian rolled his eyes at his brother. “ Is something going on between you and him?” “ Honestly, judging by what you just said you know more about me and him than I do. He said he didn’t remember me.”

“ It seems unlikely to me that he wouldn’t. You talked to him about something psychology-related right? You were trying to psycho-analyze some of the guests with him?  ” You grinned. “I corrected him. Read a couple of books on psychology. It’s an interest of mine, not my profession though.” Tim laughed “Ah that explains why Jason likes her. Someone smarter than him. He likes challenges.” You opened the door to your room. Jason was standing up straight, still shirtless. Now your initial concern about him was gone you had a hard time not focusing on how ridiculously good he looked. “ We were worried sick, are you okay?” Dick asked. Damian immediately interfered with a “ Ehm, he was worried sick. Not me.” Tim shoved him against the shoulder. “ I’m fine. Thanks to her over there.” He looked at you while you got a little bit flustered. “ Yeah how about I over here get you guys something to drink. Take a seat, make your brother sit down. I’m no doctor, those wounds could open up again at any moment. I just tried to stop the bleeding.”  Dick just shoved him back down on a seat while you headed to the kitchen. As you poured in some drinks and baked a couple of eggs you heard the boys talk. As usual, Dick first. “ We were worried sick about you! “ “ Relax, I’m alive. Honestly all this worrying is going to shorten your life span Dick. And as an ex-robin life expectancy is already shortened. We’d know right? ” He looked at Damian who nodded. “ How the hell did you end up with her? Is something going on?” Tim asked the questions that they actually wanted to know. The questions you actually wanted to know. “ No it’s pure coincidence that she’s here. But keep your fucking voice down, she doesn’t even know I remember her.” Damian laughed while Tim murmured. “ Well she does now.” “ You fucking told her? Good job. Well done. For fuck’s sake…” “ She took you in and you liked her before all this shit happened. You might as well ask her out at this point.” Jason sighed. “Not the dating type.” You decided it was high time to barge in. “ That’s unfortunate.” Both Dick and Tim tried to suppress a grin. “ Hope you’re the type to get food from time to time. It’s in the kitchen, help yourselves.” “ We’ll be waiting there, Jason. “ As Dick left he mouthed to his brother to ‘ask her’. Jason cleared his throat. “ So I’ve heard my brothers told you a couple of things?” “ They have.” “ In that case, want to come to our next party and ditch halfway with me? I’ve got an extra helmet and we could go wherever you’d like. Anything is better than one of those parties.” You grinned. “ I’d like that.” Jason smiled. She might just have been worth getting transported to Asia for.

[dcvalentineexchange]

Unforeseen circumstances (Jason Todd x Reader)

( By @jasonindaredhood for the amazing @maruthor! I tried to make the reader match you. I hope you like it (and that I succeeded at that). Happy Valentine’s day! )

You remembered this particular Wayne son very well, the handsome young man with the devil-may-care attitude wearing a leather jacket at a formal event was memorable to say at the least… but you had never expected to meet him again under these kind of circumstances. You looked on, arms folded and still rubbing blood of your fingers as the man in your bed woke up. If nothing else you’d managed to stop the bleeding. Jason grunted, trying to block the light shining in his eyes with his hand. “Where the fuck am I?” “ And a good morning to you too, Jason.” His eyes focused on you as soon as he heard your voice. As expected, he attempted to sit up  while reaching for the gun strapped against his thigh. “I figured you’d do that. I only let you keep it in case whatever brought you into this state returned, not so you could aim it at me.” In spite of your explanation you were still looking into the barrel of the gun pointed at you. He was obviously trying to size you up but his head  was still pounding from the night before. “ Or to trick me into trusting you.” Based on what you looked like he just decided that under different circumstances he’d probably try to hit on you, but these were by no means those circumstances. What the hell had happened? And why did your face look strangely familiar to him? You sighed. Somehow you didn’t feel scared in the slightest, somehow you knew he wouldn’t harm you, even if he didn’t. “ Hey if it makes you feel any better, feel free to keep pointing. Might want to sit still though.  You looked pretty beaten up.” “ Well, I’ve survived death so I can take a couple of flesh wounds. “ He sat up straight, only to prove a point. “ Now… who the fuck may you be?” “ I’m y/n. And before you ask I have indeed patched you up as well as I could. Thank god Google’s a thing.” He looked at the bandages around his side.   “ Where did I pass out? You couldn’t carry me far.” You scoffed. “ Thanks. Somewhere near to my house after cursing over that nobody spoke ‘any fucking’ English. Then you proceeded by telling me it looked a lot worse than it was, asking me where the hell you were. “ “ Doesn’t answer how I got here.” You shook your head… as impatient as that night you met and likely as impulsive. You wondered if it had been the right call not to take his weapons from him. “ You actually walked into my room while I was supporting you. You told me you would’ve bought me a drink first but considering the circumstances… do you even remember what happened before you passed out?” He rubbed his head. “ Last thing I remember I was in Gotham. Now I’m…” “ Obviously not. Looks like someone invented a portal gun in real life. You’re in Asia.” “ Portal gun. Gamer?” You smiled. “ Sorta, not much anymore though. Never even played that, just some Skyrim and Nintendo at this point. “

You subtly tried to close down your laptop while speaking to him. “ Hiding something?” He sat up straight carefully while you looked at his weapon. “ Look who’s talking. “ “ That brings us back to the question of the day; why did you help me?” “ What was I supposed to do? Leave you out there in the cold, waiting for whatever the hell got you in this state?” “ Most people would if they found a bloodied up guy on their doorstep. I could be a serial killer, a madman,… It’s not safe to just bring a stranger into your home. You couldn’t even be sure that blood was mine.” “ I knew who you were.”

“ How the fuck did you know who I am? ” You gestured at the red batsign on a chair. “ Well, that thing, for one, would’ve been a dead giveaway.  Before you flatter yourself, it was the only way to get to your wounds. Sorry for ruining the suit. Second, we’ve met before.” “We have?” You nodded, not surprised he wouldn’t remember. “ I was at one of Bruce’s parties, a friend dragged me along. We met there, you looked about as bored as I’ve ever seen anyone. ” He smiled. “ C’mon can you really blame me? There are more fun things to do then sit around and listen about some random upstanding citizens talk about their many accomplishments and look at you expectantly. “   “  So that’s why you ditched the party and drove off on your motorcycle? Your brother didn’t seem very amused. “ Jason chuckled. “Dick never seems amused.” He holstered the gun again. “ So you know who I am. You’ve seen my brothers before. And I’m in Asia you said?” “ Yeah.” “ Shit. How come your English is that good?” You shrugged. “Grew up in Australia.” He got up and walked around in the room, naturally his eyes darted from your violin to a pile of books on your desk. He picked some random books up and turned them around.  “ Good taste. “ “ Haven’t read all of them yet. “ “ Too busy rereading other classics?” You smiled. “ Too busy writing. “ He gestured at your laptop. “ Was that what you were hiding earlier?” You nodded.

“ Well I’m up for being a proofreader if you need one. Least I can do after you offered me a place of refuge for the time being.” You shook your head. “ Thanks but no thanks. Not exactly trying to write the next Dante or Shakespeare work here. ” “ Well if you wanna talk books be my guest. “ You grinned. “ I just might take you up on that offer sometime. Want some food? ” Before he had the chance to answer a noise from outside drew his attention. “ JASON! JASON ARE YOU HERE?!” Another voice answered with “ Keep your voice down. We don’t know if we’re the only ones looking for him.” Followed by an annoyed grunt. “He could be anywhere.” “ So how do you feel about meeting my brothers again? “ “ They sound worried I’ll go get them.”   When you arrived outside you found his brothers around the same place where you found Jason. They were trying to follow the blood trail and looked up at  you. Each of the men wore a suit which somehow seemed to connect them to Batman. It made you put two and two together in no time. Dick was the first one to speak. “ Hey I remember you. Y/n? “ You raised your eyebrows. “ You remember who I am?” Damian looked utterly unimpressed at you. “ Isn’t this the girl Jason was asking Bruce about?” “ Yeah.” You were dumbstruck. What the hell were they talking about? Tim butted in. “ He was right, she is pretty. Why didn’t Bruce tell him anything about her?” “ Because he didn’t know anything about her she came with a friend.” “ Also Jason had left the party on his motorcycle… again.”  You were trying very hard to take in all that had just been said. “ I have no idea what all that is about but if you’re looking for Jason, he’s currently in my room.”  Damian looked slightly disgusted at what that implied, whereas Tim just looked impressed. Dick was the only one to ask for clarification.  He seemed the most worried as well, whereas the youngest one just looked annoyed. “ Which condition is he in? “ “ He’s pretty beaten up but he’s talking again and pretending to be fine.” “Would you mind walking us to where he is?” On the way to your place, Dick was the one doing most of the talking. You explained what had happened, what you knew and he filled in the gaps that Jason couldn’t. They had gone after a group of bandits with a secret weapon which would be auctioned off to the highest bidder. Eventually the weapon was used on Jason and they had no idea what it meant until they had gotten one of the henchmen to talk. You noticed there was something he was still holding back. “ What do you still want to say?” “ Nothing.” “ Please give me a little more credit than that.” Tim smiled. “And she’s clever too.” Damian rolled his eyes at his brother. “ Is something going on between you and him?” “ Honestly, judging by what you just said you know more about me and him than I do. He said he didn’t remember me.”

“ It seems unlikely to me that he wouldn’t. You talked to him about something psychology-related right? You were trying to psycho-analyze some of the guests with him?  ” You grinned. “I corrected him. Read a couple of books on psychology. It’s an interest of mine, not my profession though.” Tim laughed “Ah that explains why Jason likes her. Someone smarter than him. He likes challenges.” You opened the door to your room. Jason was standing up straight, still shirtless. Now your initial concern about him was gone you had a hard time not focusing on how ridiculously good he looked. “ We were worried sick, are you okay?” Dick asked. Damian immediately interfered with a “ Ehm, he was worried sick. Not me.” Tim shoved him against the shoulder. “ I’m fine. Thanks to her over there.” He looked at you while you got a little bit flustered. “ Yeah how about I over here get you guys something to drink. Take a seat, make your brother sit down. I’m no doctor, those wounds could open up again at any moment. I just tried to stop the bleeding.”  Dick just shoved him back down on a seat while you headed to the kitchen. As you poured in some drinks and baked a couple of eggs you heard the boys talk. As usual, Dick first. “ We were worried sick about you! “ “ Relax, I’m alive. Honestly all this worrying is going to shorten your life span Dick. And as an ex-robin life expectancy is already shortened. We’d know right? ” He looked at Damian who nodded. “ How the hell did you end up with her? Is something going on?” Tim asked the questions that they actually wanted to know. The questions you actually wanted to know. “ No it’s pure coincidence that she’s here. But keep your fucking voice down, she doesn’t even know I remember her.” Damian laughed while Tim murmured. “ Well she does now.” “ You fucking told her? Good job. Well done. For fuck’s sake…” “ She took you in and you liked her before all this shit happened. You might as well ask her out at this point.” Jason sighed. “Not the dating type.” You decided it was high time to barge in. “ That’s unfortunate.” Both Dick and Tim tried to suppress a grin. “ Hope you’re the type to get food from time to time. It’s in the kitchen, help yourselves.” “ We’ll be waiting there, Jason. “ As Dick left he mouthed to his brother to ‘ask her’. Jason cleared his throat. “ So I’ve heard my brothers told you a couple of things?” “ They have.” “ In that case, want to come to our next party and ditch halfway with me? I’ve got an extra helmet and we could go wherever you’d like. Anything is better than one of those parties.” You grinned. “ I’d like that.” Jason smiled. She might just have been worth getting transported to Asia for.

[deehollowaywrites]

gwen: the early years

This one’s for @theabhorsen, who knows Jessa Taylor’s mom has got it going on.

1991

White horse owners were easy, because all they wanted was to make money. I put on the facade they liked to see, smile and posture and bearing like pieces of armor, my voice three notches below where it normally resided and my shoulders round, soft. Clothing was armor too: pencil skirt not so fitted as to draw attention to the wrong places, but still feminine; blouse long-sleeved to mask the muscles in my upper arms; heels high enough for stature, low enough for class.

“You changed your hair,” my mother said over Easter dinner, head tilted critically. “Why'd you go and fry it like that, hon? It looked real nice long, don't you think, Alf?”

My father's mouth was full of potatoes, happily, blocking his comment. My brother laughed and filled in, “All office-girl now, Gwen. You think anybody going to be fooled?”

I ate the rest of my lamb and tried not to think about how much money I'd dropped at the salon to smooth the kink out of my hair.

The flight was late, because a meeting like the one I was bound for required some bump in the road. By the time the Delta 747 rolled onto the tarmac at Blue Grass I'd sweated through my blouse, and my eyes were blurred from reading and rereading the breeding records, the lists of wins, the connections these people already had. They didn't need me, so far as I could tell. I had one thing to sell them, and it was something they could get cheaper from a dozen trainers.

I'd been shocked and tried not to show it, on the phone when the bigwig of Honeycomb Hills said she'd send someone to pick me up. Most owners didn't bother, let trainers flying in catch a cab or rent a car, unless the trainer was someone worth wooing. My head wasn't in the proper space to believe that of her. Cars were for Baffert, Zito, O’Neill—definitely not for Gwendolyn Jackson, Eustis-born and Ocala-bred, anonymous but for a string of wins at Gulfstream and a bit of shine at the Grove. Female was bad, black was worse, black and female and single worst of all, the wives of owners believing I was there to fuck their husbands foremost and let their horses lose as an afterthought. That the Hills was run now by a woman was a small mercy, though impressing women owners bore its own set of challenges.

The man waiting with a jacked-up Ford at the exit doors was not who I'd expected, not that I could reasonably expect anyone from a family I didn't know outside of distant views into winners' circles. He shifted the sign reading Jackson under his arm and stuck out his hand as I walked up. “Miss Jackson? Jimmy Hamilton.”

I shook, kept my face smiling, let him open the truck's door for me.

“Want some advice?” he said, pulling into traffic. I didn't and I did, the parts of me that hated having to listen to what white men with superiority complexes said fighting with the trainer at my core, who knew anything Jimmy Hamilton had to say about the sport was worth hearing. “Drop the smarm before we get there.”

I sat up straighter in my seat, finding no good response for that. He glanced at me. “It might work on some people—hell, I know it works on most, but she ain't that breed.” He chuckled as I still said nothing. “Miss Jackson, we all heard about the business with Mason Munro down in Tampa. This--” He waved at me, a broad sweep from my crossed knees to my head. “I doubt that's you. And she's interested in you.”

I had never been prone to blushing, thank God. Mason Munro, that sack of rotten hay with hair plugs on top, who'd be dogging me for the rest of my career, if Hamilton's comment was any indication. It was true, you could do things at the Grove and even at Gulfstream that wouldn't fly in Lexington or Louisville, where the industry liked to play at gentility.

I folded my hands on my knees. If he wanted the real me to show up, that's what he'd get. “She's interested, and I suppose you're resentful.”

“Could be,” he said, and turned into a broad lane. “Right now, I got no reason to be anything but polite.” He squinted at me over his sunglasses. He couldn’t have been five years older than me but the sun was doing its work on his skin. “Truth be told I'd love you taking Dashndot off my hands. He ain't suited to my sterling personality.”

There was a question I wanted to ask him, one he'd probably have a more useful response to than his sister, but we were parked outside the Hills buildings and Iona was on the porch, watching.

Her office seemed a little small. I knew she was still making a name--had barely started, her and her brother--but I also knew she'd inherited a solid foundation of old money and breeding connections. The barns outside were proof enough of wealth and skill. She sat down behind the desk and regarded me. “Thank you for coming up. The flight was all right?”

“Comfortable,” I said. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“I have neither time nor use,” she said, “for—shall we say—horseshit. Let's cut right to it. What can you give me that I don't already have?”

Despite what Jimmy had said my usual apparatus started clicking, the soft tones and empty pleasantries. “I'd find it a wonderful opportunity to work with the Hills, Ms. Hamilton, any trainer would, especially considering you've already got one of the best in-house. I'm serious about the sport and I believe I'd be a good fit--”

“What did I say about horseshit?” She tucked a loose lock of reddish hair behind her ear. She hadn't smiled since I'd stepped onto the front porch. “I didn't ask about your personality and I don't care. If abrasive individuals bothered me I wouldn't be working with my brother. What can you provide that I can't get somewhere else?”

“Florida,” I said. It was the only card in my hand, after all. “You're dug into Kentucky just fine, you'll always attract owners and trainers here, and in Louisville. You have a significant presence in New York already, courtesy of your father's proclivities. Florida...” I spread my hands on the desk. “Gulfstream is the next big thing. Guava Grove is a reliable moneymaker. It's the obvious next step.”

“I have friends in Florida,” Iona said. “Chavez in Miami, Peres in Tampa...a trainer named Andreesen's been recommended to me. So?”

“It's not just the tracks.” I watched her, her blue eyes not narrowed but wide and unblinking, fastened on me. “Even if you do retain multiple Florida trainers—and why wouldn't you—a concentrated effort there will at some point present access issues.”

“How so?”

“Ocala's arguably the best location for breeding Thoroughbreds,” I said, and hoped she wouldn't sit too high on her Kentucky dignity. Lexington people didn't like hearing that maybe central Florida’s limestone  turned out stronger babies than their beloved bluegrass. “The Hills is, first and foremost, a breeding operation. You'll want to expand.”

Now she did blink, once, heavily. She wore no mascara, no makeup of any kind that I could see, not that her cheekbones needed it. “And you think you're the key to a breeding farm in Ocala.”

“Not just a breeding farm.” I breathed in. Might as well toss out everything I had. “A training center. Full service. Ocala's an hour from Tampa, four and a bit from Miami. The location would be ideal for training homebreds as well as wintering your runners here. Florida breeders, of course, would love a Hills stud in their backyard.”

Iona propped her cheek against her palm and smiled for the first time. “That's more like it.”

1995

“You're angry,” Victor said, a line appearing between his eyebrows. He traced my cheek with an index finger. “Anything I can do to make you less angry?”

“I'm not angry at you,” I said, which he knew, but which seemed important to confirm. “What a waste! Christ, Vic, I hate waste.”

“Comes of being raised on those starvation rations your dad calls dinner,” he said. He stood up from the kitchen bar and held out his arms. “Somebody tell that man his daughter's a baller and can pay for a night out now and then.”

“Someone tell him his daughter married a baller who can afford a night out every night.”

“Hmmm,” Vic said. He lifted me up from the stool and somehow my legs just found themselves around his waist. He tugged a braid of my hair, drawing it through his fingers. “I forget to mention I love your hair this way? Anyway, I kinda like staying in.”

I kissed him to let him know I agreed. It would've been easy to fall into him, let him carry me to bed and take my mind off things, but the anger steaming beneath my skin didn't want to dissipate. “Listen, if I'm angry, when Iona gets here she'll be twice as furious. I'm almost looking forward to it.”

“Iona,” Vic said, walking us backward up the hall, “is the exact opposite of dirty talk, baby.”

“I'll tell you what's dirty.” I untangled my legs from him and dropped onto the carpet. “That California motherfucker lighting horses up like they're fireworks. I don't know why she--”

He kissed my cheek, then my chin, his lips trailing down my throat. “I know you're right. But Gwennie, she won't be here 'til tomorrow.” He looked at me, eyes soft. “You can tell her all about it tomorrow.”

He was hard to resist when he called me Gwennie. He was always hard to resist, his curls and thighs that could smother a girl and his smile, every bit of him concentrated on me like I somehow deserved him.

In the morning I went to the track earlier than usual, Victor's hand slipping sleepily off my hip when I rolled out of bed. Everything in my barn was in order, thank God for small mercies, the filly who'd been favoring a left pastern the day before performing perfectly in her work-out. I leaned on the fence and waved to her exercise rider. “Bring her up, Frankie.”

When they reached the fence I ducked under and knelt, checking her wind and then her shins. “Excellent. Hand her off and get Touchandgo out here.”

“Yes ma'am,” Frankie said, and then, “Mrs. Hamilton, she looking for you.”

It was interesting to note who tacked on the Mrs. and who realized Iona was eternally a Ms. despite her married status. The nod I gave Frankie was probably more of a jerk of the head. “Noted. Please grab Touchandgo.”

If Iona wanted me, she knew where to find me.

She did find me, maybe forty minutes later, as I clocked the latest sprig of the Paradise Bay tree doing five furlongs in a minute ten. She stopped at the fence next to me and waved toward the colt pulling up. “Looking good, Gwendolyn.”

“He'll be ready for the Pacific Classic.” I looked at her sidelong to gauge her reaction. “If that's still in the works.”

“No reason not to head west,” she said. “I liked him at the Travers, and it's clear he's glad to be back home. He ships well. The weather in California shouldn't be a problem.”

Anything relating to California was making my lip curl lately, but that was my own business. After Bay Laurel's groom walked him off, Iona turned to face me. “Plenty of drama here this week.”

“It'd have been a sight less had that colt been where he belonged.”

“You don't know that,” she said. “The tests--”

“The tests will show exactly what everyone knows,” I snapped. “I'm so glad you need hard proof in black and white, Iona, really just so pleased that my word apparently means shit.”

“Your word has always meant plenty to me, Gwendolyn,” she snapped back. “The tests are gravy, paperwork for the lawyers to play with.”

That gave me pause. “Lawyers.”

“You think I'm here for anything other than to sue the hide off Rick Andreesen's back?” She tossed her head dismissively. “I trust you, I trust your work. I'm not here to check up on the state of your operation...I'm here to get what's mine.”

Some of the heat bled away from my skin. I braced my forearms on the fence. “I think we can agree I don't ask for much.”

“Certainly.”

“My God, Iona, promise me you won't use him again.” I looked at her and repeated what I'd said to Vic last night. “It's wasteful. A fine two-year-old run into the ground for no good reason? I can't work here and watch that.”

“Trust me,” she said. “Andreesen won't be within five yards of our barns ever again.”

“Righteously should've been mine to begin with,” I said, since we were all getting in our feelings. “I had room. I can't think why you went with--”

“You’re overworked,” she said. “There’s more in your string than I like to give trainers, frankly. You’ve had a good year so I let it slide, but Righteously would’ve put you in the weeds with everyone else suffering too.”

“I think I know my own limits.” My hands clenched on the rail, and I forced them open, circling a scratch in the white-painted metal. “I’ve been making you money since we started this little wonderland tour.”

“I’m well aware,” Iona said. The Miami sun was already starting to get to her, I noticed, a flush across the tops of her pale cheeks that would be a sunburn in two hours. “That’s why I want you in good shape. I need your consistency. I need you at the top of your game if we’re going to get South Hills off the ground.”

Whatever I’d been about to fire off died on my lips. “South Hills.”

Iona smiled, crookedly, about as much smile as she ever gave. “A name is always a good starting place.”

I stared at the track, red dirt and green turf like a baseball field scrambled. A pair of horses were galloping around the backstretch turn, too far away for their hoofbeats to be audible. Finally I said, “And you want me.”

Iona gathered her hair off her neck and bundled it into a ponytail. “Time to make good on your big talk. Ready to play real estate shark? We’re looking at a place just north of Ocala.”

I made her shake on it, just to be sure.

1999

Cris and Iona’s daughter was tiny for four years old, bones like a bird and her mother’s hair, mouthy. I hefted her up on my hip and pointed to the track. “See? That’s your momma’s. Do you know his name?”

“Raising Cain,” she lisped. Her eyes followed the colt as his rider galloped him past us. “Mommy says he’s the best.”

“He’s very good,” I told her. She was too young for me to ride my high-horse about how I’d trained him and not her uncle, whom everyone had expected, and in any case it was probably in poor taste to brag in front of a Hamilton, no matter how small she was. “Do we think he’s going to win the Florida Derby tomorrow?”

Felicity nodded vigorously, braids slapping her cheeks. “Duh! Mommy said he would.”

Mommy said this and Mommy said that. The kid was a momma’s girl, that was for sure. I wondered now and then what Iona would do with her daugher, whether there’d be more children or whether this pint-size heiress would inherit the farm and all that it entailed.

The mother in question strode up with her brother in tow. “Gwendolyn. Thanks for watching her.” She took her daughter back and set Felicity on the ground, keeping the girl’s hand in hers. “Only babysitting jockeys and colts for the rest of the weekend, I promise.”

Iona seemed to be in a good mood; her meeting with the Gulfstream stewards must’ve gone according to plan.

Jimmy nodded to me. “Gwen. Looking good.”

He didn’t mean me, but the colt now pulling up a few feet from the fence. I scanned Raising Cain at a distance. He really was something, nearly nineteen hands and muscled like a more mature horse in spite of his new-minted three-year-old status, coat shining nearly black in the sun. His rider, a jockey named Mike Ford, walked him over. We’d had to switch riders a few times in Cain’s two-year-old campaign, but I liked Ford for him. The jock was so quiet you barely knew he was there at all, a personality that seemed to do ok with the colt’s over-the-top antics. Previous riders had tried to muscle him, tell him his business. Only Ford had realized everything needed to seem like Cain’s own idea.

“He can do it,” I said, half to myself. I felt Jimmy move next to me, not quite a shrug and no mutter of disagreement. When I looked at him he wasn’t looking at me, but at the colt and Iona standing with him, one hand on Cain’s chest and the other still wrapped around her daughter’s fingers.

I wasn’t sure I’d let my daugher stand practically under a finicky colt’s hooves, but Felicity wasn’t mine.

“No disagreement on my end,” Jimmy said. “He pays off tomorrow, we all live large for a bit.”

“I know it’s too early to--”

“It’s never too early,” he said with a snort. “Iona’s had the fever for this one since before the Breeders’ Cup. I’m credulous, Gwen, you don’t have to be coy. It’s not hard to imagine that showy bastard going all the way.”

It was a little too easy to imagine. It was something I didn’t let myself imagine too often, every trainer’s dream tucked away in the back of my mind, fearful that speaking it out loud would jinx things. But Lord, how good the roses would look on Cain’s dark coat.

“We’ll see,” was all I said. “I’m not keen on his post position, but at least the weather’s been dry. Mud would’ve been a no-go with that slop monster of Garrison’s running from 8.”

“We going to see Vic around here any time soon?” Jimmy asked. When I looked at him he laughed. “What can I say, Gwen, your old man’s a riot.”

“Uh-huh. Well, this is a little early for him. Look for him in the bar tomorrow.”

“On that note, maybe I should get drunk and stay drunk ‘til the Orchid’s run,” Jimmy said drily. “I swear to Christ, that filly’ll be the death of me.”

“When will you admit fillies are your downfall?”

“We can’t all be as well-rounded as you,” he said. “Or was that a personal remark?”

I remembered a little late that his divorce had just been finalized, a game that wasn’t fun for anyone, even committed womanizers. “Not intentional. I’m sorry about that, Jimmy.”

“Ah.” He pulled his cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, then seemed to remember he was on a racetrack with horses. “The important thing is the boys.” He paused, then peered at me over his shades. “Seems like it’s getting to be about that time for you and Vic.”

My eyes skipped away from his and landed on Felicity, now sitting on the fence. She swung short legs and watched Mike Ford and Raising Cain trot away. I wondered where her father was, whether Cris was at the barn or in Gulfstream’s lounge, or--more likely--chatting up some breeder. There was more of Iona in Felicity, the hair and the shape of her face, the way she stared at people, too belligerent for a little girl. Not much of her father’s softness and humor. It was difficult to look at her and not wonder how any child of mine would turn out, if it would have my skin or Victor’s darker brown, my height or his, my square cheeks or his deep dimples. It was difficult, a little, to look at Felicity and remember the bloody mess of our attempts so far, a miscarriage two years before and another six months ago.

“Apologies,” Jimmy said, jerking my thoughts away from self-indulgent darkness. “Not my business, obviously.”

“It’ll happen,” I said, “or it won’t. Right now the only babies in my life are that diva of a colt and...so I hear...a little something about to pop out of Cubano Espresso.”

“You hear, huh?” Jimmy said, his voice back to its normal gruffness. “I’ll tell you, Gwen, you might have to fight me for that foal.”

“Well then,” I said, and smiled at him as Iona walked back over. “I’ll see you on the racetrack.”