#it was not intentional my muse held me hostage all night

[knight-commander]

OCKISS WEEK - DAY THREE

Siavash & Emery

this one definitely fits the prompt “rain” 😌 i originally had something else written for these too but after the post from @dujour13 yesterday I just had to do this. It got a little out of hand. Sorry :3c

If Siavash knew what was good for him, he wouldn’t answer the door.

That was Emery’s hope, because a part of him was terrified of what would happen if it did swing open and he had to look Sia in the eyes. Had he cut his hair? Changed his style? Would he smell the same? A few months could change an entire life, and he’d been gone for seven of them.

The rain hadn’t stopped for days, and Emery was soaked to the bone, because neither had he. He had pushed Mánath further than ever before to make it to Siavash’s door, and now that he was there, he couldn’t work up the nerve to walk up the steps.

What was a promise to wait? Was it worth anything? Doubts flitted across his mind, and then guilt swiftly followed. He shouldn’t be accusing Siavash of anything; he was the one who had left, after all. Even after being asked not to. He was the one who should be left out in the rain.

But Tiger was bundled in his arms, and so was a poorly salvaged bouquet of sodden flowers, and at least for their sakes, he had to give this a try. Emery squared his shoulders, the weight of his armor bearing down on him, and walked up the three stone steps.

The knock was gentler than he intended. Cowardly. He hoped Siavash didn’t hear it and so that he could chalk this up to a failed attempt that they could mutually walk away from, and he could just turn around and spare Sia the—

The door swung open.

Bleary-eyed Siavash stood there, rubbing idly at his face as he held the door ajar. A flash of lightning and a rumble of thunder caused Tiger to leap from Emery’s arms, rushing inside to warmth before either of them had a chance to react. Sheepishly, Emery looked back up at Siavash.

Gods, that wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that even after seven months, Siavash was just as beautiful as he remembered. Sleepy, confused, and wearing a mismatched shirt and pants from being disturbed, but beautiful all the same. His blond hair was tousled, his lips pursed into something near to a pout.

“Emery?” Sia’s voice was rough from sleep, but he could still hear that honey-smooth purr he’d fallen in love with. “What are you doing here?”

Panic began to set in again. “I-I know it’s the middle of the might, but I—“

“You’re soaking wet,” Siavash cut him off. Emery stuttered over the rest of his sentence as Sia wrapped him in some coat he kept hanging by the door and dragged him inside. Emery was pretty sure the coat was worth more than he was, but he didn’t say that out loud, either. “And you’re freezing. We need to get you out of your armor.”

“It’s only some rain,” Emery protested, but the warmth of Siavash’s home left him shivering in comparison to the cold and wet he had dragged in from outside.

It wasn’t long before Siavash had Emery sitting warm and dry by the fire, dressed in some loose cotton clothes and wrapped up in the fluffiest blanket that the bard could find. He gratefully accepted the cup of tea that was offered to him—lavender and chamomile, his favorite—and found himself pleasantly surprised when Siavash settled in next to him on the floor, comfortable as if no time had passed at all.

Emery couldn’t resist pressing up against Siavash in return.

“Now,” Sia broke the silence, carefully, in a tone Emery knew meant that he was about to test the waters. “You know I love to see you, Emery, but it is the middle of the night.”

“I am aware,” Emery said between nervous sips of his tea. “I hadn’t intended to intrude upon your sleep in this way. I just rode straight from Cheliax, and I didn’t think I would hit the storm, or that it would be so late, and—“

“Emery.” Siavash brushed his hand across his cheek, and he raised his head to meet Sia’s eyes. “You weren’t due to be on leave for another three months. You said that in your last letter.”

Tell him the truth! Tell him you were wrong!

Emery parsed his tongue across his lips and glanced away. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“Is that all?”

“…No,” he sighed, shoulders heaving with the effort. Although he tilted his cheek into Sia’s touch, he closed his eyes rather than look him in the eyes again. “I… I left. I took them up on the honorable discharge they’d offered at the end of the Crusade, stayed to sort out the paperwork, and left as soon as it was official.”

Emery could feel Siavash’s thumb brush gently across his cheek, but fear kept his eyes shut.

“You… did?” Siavash asked. “When it was first offered, you were adamant that you wanted to stay with the Order of the Pyre.”

Emery made sure he turned his face away from Siavash before he opened his eyes; he stared ponderously into the fire instead. When he raised his hand, he could see the years of accumulated burns from his Reckonings scarred all along his forearm. For the first time in a long time, there was no compulsion to hold himself aloft over the flames.

“I was wrong,” he said softly. “I was wrong, and you were right. I was going back to what was familiar because I was scared. Scared of… everything, I guess. Everything being all… different. I don’t know. It’s hard to say.”

Emery felt warm arms shift around him and pull him close, and he was barely able to slide his cup onto the nearby table. He looked up to see Siavash beaming down at him, and it was so infectious and familiar and gods he missed it so much that he couldn’t help but smile back at him.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Sia murmured. “I understand. And I’m just glad that you’re here—soaking wet at my doorstep or otherwise.”

“You’re not funny,” Emery said through a mirthful chuckle. “Poor Tiger was more wet than I was.” The cat in question had curled up in the plush chair nearby, purring louder than the thunder outside.

“But you didn’t see you,” Siavash countered, flicking Emery’s chin up with a gentle tap of his finger. He leaned in. “Hair all stuck to your face, eyes all wide. You looked like a drowned rat.”

“You think you’re charming?” Emery asked softly, closing the distance between them. Tea forgotten on the table with the sodden flowers, he braced his hand against Siavash’s chest as their lips met. Sia was as warm and sweet as he remembered, and his reciprocation was delicate, as if he might scare Emery off.

Siavash’s touch traced down his arm before clasping his free hand, and he was the one to pull away from the kiss first. Emery could’ve gotten lost in his eyes if it weren’t for the furrow of his brow.

“Does this mean you’re staying?” Siavash asked.

“If you’ll have me,” Emery said. “I know it’s not the proper way, showing up at your doorstep in the middle of the night. I thought the flowers might endear you to the thought of letting me stay, at least just for one—“ He found himself cut off as Siavash raised his hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of it.

“I missed you,” Siavash said. “And your smile.”

Emery could feel his heart pounding uselessly against his ribs, could feel the heat rushing to his cheeks, combating the dark circles under his eyes. He looked away, still grinning.

He remembered the first time Siavash had kissed him like that—it felt like a lifetime ago in those distant stables. Emery still harbored the same hopes deep inside, and Sia’s eyes still harbored that same addictive adoration that would make anyone’s insides jump.

“I missed you, too. More than anything else,” he said. “I don’t know what is in store for me now. Now that I’m not… knight-commander, now that my father is dead. Whatever it is, though, I want it to be with you.”

Suddenly his world spun, and Emery found himself on his back, cushioned between Siavash and the soft blanket underneath him. He laughed, watching the dark mirth of Sia’s eyes reflect the firelight.

“What are you doing, hm?” He asked, but Sia’s teasing kisses upon his hand and down his scarred wrist didn’t stop.

Siavash paused in his kisses just long enough to answer.

“Making up for lost time. No better time to start than now.”

“Won’t we have plenty of time for that?” Emery asked, but his voice softened with a sigh. Siavash pressed kiss after kiss down to his elbow before switching to the other arm, granting it the same treatment.

He wasn’t sure when his shirt came off or when one of his hands got tangled in the silken strands of Siavash’s hair, but Emery keened softly when Sia’s lips found their way to add a warm kiss atop the scar that split down the center of his chest. A final Reckoning, of sorts. His tangled hand tightened into a fist, and he heard Siavash’s hearty laugh echo in the space between their warm bodies.

Siavash lifted his head up just enough to peer at him; cast against the golden firelight, Emery knew he had made the right choice. No pyre could ever come close to being so beautiful.

He didn’t know what the morning would bring. As Siavash pressed their lips together once more, it was the first time that Emery felt peace with plunging into the unknown. As long as he had Sia there by his side, he could face anything.

[spainkitty]

WIP WEDNESDAY

Chapter 7: I am the one

“I can’t help you, Surana,” Varric said. Lanil winced at how kind and pitying he sounded. “He’s a fugitive, they both are. They left Kirkwall and I cut all contact, and their safety was only one reason why. We separated on... complicated terms.”

Lanil’s hands spasmed around the edges of the book and felt her heart drop to her toes. One more family connection severed. Why was she so upset about it? It’s not like the connection had existed for the past ten years. She hadn’t lost anything. A large hand cupped hers, engulfing her hand completely. Lanil looked up to meet Varric’s warm amber gaze. His eyes were nearly the same shade as Anders’, and it made her mouth twist painfully.

“I can promise you that Hawke is at his side, wherever he is. She’d have to be dead to leave him, and the whole world would know if someone like Hawke died.” He smirked. “That’s what I tell myself so I can sleep at night.”

Lanil’s eyes darted over his face, reading the sincerity behind his self-deprecating little joke, and slowly nodded. She glanced down again, inhaling and exhaling shakily.

“All right. That can… that can be enough for now.” She cleared her throat awkwardly and straightened her shoulders. “Was I interrupting something? When I came up, you two were talking rather intently.”

“Yes and no,” Varric said. Lanil frowned.

“The Commander was talking about a hostage situation with me and my boys,” Bull explained. Lanil grimaced. She had just stopped thinking about him, damn it. “We’ve done a few, mostly got the hostages out not too worse for wear, but in this case, it’ll be a bit trickier.” The Iron Bull looked upward with a pensive little frown. “There’s a chance they’ll kill every hostage the moment they realize we don’t have what they want.”

“I would prefer knowing details instead of vague outlines,” Lanil said impatiently.

Varric chuckled. “Some Avvar chieftain in the Fallow Mire wants to duel the Herald of Andraste, according to Scout Harding. He’s been attacking camps and taking Inquisition soldiers and bellowing to everyone who has half an ear a mile away that if the Herald wants them back, she can come get them.”

“Why?” Lanil asked incredulously.

“Something about gods and chips on shoulders, who knows, Shortie,” Varric said, sighing.

Lanil did a double-take and glared down at him. “Shortie? You’re shorter than me.”

Varric smirked and crossed his arms over his chest. “Doesn’t make you any less short, does it, Shortie?”

Lanil glared harder.

“Maybe we can figure out how to sneak up on this guy, do a smash and grab. If we hit hard and fast enough, we might minimize the casualties,” the Iron Bull mused, tapping on the pommel of his large, two-handed axe that was braced against the side of his boot. Lanil was pretty sure she could fit both her feet inside that boot at the same time. It’d be a tight fit, but it was probably possible. “I could come up with a better idea once I see where they’re held.”

“We could just wait for the Herald. I’m sure she could deal with this chucklefuck in a snap,” Varric pointed out. Lanil snorted out loud and mentally catalogued that insult for later.

“How much of moron is this guy?” Lanil asked as a half-formed idea began to slip into her mind.

“Would give a rock a run for its money, that’s the impression I got from Curly’s glowing summary of Harding’s report,” Varric said. The Iron Bull nodded in agreement with a chuckle.

“So… what does the Avvar actually know about the Herald?” Lanil said. “That she’s a woman? A qunari? Does he know if she’s a mage or a templar or wicked with a set of daggers? Does he know what she looks like or even her name?”

“We can’t know for sure, but I doubt he knows much more than woman qunari,” Varric said, eyebrow rising as he began to cotton on to her idea. The Iron Bull grinned widely.

“You thinking what I’m thinking, mage?” Bull asked.

Lanil raised an eyebrow. Then, pointed to herself. “Woman.” She pointed at the Iron Bull. “Qunari.”

“You can’t be serious.” Varric swiped a hand down his face, but couldn’t quite wipe off the smirk.

“He’s dumb as a box of rocks and wants a fight with a woman and a qunari. We’ll just suggest the stories got things a bit mixed up.”

“And if he demands you prove yourself by closing a rift, you know, the thing Adaar is infamous for?” Varric asked.

“I’ll tell him to go fuck himself,” Lanil answered with a shrug. The Iron Bull guffawed and slapped Lanil’s back. She grunted and stumbled forward, but returned his laughter with a wry grin of her own.

[lilithbasically]

“Drinks”

*Minors DNI*

Dabi x reader to connect with pregnancy HC's. Reader has blue and purple hair, an ice quirk, and is a vigilante (fluff to smut)

Requested by @ravenina14

W.C.: 2.8K

Warnings: Implied stalking, intention of assault (rando character), slight body worship(?), oral (m receiving), Dabi has piercings, spitting, teasing, overstimulation, cumflation mentioned, size kink, praise, little tiny bit of degradation, Dabi is pretty soft in this tbh

Your seat in the back corner booth of the underground bar, appropriately named Underworld, grants you an open field of vision to the front door and the rest of the patrons. You rather enjoy your Saturday nights here nursing your drinks and relaxing. This particular establishment is well known amongst vigilantes and villains alike as it serves as a neutral ground. If you mind your own business and don’t start any shit, you don't have to worry about anything. Speaking of not starting shit, you look up as the door swings open to see the biggest shit starter himself waltzing in. You haven’t yet had a personal interaction with him but you’ve witnessed plenty. Enough to know he’s a little shit that likes to push people’s buttons and definitely gets around with the ladies. Having no interest in seeing the idiocy about to unfurl, you step outside and lean your back against the brick wall, pulling a cigarette to your lips. As if on cue, the door flies open and Dabi is shoved out, chuckling all the while. Rolling your eyes, you turn your attention to patting the pockets of your leather jacket, trying to find your lighter which has conveniently disappeared. ‘Naturally,’ you think, ‘It’s always the smokers that never have a light.’ You sigh, about to resign back to your seat inside when a blue flame flickering at the tip of a finger is held out for you. Looking up, you see bright cerulean eyes staring down at you. Raising an eyebrow, Dabi smirks, “Need a light, Dollface?”

Leaning forward to use his flame, you take a drag and exhale, allowing a small friendly smile, “Thanks.”

“I’ve seen you around before I think,” he muses, “An undercover hero maybe?” Dabi asks, his gaze boring into the side of your face. “Nah I don’t know any heroes that have that many tattoos and piercings…oh, a vigilante? Now that makes sense.”

Glancing at him from the corner of your eye you see a satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, his eyes still locked onto you now roaming your figure. Humming in appreciation, Dabi licked his lips, “Got a name, Doll?”

Stamping out your cigarette, you push off your spot on the wall to face him. The man was gorgeous, there’s no denying that. Scars or no, he’s hot as hell, pun definitely intended. Dabi’s eyes darken when you raise your hand to lightly brush a finger over his bottom lip, down the staples on his chin. Your eyes lift from his lips to his eyes and you whisper, “Yeah, I do.”

Walking away, you raise your hand to gesture goodbye, “See ya ‘round, Dabi.”

Chancing a look over your shoulder as you turn the corner, there he still stands; Hands tucked into his pockets, bottom lip taken hostage between his teeth, eyes aflame with desire staring at your retreating figure.

—————

Taking a deep breath, you finally let yourself relax a bit. Your day has been full of assholes trying to take advantage of little old ladies and women. ‘Do they really have nothing better to do,’ you wonder. Wandering down an alleyway, stuck in your thoughts, you didn’t notice the two men fall in step behind you. Nor did you notice the one waiting for you at the end of the path until the chains shooting from his hands wrapped around you, restricting all of your movement. Stepping from the shadows, he pulls the chains taught, chuckling a little he says, “Y’know, my brother said you were hot but I didn’t believe him. Just thought he was out of sorts about you busting him. Now that I see you though…I think me and my friends will have some fun with you.”

“Fuck you, asshole,” you hiss while activating your quirk, lowering your body temperature enough to snap the chains, you turn to handle the men behind you but your access is quickly cut off by a wall of blue fire. Turning back to the man with the chain quirk, you stalk toward him, his eyes wide with terror he begs, “P-please…I just wanted to get back at you for my brother…”

“Fuck you,” you spit, activating your quirk, encasing him in ice and calling your friend on the police force to give the location of the bodies.

You start to walk away but you stop and look over your shoulder. You still hadn’t seen him, only his fire but you know damn well who it belongs to.

“Resorting to stalking me, Dabi?”

“You against having help, Snowflake?” He calls from the shadows.

Rolling your eyes and scoffing, “Thank you. I’ll be at the bar tomorrow night if you wanna meet up.”

“Sounds good, Dollface. Get on home.”

Smiling to yourself, you traipse away from him, determined to ignore the flutter in your chest at the thought of the big, bad villain Dabi caring enough to help you. Even if you didn’t actually need it.

Dabi stood comfortably concealed within the shadows of the alley, watching you walk away. You’ve been on his mind since he met you at Underworld. Fleeting as it was, you left quite the impression and seeing your quirk, blue and purple hair along with your vigilante suit tonight, he knew exactly who you were. Smirking and clicking his tongue against his teeth, he left the shadows as blue and red lights flooded his eyes.

_____

Hearing your phone chime, you turn away from the eggs cooking on the stove, looking at the screen you see a text from an unknown number. That didn’t necessarily mean you didn’t know who it was though.

>Hey, Doll. Can’t make it tonight

Once again ignoring the tightening in your chest caused by one, Dabi, one of the most well known villains in the country, seems to care enough to send you a text to let you know he’s not ghosting you. Two, that he went through the effort to somehow acquire your number and three, you were actually disappointed. That bastard had been filling your head lately and there was nothing distracting enough to keep him out. Obviously there’s no use in trying to ignore your sudden feelings for him since you’re about to become texting buddies.

Awww, did the big, bad villain get nervous to be alone with a girl?<

You chuckle and set your phone down about to turn away when it chimes again.

>Not as nervous as you’ll be the next time I see you if you don’t stop teasing me.

Mmmm…I dunno. Takes a lot to make me nervous. Don’t think you have it in you.<

>Oh I do and you won’t like my teasing, Doll.

That’s pretty big talk, Dabi. You big on following up with your threats?<

>…did you forget who you’re talking to? 😐

I’m sorry…is that a fuckin EMOJI?!<

THE Dabi just used an emoji oh my god<

>Oh god you’re a multi texter. Joy 🙄

>Why is it weird to use emojis? What bc I’m a villain you think I don’t know how to text?

Okay first of all, you just double texted me so idk why you gave me attitude<

Second, it’s the contrasting vibe. You’re dark and brooding Dabi. Emojis break that facade<

>There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Doll.

All the more reason to get a drink, I’d say<

>Tomorrow?

Ohhh I dunno…gonna be pretty hard to get ready if I’m shaking from my nerves<

>At least you’re aware there’ll be consequences

>Maybe don’t leave your apartment today

Oh my god you are actually stalking me<

Ngl, it should probably bother me but it’s kinda hot<

I can hear you rolling your eyes from here<

>You’re such a fuckin brat you know that?

Me? A brat?? I have no idea what you mean, I’ve been nothing but innocent 😇<

>Right…okay, sure. Gotta go, Dollface. Talk later

That stupid little flutter against your rib cage forces a smile to cross your face. Thinking back to Dabi’s warning, you weren’t planning on leaving your apartment today anyway. Opting to take your breakfast to the couch and find a movie to watch, you sank into the cushions.

Hours flew by with you switching between watching tv and reading your…”romance” stories. Glancing at the clock on the wall you realized how much time had actually passed and you started to feel the sleepiness winding through your body. Sighing in acknowledgment that you definitely should’ve gotten to bed sooner, you stood and started walking to your bedroom before being interrupted by an incessant knocking on your door. Looking at the clock once more, noticing the obscenely late hour of 3 AM, you wonder who the hell could be looking for you at this time. You hesitantly open the door, peeking through to see the person waiting on the other side.

“Hey, Doll. About that drink?”

_____

Dabi sipped the amber liquid while you sat next to him recounting the story of how you became a vigilante. When you invited him into your apartment, he seemed to not want to talk about his night or anything else for that matter so you offered to tell him about yourself to which he wholeheartedly agreed to. You never questioned how he knew your apartment number, opting to leave that for another day.

Sitting across from him on your couch felt…strange.

Not that it was bad or uncomfortable, quite the opposite. You actually found yourself wondering how you could possibly feel so comfortable with a man like Dabi.

You’d always held a strong belief that there was more to some than met the eye and Dabi was certainly no exception to that. Instead of being brash and overwhelming as you had previously assumed, he was surprisingly tame; docile, even. He sat and listened to you recount stories like it was the only thing he’d ever desired. You wondered, briefly, where his usual cheekiness had disappeared to until he suddenly sat up, setting his glass down on your table.

Dabi sighed as he leaned toward you, one hand gripping the edge of your couch, the other skimming across your jaw before gripping it firmly and forcing you to look into his cerulean eyes.

“I want you, Doll. I want you in ways I shouldn’t say and I know you want me too. Let’s skip the formalities, yeah?” He asked, leaning in to let his lips ghost across the shell of your ear.

“You saying you wanna fuck me, Dabi?” You whispered, not trusting your voice to be any louder than that.

“You’ve no idea. Been dreamin about being inside you since we met.”

Your lips met his in a hesitant kiss; he didn’t kiss. Dabi was an avid believer in the fact that kissing never added anything of use to his time but when your lips met his, he felt a shift. A shift that he wasn’t sure was good or bad for him but he didn’t much care. His world was chased away as your tongues danced together, full of desire but never battling for dominance; you both knew who would win that war. You tasted far too sweet to pull away from and he found himself not wanting to anyway. Placing his hands on your hips to guide you into straddling his lap, Dabi groaned when your core sat firmly over his growing length, rolling his hips against you he smirked hearing you whimper.

“See, I think you’ve wanted this too,” he murmured against your lips, trying to take back what little control he had with you, “Tell me I’m wrong, Doll. Tell me you don’t want this before I lose it.”

“Now why the fuck would I lie about something like this, Dabi?” You questioned, rolling your hips back against him. Excitement bubbled in your chest when you felt his dick straining against his pants. You instantly knew he was certainly the biggest you’d ever been with and you hadn’t even actually seen him yet. Taking the initiative to capture your lips once again, he moved his hands to the back of your thighs and stood, walking down the hall to your bedroom. You didn’t bother asking how he knew where it was, you came to suspect Dabi already knew way more about you than you realized. Laying you down uncharacteristically gently, he pulled away and placed his hands on either side of your head against the mattress and looked into your eyes. No words needed, you gave a slight nod before he pulled back to remove his shirt and pants while you did the same. He paused when he noticed you staring at him, self consciousness about his scars beginning to cloud his mind just before you reached for him, pulling him back down to the bed and straddling him. Gazing at him as you slid down his body, you took in the sight before you. Scars covered his body, held together by the signature staples also lining his face. Stopping your travels to let your tongue run over a line of them over his hip, you noticed the piercings along the underside and tip of his cock. His intense stare still on you, he quirks a brow at your incessant eye-fucking, wordlessly asking you what the actual fuck you’re doing.

“What? You’re fuckin pretty, okay?” You state, defending your unashamed and lustful gazing.

Dabi didn’t know what to do or say for that matter. He’d never been told that. You thought he was pretty? There’s no way you could possibly believe that…he was a monster; at least to himself anyway.

His spiraling was interrupted by your lips wrapping around the tip of his dick, your tongue gliding across the underside before licking the beading precum. Hissing at the sensation as he threw his head back into the pillows, his hands found their way into your hair, threading through the strands and holding tight as you worked him into your mouth and down your throat.

“Fuck, Doll…” he whispered when you swallowed, your throat constricting around his length. Pulling away with a soft ‘pop’ you leaned back and wrapped your hand around him, giving agonizingly slow strokes, once again silently appreciating the view in front of you. Dabi, apparently done or overwhelmed with your silent admiration, sat up and moved you under him, wedging his way between your legs. The tip of his cock bullied its way into your pussy, filling you much more than you anticipated and he was well aware of that. Fucking you with just the head of his dick while you whined and begged for more was more fulfilling than he’d fantasized.

“Fuckin hell, Y/N. M’gonna destroy you…” he muttered against your chest. His tongue traveled over one nipple while he pinched the other making your back arch further into him. Nibbling and sucking his way up your neck he stops and smirks at you still whining for more.

“Careful what ya wish for, Doll,” he warned before burying himself in one harsh thrust. You’d have cried out if the force hadn’t stolen your breath. Tears brimmed your lashes from the overwhelming sensations jolting through your body. Stuffed entirely to the point you could feel the tip of cock nudging your cervix with every thrust and roll of his hips, his forehead on yours as he gasped at your walls clamping around him, the staples adorning his body lightly scratching your skin, his piercings dragging against every sweet spot, his pelvis grinding against your clit. Dabi pulled back and lifted one of your legs over his arm somehow driving impossibly deeper into your cunt while he let spit drip from his mouth to your clit so he could rub lazy circles with his thumb. His strokes get sloppier, feeling your cunt squeeze and flutter around him and curses and praise fall from his lips. How you take his cock so well, because you’re such a good little slut. His good little slut.

If you hadn’t already gone cock drunk, you would’ve when he put a hand on your tummy and pushed a little to make you feel how deep he was, “Fuck…feel how full you are, Doll? Gonna fill you up…wanna see you swell with my cum, fuck…” As soon as the words dripped from his tongue, your pussy clamped down, milking his cock for every drop of cum he had. Breathless and feeling oddly at peace, Dabi laid a gentle kiss to your lips and fell beside you pulling your back to his chest. He realized that tonight had been the softest he’d ever been with a woman before, the first time he’d wanted to kiss someone, and the first time he was allowing himself to sleep with the person he’d fucked. Resigning to the idea that you would most likely be the first for a lot of things with him, he smiled, content with seeing how this would play out.

__________

Tag list: @fatbitchgeek-blog @sunflowers-rae @whatever-the-fuck-i-dont-care @katsukisdynamite @totally-not-bakus-hoe

[echo-three-one]

Whatever It Takes

It's Task Force 141's first mission after gathering intel about the whereabouts of Samantha Coleman. Gary and the rest of the team proceed to briefing and would probably head straight to their rescue mission. Do these mini summaries even make sense? Find out soon.

Chapter 3 to another story made by Ray (echo-three-one) Comments and Reviews appreciated! I hope you enjoy! Love you all ❤️

Previous Chapter : Soap - F.N.G.

"Run Through the Jungle"

Gary "Roach" Sanderson

Task Force 141

Task Force 141 - Mess Hall

Gary was almost done with his raccoon story when the PA system alerted them of an immediate briefing. Simon nodded to him and got up making his way to the briefing room. Gary also noticed the rest of his squad from earlier walk to the door, and was France crying on Alex? Much to his curiosity, he went to John who was still sitting by the chair.

"Anything you want to tell me, Soap?" he asked, patting his comrade's shoulder. 

"Bugger off, mate. Let's just go to the meeting." he replied, Roach couldn't tell if he was sad or disappointed or mad, but it may have something to deal with France crying.

"Whatever mate. I'm always here if you want to talk it out." he assured, and he was in fact true. It's been a month since the Task Force was created and Gary was the team's therapist, everybody's friend and ally no matter what. He always felt that he could feel everyone's emotions and believes he could be a sponge for someone who's unable to deal with the trauma. Ghost was one of his customers, he had a lot to deal with and Gary was always there for him.

"Few hours ago, our informants intercepted with a group of armed men on a safehouse near the borders of Germany. They told us that there was a man named Augustus who happens to be our step closer to Nero." Gary took note of the information General Shepherd relayed, his scribbles became faster as the General continued.

"We also received word that our hostage, Samantha Coleman is with them in one of these houses. We have to proceed with caution as this area may be rigged with traps or surrounded with tangos." he added.

"As for rules of engagement, fire only when fired upon. This is a local settlement and civilians may be anywhere. We don't want to create unnecessary civilian casualties just to retrieve a single person." he instructed. Gary took a quick survey of the room, everyone looked at the screen intently, he could see MacTavish's eyebrows furrowed in anger, France's eyes were downright sad and Alex, despite being a CIA agent, actually looked worried.

"As for assignments, I'll let your captain take the floor." Shepherd concluded and exited the area, Price then stepped forward and began briefing.

~

The silent chirping of the crickets echoed from the nearby forest. Gary took a cold exhale and leaned on the railings just outside their quarters. 

"Big day tomorrow, huh?" Ghost surprised Roach as he spoke.

"Yeah, it's been a long time since I spotted, but I still know the basics." Gary answered. He and Ghost were assigned for sniper support a few clicks away from the Alpha Team lead by Alex and the Bravo Team lead by Captain Price.

"Your math is good and fast?" Ghost asked, chuckling at the question. Gary inhaled before he answered the question.

"Yeah. Try me." he dared, glancing at the masked man.

"Suppose there's a target about 516 meters far, the wind is one half value." Ghost planned out the situation. Gary's gears started turning as he scratched his freshly shaven chin.

"Five degrees. Descending." he muttered. Ghost thought about it and agreed.

"Yeah. Your math is still on point." he mused laughing at him.

"What do you think Nero is up to? I mean it all doesn't add up. And what's with erasing memories?" Gary flooded the man with questions. Simon just pondered without saying any words.

"I dunno mate. I'm as baffled as you are." he replied, waving to Alex and France who were out on a late night walk.

"Say Gary, what's the deal with the new girl? One minute she looks tough as nuts then the second Soap comes in she's fucking crying?" Ghost rambled. Gary could feel a hint of jealousy but not entirely. It's as if he's mad and jealous at the same time.

"Well, we were too far from their table and I couldn't hear anything. Maybe they had an argument while Soap was out with her on the training room?" Gary speculated, he saw Simon's fists clench as he left his side.

"Eh. Not that I care anyway. Get some rest, spotter. Big day tomorrow." he remarked and went to his room.

"Yeah yeah." he replied waving at the two walking around the oval. They both waved back and Gary yelled good night to them before entering the quarters himself.

Gary plopped on his bed and closed his eyes. He was actually nervous enough that he could hear his own heartbeat, he took deep breaths and lulled himself to sleep. He wanted to see to it that they save the hostage tomorrow and a perfect sleep is what he could contribute right now.

GERMANY

0458H

Gary hated the ghillie suits. It was heavy, uncomfortable and animals sometimes land on you, but it does the job well. Treading the dense forestry just above the safehouse, Gary and Simon head out to look for a perfect spot.

"This one's got a view of the houses." Ghost whispered, signaling Roach to move forward.

"This is Echo Three One, we've cleared the two houses on the right, all empty. Over." Alex reported over their comms.

"Bravo Six copies that and the two houses here are also clear." Price reported.

"Looks like it's going to be the one on the far side." Soap concluded.

"I've got eyes on the safehouse. There's no activity on all windows. Proceed with caution." Ghost reported.

"Rog." Price replied.

"Copy that, eye in the sky." Alex replied.

Gary put out his spotting scope and placed his eye behind the lens.

"I've got my eyes on them, Ghosty. Alpha Team is on its way." he whispered.

Ghost rolled some knobs on his sniper making a soft clicking sound as he spins it.

"Don't call me that, Bug. I have eyes on Bravo Team. Still no movement from the safehouse." 

"This is Alpha Team, approaching the left side of the safehouse."

"Bravo Team is Oscar Mike as well."

"Roach, did you see that?" Ghost whispered.

"Yeah. The winds are shifting." Gary noted, sticking out a tool that detects wind speed.

"Three Fourths value at 400 meters. 15 miles per hour. Adjust to 15.3" he informed, calculating on Ghosts still shoulder with a pen. Decimals are too dangerous to calculate mentally. Ghost's sniper clicked once again to adjust with the wind, he took a deep breath and his targets stabilized once again.

Leaves rustled behind them, Roach quickly held on his rifle and slowly turned back to check if it was an animal. Nothing, but before turning back on his scope, he saw a black figure from the corner of his eye.

"Bollocks. We've got movement on our Six." Roach reported. 

"Remember our ROE, Roach. Fire only when fired upon." Price reminded.

"I'll take care of it from here. You go check on that." Ghost said as he turned back to his scope.

"Roger that. Be safe." Roach quickly ran to the direction if the rustling.

He couldn't make out much of the figure, but he was sure enough it was human. He tried to look for areas where the leaves were disturbed but with the wind picking up, he was clueless. Then there it was again, movement. He quickly dashed to it's direction, not wanting to get lost again. His boots slapped the fresh soil as he made his wauy to a clearing.

'Left, right then left by the rocks.' Gary mentally noted his each turn so he could easily remember but when he's chasing someone whom he felt like it doesn't know where it goes, then it's a whole different story.  

Gary was alone in the windy forest, in pursuit of a person who's out on the woods at five in the morning. He wanted to go back but there's something that bothered him and convinced him to keep chasing it.

"Roach, you okay? They're almost in the safehouse." Ghost pointed out.

"Yeah haaaah… I'm still haaaah… hot on its trail." Gary panted. He suddenly turned when he heard a yelp.

"It's a girl. It might be our hostage." he radioed and followed the direction of the sound.

Soft sobs and English curse words could be heard from where Gary emerged. This alerted the injured female and she plead at the British solider.

"Please. I'm not an enemy. I'm I'm- I don't know who I am or where I am… Please. Don't hurt me." She was an American girl, possibly around 20-30 years old and had blonde hair wearing a black tank top and grey sweatpants, there were a few bruises on her arms and she was threatening him with a stick.

"Maam, put down your weapon and calm down. I will not hurt you." he dropped his weapon slowly on the ground stepped forward, his hands both raised.

"Good good. I need help." she whimpered, looking at her sprained ankle.

Gary immediately took his ghillie off and ripped a piece of his sleeves to wrap around the sprain, treating it with something from his medical kit.

"There you go… You're feeling better now? Maam?" Gary accommodated. The unknown blonde nodded in agreement.

"So.. you don't know who you are?" Gary asked.

"All I know is that I'm with another girl, Brunette." she added.

"I located the one out on the woods. She's American but I can't ID her. She's about 20 - 30 years old, short blonde hair." Gary informed.

"Is that Maxine?" Alex and France simultaneously replied over comms.

"Excuse me. Do you go by Maxine?" Gary asked politely. The girl quickly covered her ears and screamed.

"Aaaaaah! My head hurts!" She yelled. Gary was quick enough to cover her mouth as soon as she opened it as to not give away their presence.

"I don't know if that's a yes or a no guys. But that definitely is a reaction." Gary said over the comms. He assisted "Maxine" and lifted her up as he tries to get back to Ghost.

"Thick trees everywhere. Any Idea where you are Ghost?" he asked over the secure radio.

"I'm at the same spot I've been since we got here. Can't you retrace your steps?" he replied.

"I could try." he muttered, carrying an unconscious woman on his shoulders across the jungle.

Next Chapter : Déjà vu

[miceenscene]

Star-Crossed

din djarin/female oc | soulmate AU | pre-canon

wc: 5.3k / 22.3k (so far)

summary: The Way was not supposed to be a solitary one. People, house, clan. And when all else failed, your Match. “Fits like a Mandalorian Match” was the old saying. Though it wasn’t so long ago that it stopped making sense. But what's a lost Match to a man like Din Djarin?

warnings: is it pining if they're a couple now??, fluff, hurt/comfort, Din Is In A Cult, brief flashbacks

Previous Chapter | Masterpost | ao3

Chapter Seven: The Investigation

The physical heft and weight of beskar had long since faded to the background of Din's senses. But he felt the dense barrier for the first time in years putting it all back on the next morning after Nia had been the one to remove it.

The physical heft and weight of beskar had long since faded to the background of Din’s senses. The absence far more noteworthy in his mind than the presence.

But he felt the dense barrier for the first time in years putting it all back on the next morning after Nia had been the one to remove it.

The memory of fingers running through his hair still tingled under his helmet. She���d gently carded as he drifted off to sleep in her arms, the two of them squeezed into a bunk barely meant for one, and she’d resumed the moment she woke up the next morning.

Perhaps he could wait a little longer to cut it.

Her obvious fondness for his curls was more than worth the minor bother.

Her gentle smile was worth a great deal of bother in his mind, though it was completely absent from her face as they worked side by side back in the Vod’oya headquarters.

With precious other leads to follow, they’d decided that returning and thoroughly searching the records was the best place to start.

The records were thorough, organized and diligent. He’d expect nothing less from a Mandalorian school, despite its… eccentricities.

There was a sudden stop in the records about eight months back. No indication as to why.

Though Din had his guess.

However, the discovery of the stop offered some ease. Nia had been on The Razor Crest for just over seven months. At least she hadn’t spent a great deal of time chipped.

Now if they could just find the bastard who put it in her head in the first place, he’d hold her staff while she delivered righteous justice with her bare hands.

But there was a murder to solve first.

They’d been combing through the rest of the records since the morning, and it was now mid-afternoon.

Neither of them truly certain what to look for, or if their needle was even in this particular haystack.

“Found another gap,” Nia said, leaning back and stretching her neck. “Two days, twenty-seven months ago.”

The only thing out of place was the occasional gap in the records, which were otherwise exhaustingly thorough.

She stood to mark it down on the display board on the other side of the room. They’d found eight in total so far, none longer than four days at most or further back than three years ago.

“It might be computer error,” Din pointed out when she returned to her post at the other terminal.

“Probably,” she muttered, scrolling further down the logs. “Very little else survived wholly… intact… wait.”

“What is it?” He leaned over to look at her screen. There was another gap, three days, thirty-one months ago.

She tapped the screen. “There was a mission between these. I remember, we–we went to a warehouse on Florrum before Bardotta. We burnt the place to the ground and–” The corner of her mouth twitched in a small smile. “Ro singed her eyebrows off with a flash grenade. She looked hilarious for weeks afterwards. I wrote about it in my mission log. Phasia said it was unprofessional.”

“And there’s no record of that?”

She shook her head and turned around to look at their collected gaps on the display board. “These could all be missions, they were never too long, travel time on either side…” she mused, finicking with the end of her braid.

“Someone could have come through and scrubbed them,” Din offered, following her logic.

“But only Vod’oya can get in here.” Her gaze rested on the table still surrounded by seven chairs. “Did I delete them?”

“Or Phasia could have… or someone else holding one of you hostage for access if they were desperate enough...”

“It’s so… selective though. It couldn’t have been a rush job.”

The captive theory wasn’t looking like it was going to hold water.

“And why were they scrubbing missions to begin with?”

Unfortunately, he had no more answers than she did.

She groaned and pinched her brow. “We need someone who’s better at computers than us. Someone who can see if the data’s really gone, or just removed. But they have to be trustworthy...”

A persnickety face immediately came to mind. “I think I know someone who can help.”

Which is how they ended up heading to Tatooine with several terminals in tow.

“Nice to see you on your feet this time,” Peli greeted Nia, all jokes and ribbing until it came time to talk shop.

Given that Nia was generally better with people, Din stepped away to closely supervise the droids refuelling, anticipating subterfuge.

Peli said she’d give data recovery a try, but it would take time. “And it’ll cost ya. Extra!”

“We expected nothing less,” Nia replied, tossing a bag of credits Peli’s way. “Half now, half when you’re done?”

Peli weighed the bag in hand and made an impressed face. “I like you. Mando should keep you around.”

Nia grinned. “He’s stuck with me, I’m afraid.”

“Eh, he doesn’t look too bothered.” Peli stepped closer, as if to be secretive but didn’t lower her volume one decibel. “What’s he look like under that helmet?”

“Oh, he’s exceptionally beautiful. That’s why he covers his face. Otherwise, everyone would be after him for entirely different reasons.”

“I can hear you,” he said, looking their way now that the droids had finished. Peli laughed and Nia just winked, making his chest glow in reply.

Though a question hovered at the edge of his mind, but he didn’t voice it till they left and made the jump to hyperspace.

“Does it bother you?” he asked Nia, not looking away from the pulsing glow as he leaned against the back wall of the flight deck.

“Does what bother me?” she replied, finishing her final checks.

“That you’ll never know what I look like?”

She glanced back at him, still typing. “I know what you look like.”

“You know what I mean.”

She finished and then turned the captain’s chair around before standing. Silently for a moment, she regarded him so thoroughly that he could almost believe that she could see him straight through the beskar.

“I don’t need to see your face to know what you look like, Din. Ni kar’taylir… veman.”

The pause pulled his throat tight and made his pulse thunder beneath his cuirass.

Ni kar’taylir veman.

I know you truly.

That’s what he’d said that night to her in the rain.

Ni kar’taylir darasuum.

I will know you eternally.

Or I love you.

And he’d nearly meant that.

Perhaps she had too.

She closed the distance between them, hands brushing over the beskar barrier and resting on his shoulders. His found a perfect spot in the small of her back.

“Does it bother you?” she asked, looking at him intently again. “That I’ll never see your face?”

It shouldn’t, that same cruel voice hissed in the back of his mind.

But he found himself without a truly honest answer, just mixed emotions sloshing about his ankles.

“I… don’t know.”

She nodded and shifted to tiptoe to press a kiss to the cheek of his helmet, somehow adding to and soothing the conflict all at once.

He held her close till the disquiet slowly settled, but it never fully left after that.

Peli wasn’t cheap so they immediately returned to Karga for more bounties while they waited to hear back.

The return to their normal rhythm was welcome, but immensely improved by the addition of Nia’s flirting and Nia’s kissing and Nia’s… everything.

It became a race to be able to yank his helmet off as soon as the quarry was thrown into carbonite. Whether killing the power in the hull, or shutting the door on their tiny bunk, or even just trusting her to keep her eyes closed.

How other Mandalorians had managed it before him, he wasn’t quite sure.

He resolved to ask the Armorer the next time he went to the Covert. They used to populate a whole planet; surely it wasn’t a complete sin to remove his armor for her, his Match?

Nia, true to her word, never seemed to mind the elaborate measures they had to take.

If anything, they appeared to amuse her. And… on a few memorable occasions, she really seemed to enjoy them.

But to him, his Oath got heavier every time he put the helmet back on.

It went beyond the novelty of her skin on his.

Something… deeper, larger than just them seemed to nearly shudder to life every time she touched him.

Sometimes he would lie awake in their bunk, braided with her, running a hand through her hair as she slept peacefully on his chest, wondering if she felt it too.

This… thing hurtling towards both of them.

Perhaps if more of the Mandalorians’ history had survived the Empire, he’d know what it was.

But instead, they’d have to figure it out together. Just the two of them.

Just like everything else.

They’d been tracking their latest quarry across a mountainous planet for the better part of the day. The mountains were rocky, mostly barren, and littered with caves that made very convenient hiding spots.

They were both covered head to toe in a fine layer of dust from the wind blowing through the crags and valleys between the peaks. Where Nia had repeatedly cleared it away from her eyes was now a different color than her cheeks.

Hopefully, they were getting close.

“Din,” Nia’s voice called from a half dozen feet behind him. He looked back at her, but didn’t even need to see where she was pointing to notice the rising storm of dust racing towards them.

“There’s a cave up the ridge.” He reached a hand for her and put her in front of him as they hurried up the slope to the opening.

The storm blew them inside, covering them both in a fresh layer of brownish grey. Nia coughed a few times as she stumbled deeper inside.

They had to move quite deep into the cave to be free of the wind. Hoping for a break, Din checked the tracking fob. No, it appeared they were not any closer to their quarry.

As the storm fully arrived, the weak light of the sun was dimmed, casting the cave in near total dark.

He reached for his helmet lamp, but a soft blue glow from behind them stopped his hand.

“What’s that?” Nia murmured, moving towards the glow without a moment’s hesitation. Din followed after taking enough hesitation for both of them.

There was a narrow crack in the wall, just big enough for them to slide through one at time, that opened into a large cavern, the walls lined with what looked to be some sort of bioluminescent moss.

The visor on Din’s helmet immediately beaded with water from the warm, humid air. In the middle of the cavern was a pool of opaque teal water, steam rising slowly from the surface.

“The nav computer did say something about hot springs,” Nia said, already walking down towards the pool.

“It may be unsafe.”

Nia stopped by the edge and dipped her staff into the water. It didn’t appear to harm the wood, or her palm when she caught a few drops. She knelt down and reached for the water, sighing as the dust washed away from her skin.

“I think it’s okay.” She grinned and splashed a small handful on his boots. Then she dropped her staff and immediately started kicking off her boots as she unfurled her braid.

“What are you doing?” Din asked, accused really, as her jacket went the way of her boots. Out of habit, he turned away as she grabbed the hem of her shirt, making her laugh quietly at him.

Though some part of him was ...interested in looking back over his shoulder, he didn’t move.

“I am generously granting the quarry one more hour of freedom.” There was a sound of a zipper and more fabric rustling.

Make that very interested.

He huffed, still not moving and clinging to stubbornness in lieu of actual self-restraint. “We don’t have time…”

“We can’t go anywhere with that storm outside. Might as well relax.” She poked his side, making him jump slightly and meet her teasing smile before she waded into the water.

Oh, he was a lucky lucky lucky man.

“Nia,” he said because every other word seemed to have flown out of his head.

The opaque water came halfway up her torso, just wetting the ends of her hair before she slipped fully under the surface.

“Ohh…” she sighed as she resurfaced. Her grin returned as she noticed him still waffling on the shore, yet absolutely enraptured.

Yeah, she knew she had him. And he really didn’t mind all that much. The view was quite lovely from up here.

She swam closer, giving tempting peaks of her strong arms pulling herself through the water, before sinking down so just her head was above the surface. “I would invite you in, but I’m afraid you’d rust.”

He smiled slightly. “Beskar does not rust.”

“Your iron will might.”

He looked back to the opening. Anyone who tried to break in would have to scramble through there, enough time for him to get to shore and grab his blaster if he had to. He unbuckled his rifle and set it next to her staff.

Nia’s smile was bright enough to light the cavern before she turned around. “I’ll close my eyes.”

It took him several minutes to remove the weapons and the armor and the padding and the jumpsuit and the underclothes. Nia had taken to floating while she waited.

He was careful to set both his helmet and his blaster within easy reach. Then he waded in, a deep groan falling out of him as the extremely rare luxury of warm water seeped into tired muscles.

She must have heard him as she chuckled. “Told you.”

It was dark enough to obscure the fine details, but he still didn’t want to risk anything. So he swam out to her and pulled her into his arms, her back against his chest.

The universe settled into place as she did.

“One hour,” he said, reminding himself more than anything.

They floated together for a while in restful quiet, fingers intertwined and her head tucked under his chin.

It’d been a long time since he’d felt such Peace. It was… heavy, secure and immoveable.

“Are those your stars?” Nia asked quietly. “The tattoo on your back, is that your stars?”

“Yes.”

“Tal’onidir, right?” He nodded, and she hummed. “I don’t–what’s that one again…”

“Blood struggle.”

“Oh… that’s… apt.”

She laughed lightly, making him smile and chuckle.

He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Yours are the interesting ones.” He could still picture the relief of her and the stars beside it. “The Mythosaur crown...”

She shook her head and stiffened. “I don’t think those are really mine.”

“You don’t think you’re destined for greatness?”

She scoffed. “We. We are destined for greatness, if they’re true.”

“But it’ll be difficult.”

“Yes. Hard… but worthwhile in the end…”

The idea of Greatness seemed too big to understand. What did Greatness even mean for a foundling bounty hunter and a former vigilante?

Maybe… maybe it just had to be Great for them.

A home could be Great. Somewhere safe and peaceful. Somewhere to stay for a long time.

Usually even the idea seemed so far out of possibility that it became just fantasy.

He looked down at the curve of her cheek that he could see. The elusive idea didn’t seem quite so far out of reach when he was holding her.

“Wonder what it means?” she murmured, her thoughts apparently similar to his.

He kissed her cheek. “I don’t really care.”

She smiled as he tilted her head back enough to kiss her, soft and slow. Before the angle could become strenuous for her, he kissed up her jaw and then down her neck, feeling her every last muscle completely relax as he made his leisurely way across her shoulder.

Her thumb traced the small bullseye tattoo he’d given himself decades ago on his hand before dragging up his arm to brush over the Mythosaur on his deltoid.

“Do you have any tattoos?” he asked, not lifting his lips from her skin.

“Just the one.”

“Where?”

She chuckled. “Why don’t you find it, bounty hunter?”

Challenge issued and permission granted, he nipped her strong shoulder, making her gasp slightly, before kissing his way back to her neck.

He lifted her hair, intending to kiss his way to the other shoulder, and found it.

The swooping Vod’oya ‘V’ rested at the nape of her neck.

The placement surprised him, he could have sworn it was on her arm. He leaned in to kiss it, then stopped.

Wait.

Why was he surprised?

Why did he think her tattoo was on her arm?

He lifted her arm from the water, turning it to examine all sides in the dim blue glow. No tattoo, just a few old scars.

“Din?” she asked, sounding concerned.

Something in his memory finally clicked.

“Did all the Vod’oya have the ‘V’ tattooed?” he asked.

“Yeah, we all got one after our first mission on Cantonica.”

His thumb stroked across the skin just below her elbow as shock filled his senses.

“You’re not the first Vod’oya I’ve met.”

“What?”

“I had a quarry… few years back. By the Guild code, the events are technically forgotten, but… it’s hard to forget a fight like that.” Something else unlocked. “And then… Karga had me deliver the quarry directly to the client.”

“What did she look like? The Vod’oya?”

The rain on the rooftop came to mind first. Then the hooded woman, blocking his blaster fire with just a simple sword and making it look all too easy.

“Red hair. Tall, broad, a scar on her cheek. The tattoo on her right arm, right here.” He tapped Nia’s forearm again, the image of the unconscious woman he’d carried to his ship finally clear in his mind.

Nia sucked in a slow breath. “Phasia.”

As soon as the storm cleared, they captured the quarry and got back to the ship to contact Peli.

“Do you know what time it is?” Peli grouched, just her staticky voice coming over the com.

“Peli, we need you to look up some dates for us in the records. Tell us what’s there,” Nia said, fingers drumming on the dashboard. “And yes, we know it’ll cost extra.”

Peli grumped. “Alright, what dates?”

“Check about three years ago. Any mention of a kidnapping,” Din said.

“Or Captain reported missing,” Nia added.

There were several prolonged minutes of static-filled quiet from Peli, till finally, “I’m not seeing anything like either of those.”

“Are you finding gaps?” Nia asked.

“No. There’s no mention of anyone going missing at all. The only thing about Captain at this time is her being on shore leave for a week.”

Nia looked back at Din, the gears turning in her head. “Are you positive it was three years ago?”

“Yes.”

She nodded a few times, still thinking. “Thank you, Peli, let us know if you find anything new.” And she hung up.

“So three years ago, Phasia had a bounty put out on her, and she didn’t tell the rest of us that she’d been captured.” Nia frowned. “Why hide that?”

“Shame?”

“We didn’t keep secrets from each other, not like this. And she came back, why wasn’t she bragging about her heroic escape?”

“Maybe she didn’t escape. Maybe she was set free.”

Nia let out a long breath, twisting the end of her braid between her fingers. “Three years is before all the scrubbed mission gaps we found. Maybe they’re connected somehow.” She looked back at him. “Do you remember where you delivered her?”

“Coruscant. A penthouse above level 5000.” He’d never made it past the landing platform, but he remembered the shape of the building. “I think I know where too.”

Coordinates were set immediately. But even in hyperspace it would still take time to arrive.

They went through the motions of appearing busy. Din taking time to oil every weapon in his armory. Nia continued her work on her staff; she was beginning to run out of room.

Despite the ever building mystery, there was a question that had lived in the back of Din’s mind since Cantonica. Since they were stuck in a mandated wait, now was as good a time as any to ask.

“When we met Ro… she said that I was ‘one of them’. What did she mean?”

Nia’s hands stilled on her staff for a second, before resuming. “Did you ever go to the Festival of the Frost on the lake?”

Confused at her reply, he answered, “No. We could see the lanterns from up the mountain. When I was young, I tried to sneak out, but I was found breaking curfew.”

She glanced up at him, still working. “That’s what she meant. That you’re part of the– tribe up the mountain.”

Tribe was not the word she was going to use. He could feel it as clearly as her forced casual demeanor.

“What aren’t you telling me?” he asked, calmly. More curious than anything else.

She looked up now, conflicted, and let out a low breath. “Only what you’re not ready to hear.”

He reached for her hand and paused to take off his gloves, wanting to feel the touch of her skin. Pulling her hands off her staff, he held them gently, thumbs brushing over her bruised knuckles.

“Nia. Please.”

She squeezed his hands and was quiet for a few moments, obviously putting her thoughts in order.

“How long were you on Mandalore? Before the Purge?” she asked, searching his visor.

“I finished my training and was sent out a few months before Keldabe fell.”

“Why didn’t you go to the Festival when you were sent out? You were an adult; you could have competed in the tournaments. Or seen the ruins?”

The very idea twisted something in his gut. “…Because… it’s… it was unwise.”

“What was?”

“To…” Why was she asking this? “To spend time with those who were not true Mandalorians.” The old Armorer’s voice still rang clearly in his ear.

She nodded slowly. “What about me? Am I not a true Mandalorian?”

“Of course you are,” he replied, even though something nasty and cruel inside contradicted his own words.

“I went to the festivals,” she said, still conversationally calm. “I saw the tournaments. I was born in Keldabe.” Am I not a true Mandalorian?

Now that she’d laid it out before him, he could see where his own logic wasn’t adding up. He strained to rectify the gap.

“You’re… different,” he insisted.

“How?”

“You’re my Match.”

“What if I wasn’t? What if I was just a woman from Mandalore that you happened to find on Tatooine?” She was studying him closely, not giving him an inch to escape in. “My ancestors rode the Mythosaur. If the Empire had not invaded, I would have worn my mother’s armor. If I wasn’t your Match, would I still be Mandalorian in your eyes?”

The damning truth was that he knew the answer. And in spite of all of his training telling him it was the correct option, he hated it.

“Why does it matter?” he asked, his words heating slightly in his frustration. “It can’t be changed. You are my Match, which makes you Mandalorian.”

“But it doesn’t make me part of your tribe.”

That banked his frustration, concentrating the heat back his way. She’d been allowed in the Covert when she wasn’t in her right mind. But now… even though he considered her Mandalorian, she was barred from entering.

His Match, and possibly someday his chosen partner, forbidden from his community.

How could that be right?

But it was… wasn’t it?

“What happens, exactly, if another living being sees your face?” Nia asked, drawing his attention back to her concentrated study. “If you revealed it, by choice?”

“I could never put my armor back on,” he said in a low voice, his gut twisting for all new reasons. “If… If I chose to break my Oath, I would return it. To the tribe. Let it be melted down and given to a warrior who deserved it.”

She seemed to sense his unease with just talking about it and squeezed his hands tightly. “And would you still be part of the tribe?”

He shook his head, frowning down at their hands. A black pit had opened in his stomach. “No. I would be… as dead—worse. Forgotten.”

“Then what?”

His gaze lifted. “What?”

“You’ve returned your armor, you’re exiled from the tribe, but you still have your life. Then what?”

His mouth opened and shut a few times as he tried to picture something, anything, that would come after That.

It was just darkness. And isolation.

“Then… Nothing. I would have nothing. I would… deserve nothing.”

She let go of his hand to press the control panel on the wall, immediately killing the lights. He was surprised at her clambering into his lap and pulling off his helmet, before wrapping him in a tight embrace. It was tight enough to squeeze the air out of his lungs, but bracing because of it.

She held him tightly for a minute before speaking. “You’d have me,” she whispered fiercely near his ear. He could hear tears in her voice and that made him hold her just as tightly back.

“You’ll always have me,” she promised, letting go just enough to press her forehead to his. “And even… even if you didn’t have me… you have Peli.”

The absurdity of her sentence pulled a laugh out of him. “What?”

“You’re a good man, Din Djarin. And there are more people like you out there in the galaxy than you may think.”

“Point one out next time you see one,” he muttered.

She huffed in amusement, then sobered. “I understand fearing losing your home, more than most. I do.” Foreheads still touching, she shook her head. “But you’ll never have nothing. And you’ll never deserve it either.”

She kissed his forehead, hands cradling his face as if it was beyond precious to her, despite never seeing it.

Something flickered through where his forehead met her lips, deeper than just a star burst.

A loyalty other than his own. A hope so determined it felt like a gift.

A curling wisp of Connection that evaporated so quickly he could almost second guess its existence at all.

So he pulled her down for a kiss, and he didn’t stop kissing her till they arrived at Coruscant.

Despite the entire planet being one metropolis, there still weren’t too many buildings that reached all the way up to level 5000.

Din was piloting as they approached, trying to picture any other landmarks around the twin-spired building from his memory. If he wasn’t mistaken, it wasn’t too far from the old Senate Plaza.

After an hour or two of searching, Nia suddenly gripped his pauldron. “Wait.”

He pulled out of the flow of traffic and then spotted a twin-spired building. That had to be it, right? He flew closer and the octagonal landing platform for the penthouse came into view. Yes, he remembered that too. This was it.

“Stop,” Nia ordered before they got close.

He turned to ask her and found her scrambling back up against the door out of the flight deck, her eyes wide and frozen on the building.

“Nia.” He leapt out of his chair and reached for her, purposefully blocking her view as his bare hand cupped her cheek.

Connection.

Images suddenly flashed in his mind, as if he was remembering but he knew he’d never seen them before.

Dropping off a grappling line onto an octagonal landing platform, exhilaration and rage flowing hotter than blood as she pelts for the door.

Skulking down a dark wide hall, listening intently for anything, hand gripping her blaster tight, and without warning, the lights blaring on, blinding.

Struggling against restraints on a cold table in a white sterile room as a mask is fitted to her face, panic threatening to drown her before gas hisses and everything dims.

Watching a human man in an elaborate suit run a finger along her cheek, wanting desperately to reach out and strangle him and not a single muscle responding. He smiles.

“Thank you for the intel. You’ll make a lovely gift, my dear.”

Din stumbled back for half a breath, the images stopping as soon as he broke contact with her.

What was that?

Nia’s frozen horror kept him from wondering further. He immediately pulled her into a tight embrace, shielding her from everything.

She was shaking, fingers curling under the edges of his armor. “Don’t go in there,” she begged in a wavering voice.

Even if the last time he hadn’t trusted her gut didn’t nearly kill him, her tone would have been more than enough to change his mind.

“We won’t. I promise.”

They parked The Razor Crest in a nearby docking bay and backtracked to the twin-spired building; Nia remaining calm though definitely uneasy on a second viewing. A nearby building was under construction, giving them a perfect place to set up for reconnaissance.

Nia kept watch on the landing pad while Din did his best to try and hack into the computer system. Despite both of them seeing his face, they still didn’t know the name of the man who owned the penthouse and had chipped her.

Unfortunately, Din wasn’t having a lot of success.

“One of us should learn how to work with computers someday,” Nia said, not looking away from the landing platform. As if it might try something if her eyes shifted an inch.

“I nominate you,” he replied as an error code popped up on screen again.

By the time night fell on Coruscant, neither of them had had any luck in cracking into the system.

“We’re going to have to hire a hacker,” Din said as Nia swore under her breath at the error screen’s most recent appearance.

“We can’t afford a hacker. We could barely afford Peli.”

“We could always come back. People that rich don’t abandon their properties. It’ll still be here.”

Nia frowned in the direction of the twin-spires, but before she could respond, the elevator in the middle of the building chimed for the first time since they’d arrived.

They both scrambled for cover, finding some behind support pillars mere seconds before the doors opened.

Din took the safety off his pulse rifle, making eye contact with Nia who had the better vantage. She dared a glance around and then held up a finger.

One person, they could easily take that.

He held up a flat palm before pointing at himself. Wait, me first. She nodded.

He stepped around the pillar, rifle trained on the small, cloaked figure just outside the doors.

“Who are you?” Din demanded, aiming for the shadow of the hood.

The figure walked forward, their gate smooth yet cautious. “What brings a Mandalorian to investigate this place?” the figure asked instead, her voice aged and lightly accented.

“My business is my own. I have no quarrel with you.”

“We will have a quarrel if you do not tell me why you are here, bounty hunter. You and your accomplice behind the pillar.”

Blaster out, Nia stepped around the pillar. “He asked you a question–who are you?”

The figure stared at her, as if in shock, then said, "Niæna?"

The figure pushed her hood back to reveal an older human woman with a head of curly grey hair and a long scar through one eye.

Nia dropped her blaster.

“Anella?”

Chapter 8: The End

taglist: @loversandantiheroes ; @kelenloth ; @keeper0fthestars ; @sarahjkl82-blog ; @thirstworldproblemss ; @spideysimpossiblegirl ; @i-belong-in-fandoms ; @gallowsjoker ; @nova646 ; @darnitdraco

[winifredsandersonsbitch]

“My Babysittee’s a Vampire”

Spike x Reader, BTVS

Warnings: cursing, partial nudity, a little pain? but not necessarily violence. Possible spoilers.

Description: The reader volunteers to watch Spike at Giles’s house while the others do some sluthing, but nothing goes as planned. It turns out that vampires are very hard to babysit.

Spike swore that the chip in his head prevented him from hurting anyone, but you weren’t so sure. Giles decided to keep him chained up in the house for observation and that required someone to actually observe him. You volunteered.

You were still the weakest of the Scoobies, unfortunately (except for maybe Anya, but she got points for being an ex-demon). There wasn’t much you could do except get in the way of the monster fighting. But if you could be helpful by staying in and doing some homework, hey. You weren’t going to complain.

“What, Buffy can’t even be bothered to watch me herself, now that I’m all neutered?”

Spike was in a hell of a mood, seemingly forgetting that he had come to you and your friends for sanctuary. It probably didn’t help that Giles and Xander chained him up in the bathtub.

“She’s busy.” You were unsure of whether or not you were trying to comfort him or just get him off your back. “Guess you’re stuck with me.”

“So I’m just supposed to sit here and stare at the bloody wall all night?”

“Mhmm.”

You were up against the opposite wall, trying—and failing—to get through the sociology chapter your professor had assigned that day. Everyone else in the gang seemed to ignore their homework entirely, except maybe Willow, but you needed a good grade. Your future plans extended outside Sunnydale. But that was only half the trick. You also had to convince Buffy to come with you.

Spike lapsed into silence as you took your notes, the concept finally clicking into place in your head after the third time around. You highlighted and underlined, drawing triangles to help you understand the ideas of hierarchy and filling up your margins with little asides that helped you contextualize. You didn’t even wonder if you should be worried about the vampire’s sudden quiet until his voice broke through your focus.

“Read to me.”

You dropped your pen, startled. He was staring at you intently, like how you imagined a lion might study its prey. Like everything else had faded from view and he was trying to decide whether or not to take his chances on the hunt.

“I-It’s just soc-sociology,” you stuttered, holding up the textbook for him to see. “I don’t think you’ll like it.”

“I like people.” Spike bared his teeth in a grin that you guessed was supposed to be charming or encouraging, but toed past the line to frightening. When you hesitated, he sweetened his voice, practically cooing, “Come on. What harm could it do?”

So you did. He never asked you to stop and explain anything or gave any indication that he didn’t understand, but you interjected your own learnings in anyway. You almost forgot that it was him you were talking to. Willow used to really value school, and she was still the smartest person you knew, but witchcraft was taking over her areas of interest and none of the others cared about this kind of stuff unless you were helping them with their own homework. It was nice to have a rapt audience, even if he was literally being held captive.

“Basically, he’s saying that social environment shapes how we act and react to situations. Like in the Stanford Prison Experiment.” Your eyes darted from the text to Spike, waiting for a nod or something, but he looked as much like a statue as ever. “Good people can be made to do bad things because of the pressure they feel, real or imagined, to follow the rules that have been set in their environment.”

You waited for him to tell you that you had been right before and he was bored, but instead he leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. The chains around his midsection clanked against each other and you forced yourself to keep your expression neutral, even though your heart felt like it might beat out of your chest.

“What about bad people?”

Being around Buffy and the others, around so much supernatural for so many years, had made you into a person who could handle most things with a cool head. It was a required skill. You could freak out about the little things—tests, dating, work—though they seemed to matter less now than ever. But you couldn’t let the supernatural world scare you shitless unless you wanted to shut down completely. Your hands trembled where they grasped your book, but you kept your voice even. You forced your eyes upward to meet Spike’s.

“You tell me.”

——

You couldn’t run away from him, even though you were deeply and truly uncomfortable, so you excused yourself and went to the kitchen for a snack. You knew you shouldn’t leave him alone for too long, chip or not, so you sat down at the table and tried to catch your breath. You were counting down from one hundred when he started shouting about blood.

“It’s unfair,” he said when your frame filled the doorway, arms crossed, “that you get your snack and I don’t get mine.”

At this, his eyes raked down your body. You doubted that the gang would mind much if they came back to find him with a broken nose, but you exercised some hard-won self-control and dug your nails into your palms. Spike was smart and if he was working you up, it was probably for a reason. You treaded back to the kitchen and returned with a mug filled with some B negative that Giles had “borrowed” from the hospital’s blood bank.

“This is the last of the human stuff,” you told him with some satisfaction. “Next you’re drinking pig’s blood.”

You held the mug well away from you, willing your eyes to ignore the splatters on the rim from when you had poured it in. Spike cocked his head.

“Are you going to unchain me, or—?”

“I’ll get a straw.”

When you came back, he was slumped against the inside wall of the porcelain tub. You sat on the edge, held the mug up for him, and turned your head away, enough that you couldn’t see him take his first sip but not enough that he would notice. The sound by itself was almost worse.

“It’s cold.”

“I’m not running a hotel. You’re a hostage.”

“I’m a guest seeking asylum.”

You sucked in a deep breath. “Fine.” You couldn’t bicker with him any more. You needed this to be over.

You warmed it in the microwave, swearing the whole time, and brought it back with both hands wrapped around the mug to keep yourself from throwing the blood in Spike’s face. He smiled as if he knew what you were thinking and relaxed against the tub, tilting up only his chin so that you had to sink to your knees against the tile floor to get an angle that would work.

“I could get used to this,” he mused when he had finished. A few droplets splattered on your hands. You tried not to look at them and began soaping up in the sink.

“Don’t.”

“You know, love, Passions is on in twenty, if your watch is correct.”

You unclasped it from your wrist and wiped it off with a damp tissue. “Forget it.”

“I guess we could always read more from the textbook.” You caught his crafty smirk in the mirror. “You seemed to like that well enough.”

You sighed. “Will it get you off my back?”

“If that’s what you want.”

“Fine.”

You crossed to the tub and tried to puzzle out how to lift him without breaking anything. Spike’s hands were bound in front of him by a separate set of chains than his body to make it more difficult for him to escape and give him some limited mobility. His back was flush up against the tub wall, pressed to the porcelain in a way that would make it difficult to pull him up from behind. There was a small amount of space in between his legs, as his feet had been spread to either side of the tap.

“Well?”

“Shut up.”

You stepped into the tub gingerly, easing over the high rim to stand in between Spike’s legs in the space provided. It wasn’t much, and you caught the fabric of his jeans under your foot at first, but you adjusted.

Next you placed your arms on either side of his chest right under his arms.

“Lift with me,” you said, and together you managed to get him to sit on the edge of the tub. “Okay, next—”

He straightened out, trying to stand before you were ready for him, overcompensating so he wouldn’t hit the wall nearest to him and then hitting you with the full force of his weight as he toppled forward.

“Fuck, Spike!”

He was so goddamn heavy. His chest pressed against your face, forcing your back to the wall where the tap caught you in the back of the lower thigh and tore the skin. You couldn’t shove him back unless you wanted him to fall out the back of the tub and onto the floor, possibly cracking his skull in the process. It was tempting, but your reputation as a babysitter would be shredded.

“This isn’t exactly comfortable for me either, you know!”

“Ouch. Ouch. Fuck. Okay, I’m going to push you back slowly. Try to keep your balance.”

But when you moved your leg to keep it from being pressed against the spout, you hit the knob for the cold water, which came pouring down over your heads.

Spike cursed so loudly the neighbors could probably hear. “Turn it off!”

“Stand up! I can’t turn it off with you all over me like this!”

He righted himself too quickly and fell backward back into the floor of the tub, sending his legs sprawling out beneath you. Your feet were knocked out from under you and you fell on top of him heavily, bruising your elbow and knocking your chin against his sternum as the water poured on.

“Fuck,” he whispered, unable to do anything else. It took you both a moment to adjust to the pain and you closed your eyes to your own idiocy.

“Did you hit your head?” you asked finally, reaching out a hand to the platinum blond mop that was now plastered against his skull.

“Turn. The bloody. Water. Off.”

“Okay, okay,” you huffed. He groaned as you sat up, spreading your legs to either side of his hips to steady yourself and keep from slipping in the tub that was slowly filling up. “But this was all you. You had to watch Passions.”

“You’re the one,” he grunted, “who volunteered to play babysitter.”

The shower head drenched you as you twisted and leaned back to flick the knob off.

“I’m normally good with kids, so I figured I could handle one whiny brat for a night.”

You were breathing heavily, your body throbbing from all the places you had scraped and bruised in the struggle. Spike didn’t look much better, although you supposed he had his super vampire healing or whatever. You weren’t worried about it. Your clothes, on the other hand...

“Now what?”

Carefully, you stood and stepped out of the tub. You avoided your textbook on the ground as you grabbed a towel from the cabinets underneath the sink and wrapped it around yourself.

“You can’t leave me here.”

There was at least an inch of water kept in the tub by the plugged drain. It would probably serve Spike right to sit there all night. You both knew that the others would find it funny rather than an exercise in abuse of authority.

“Take the chains off,” he said, switching his tone from murderous to honeyed. “I promise I won’t bite.”

“You can’t,” you retorted, before realizing you had proven his point. “I mean, if what you say is true.”

“Do you think I would be here right now if it wasn’t?”

You couldn’t. This was the setup for a disaster. Things like this always happened to you guys.

“Look, I could’ve hurt any of you before you chained me up. I didn’t.”

He did look kind of pitiful, soaking and lying on his back in the bathtub.

“Maybe you were playing the long game. And now you’ve decided it’s not for you.”

Your words made sense, but you were wavering. Maybe you had a death wish. You left the room for a moment and returned with the key.

“Your hands stay locked up.”

“Fine.”

You were all too aware how close to him you were now, to his mouth. You barely breathed when you stepped into his personal bubble and let the chains slide to the floor. His lips twisted as he looked down on you and before you could step back, his face contorted and he stretched his mouth open.

“Ow! Fuck! Bloody hell!” he cried, putting a hand to his head as you fell back onto the floor on your already sore ass, scrambling backward. “It was a joke!”

“Buffy should have staked you,” you spat, but you led him into the living room anyway.

The two of you were still dripping all over the carpet, but you ducked into Giles’s closet after re-hiding the key and brought out two pairs of pajama pants and a t-shirt.

As it was, you had to take the scissors to Spike’s shirt and throw it out. It was impossible to get it off with the chains on, though you gave it a shot anyway and ended up tangling Spike in it. It was kind of gratifyingly funny to see his head tucked in under the fabric as he struggled.

“You bloody witch!”

“Stop squirming!”

The pants were worse. He had to sit down in the armchair as you shimmied his soaked jeans off, leaving him only in boxers.

“Like what you see?”

“Shut up or I’ll leave you like this.”

Getting the pajamas on was even harder. He had to stand up, support himself by leaning his hands on your shoulder, and kind of hop into the legs of it as you held them up. They were big on him, too, but you tied the drawstrings as tightly as you could, which meant having your hands near a very sensitive area for a few seconds. Ultimately, the pants still hung low on his hips, and you wrinkled your nose in frustration. When you pulled back, Spike had his lips puckered, stringently trying to avoid laughter.

“So you’re just going to leave me in damp knickers?”

“We’re all having to make sacrifices today. Turn around.”

You didn’t want to leave him again, not even for a second, afraid of the trouble he’d get up to on his own. You yanked off your own jeans and t-shirt, watching his back in case he disobeyed you, unable to ignore how muscled and lean he was.

Goddamnit, he really could kill you if he had half a mind to. You’d been training ever since you’d found out what Buffy was, but with school and a job, there was only so much you could fit in.

You wavered between turning around to unclasp your bra and staying in place to monitor him, but ultimately you decided it was safer to just hurry up and do it. You weren’t sure how much skin Spike saw when he went ahead and broke the rules, but it was more than you had hoped. You pulled the t-shirt over your head hurriedly, but Giles wasn’t necessarily a very big man, and it was decidedly short on you.

“Spike,” you hissed. “Go watch TV.”

“Well, we’ve probably missed Passions by now. But our romantic evening doesn’t have to be ruined.” His eyebrow quirked suggestively and you balled up your wet jeans, aiming right at his face.

“Go!”

You almost took yourself out on the corner of the coffee table as you pulled on Giles’s only pair of pajama shorts. You had to roll the top down three times for them to sit at your hips without totally falling off. Spike watched you do it. You gritted your teeth and said nothing.

When the others came back, you and Spike were in separate chairs, your hair still drying.

Xander opened his mouth and then closed it, glancing back and forth between the two of you. Giles seemed disturbed, his right eye beginning to spasm as he spotted the piles of clothes on the floor. Willow stifled a laugh, almost choking on it. And Buffy’s fists curled like she was preparing to hit one—or both—of you.

Spike didn’t look away from the TV, although the corner of his mouth twitched. You dug your fingers into the chair’s arm rests.

“I deserve a raise.”

[tae-cup]

.hamartia. ‘Part 3,

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader (f) x Taehyung (?)

Genre: Mafia!Au, Fluff, Angst (Mostly angst oopsies) I DO NOT CONDONE BEHAVIOR DISPLAYED IN THIS, PLEASE IT’S FICTION AND DON’T DO STUPID THINGS THANK YOU

Plot: Y/N is a skilled, well, torturer, though you don’t like to call yourself that; it makes what you do too real. When mafia boss Yoongi wants information or wants a hostage to suffer, you step in. However, one fateful day you are thrown Taehyung, another person who does your line of work. You need answers, he is determined not to give them to you. That’s when you try...a different approach, and Yoongi is not pleased.

Rating: TV-MA

WARNINGS: YO IF YOU’RE NOT COOL WITH SUBTLE BI AGENDAS THEN I’M SORRY THIS IS NOT THE PLACE FOR YOU, Blood, torture, mafia things (ya know?), drugs alcohol, sadistic tendencies, a fundamentally flawed main character (I’m sorry i’m just writing myself pretty much), assault, harassment, stalking (not bad), romance (somehow), Maybe stockholm syndrome???

Word Count: 1.2k words I’m sorry this one is sorta short :(

A/N: I am...exhausted today. Please please be aware, this chapter has dark themes. If you are sensitive to su*cide and otherwise, this may be a little dark for you. I will mark out the scene where it’s mentioned, however. 

Other:

Masterlist 

Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Next

Avoir le mal de quelqu’qun

~(phr.)intensely missing someone so much, it literally makes you sick. 

-

-

It took two doses of the sleeping meds to put him to sleep. Taehyung was so resistant, despite you continuously proving you had good intentions over the past few days. You glared at his now unconscious body. You knew he probably couldn’t hear you, but you spoke to him all the while as you bustled around the room. 

“Ah, taehyung, it’s so good to have you here. I just know you’ll love the new room.” You mused. 

The only reason it had taken a few days for anything to physically change in his treatment, was because Yoongi refused to give him a bedroom upstairs. When you had fired back with “My job is to get information, you never said how.”, he relented. Though, he had questioned if you thought this was worth it. You could have sworn there was a hint of jealousy in his voice, but you dismissed it out of hand. Now, your eyes swept around the luxurious room. It was one of many spares, and it was right across the hall from yours. 

“I hope you like the room color.” You looked around at the dark navy blue walls. “I picked it out thinking of you.” You said, almost as if you were to be husband and wife. not captor and hostage. 

You had also spent the past few days redesigning the layout of the room. Instead of keeping him in a cage like an animal, you decided to give him a doghouse. Comfortable, but still, very much a cage. The windows were now plastic with several layers of it too. If he wanted fresh air, he could open the small side window. It was barely big enough to fit a hand through, much less a person. He had a desk in the far right corner and the bed face the right as well, head board resting on the left wall. There was a nice carpet on the floor, but no rugs or anything. If he was as dangerous as Yoongi led you to believe, you knew he could probably do any multitude of things with limited resources. You made sure to check and double check the room for any potential issues. 

There was a tooth brush, blunt, not very stabby, and a hair brush in the bathroom. The desk held no writing utensils, just paper. You decided that if he wanted to write, you would have someone watch him carefully while he did so. There were no light fixtures on the ceiling to prevent suicide and there were no mirrors. There were no locks except on the main door, and he couldn’t control that one. All furniture was bolted to the floor to make it so he couldn’t prevent anyone from entering the room by barricading himself in. 

You had trouble reading him, despite getting to know him better recently. He rarely spoke to you or Jimin. Speaking of which, the silver haired male strutted into the room behind you. He also did a check and nodded. With that, you untied Taehyung and with the help of Jimin, you hoisted him onto the bed. You both set to work tucking him in. Then you placed the loose chain around his ankles onto him and pocketed the key. The chain was long enough that he could go anywhere in the room without any issue, and it was loose enough that he hopefully wouldn’t notice it much. Still, it was a safety precaution. You watched his sleeping form for a moment before your eyes flicked away. He looked so peaceful and innocent. 

You had come to realize that Mr. Kim Taehyung was anything but innocent. He had yet to tell you his real job, but he alluded to a much more serious job than a low level drug dealer when you spoke to him. You and Jimin quietly left the room. There were security cameras in three corners of the room and a hidden one in the wall sconce if he managed to disable the others. You made sure no blindspots were left. 

Jimin turned to you, a small smile on his face. 

“If this works, I want you to re-evaluate how we do things.” He said calmly. 

“What? Really?” Your eyes narrowed at the idea. You had done things differently before, but you didn’t like how that turned out.

“We don’t have to be inhumane and barbaric. I mean, you know I’ve always hated this. The only reason I’m here is because of you and the others.” He explained sheepishly. He scratched the back of his head. “I could leave at any time, I have the means.” 

It was like a slap in the face. You knew he was never happy with his situation, but you had begun to think he had accepted it. After all, he carried out your commands without flinching now. You cared for him as a partner and friend. You didn’t want him to leave. He understood that you would be alone if he left, he knew that. Yoongi was practically just a stranger to you now; a stranger you knew a lot more about than you should. And Jimin...Jimin was a source of comfort for you. He was too good to be in this world of filth.

Hesitantly, you place your hands on his shoulders. 

“Okay.” You relented. Anything to get him to stay. “Just don’t up and leave me, please.” You said softly. You couldn’t tell if you were a monster or a human capable of love; a very damaged human. Maybe all monsters were damaged human beings. 

-

-

Su*cidal Thoughts WARNING (Please, as someone who has struggled with these thoughts, please please please reach out to someone.) Hotlines

“Y/N, you need to stop this nonsense, really.” Yoongi, remained calm, absolutely still. He suspected this was just another mental breakdown of yours. “Love, just, just step back over the railing, let’s talk about this.” 

“Yoongi.” Your voice quivered. You turned from your spot on the balcony. You were on the other side of the railing, arms out behind you, gripping on for dear life. Below was a long drop to darkness. When you turned to look at him, your eyes were wet and your nose pink from crying. Inside felt eerily still, as if this was meant to be. Your body longed for the ground below. “Yoongi, I’m a monster. I can’t live with myself knowing what I’ve done to these people.” You whispered, worried the night wind would take your breath away. 

Yoongi had always known you were on the edge of sanity. He had asked you to take a break, to which you had refused. Still, every time he saw you on the balcony, in that bathtub, on that chair, his heart dropped. Did he have any right to keep holding onto you anymore? Could he keep doing this? Maybe it was best if he helped you get away from this life. But his selfishness, his greed to keep you to himself was too great. 

He had been in that place, over the railing, on the chair, in the tub. Now, he peered into your eyes, breath catching and wondering if this was it. Would this be the time he lost you? It seemed death longed for you as much as he did and between that war, where did you fall? Where was your humanity; your opinion? 

“I love you, Y/N.” He uttered those words a million times and each seemed to carry a different tone. He took another hesitant step forward. You turned back around with a grimace, looking at the fall below. You hadn’t been scared of heights, but now you shook. Was this right? Where else would you go if you didn’t end this here. What other purpose did you have besides misery? And at that moment, it felt like you had struck a deal with the devil. 

You could cause misery, lots of it. You didn’t climb back over that railing because of Yoongi rushing to you, hugging you, and whispering I Love Yous. No, You climbed over that railing a new woman. It was a sharp turn. You took the innocent girl that was you, and you locked her in the closet while she was blissfully unaware. Even when she screamed to come out, you held the door shut. 

END of Su*cidal Thoughts 

-

-

You watched Kim Taehyung eagerly. It felt like when you planned a surprise part for a friend. You were awaiting a reaction. The surveillance room was dark as it was well past midnight. Jimin was asleep on the couch behind you. 

“Psst.” You turned around and nudged him with a shoe. “I think he’s waking up.” 

Jimin jolted awake, seemingly dazed for a few seconds as he fought to regain a sense of his surroundings. 

“I see.” He yawned loudly and stretched his hands upwards. He then stood and leaned over you as you studied the screen. Taehyung seemed surprised, an eyebrow jerking upwards. You saw him take note of the room, a very observant creature indeed. You then saw him look at each surveillance camera, no doubt wondering how to disable them. Then you saw him stand and move towards the bathroom. You didn’t have surveillance there as you had a little decency. But he didn’t know that. You sat back, watching his explore the room. He half-heartedly shook his ankle, seeing how loose it was. Then he made his way to the desk. Upon seeing there were no utensils for writing, he scowled. He looked up to the blank ceiling, then back down to the bolted down furniture. 

“Funny.” He said, loud enough for the audio to pick him up. “You guys are smart. You planned well.” He ran a few fingers through his curly hair. Then he looked up at a camera. “It might take even me a few weeks to figure out how to escape.” 

You didn’t know whether to feel flattered or annoyed at his arrogance. YOu found yourself crossing your arms unhappily, even though he couldn’t see you. It still felt like he was staring into your soul through that camera. Jimin shooed you out of the seat and he sat down to work on other surveillance related things. You had gotten permission from Jin to use his surveillance room for the night and you crashed on the couch. It was surprisingly comfortable, no wonder Jimin fell asleep so quickly. You closed your eyes, feeling yourself drift off. 

Then you felt yourself falling. It was falling like you had dreamed of, a fall that landed on soft grass and the night sky above you as the world went black. It was all a fantasy, but your stomach churned this time as you felt your body in a free dive. You woke up with a start, breath heavy and labored. Jimin was resting at the surveillance desk, eyes barely open. 

You took in your surroundings. You weren’t falling. You were just fine... You carefully dug around the room that was packed with all sorts of things, and you found a blanket. You wrapped Jimin in the blanket and went about getting yourself comfortable. You had a feeling Mr. Kim wouldn’t be all too entertaining for the next few hours as he had managed to fall asleep again. You had no idea how he managed that when you couldn’t seem to go a few hours without waking up shaking. As you watched the two sleep, one on screen and one next to you, you smiled ever so slightly. Perhaps Jimin was right, maybe you really did need to re-evaluate. It was nice going to sleep without dried blood under your fingernails. 

-

- 

part 3, d o n e. I mean, not like you guys asked for it but I felt like it. Let me know your thoughts!

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[creation-is-chaos]

‘The Enemy of My Enemy Sings Songs Of Poison Melodies’ | Mad Alt Plot

Clandestine is the night of secret rendezvous in the cover of darkness. Most lucrative times for unsavory activity but this is mere business. Always in the eyes of the man who walks with midnight on his shoulders, coat tail swinging in his fluid steps, he lifted a gloved hand to stop the approaching figure. At the time time it seemed to be rather innocent. Despite leaving his Camaro parked outside of the gate it loomed undercover. The black sheen does make for a perfect getaway in times of these. Nighttime is his time. 

“H-hello,” the figure stuttered out into the crisp air. 

“Chilly this evening.” Corvus had commented on the weather as if he were not in the middle of a private affair. An affair never of passion’s lust but passion’s just violence. “Does it affect your speech pattern? Teeth chattering? Or are you simply here to insult me?” The questions rang with impatience, voice dark in the scrutiny of the other man. No, not a man. 

As Corvus soon stepped forward under the single light cast from an iron lamppost he saw them clearly. His brow furrowed slightly. A boy? 

“What are you doing here?” Demanding it quickly, he curled fingers onto the silver wolf head of his cane. Eyes darted over the expanse of the enclosure, brick scuffing beneath his soles as he moved closer. “You boy.” Gripping him by the shoulder, he glared, lip curling up over his teeth. “Who did you see come here? Who?!” 

“Careful Dear DeVille.” A voice cut the air smoothly, feminine alluding to another who watched from shadows. He enjoys to blend as a dark hubris among the clouds. She steps out in stark white tiptoeing the contrast of all. “We wouldn’t want to scare the child would we?” 

Corvus yanked the boy to him. Pulling the thin sword from the cane holder flashed the blade up and center of this decoy’s throat. He twisted his leather hand in a threat. “Perhaps I will spill his blood instead. If you do not tell me your reasons for being here....Frost.” 

She took a step. Heels clicking in tandem to short cautious steps, the woman donned a coat over her shoulders, tailored to match her suit. Stylish even among the decree of vile back alley deals. At least they shared the same taste. No filthy alley but a lovely gated property owned by the very man he expected to find. 

“This is all rather simple, DeVille. I am here to greet you for our mutual friend. Mr. Farmer wishes he could see you but he is a bit - uncertain of your intentions.” She waved a hand at the current hostage he had. “It seems his caution was warranted. Considering you have his nephew.” 

Nephew? Corvus’ eyes flit down at the boy breathing hard in his grip. His right eyebrow arched at the woman. Not just any unknown woman but one he knows well from past dealings. Holland Frost. She does perform with appropriate frigidity. “A man who sends a child, his kin no less, leaves something to be desired.” Corvus nudged the boy aside. He sprinted away but the man hardly paid attention. Instead his dark gaze remained with Holland’s ice. 

Holland laughed briefly. “Oh my,” she teased him, clapping hands together. “You let him go? My you are growing soft. Though I imagine it all has to do with your lost baby.” Holland lets it hang in the air as his expression transitions from emotionless to a glimmer. Oh but a glimmer of emotion is worth a thousand words.

Corvus drew the sword outward. Pointing to the woman who stood far enough on the other side of the circular alcove, he snarled. “Cunning bitch.” 

“Am I? Do not act so surprised. You and your boyfriend Kamski are not the only two who have a set of eyes on this city. We’re not the only players in this twisted game we weave Dear DeVille. You should know that better.” 

“I know plenty,” he corrects. “I know you are one of the better snakes in Detroit. It is quite enjoyable to see you again, Holland. A shame I cannot say so often. Though you do have me at a disadvantage.... for once.” 

“If you mean that little detective you and your almost lover fuck then I consider it an accomplishment.” Holland did not mince words. Her lips purse looking over his stance. “I enjoy a man who likes their swords. And has a sword to use properly.” She paused, reaching into the bag in her hand.” 

Corvus jabbed the sword in a motion to stop her. “I suggest not moving. Or I will slice directly through your throat.”

She smiled. “Do you think I would be so careless to carry a gun openly? My my. You forget I am better at surprises. She on your mind? Or he?” 

The glare on his face is answer enough. Both Elijah and Jesse have no idea what he is doing this evening. He does not speak of his business unless absolutely necessary not even to his Raven. They are both this way. When one needs the other they rise to the call. However there is nothing to persuade him to involve Elijah in this. Holland Frost is his problem. At least she was in the past but it seems the past has a way of emerging into the future. 

Her knowledge of Jesse is one he must broach with him. “What do you want?” 

“Cutting to the chase,” the woman tutted, removing a compact mirror. Flipping it over to show him he no reason for his threatrics, Holland popped it up. Her eyes remained on him. “My surprises are much better.” 

Corvus’ head turned at footsteps on his left. Several men appeared as they did on his right. Curious set of circumstances it would appear. “You chose a bad night, Frost.” 

“Did I?” She twisted a casing of lipstick open in a casual appliance. “Never bring a knife to a gun fight.” 

He took a stance, shifting his left foot behind him, leather fingers curled tightly over the sword handle. “Oh but my odds are very good,” he mocked, twirling the weapon when they came at him. 

Kicking one of the men in the chest propelled him with a hard splat to the brick he danced over. The blade of his sword jabbed through flesh, sinking into the frontal apex of another’s throat. Sneering over perfect white teeth offered a grotesque irony. Vicious in the severing of their arteries, he held the blade steady as they dropped to their knees. Ripping a handgun out from inside a holster hidden underneath their jacket, Corvus aimed behind him, firing into the head of the third man.

Blood splattered with the violent crack. Sending matter blowing out the back of his head, Corvus paid no mind to the loud thud of body dropping behind his polished heels. Instead he drew a foot up to press into the chest of the man gargling on his knees. Pushing him slowly back off his blade, Corvus straightened, twisting around to meet the final one. The man took one look at the others lying in a mess of blood before taking off. 

He sniffed at the cowardice. “Lovely people you have working for you.” Corvus’ lips curved briefly. Satisfied with what he has done, he moved closer to the woman, blade twisting in his hand but pointing down. 

Holland stood still. She did not even attempt to flee. Her thumb pressed at the side of her compact. Expelling powder from a tiny opening blew directly into his face. Forcing him to stall immediately, covering his burning eyes with his hand, the sword dropped.

“Argh!” Corvus stumbled backwards. The sting blinded him.

She used the tip of her white heel to kick the sheathed weapon away. “Grab him.” Her command is met with an influx. Grabbing him by the arms, dragging him in his struggle, Corvus’ will to fight is beastly. A pure animal who must be taken down. Oh but she enjoys his moves. Such a sight to watch him murder men with guns with a blade. Holland always appreciated his prowess. A shame she cannot have a taste. 

Down on his knees they force him and that is just fine for her. He cannot see through the pain. But she grips onto his dark locks to pull his head back. 

Corvus growls. “Bitch!” 

“I love it when you talk dirty, Corvus.” She teased before the pierce of needle in her hand. 

He winced, grinding teeth at the obvious burn. Immediately he felt the sear begin to spread, arms becoming lax in her guard’s grip. Corvus huffed. Swallowing hard, his head bobbed, eyes squeezed shut to prevent further damage to them. 

“No worries now. I will clean your eyes up. Make you presentable enough. After all with this little concoction,” she trailed, placing the needle back in her bag. Her hand cupped along his jaw, fingers smoothing along his raven goatee. “...you will not remember a thing....except waking up warm and strapping in your bed. Save me a kiss next time, Dear DeVille.” 

Blurred, slurring, drooling. 

Corvus groaned. 

Dizzy with a strange taste in his mouth, his face pressed to the pillow that morning. Body splayed face down among his scarlet sheets, satin sticking to his sweaty skin. His head slowly lifted up. Only the pain in his neck was a sign of something off but he could not place it... he could not think... straight.... 

mentions: @creatorofclay @rxseguided

other muse: @syntheticfrost

[starcunning]

Suffer Me to Cherish You: 13 Nov

I put myself to bed early and then went out into the sun, which as it turns out is a very effective treatment for sleepy bitch disease, as I was able to make up just a bunch of ground today. Also, can you believe I was going to cut this encounter? It literally was not in my outline. Foolishness beyond foolishness.

Previously: Week One, Week Two Previously: 11 Nov, 12 Nov

She felt little better by morning, with her shattered crystal returned to its keeping beside her heart. That was proof enough of the events of the night before, she supposed. With a clearer head, she laid atop the bedcovers, closed her eyes, and reached out—the way Fray had taught her, when first they had communed.

He did not answer, no voice rising to greet her above the sea of whispers. But … she felt … something. A presence, beyond her reach, too weak to come to her; and felt herself, too weak to go to it.

“I’ll find you,” she promised, and when she sat up she was not sure whether she felt more or less alone.

Then she bathed and dressed, and found Myste waiting for her in the Forgotten Knight.

“So,” he said. “You really came.” There was gladness in his eyes. In the light, their color was familiar, and she could see his hair was not blonde as she had supposed, but silvery, hanging like a banner down his back. “I’m trying to get better about meeting people where I promise to,” she said with a wry smile. “Have you thought about where we can find people to help?” Myste asked. “The Brume isn’t far. Do you know it?” He looked up at her, then glanced away. “Yes,” he said. “Let’s begin there.”

He offered her his hand, and she took it, leading him down the back stairway and out into the crisp light of day. Even in summer, Ishgard never grew warm, though the cold was not the only reason she brought her hood up.

“Do you know anyone here?” Myste asked her as they walked the city wall. In the belly of the Brume, she watched the laborers repairing the stone masonry and the scaffolding. The foreman wore livery of gray, the rook-and-halberds of House Dzemael embroidered over his back, and she wasn’t sure whether to be cynical about the fact that the High Houses still held control even here, or simply grateful that they’d taken an interest at all. “Sort of. I knew people who came from here—Hilda, of course, and a few students at the Scholisticate, and Fray. Some of the soldiers who served beside me—not the Temple Knights, just the common infantry. But … they don’t love me here like they do in the Pillars. They’ve seen too many sons die to believe in heroes.” Not that she hadn’t lost the High Houses their sons too. “Fray,” he echoed, leading her through the uneven streets and the stilted homes of the Brume. Shasi let him pull her along by the hand, watching the faces of all those who turned to watch them pass. She saw small sorrows written on many, and sometimes recognition—but only when they looked at her. Never when they were watching Myste. “Who’s that?” Shasi pursed her lips, watching the wind stir Myste’s hair. It shone in the sunlight, brilliant as a blade’s edge. Who was Fray? It seemed far too complex to describe their relationship, and she knew little enough to say about his personal life. But there was a simple answer she could give, so she did. “Fray is a friend.”

“Is he happy?” “No,” Shasi said. “And when he was, it was never for long.” “Where is he? Maybe we can help him.” Myste paused, turning back to look up at her. Shasi closed her eyes on that plaintive face. “This is going to sound insane,” she said. “You may even want to go to the Inquisition about it, but please don’t. Fray and I are traveling companions.” “Why would I tell the Inquisition about that?” Myste asked. “Because … Fray died.” “Oh,” Myste said, face falling. “I don’t know that I can help the dead.” “The thing is … I can still hear his voice—or I could. Fray owned the soul crystal I carry, and it has his memories. I can still feel his presence, a little. But ever since last night, he hasn’t spoken to me.” “I’m sorry,” Myste said, his shoulders hunching as though in anticipation of some reprisal. “I’m not angry,” Shasi said. “I’m just ...” “Worried?” “Yes,” she said. “I’m worried.” Myste nodded, very solemnly. “What if … I were to help Fray? Would that make you feel better?” She felt something ease in her chest, though a part of her remained tense, unsure—of Myste’s intentions? His ability? Even Shasi couldn’t quite make sense of the feeling. “I think so,” she said. “Then … please ask him to forgive me. And think of someone important to him he’d like to speak to again. Do you know a place he would have liked?” Shasi shook her head. “Nowhere nearby. He said he liked to travel, but I’m not sure ...” If that was him or me. The line was so blurry when she looked back on their journey together. “I know where he told me to bury him, but that’s all.” “Then just go somewhere you feel calm,” Myste offered.

That was a tall order in Ishgard, but Shasi resolved to try. She could not focus enough for true communion and move at the same time, but allowed her thoughts to wander along with her feet, bearing her away from the sounds of construction in the Brume, descending into the charred ruins of row houses. She remembered when they had burned—how the Holy See had held hostage the families fleeing the fires. And something compelled her to enter just the same, to walk among the burned-out husks, every one a life. Every one a family, disrupted by her actions. She could still smell the smoke. She could still taste the fear in the air.

She entered one of them, its skeleton frame burnt to black, but she could see the shape of the house, the bedrooms on its second floor. Shasi touched the scorched wallpaper, picking her way carefully through the remnants that littered the floor. Anything still intact had been looted long before; anything that would burn had been consumed—either by the first fire, or burned for warmth sometime after that. Something about the sight made her sad—not guilty, as perhaps she had felt a moment before, merely sad. But still, too, and she let a deep breath fill her lungs and leave her.

“This is the place,” she said, and when she turned back to look at Myste, she saw a third figure coming in through the door frame. Like her young companion, he was an Elezen, but there the resemblance ended—the visitor was aged, his hair gone hoary, his face scarred by a life of battle. He wore the armor for it too, black as the beams around them. His eyes met Shasi’s. “What are you doing in my house?” he asked. “Sorry,” she began, “I was only looking for a place to meditate.” “I know that sword,” he said, his gaze fixed upon the handle of the greatsword that rose above her shoulder. The moment he said it, she saw he bore one of his own—more ornate, perhaps, but she knew him then for another dark knight. “That’s Fray’s sword.” “Fray was my mentor,” Shasi said. “Is, still, I suppose.” “As I was his,” said the knight. “Ser Ompagne.” “Shasi Souleater,” she replied. That felt right. “I didn’t think we called ourselves ‘Ser.’” “A relic of my old life,” he said. “I would invite you to sit, but ...” he gestured helplessly to the ruin around him. “You can’t still live here,” Shasi mused. Ompagne just looked at her. “I don’t,” he said. “But I did, when Fray was a boy.” “So that’s why I came here,” Shasi said. Ompagne seemed unfazed by this, merely waiting for her to continue. “He hasn’t told me much about you, I’m afraid. Or much at all about his old life.” That made him laugh, a full-throated chuckle that set her slightly more at ease. “No, he always played things close to his chest. Not half so moody as Sidurgu, though.” “Sidurgu,” she echoed. “‘Sid?’” “Aye, the very same. He sees me in you, did you know that?” “Fray?” she asked, pausing to reflect the way she always did after she spoke his name. But he didn’t answer—nor had she really expected him to. “Why?”

“Because I was a hero once, too.” Shasi blinked at him. He smiled, a touch wryly, and shook his head. “I never saved Eorzea, I suppose, but I was hero enough for Ishgard, and hero enough for the Temple Knights. I knew nothing of the darkness then, but I knew how to swing a sword, how to kill Dravanians, how to earn the love and respect of my men. I could have led a charge into the Seventh Hell in the full knowledge that they would follow after. There were times I did exactly that. It was enough to lead us to victory, and victory was enough for them to laud me.” “But?” Shasi asked, gesturing to the blade at his shoulder. “There always is a ‘but,’ isn’t there,” he said, his smile growing grim. “But they never counted the cost when they handed me my accolades—and my reinforcements. For every man I lost, there were a dozen who would have gladly died for Ompagne the hero, for their dreams of glory. And they did, green boys spilling red blood on white snow.” Shasi looked away, only nodding once. “There were so many of them, and one day I realized I couldn’t remember … I couldn’t remember the first one’s name, couldn’t call to memory his face. He had died for me, and I had forgotten. That was the day I left the Temple Knights.” Shasi cast her mind back, remembering the faces of her squadmates. She had always counted them as the first, but part of her wondered if there wasn’t another answer. If she would always be spared Ser Ompagne’s sorrow—because the first to die for her was her mother. That answer, she supposed, depended on whether X’shakkal Halha was her first victim, or the last sacrifice to the Warriors of Light that had disappeared. But she said none of that, settling instead on “I’m sorry.” “So am I,” Ompagne said. “And I was sorry enough then that I swore I would never lose anyone I cared about after that day … because I would never allow myself to grow so attached again.”

Shasi lifted her eyes to the stairway, the steps broken beyond her ability to climb them. “Then how did Fray come to live here?” “Because nothing lasts forever, my girl,” he said with a bitter laugh. “I gave up my shield and relinquished my title, but my sword was my own to keep, and for a time it was enough to punish the wicked, to find—to create—righteousness in a world that seemed to lack all familiarity with the concept. I wanted justice for the boys I’d failed; forgiveness for the blood on my hands. But though I saved lives … death separates us from those we love, but life may do that too. Circumstances conspire to part us from our charges, don’t they.” Shasi plucked at her necklace, listening to the silence after. She thought of the Scions, and wondered how they were getting on without her. Of X’rhun, who had undertaken some journey of his own. Of Minfilia, lingering somewhere beyond both her reach and her grasp. “Yes,” she agreed. “Even so, I wanted to … feel something again, to care for another person even knowing that someday we would say goodbye and never greet one another again. And I wanted to atone for my sins, for the lives I’d lost by my heroics.” Shasi could only nod solemnly at that, cast back into that mode which demanded her resolute silence, her unspoken understanding.

“That’s why I adopted Fray—and Sidurgu. No one should be alone in this world. I thought if I could teach them all I knew, help them learn from my mistakes, they wouldn’t make the same ones. Fray was an eager student, you know.” “He did tell me that,” Shasi nodded. “But this is not a calling one can thrust upon another.” Shasi blinked, remembering something suddenly. “Did you teach him conjury, or was that someone else?” Ompagne laughed. “Not I. A chirurgeon, who I had cause to be well-acquainted with before my retirement and after. Fray studied with him a few months, but he never really put down the books I’d given him. It was no surprise, really, when he told me.” “I think … he was grateful of the choice just the same,” Shasi said. “He made sure I knew I always had one, too.” “Then … I can be proud,” Ompagne told her, reaching out to grasp her shoulder. “Of my legacy. Of Fray’s. Maybe I’ve done enough to be forgiven.”

“You should say goodbye now,” Myste said softly, his whispery voice cutting through the stillness of the ruined house. She had almost forgotten he was there, he had gone so still, so silent. “Ah, there, my lesson demonstrates itself,” Ompagne said, his smile coming more easily. “One last piece of wisdom first. You are, in a sense, my disciple too.” “Of course,” she said, smiling at him as fondly as a grandfather. “You will meet many people in your life. You have already, and will in the future. For all you gain, you will lose in equal measure—for each introduction, a farewell. This is the way of things. You may fear that loss, and mourn it when it comes to pass—and you should. From these feelings the dark knight draws their strength. No sense in avoiding it, my girl; you will not protect yourself even so. And when the parting comes … bear it with the grace and strength I see in you now. Keep the departed in your heart, and you will feel them so close to you, you can feel their breath on your cheek.” “‘Strength is sacrifice,’” she said, echoing the thing that was not quite Fray. “Yes,” Ompagne said, “but what you must know that Fray did not is this: sacrifice is strength. It will make you the greatest of us one day.” “I’m glad to have met you,” Shasi said. “Remain so when I am gone,” Ompagne said.

Myste let out a shuddering little sigh, slumping to his knees, and Shasi moved to stand over him, putting a hand on his back. “Are you alright?” she asked. “I … I’m sorry, it’s just so hard to keep them together for so long.” “Keep them together?” Shasi asked, crouching down beside him. “What do you mean?” Myste lifted his hand to point, and she followed the line of his arm. There, in the center of the room, a pool of inky blackness swirled, glittering lights not quite able to escape its depths. “What … is that?” “That’s the aether from your crystal,” Myste said. “I used it to make Ompagne whole … and maybe Fray, too. It’s yours to reclaim now.” Shasi blinked at him, not fully understanding, but she felt the call of the abyss that had opened before her. She drew her sword, and channeled the aether along the blade in the same way she had learned to bolster herself when she flagged.

It tasted of steel and regret.

“Fray?” she asked. There was no answer, but she could feel him now, even without trying—wary, yes, but grateful too. And … perhaps, a little embarrassed. Shasi couldn’t help but to smile at that. “Was that really someone you knew?” She could feel his certitude, his sense of filial duty, and she nodded to herself. “Fray … still won’t speak to me,” she said, fishing out her crystal. There was still a large portion missing, and she could feel a foreign dismay at the back of her mind. “I thought you promised to give it back?” she said, not harsh but stern. “I did, and so I have,” Myste said. “Forgive me if you feel yourself misled—the portion I used for my power just now … is yours again.” “And the rest?” “The rest is enough to do this … perhaps four more times. Will you still help me?” “I don’t really understand what you did,” Shasi admitted. “That wasn’t really him?”

“It was him,” Myste insisted. “It was him as your friend Fray remembers him. I can give the memories form, I can breathe life into them and return them to those they love.” Shasi felt a shock of cold. “And all you need for this is aether?” she asked, her throat growing tight. A part of her knew what this must be—what any being conjured with hope and aether must be—but it was another part of her that spoke first. “I can get you crystals. Hundreds of them, if that’s what you need. If you can help me.” There were so many people she longed to see again … He looked at her with a sad smile. “I can help you,” he said, “and I will, since you are helping me, but I will not help only you.” She fell to her knees—relieved, exhausted, overwhelmed, and Myste leaned in to embrace her again. “Please,” she said. “Let’s set the world right together.”

[scarletraven1001]

Fear

29 – “I thought you were dead.”

A post-Buu Vegebul one-shot for prompt #29 on this post, requested by @saiyanprincessbulma​. 

Also on Ao3.

All Fics in this Series:  1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9

8-8-8-8-8

Note: Some angsty fluff for y’all today. I hope you like it!

8-8-8-8-8

Fear

8-8-8-8-8

It was as if nothing had happened.

When Vegeta returned after the defeat of evil Buu, Bulma was so relieved to have him back that she had simply grinned at him with a wink and a thumbs-up.

She welcomed him back with open arms, no questions asked.

She didn’t even want to bring up the Majin incident… how he had destroyed half an arena of people with barely a thought, and how he had sought to abandon her and their son for a few minutes of glory in a no-holds-barred fight against Son Goku.

How, in that powerful blast that destroyed hundreds of people, he had nearly killed her, too.

It was too painful to remember, so she decided that it was something that she needed to forget.

After all… it was all in the past, and past aches had no place in their future together.

However, it was during quiet and happy moments with him that the thoughts did resurface, and she stubbornly pushed them back, not wanting to deal with them.

She had no idea why that always happened… after all, if those thoughts were to bother her again, shouldn’t they show up when things were not going well? When she was upset with him, or when he had done something stupid or inconsiderate?

But no… the memories of his darkly-rimmed eyes and feral grin usually filled her mind while she watched Vegeta become an increasingly better father to Trunks, while he embraced her gently in his arms, or while he moved in ways that proved to her that yes, beneath all the pomp and arrogance, was a wonderful man who had a lot of love to give, but not much of an idea of how to give it.

The memories assailed her again as she watched Vegeta perform simple katas out on the Capsule Corp lawn, flanked by Trunks, who copied his father’s movements with increasing ease every day.

Bulma was sitting on their large balcony overlooking the grounds, happily gazing at the land and at her two beautiful Saiyans.

She smiled as she gazed at their faces that were focused on the next set of movements, the sweat on Vegeta’s bare back and on Trunks’ shirt a testament to their hard work.

They were becoming more and more inseparable every day, and their son was truly mirroring his father in more than just their faces.

Trunks practically was Vegeta, from his cockiness to his fiercely competitive nature.

Vegeta had extended his right arm sideward in a quick jab, and suddenly, Bulma was held hostage by the terrifying memory of him pointing that arm towards the audience stands and firing an unforgiving blast of ki at the unsuspecting onlookers.

She remembered the gust of wind that followed his attack, the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach as she looked at the face of a man that she thought she knew so well… and realized that perhaps, she didn’t truly know him after all.

She shuddered, the tremors going up and down her body as the dread rose up in her once again.

Vegeta’s sudden movement caught her eyes, and she looked up from her somber musings to see that he had stopped his movements, and had turned to her.

Even from a distance, she could see him eyeing her questioningly, and she waved back at him in answer, pasting a smile onto her lips so he wouldn’t see the true turmoil within her mind.

She should have known, that her efforts to hide her distress would have been futile.

8-8-8-8-8

Bulma was in the bathroom, applying her late night creams to her face, when she heard a soft knock at the door.

“Bulma?” Vegeta’s voice called. “Are you alright?”

She smiled. Vegeta had taken to checking in on her frequently since the Buu incident, and it was her surest sign, the only verbal indication he had ever given, that he really cared about her.

“I’ll be out in a minute, Vegeta,” she called, finishing up with her face oils before she stepped out of the cold bathroom and into their warmer bedroom.

She flipped her short blue hair back from her eyes, casting her eyes around until she found Vegeta standing by the large glass walls.

He was staring out into the night sky, his black hair casting a shadow that looked like dark flames against their light marble floors. His perfect profile was illuminated by the lights from the outside, his tall nose a dramatic slope from his high, well-defined cheekbones and the firm set of his jaw.

Her husband was an incredible sight to behold, and Bulma stomped back the carnal desire that already rose up in her at the mere glimpse of his perfectly-defined arms and chest.

Vegeta turned to her then, and Bulma found the questions in his eyes before he even began to speak.

He took a deep breath, letting it out in a barely audible huff .

“If I asked you a question right now, would you promise to tell me the truth?” he asked.

Her eyes widened.

This… this was about to be a serious discussion.

She nodded, and he took another deep breath.

“Bulma…” he began, and he looked straight into her deep blue eyes as he went on. “Do you fear me?”

She stiffened, shaking her head. “No. I don’t fear you right now, Vegeta.”

“Right now,” he muttered, before he turned away from her to look out the window once more.

“Not right now,” he said, more loudly. “And what of other times?”

“Vegeta…”

“Have your feelings for me changed since the day I let myself be used by Babidi?”

Bulma gasped, a hand flying to her mouth as she unconsciously took a step back.

“No… Never,” she said earnestly, as her hands fell to her sides to grasp at the thin material of her sleeping gown. “I love you.”

“But a part of you has begun to fear me since then?” he asked, eyes narrowing as he stared sightlessly out the windows.

“Vegeta…” she choked out, taking a step toward him, one hand lifting as if to reach for him. “I… I don’t fear you. I promise.”

“Then why do I sense your terror whenever I hold you near?” he hissed, his eyes flashing back to stare accusingly into hers. “Why do I feel your fear whenever I lead Trunks off to train him?”

“Vegeta, I am not afraid of you! I-”

“Don’t lie to me, Bulma!” he yelled, and she froze, watching a thousand and one emotions battle for dominance on his agonized face.

He stepped towards her, and she took another step backwards as he came upon her, looming over her as his eyes shone suspiciously in the darkness.

“Even now, you move away from me,” he spat. “Even as you stand here claiming not to fear me, I can feel it. I can smell it.”

She straightened, determined to stand up to him. “I am not afraid of you, Vegeta.”

“Yes you are,” he insisted. “Your very bones shake in my presence. Admit it. You fear me-”

“I fear for you!” she finally screamed, and she stood stunned as, with the words, came a very sudden moment of clarity.

She feared for Vegeta.

The reasons why she had the sudden flashbacks to that most agonizing memory of Vegeta under Babidi’s control, suddenly made sense.

“Tch,” he said. “You fear for me? Woman, I am the most powerful man on this planet. What would you have to fear for me?”

She looked down, her hands balled into tight fists, as her eyes began to blur with tears.

“I thought you were dead,” Bulma whispered, voice hoarse from the torrent of emotions washing over her as she spoke.

Vegeta stilled before her.

“I thought you were really dead. Not ever coming back,” she said, louder, and she continued to look away from him, unable to meet his gaze as she finally confessed the doubts she had held in her heart since that fateful day.

“I thought of how you looked as you killed those people, and how that side of you was the last thing I had seen before I lost you forever. I didn’t want that to be my last memory of you, Vegeta,” she said, a painful rasp edging her tone.

Bulma closed her eyes as the image of his evil sneer on that stage entered her mind. “I wanted to remember you as I knew you. As the man I love. The wonderful man that I knew you truly were. And I was terrified about the fact that you had succumbed to darkness, and how you had abandoned the part of you that I know loves me.”

She finally looked up, and the tears gathering in her eyes finally fell, streaming down her cheeks as she watched his stunned face through her blurry gaze.

“And I know that you do love me,” she cried. “So when you hold me, I am frightened of how one day, you could get corrupted again and I will forever lose those moments with you… that you would choose to forget those moments with me.”

Vegeta’s eyes narrowed as she kept speaking, all the things she never said before tumbling erratically from her lips.

“And when I see you be a good father to our son… Our son, that beautiful boy that we didn’t even mean to bring into this world, I fear that you could choose to abandon him and he will be devastated, Vegeta.”

She walked closer to him, lifting her trembling hands to grasp the sides of his face.

“So, no. I am not afraid of you, Vegeta,” she said. “But I am afraid of anything that could make you leave us once again. I am afraid of losing you.”

She was not prepared for his arms wrapping fiercely around her waist, nor for his lips lunging almost blindly for hers, stealing her breath away in a passionate, desperate kiss.

His lips moved demandingly over hers, and she moaned, zealously cupping his face before her fingers sought to tangle with the thick strands of his hair.

He kissed her like a man dying of thirst, who had discovered an infinite oasis of the most delectable water within the caverns of her mouth.

When he finally pulled away, they were both gasping harshly for breath, and he laid his forehead against her own, closing his eyes as he breathed her name.

“Bulma… forgive me,” he finally said, and his eyes opened, gazing intently into her own. “I made a mistake. I should never have let Babidi control me.”

“It’s alright-”

“No, it is not,” he said. “I had believed that what I needed to be powerful was to break free from my attachments to you. I was wrong.”

Bulma’s tears slowed as he cupped her cheeks in his large, warm hands.

“My strength lies with you,” he said. “And I swear to you… Never again will I ever dare to cast you or Trunks aside.”

Bulma beamed, and she wrapped her arms around him, burying her face into the hard planes of his chest.

She laughed, holding him tight, as if her life depended upon how powerfully she clung to his body.

“I love you, Vegeta,” she whispered against his skin.

She felt his lips fall onto her head, gently kissing her hair, as he too whispered.

“As do I.”

8-8-8-8-8

End

[dreadhaus-literature]

{Valentine’s Collection} #2

“I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Monica laughed nervously in response to the earnest, near-desperate statement, but William didn’t join her laughter--because he meant it. Every word.

The past shared between William Birkin and his former test subject Monica was sordid at it’s very best, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t love blooming between Stockholm Syndrome and William’s devotion to Umbrella and it’s vision for the future. William told Monica he loved her and he meant it; not only did he mean it but he proved it, daily, even if the origin of their love came in the form of a containment cage and sedatives. 

It was a ritual, practiced and routine. Umbrella would bring in the next batch of test subjects from Raccoon City, and William lined up with the rest of the scientists and researchers to either select or be assigned from the batch. The routine was unremarkable and so practiced it was nearly mundane, but the moment the lights illuminated the containment cages and William laid eyes on the one labeled MONICA his entire world shifted, skewed. The lights were bright, causing her to stir and lift one hand to shield her eyes but he’d caught sight of the brilliant emerald before she’d done so. Her hair shone like expensive silk and her unmarred, sun-kissed skin had his fingers twitching with an unfathomable need to touch. William knew instantly he had to have her and it had nothing to do with the research he was conducting.

Luckily for him, his impulse to have her meant his hand was up before anyone else’s and he got first pick. Off she was whisked to his laboratory with him walking alongside her cage like a puppy anxious for his first treat.

Initially, what he felt had confounded him. Monica was half-heartedly glaring at him from inside her containment cage, sitting on the floor of the 12x12 glass box because she was too drowsy to stand.The sedatives Umbrella used were top of the line, after all, but it was something William was grateful for. It allowed him to open her cage door and step inside, to kneel in front of her and get his first touch of skin softer than freshly fallen snow. She’d tried to turn her head from him but he hadn’t allowed it, easily stronger than she especially in this state.

“Extraordinary...” He’d mused, not bothering with gloves as he ran his thumb over her lower lip, his entire body reacting to her in a way he’d never experienced. He was a man of science, of knowledge and the furthering of humanity in a twisted pursuit of perfection but suddenly...suddenly that didn’t seem all that important. Perfection was right in front of him.

William had a job to do and he of course needed subjects to test his research on but that had never been his intent with Monica. Anyone suggesting that to him was met with either anger or a bewildered question of, “Why? There is nothing to improve.” It seemed he’d accepted his curious feelings without realizing it, unable to understand obsessive love when it was staring him in the face--and Monica was, because William gave her no choice or say about the matter. Initially he kept her mildly sedated, not wanting her to hurt herself in his lab...and selfishly, so he could hold her without her struggling against him. At first it was enough simply to hold her, to cradle her like a child upon his lap while he studied cultures under a microscope, other test subjects treated like so much cattle but never Monica. She never felt the prick of a needle except to sedate her, and under no circumstances was she to ever undergo any procedure Umbrella had to offer. Monica became William’s most prized possession and he took her everywhere he could--anywhere he couldn’t take her, he didn’t stay for too long, always staring at the clock anxiously, wanting to be back with her again. The devoted focus that William used to give his work was now all focused on Monica, minute after minute, hour after hour. The longer he had her, however, the more he began to desire more that just the simple, not-so-innocent act of holding her...and he hated having to sedate her. Why couldn’t she love him back? Maybe...maybe she could. No, she would. He’d make sure of it.

“We’re going to try a little experiment today, Monica,” William unlocked Monica’s containment cage one morning, but by that point it was no longer a cage. He’d had a proper extension put on it so it was tripled in size; he outfitted it with a plush mattress, soft, warm blankets and even stuffed animals--especially after he’d seen she was quite taken with the first one he’d given her. Little toys littered the cage and he’d given her stickers and coloring books as well to occupy her time when he wasn’t with her. That morning had been exactly the same as all the others; William unlocked the door and reached for her, and she reached back, allowing him to pick her up like one might a toddler. “We are going to forgo the sedative today, sweetheart. Would you like that?”

Monica had nodded, and William smiled, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“You’re going to be a good girl for me. I just know it.”

She had been; the day passed without any incident and William was delighted that without the sedative, Monica was talkative. He could listen to her speak for hours and that night he hadn’t gone home. The laboratory locked down with him inside, lying inside Monica’s containment cage with her while she talked, told him about her life and he asked her hundreds of questions. He learned she’d only been passing through Raccoon City when she’d been abducted by Umbrella, and he learned where she was originally from. He learned about her likes and dislikes, her fears and what dreams she’d had before her life changed so dramatically.

“I can’t...I c-can’t ever go home, can I?”

Her broken voice at three in the morning had torn at William’s heart, but he’d shaken his head all the same.

“No, sweetheart, but don’t worry. You’re going to stay with me.” He’d taken hold of her fingers and kissed each one. “Forever.”

Monica has now lost track of how long she’s been with William. Her life has changed so much in that time, but it hasn’t...been bad, she has to admit at least to herself. After that night spent talking, William moved her from the Umbrella lab to his home, and he made good on his promise of forever. William never experimented on her and he never let Umbrella do it, either. She went with him everywhere, and when he went to work, she went with him--not because he didn’t trust her in his home, but because he couldn’t be apart from her. William, so often without seeming to realize it, paused in what he was doing to touch her, look at her, kiss her, as if he couldn’t help himself. That brilliant mind held such capacity to hyper-focus and that’s exactly what he did, his entire focus seeming to shift from his work to her. He was devoted to her and her happiness, constantly striving to ensure she had everything she wanted so she would be happy with him. Monica slowly began to forget what her life had been like before William and now...

Now she was afraid she wouldn’t like life without him.

“You’ll say yes, won’t you, sweetheart?” William’s large hands skimmed down Monica’s skirted legs, past the fabric to the soft skin of her calves. His eyes were on her face, searching near frantically for any positive sign. “Please, I mean what I said. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

The small velvet box sat on Monica’s lap expectantly, open to reveal a ring holding a diamond that glittered like a star on a polished silver band. It was beautiful, and it was also a seal to William’s promise of forever.

“W-William,” Monica cleared her throat, her hand coming up to the box--but William caught her small fingers with his free hand, moving her fingers to the heat of his mouth.

“I know our love didn’t start as it should have and I am so sorry for that. But I’ve courted you as you deserve, haven’t I?” William turned his head, nosing against the center of Monica’s palm, pressing her soft skin close to his mouth. “Sweetheart...I need you so badly.”

His admission was a broken whisper and Monica bit at her lower lip; William always got her this way. She should by all accounts hate him, he worked for the company that had stolen her life and though she should blame him for that, for the fact that he not only aided in stealing it but kept her hostage even when he could have released her...she couldn’t. He looked at her with so much love in his eyes she thought she might drown from it. She didn’t understand it initially and truthfully she didn’t understand it now, but William loved her with everything he was and the only thing he couldn’t, wouldn’t give her was her freedom. The thought terrified him; if she stirred in the middle of the night, moved to sit up or even turn over, he snapped awake and clutched her to him defensively. He had nightmares about her leaving. Some might argue this love was wrong, twisted and warped, but it didn’t feel that way to Monica. She couldn’t help but feel cherished, desired, needed--24 hours of the day. William could not be apart from her. He’d been prompting her with a ring for over a week, now, and it seemed this time he wasn’t going to let her go until she said yes to him.

“I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t have you.” William’s strong fingers cupped her bare calf, his words ghosting over the inside of her wrist as he locked gazes with her. The raw intensity in his eyes sent a shiver down her spine. “The world is going to change around us, very soon, but I promise I can keep you safe. I’ll do anything to keep you safe.”

“I k-know,” Monica placated, her fingers a soft caress against his cheek. “I believe you, William.”

“I’ll do anything to keep you,” he pushed forward, mindful not to lose her touch against his cheek as he pressed a kiss to her waiting mouth. She made a soft, feminine noise in response and he swallowed it with a needy, stammering inhale against her mouth, the headboard the only thing keeping her upright. He’d woken her with this proposal, laying the ring box in her lap in the hopes that today, today would be the day she accepted him forever. “I love you, sweetheart.”

“I l-love you too, William.”

The words were exchanged with their lips still pressed to one another’s and William took advantage to steal a deeper kiss, his tongue caressing the seal of her lips as he drank from her, his hand sliding up her thigh, pushing her skirt up to reveal soft, supple flesh until he slipped his arm around the small of her back and pulled her up and into his kiss. William was always gentle and reverent with her, treating her as if she were the most breakable treasure on earth, but it never lessened his needy kisses and the desperate way he touched her.

“If you love me, then say yes, say you’ll be mine forever.” William rested his forehead against hers, rubbing their noses together with such innocent affection it was almost as if he hadn’t won her heart through nefarious means. If one were to ask William--and truthfully, others had before--he would answer honestly, in that he would burn this entire world to the ground for Monica. Nothing else mattered to him, not anymore.

Monica wrapped her arm around William’s broad shoulders, turning to rest her cheek against his as she nodded quickly before she lost her nerve.

“Say it, please, my love.” William pressed, his arm an iron band around her back.

“Y-Yes.”

William broke out in a smile, his other arm sweeping around her to cradle her to him, finally feeling content and secure that he would never be without this embrace. Call him delusional, call him a madman, call him obsessed--William will correct you and tell you to call him a man in love. He’s a husband-to-be, the happiest man alive.

As Monica felt William slip the ring on her finger, never to be taken off, she could only cling onto him a little desperately in return, her anchor in this fiery love affair that had taken over her entire life.

“I’m going to make you so happy, Monica, I promise. Forever, just you and I.”

Monica didn’t have to ask if this was until death do they part. William worked for Umbrella; when he told her forever, he was the one man on earth who could and did mean it.

[atc74]

You Have My Word

Written for the Break The Zone Challenge #4 (check out the ML here). My bestie @just-another-busy-fangirl picked the prompt: “Have you still got your blindfold on?” His voice came from where he was tied up behind me. “Yes,”“Promise me you won’t take it off,” and here is the product of my musings. 

As you can see, @iwantthedean and her Gil McKinney crisis were the inspiration and this is a NicKinney ship. So if shipping ain’t your thing, get skipping; it won’t bother me none. 

WC: 2400+

Pairing: Nicole x Gil

Warnings: Medical speak, mentions of injury, taking of hostages, gunshots, violent situation - if you find any of this triggering, please do not read. 

A/N: This is angsty with a fluffy finish (Have ya met me?). Feedback is appreciated. 

Thursday’s were touch and go at the hospital, especially the emergency department. Nicole had spent the last couple of hours with a child that had broken his arm falling off the monkey bars at school. Before that, it was an outbreak of food poisoning from a church outing the night before. It had certainly been a messy, but mundane day.

Nicole had just stretched out in the breakroom for her dinner break, a rare occasion in itself, when she heard a commotion outside the doors. She got up and moved to the door, opening it slowly to see what was going on when she saw a woman covered in blood being wheeled into a procedure room.

“Well, it was good while it lasted,” she muttered as she tossed her soda into the nearest garbage can and strolled back into the E.D. This is what she lived for. As a student studying to get her Physician's Assistant degree and an EMT, Nicole loved the rush that came from saving a life in a situation like this. She readied herself with steady breaths and walked through the doors to where her newest patient had been brought in.

“What’d’we got?” she called out waiting for the assessment.

“White female, mid-twenties, multiple GSW’s to the chest and abdomen. Decreased breath sounds; patient was given O2 on scene. BP is 92 over 70 and falling,” the EMT team transferred her to a bed and rushed back out.

“Page Dr. McKinney, please. Alright people, let’s get this one stable for the O.R.!” Nicole called out instructions as nurses rushed around the room following her orders.

“Hey Nic, whatchya got for me?” Dr. Gil McKinney rushed through the double doors and listened intently to Nicole’s assessment of the patient while checking the woman’s vitals. It was a secret to everyone else in the hospital, but Gil and Nicole had been seeing each other for almost a year.

With his good looks (think tall, dark and handsome) and easy-going nature, he had caught Nicole’s eye immediately. Being a professional, however, she was determined not to let her love life get in the way of her learning. Gil quickly broke through her tough exterior when a young patient had died on her watch one night several weeks later, though.

The young patient she lost was in a car wreck and there was absolutely nothing she could have done differently to save the young boy’s life, but that didn’t make it any less heartbreaking. She knew there would be tough or complicated cases, and cases that would make her want to quit, but this was the one that made her want to throw her scrubs out and look for something simpler.

She and Gil had gone to inform the family, but she ran out when the mother burst into tears. Gil found her later, on the floor of the locker room, tears streaming down her face. She quickly brushed them away and stood, ready to apologize for her behavior, but he stepped closer and wrapped her in his arms, one hand cradling her head gently, as he swayed her back and forth.

They stood like that for what felt like hours; Gil whispering words of comfort and encouragement. She pulled back to thank him and his lips met hers in a feather light kiss; she was a goner after that. She quickly discovered that Gil stood for everything she did and they were not only a great match in their private lives, but they worked flawlessly together in a adrenaline fueled, life or death situation. 

The look on Gil’s face went from intent to urgent when the patient went into ventricular fibrillation on the table.

“She’s in V-Fib!” Nicole jumped up, kneeling on the bed and immediately started chest compressions.

“We need to intubate!” Gill called over the din of the room and he was handed the supplies. He expertly inserted the device through the patient’s mouth and into her trachea. “Bag ‘er!”

“Charge to 200!” Nicole called from her perch on the gurney, still pumping on the woman’s chest.

“Clear!” she heard Gil shout and she pulled her hands from the body.

“Again! Charge to 250!” They tried again, but nothing. Nicole resumed compressions between each charge. They tried for over forty-five minutes, but the young woman’s body just couldn’t handle the trauma it has sustained.

“Time of death, twenty-one thirty-seven.” Gil pronounced the patient dead and Nicole hopped off the gurney, tossing her gloves and smock in the hazmat bin at the door. She followed Gil out into the hall.

“Do you want to come with me to inform the family?” he asked cautiously, as this was always the hardest part of the job.

“Yeah, we can do it together,” Nicole put on a brave face. No matter their age, it was always tough to lose a patient.

Gil and Nicole entered the waiting room, calling out for the patient’s next of kin. Three young men rose from the plastic chairs and walked toward Nicole and Gil.

“I’m Jake. That is my fiancee; how is she? I need to see her,” the first man asked Gil heatedly.

“Jake, I am Dr. McKinney, this is Nicole. Sir, I am so sorry, but the damage to Marisol’s body was extensive and while we administered chest compressions and oxygen for nearly an hour, her body gave out and she passed away. We are so sorry for your loss,” Gil remained professional and compassionate, but the man lost it.

“How could you let her die? You’re a doctor; aren’t you supposed to save lives?” The man lunged at Gil and he pushed Nicole behind him in an effort to protect her, but the other men were on the two of them before she could call security.

Suddenly all three drew handguns and a shot was fired. Screams filled the waiting room as people scattered, looking for cover.

“Everybody out! But not you two! No, you go back in there and save her! Now! GO!” Jake held his weapon to Gil, while another grabbed Nicole by the arm and held her at gunpoint as well. “MOVE!”

Gil and Nicole both turned and headed back to the procedure room where the woman’s body was covered with a sheet; blood soaking through the white cotton where it laid over her.

“Sir, there was nothing else we could do. Please let us call someone to help you,” Gil remained calm under pressure, as always.

“No! There isn’t anyone else, it is just her! And now she’s gone!” Jake screamed at them once more, Nicole cringing as the gun pressed into her side with more pressure.

“Jake, let her go; you can have me,” Gil tried to reason with him.

“No, you took something from me and now I am going to take something from you!” Jake shouted back.

The man holding Nicole threw her to the ground and bound her hands behind her. She could see them do the same with Gil and now they were back to back on the floor. Jake was pacing the floor, wildly swinging his weapon through the air as he ran his other hand through his short hair.

One man stood outside the door and the other in the corner, waiting for Jake to make a decision. “Blindfold her, Nick; I don’t want her to see what’s coming,” Jake directed his buddy.

The blood rushed from Gil’s face and he reached for Nicole’s hands behind him. “It’s going to be okay, baby. I won’t let him hurt you,” Gil tried to reassure her.

Nicole squeezed back her silent reply and closed her eyes as the large assailant, Nick, searched for something to block her vision. “Scissors, back pocket,” Nicole whispered, hoping the doctor heard her. When she felt his hand squeeze hers once more, she sighed in relief.

Gil’s mind was going crazy with different scenarios playing over and over; thoughts running wild, like children on too much sugar. He was going to do everything in his power to keep Nicole safe. They always say that you don’t know what you have until it’s gone; he wasn’t going to let that happen. Not to her; to them. When they got out of this, he vowed he would tell Nicole how he truly felt.

“Jake Morris? This is Detective Ackles, Houston PD. We are here to help you. What can I get you, Jake?” A tinny voice came through the speaker on the phone in the room.

“You can bring my Marisol back! It wasn’t her fault! It should be me, not her!” Jake’s screams startled Nicole but she didn’t have time to react as Nick finally found some gauze and tightly wrapped her head and eyes. Although she could not see through the gauze, it was still light and she saw shadows pass before her. This gave her some hope.

“Now Jake, we both know I cannot do that. I have Dr. McKinney’s notes in my hand and I can see they did what they could to save her. Do you want to tell me what happened? Jake, I know you have a record and have been in some trouble; tell me about what happened to Marisol so I can help you.” Det. Ackles was calm as he tried to talk Jake down.

Gil’s eyes scanned the room, looking for anything he could. He had been involved with martial arts most of his life and recently picked up Mixed Martial Arts to help him stay in shape, so he knew he could fight one or two people, but there were three and they had guns. His first thought was getting Nicole out and safely away from this situation.

He let go of her hand and extended his fingers as far as they would go, but he couldn’t reach her back pocket. Nicole shifted behind him and he finally gained purchase on her scrubs and felt his fingers close around the handle of the scissors.

“It was just one more time, man; just one more. She wasn’t supposed to be there. She came to ask me to come home, forget the deal. But it went south and she got hit; I screwed it up and now she is dead!” Jake had crawled onto the gurney and was holding Marisol’s hand. His body wracked with sobs as he made his confession.

“Have you still got your blindfold on?” Gil’s voice came from where he was tied up behind Nicole. Gil was able to position the scissors and cut through Nicole’s bindings before working on his own.

“Yes,” she answered, her voice barely a whisper.

“Promise me you won’t take it off until I tell you,” Gil demanded of her. Nicole laid her head back to rest between his shoulder blades and he felt her nod.

A thump could be heard outside the room they were being held in and Gil noticed that the third man was missing from his post outside the door. This drew Nick’s attention, but not Jake’s; he was still on the gurney, repeating Marisol’s name over and over.

Gil saw his opportunity and gave Nicole warning to run and hide. She pulled the gauze off her eyes, blinking rapidly as her eyes adjusted to the bright lights of the room and launched herself through the second set of doors as Gil jumped up to make his move.

Gil was smaller than Nick, but what he lacked in weight and height, he made up with speed and agility. Gil swung out his right leg, landed a solid kick to the larger man’s kidney, bringing him to his knees. Gil lurched forward, kicking once more at his hand, knocking the weapon free and it skidded across the floor.

Both men fought for purchase on the slippery floor, but Gil was faster and reached the gun first, his foot connecting with Nick’s nose in a crunch and a rush of blood.

The door burst open and two armed officers restrained Nick in cuffs. Jake hadn’t even noticed them in the room, until they tore him from Marisol’s dead body and forced the cuffs on him.

Another officer entered the room and relieved Gill of the weapon, before shaking his hand. “What you did was reckless and stupid, but you did good, Doc,” the man told him.

“Couldn’t let anything happen to my girl, Detective,” Gil admitted to the officer, a smile lighting up his face.

“Jesus H Christ Gil, you both coulda been killed! And I ain’t going to my best friend’s funeral ‘cause he was stupid!” Det. Ackles shouted at him.

“Jack, come on! We train together; don’t think so little of me,” Gil reminded him.

“Yeah, yeah. Go get yer girl, Doc.” Det. Ackles wrapped Gil in a bear hug before releasing him to find Nicole. “She’s at the nurse’s station getting checked out by an EMT.”

“Oh, that is going to go over like a lead balloon. You know she trains those guys, right?” Gil laughed as he darted out of the room.

~*~

Later that night, Gil and Nicole were cuddled up on his couch, a blanket covering them both as each of them silently replayed the night’s events, the television providing the only light in the room.

Gil turned his body, disturbing Nicole. “Hey, I, um, I gotta say something. After tonight, what happened, what could have happened, I need you to know something. This has been an amazing year and I want the whole world to know. About you. About us.”

“Gil, are you sure? I don’t want to jeopardize anything for either one of us at work.” Nicole’s brows furrowed with concern.

“I have never been more sure of anything in my life, except that you are the most important part of it. Tonight, I thought I was going to lose you and that would have been a fate worse than death. I love you, Nicole Elizabeth, will you marry me?” Gil had dropped to one knee in front of her and held out a simple diamond solitaire on a gold band. “It was my grandmother’s.”

“Oh Gil, I was so scared I might lose you tonight, too. I love you. Yes, I will marry you. I would be honored to wear your grandmother’s ring,” her voice clear in the quiet space as he slipped the ring on her finger.

“I am never going to let anything happen to you. You have my word on that,” Gil promised her forever as he held the girl of his dreams in his arms that night and every night after that.

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[wokethesleepers]

roll of dices | jon&daenerys

It would certainly not be a misassumption to consider the night he’d just left behind as one of the most tumultuous of his life. Not for all the wrong reasons, like all the other nights which had been filled with blood, and fire, and war, and destruction, and sorrows. If he hadn’t been certain of it before, Jon had cemented one particular piece of knowledge: he and Daenerys must have definitely been brought together, crafted specifically for each other. A destructive void that had inhabited him his whole life had been filled and he did not want to see it drained again. When he left her chambers, it turned out to be a trying task both physically and mentally. His muscles were numb and he was in desperate need of a bath to cleanse away the remnants of what had easily been the most passionate and sinful night of his life. She needed it even more, he reckoned. Of course, there was also a part of him that did not wish to walk away from that bed and the comfort of her arms, but he strangely found himself at peace with the idea rather quickly. He was even ready to face the demands of this new day, knowing that he would not have to sit through hours of denying and pushing down his thoughts and feelings, as it had been the case at Castle Black. And for all is worth, they had worked each other out so intensely that night that he was genuinely doubtful his swirls of desire would be stirred again anytime soon. The bath that had been drawn after his return to his own untouched chamber helped greatly in soothing his muscles, but it also delivered pleasantly relaxing steams to his eyelids, which felt heavy and lazy. Not much sleeping had been done the past couple of nights, after all. But he pushed through, as always. He was no stranger to battling the weight of the calls of slumber. He got dressed up quickly, donning the same Stark armor but losing the breastplate this time around. He didn’t exactly bother too much with the appearance of his hair as he rolled a fistful of curls at the back of his head. It didn’t matter; no one would judge a man too harshly for his hairdo, after all. Not even a king.

After a particularly uneventful breakfast with his peers, Jon found his way to the room containing the Painted Table, marking the first time he stepped through its threshold as the King in the North, a piece on the board rather than the wide-eyed, curiosity-filled guest that had been innocently touring the castle. Naturally, the first one to notice was Daenerys and he almost hated himself for the way his heart skipped a beat at her sight. It always would from then on, he realized. Not only because she looked as beautiful as she was supposed to, but because her posture, her elegance, her seating at the end of this imposing table – they all served as reminders that she was, indeed, a queen. She had definitely been born for it, Jon thought. Not because she bore the name and blood of the Mad King, but simply because it was easy to see the royal airs webbed through her very being.

“At last, we are all here,” said Tyrion and only then did Jon realize the dwarf had been in there as well. And he wasn’t alone. Varys, and Missandei, and Grey Worm, and a Dornishman with a familiar face were all there as well. After a minor effort, Jon remembered having encountered him at the feast. He was an Yronwood, his name Cletus if he hadn’t been mistaken, a close friend of Quentyn Martell’s. He likely served as a delegate for Dorne’s interests in this ordeal, which Jon wasn’t particularly aware of as of yet. Davos, Sam, Melisandre, and Tormund had joined him in the chamber as well, even if the latter two were mostly present out of politeness. The Red Priestess had no desire of strategizing and southern military strategies were often lost on Tormund. But he wanted to learn at the very least.

“You seem eager,” remarked Jon, deciding to remain on his feet while the rest of his companions occupied their seats. “Or impatient.”

“Or both,” concluded Tyrion. He cleared his throat, clasping his hands together. “Now. We have important matters to discuss. Let us go through a quick analysis of the current state of the realm.” He waddled over toward the southernmost extremity of the map carved into the table. “Dorne,” he chimed, tapping a hand over Sunspear, moving to grab a small statuette of a stabbed sun. “Prince Doran is currently happily overseeing it. Fortunately for us, we have them on our side. Unfortunately for us, they have only lent us their land army, hence Ser Cletus’ presence amongst us.”

“Unfortunately?” mused Cletus Yronwood, amusement in his quirked brow. “All allies are fortune in this time of need, my Lord Hand.”

“That is very true,” retorted Tyrion, though he didn’t seem too convinced. He set the sun piece in the middle of Dorne and then started to move away with a sigh. “But even more unfortunately, things start to crumble from here onward.” He was by the western side of the map now, picking up the statuettes of a rose and a lion. “The Crown is currently thriving thanks to the union between Margaery and Tommen. Whenever Lord Mace decides to grace Highgarden with his presence, he is the overlord of the Reach, as well as the Warden of the South. Otherwise, it’s his eldest son, Willas. Regardless,” he set the rose by Highgarden, “the Reach is in Tyrell hands and it has plenty of resources, food and armies alike.” He then stepped closer to the north, fiddling with the lion. “Cersei has assumed the position of Lady of Casterly Rock.”

“Another one of Lord Varys’ discoveries?” questioned Davos.

Tyrion’s eyes rose with a sigh.

“Not quite,” he mumbled. “This is simply something very much in Cersei’s character. Alas, she is too busy serving as Tommen’s regent. What Lord Varys did manage to find out, however, is that she and uncle Kevan seemed to have had a fallout given how she has named Damion Lannister as her castellan.” He set the lion piece on Casterly Rock. “Harys Swyft is the current Hand of the King, though I can assure you it is not for his skills. Cersei must have seen great manipulation opportunities in this fool.” His arms opened in a shrug. “Needless to say, no one on this side of the map is our ally. He then rushed around the table and circled around to the eastern side of the table, scooping in his hand some pieces that Jon did not get to see, though he could guess. “Things get complicated here,” Tyrion breathed out, stopping by the Stormlands. “It appears that Storm’s End is currently overseen by Eldon Estermont in the name of the Crown. Not all that surprising. He was cowering at Joffrey’s feet last I have seen him.” Tyrion’s eyes then scanned Jon and Davos. “We know Stannis is dead, but what of Selyse and Shireen?” A pertinent question, Jon realized.

“Sheltered at Haystack Hall,” Davos replied curtly.

“With House Errol? How do you know this?”

“As if I would not check on the little princess. The moment I could get my hands on a raven, I sent one to the Shadow Tower to question their whereabouts. This was their response.”

“Have you tried writing to Lady Errol?” questioned Varys. Davos shook his head, about to speak, but Varys cut him off, “A wise choice. We still do not know of their intentions. Perhaps they’re held as hostages.”

“Or perhaps they are protected by those that do not approve of the current regime. Regardless,” Tyrion set a statuette of a turtle by Storm’s End, “Lord Estermont is not our friend either.”

“And the new Warden of the East,” added Varys. All eyes, puzzled, turned on him.

“Are you telling me Cersei did not trust Littlefinger with this task anymore? I am appalled,” muttered Tyrion, slipping past the Crownlands and waving a falcon statuette above the Vale.

“When has Petyr Baelish ever been a warden?” asked Davos.

“Officially?” Tyrion scoffed. “Never. But the true Lord of the Eyrie, Robert Arryn, the poor boy, is nothing but a sickly pawn.” Another statuette took its place by the rightful location. “No allies in here either.”

“Of course not,” commented Varys. “Lord Baelish is nothing but truthful and loyal to his king.” He and Tyrion exchanged a set of playful glances full of subtext.

“Of course not,” confirmed Tyrion, walking past Jon as he ventured back to the west, further north than before. “Euron Greyjoy is dead,” he said, flatly. “Victarion Greyjoy is dead. Their nephew’s and niece’s whereabouts are shrouded in mystery.” Jon felt his stomach twist, but he brushed it off. “What is certain, there is a certain Erik Ironmaker currently serving as Pyke’s castellan. Rumor has it he had married Asha Greyjoy a while back, so he might have a lot more of a claim than believed.” A statuette of a kraken took its place by Pyke. “We can count the Iron Islands out for now. The Riverlands as well.”

“Walder Frey rules them,” said Davos, just in time for Tyrion to set a piece of a set of towers by Riverrun.

“I do not believe it necessary to remind everyone how that came to be,” said Tyrion and Jon realized he was being mindful of his feelings. At last, he strolled toward Jon’s side as he came to a halt at the northernmost extremity of the map, pushing a statuette of a direwolf toward Winterfell while Varys placed a three-headed dragon on Dragonstone. “And at last, the North, its very king standing here with us today. An interesting concept that has kept me awake, I must admit. But now that everyone is here, I find it an excellent time to fill us in on how you have managed to accomplish such a feat, Your Grace.”

Jon expected this to happen, but it still didn’t bring him great pleasure to speak of these tedious events. At the very least, he would make it as straightforward as possible. “I left Castle Black,” he said. “Ramsay Bolton had my sister – or so he had thought. We built an army made of Wildlings and other northern houses, we fought, and we won.” Things had been a lot more complicated than that, but they were not important to this particular discussion. “After we took Winterfell back, Lady Dacey Mormont showed us this,” he paused, slipping a rolled parchment from a pocket. He’d known it was a crucial item to bring along. Tyrion took it from his hand and inspected it curiously.

“Robb Stark named you his heir,” concluded the Imp.

“Forgive my interruption,” jumped in Davos. “Despite that, the King has rejected the title.” Jon eyed Davos in mild discomfort. “Have you not?” Davos was staring back, the complete opposite of discomfort in his crooked smirk.

“I have,” sighed Jon. “The North wasn’t a kingdom anymore.”

“It was Lady Jeyne, rightfully Lady of Winterfell through her marriage to Ramsay Bolton, and the rest of the northern lords who had decided to make him their king regardless.” Whatever Davos was trying to achieve, it only served as another thing to stir Jon’s discomfort, darting his gaze toward the floor. How was this relevant in any way to their situation?

“An excellent input,” smiled Tyrion, handing back the will which Jon hastily sheltered back in his pocket. “Before I readily proclaim that we are in deep, deep shit, may you let us know what label to place on this particular side of the map?” His knuckles knocked into the North. He was asking for the stance on a possible alliance. Jon’s gaze rolled toward Daenerys and, luckily, it was filled with nothing but the heaviness of his labored mind and the same solemn weight of duty.

“Queen Daenerys has my utmost support in her claim,” he spoke, his voice unwavering and full of professionalism. “However, I am afraid I can only show it through neutrality. The North’s armies need to remain in the North. We cannot afford losing any people fighting in this war.” Much to his shame, he had to admit his nights of passion with Daenerys had successfully briefly distracted him from the graveness of their predicament. But, now, it all struck him all over again. Why they were here, what his role was, why that mountain was now more crucial than ever. He had come to Dragonstone as an ally in the Great War, not the battle for the throne, even though it would all be much easier with Daenerys sitting on it. “I am sure you understand.”

[ogcophinaphile]

I’ll Make You Famous: Part 5

the last installment of the 168 hour challenge fic. I had to use up those pictures!

It was hot when she woke.  Damn hot. Cosima felt perspiration soaking the sheet beneath her; uncomfortably sweaty under the bedclothes, she arched her back but the wet cotton stuck to her flesh; she wanted to roll away from it, but there was nowhere to roll. Delphine lay close to her on her stomach, injured arm down by her side between them; their legs still tangled together. Those were, also, god awfully slick with perspiration. She threw the sheets back off of both of them, causing Delphine to stir but not fully to wake. The warmth that had been trapped around them dissipated, but the stiflingly still air in the room offered frustratingly little relief.

 Cosima had two choices: either move or slip into the irrational irritability that so often accompanies hunger and heat. Her injured leg was her only free leg, but she was happy to find she was strong enough to slide her body up and rest her back against the iron bed frame. She watched Delphine sleep. She admired the constellation of freckles splashed across her back and wondered for a moment how the Greeks ever saw anything in the stars but stars. She studied the make shift bandage she had affixed to the other woman’s arm. The wound had bled through, but the bandage was hardly saturated.

 The clock showed the time. 2:34 pm. It was late enough that she felt comfortable drawing Delphine from her dream state, but early enough they didn’t need to rush to get her to a doctor.  Gently, Cosima’s fingers traced lines over her lover’s back.  They trailed up her spine to her neck and into her sleep tussled tresses, lightly scratching around her hairline. Her gentle attentions elicited the intended response and Delphine began, again, to stir. She inhaled deeply through her nose; her torso began to twist itself awake. She opened her eyes a few times, blinking back the sleep and finally, recognizing her circumstance, she smiled.

 “Good Morning.” she hummed. (When you make love to someone until the sun comes up, morning becomes a relative term.) Cosima smiled back.

             “Good morning.”  Delphine’s face barely betrayed the pain she was in as she lifted her injured arm and wrapped it around Cosima’s good leg, pulling it nearer so she could kiss it and lay her head upon it.

             “It’s 2:30.” she observed. “We should get you to a doctor so you can get some antibiotics at least. Even if you won’t have stiches.”

             “I’m fine.” Delphine dismissed her.

             “Sure you are, right now.” Cosima agreed. “I want you to stay that way.” Delphine turned her head further into Cosima’s flesh; her next words muted but audible.

             “Guero can get medicine.” she explained, then lifted her head and kissed Cosima’s thigh again.  “I don’t want you to worry about that.”

 Cosima considered arguing, but her experiences in this area were more than sufficient to quell even her strongest impulse to protest. An acquiescent eye roll was all the displeasure she would communicate.

 “Fine.” she grumbled. Then lightened her tone considerably. “Tell me a story then.” she requested.

 “A story?” Delphine quirked.

 “Well, not any story,” Cosima clarified, gesturing toward Delphine’s injured arm, “tell me that story… Please.” she added.

 Delphine groaned, then yawned and stretched. She turned over, head still resting on Cosima’s hip. Her silence was long and intentional. She let her fingers reach up to caress Cosima’s breast, then higher to caress her cheek. Gentle lips turned in to kiss her palm. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.

 “Not here. Let’s take a walk.”

             It took mere moments for them to dress and descend downstairs. Delphine declined the offer of breakfast from the saloon owner, a woman named Julia; she and Delphine understood one another in their way.  As someone who made her living selling sin –bets, booze and bodies– half the town was mad in love with Julia; the other half regarded her with the envious disdain reserved for a woman who refuses to play by the rules and who is rewarded rather than punished for her transgressions.  Delphine kissed her upon each cheek and thanked her for the accommodations; she assured her that someone would be by to gather their things and settle the tab before the sun went down. She led Cosima by the hand across the dirt road, and they walked westward along the undulating boardwalk. After a few blocks of companionable silence Delphine began.

             “There was a standoff yesterday afternoon. United States Marshals.”

 Cosima stopped dead in her tracks.

             “What??!!” she asked flabbergasted. “Like a real standoff, with guns and stuff?” Delphine allowed the shock to rattle around her lover’s mind for a moment. “Where? When?”

             “At the Gold Hill.” Delphine affirmed, urging Cosima, to no avail, with a gentle tug at her hand to continue walking.    “The violence was unnecessary but Harold was involved. I don’t need to say more I think.”

             “Well you might need to say a bit more.” Cosima prodded. Her feet still glued to their spot. Delphine turned to face her squarely.

             “When I left you yesterday, I went to finalize the details of a transaction that was long overdue. Harold was sent to secure some collateral forfeited against a loan.  Please can we walk?” she urged.  “I don’t want our conversation to drift into anyone’s doorway.” Cosima understood her concern immediately. They continued on.

“We were to have met back at the Gold Hill, as Guero had an immediate need of the prizes we were to have acquired.   But when Harold returned he was not alone.  Of course, he didn’t recognize that he had been followed. The officer confronted him, and he called for help. Jonathan and Fredrick came out; Harold had wasted no time in drawing his weapon and they immediately drew their guns as well. It was not long before the hotel was crawling with Federal agents.”

 “Jesus.” Cosima interjected.

 “They were easily outnumbered, but that didn’t stop Harold from leading a charge like he was defending the Alamo.”  Gobsmacked, Cosima’s pace slowed, but she soldiered on though she felt very much like she needed to sit. .

             “Those three idiots against the Marshal service?” she mused.

             “I’m not sure who fired first, but needless to say all hell broke loose.”

 “How did it end?” Cosima asked.

 “Well, Guero will need some new henchmen.” Delphine observed almost nonchalantly.

 “So they’re dead?” Cosima asked, slightly unnerved at Delphine’s dispassionate delivery.

 “Non, no.” Delphine corrected her; they had run out of boardwalk. Cosima paused and then took a step down off the wooden slats onto the dirt path. The distance from the boardwalk to the ground was short, but precarious for the gravelly surface of the road. “Only if your leg is alright... We can just as easily walk back the other side of the street.”

 “I’m fine.” Cosima said; and set off at an amble into the scrubby sage and Indian Paintbrush. “So they aren’t dead.”

 “The information they might possess is entirely too valuable to lose to a shoot out.” Delphine surmised. “They were each intentionally wounded and disarmed. They’re down, but not dead.

             “And you got caught in the cross fire.” Cosima stated matter-of-factly.

             “Well, not exactly.” Delphine clarified. She held out her injured appendage. “I did this to myself.”

             “To yourself?!” Cosima gawked.

             “I needed plausible deniability.”

             “So you shot yourself?!” As incredulous as she was disquieted, Cosima’s words almost sounded scolding. Delphine chuckled.

             “Well, I had not intended to. As I watched the events unfold from the bedroom window, I considered shooting the Marshal myself, but with no way of knowing who he had spoken to or how many more might be on their way, I waited. When the gunshots began I fired my revolver, one shot, across my arm and out the window of the room. Then I laid down on the bed and waited.”

 “They came and found you?” Cosima could not believe her ears.

             “They did. I introduced myself as Cosima Niehaus, location scout for MGM. I told them I had been recovering from an auto accident, and been held hostage here by the Guero gang.”

 “You did not!?!?!” Cosima marveled.  “You told them you were me??!!”

             “The perfect lie always has some truth to it.” Delphine winked. Cosima stopped, letting it all sink in. “They questioned me for hours before letting me go.”

             “So the US Marshals think I’m a gorgeous blonde French woman?  I think I need to sit down.” She availed herself of a nearby boulder.

             “I know it’s a lot to take in.” Delphine dropped herself onto the ground at Cosima’s feet. “It’s why I didn’t want to talk to you about it last night. I was afraid you’d be too worried to… relax.” She admitted, color searing her cheeks. Cosima’s colored as well, once she understood Delphine’s intended meaning.  

             “Yeah, I might have been a little on edge, now that you mention it.” She wondered for a moment if she would have rather had the truth last night, but she still smelled like her memories and immediately knew she’d have wanted Delphine to make the same decision.  “So what does this mean for all of you?” she asked.

             “Well, the boys are in custody, and Guero is going into hiding, for the time being.”

             “And what will you do?” Cosima asked.

             “Well,” she rose up onto her knees and placed a hand on either side of Cosima; she wanted to kiss her but in light of the request she was about to make she refrained so as not to confuse Cosima about the sincerity of the kiss. “since you are quite well enough to return home – no matter how long I’d like to have detained you– I was hoping we might ride to Los Angeles together. I am sure I can disappear there quite easily.”  Cosima’s eyes widened.

             “Disappear.” The word fell heavy from her lips. Her eyes fell to the ground

 “Yes.” Delphine affirmed.

 “What will you do there?” Cosima felt unsettled at the thought of Delphine disappearing.

             “I have some ideas.”

             “More super outlaw stuff?”

             “That would not exactly count as hiding I think.” Delphine clarified. Her urge to touch Cosima grew stronger, but still she resisted.

             “No I guess not.” Cosima said.  “And you’re sure this is what you want? I mean to leave here.”

             “After yesterday, I really don’t have a choice.” Delphine said, “But you do.”

             “So, let me make sure I have this straight.” Cosima covered Delphine’s hands with her own, then ran her hands up to Delphine’s elbows, pulling her closer. “You’re going on the lamb… and you want my help.”

             “It does put you at some risk, Cosima, and I completely understand if your answer…”

 She grabbed Delphine’s face and kissed her emphatically. “Delphine c’mon, this whole thing is already the most exciting something that has ever happened to me.  Why stop now?” Delphine laughed at her enthusiasm.

             “Because you could go to jail if we get caught!” Delphine chuckled. “Aiding and abetting a known felon is serious business.”  Cosima threw her arms out to her sides.

 “Let’s do it. I mean the Marshals let you walk out of there; clearly, no one knows you’re connected to all of this.”

             “I don’t know that for sure.” She sat back on her heels. “These Marshals did not know I am connected. That is all we can be certain of. State Police might have other information. The FBI… who knows what anyone has learned. I got lucky yesterday; that is all.” Cosima leaned forward.

             “What if Harold or one of the boys ratted you out?”

 Delphine shook her head.

             “They haven’t.”

 “How can you be sure?”

 “Because they are cowards who value their lives. They know that Guero has connections in every federal penitentiary in America. Any… disloyalty,” she chose her words diplomatically, “would be met with the most severe retribution.”

 “Holy shit.” Cosima said gravely. “Really?”

 “No.” Delphine replied quickly, a smirk tugging at one side of her mouth, “but that doesn’t stop them from believing it.”  Cosima’s puzzled expression gave Delphine pause. Her mind turned visibly behind her eyes. She considered her next move, but once she was decided she spoke unceremoniously.  “Cosima, I’m a 31 year old woman, with half a medical degree who runs an old school cattle rustling operation; the most persuasive weapon I have is my mythology.”

 Cosima’s mind froze. She let the words sink in, then cut her eyes at the other woman, studying her face, her eyes, for any sign of pretext.  When Delphine’s façade did not break, she shook her head and smiled.  She had wondered but it seemed too fantastic. “Guero.” Cosima stated.

 “It means blonde.”  

 “Right…” her mind worked quickly to rewrite the story she had told herself about the woman in front of her. “So that’s how you were able to save my life, and keep me here, and spend all this money on me.”

 “It is.” she answered.

 “Jesus, Delphine. That’s incredible.”

 “I’m sorry I had to lie to you, but…”

 “No, no.” Cosima stood and paced away. “I totally understand.” She turned around again to face the notorious Guero. “I just sort of can’t believe you’re telling me now.”

  “Well, I’m asking you to help me evade accountability for what I assure you is a significant life of crime.” Delphine rose as well and crossed to where Cosima stood. She took her hands, looked into her eyes and kissed her. “You deserve to know what you would be agreeing to, and who you would be agreeing to help.”

 “Can I ask you a question?” Cosima looked down at her shoes.

 “Anything.”

 “How many people have you killed?”  Delphine lifted Cosima’s chin with her finger; their eyes found one another’s.

 “Zero.” She stated firmly.  “I am a thief, not a murderer.”

 “Ok.” Cosima kept her head high.  She grappled with her reason to find a way to accept the truth she had half suspected all along. She marveled at the woman in front of her. Remembering her commanding presence with her subordinates and the gentleness with which she had always been treated.  “How in the world did you end up here?”

 “That’s a story for the road, chèrie.  That is if you still want to leave together; if not, I completely understand.”

 “When do you want to go?”

 “The only thing I need is back at the Gold Hill. They didn’t allow me to take anything last night since it was technically a crime scene.” Delphine explained. “ If I can retrieve it today I’d like to be gone by nightfall.”

 “Ok.” Cosima nodded. “What is it? Another secret?”

 Delphine’s cheeks began to color. “It’s not a secret, no. It’s just that no one knows about it.”

 “So it’s a secret.” Cosima added.

 “No.” Delphine insisted, “it’s just… silly.”

 “But you need it?”

 “Yes.” Delphine admitted, “or at least… I would very much like to have it.”

 “Then lets go get it.”

             _____________

             Delphine’s cool exterior never once broke as she begged to get her things from the upstairs room. She flattered the Marshal; thanking him profusely for freeing her from the nightmare she had endured and assured them she was more than ready to return home, if she could simply retrieve her work things.

             She described them to the letter and the Marshall was convinced the Remington 5 portable typewriter and the pages they had leafed through in the desk were not likely connected in anyway to Guero or his illegal operation. He made sure she understood that her involvement was likely not over and that she’d be contacted in the near future about interviews at the FBI field office in Orange County. She said she understood, then swept upstairs, quickly grabbing her effects.

             “Thank you.” she said as she slipped past the officer on the stairs. “Merci be coup.”

             “Best of luck to you Ms. Niehaus.” he called after her. As she crossed the threshold and stepped off of the porch, the smile fell from her face. She wasted no time in placing her typewriter in the back of Cosima’s Fleetmaster.

 “Drive.” she commanded, as she slipped into the passenger side with her satchel of paper, anxious to begin putting miles between herself and the life she was leaving behind.  Instantly she regretted the tone in her voice, one she generally reserved for her attendants.

 “Hold on.” Cosima apologized. “I don’t have this shot yet, and I want it.”

 “Of course,” Delphine said. “I’m sorry.  I think I’ll breathe easier once we are over the state line.”

  Cosima grabbed her camera and stood up; she turned around and focused back over the hood of the car. She snapped a picture, and then quickly regained her seat and cranked the engine over.  As they drove down toward highway 50, Delphine reached for Cosima’s hand.

 “Thank you.” she said sincerely.

 “Hey, of course.  I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to you either.” Cosima turned her hand over under Delphine’s and laced their fingers together.

 “Why the hotel?” Delphine asked.

 “It’s where we met; it’s where I fell in love with you. Listening to you click away on that typewriter every night while I fell in and out of consciousness, waking up to you beside me.”  Cosima could not believe the mass of memeories she had made in just a scant few weeks.  And it all felt so pleasant though so much of it had been awful.  “I’d have preferred a picture of your room, but I guessed that might be… tricky.”

 “Too say the least.” Delphine scooted across the bench seat and leaned into Cosima’s side.

 “So… I showed you mine.” Cosima said expectantly.

 “Pardon?” Delphine said.

 “What’s in the satchel?” Cosima asked. “And you have to tell me because I was just totally vulnerable. It wouldn’t be fair.” Delphine sat up tall she slid over to her own side and grabbed the parcel. She clutched it in her lap, staring out the window.  It was almost a mile before she spoke.

 “Stop the car.”

 “What?” Cosima was uncertain how to read the woman sitting next to her.

 “Pull over.” Delphine was gentle but firm. Cosima complied and was surprised when Delphine got out of the car and came to the driver’s side door.  “I’ll drive. You read.”

 “Yeah?”

 “Only if you really want to know.” Cosima might have described Delphine’s demeanor as insecure if she’d thought it was possible for the woman to be inhabited by such a feeling. “I could tell you about it, but I think it would be better if you just looked for yourself.”

 “Okay.” Cosima slid over and lifted the package to her own lap. She opened it as Delphine took her place on the left and brought the engine back to life.

 (Exterior Desert Day) she read. The sun beats down on a woman, CLAIR. She is dressed in light brown dungarees and a button down shirt, rolled up at the sleeves. She’s hiding behind a boulder, a spyglass in her hand. She squints through it at something in the distance.

  A screenplay. Cosima couldn’t believe her eyes. She continued on.

             She stands and hands the spyglass to man behind her, dressed in similar attire; his appearance in disheveled in a way that hers is not.

 CLAIR: They have a blind spot around that butte.  You could cut out 20 head easily.

                       The man raises the spy glass and nods.

             Cosima read, rapt in wonder at the story, which she could only assume was autobiographical to some degree. She read for three hours, until she ran out of pages. Delphine had driven on silently, across highway 50 to Highway 395. They were nearing the town of Bridgeport when Cosima suggested they stop and find some food and a place to sleep. The only hotel in town luckily housed the only restaurant as well. They took a place in a booth with Deep Burgundy upholstery; warm light from a bare bulb bathed the table in dim light. They ordered wine and two porterhouse steaks. They agreed it wise to leave quite early in the morning, they’d be in Los Angeles by noon.

             “It’s really good, you know that right?” Cosima finally said as their food arrived.

             Delphine refused to make eye contact. She sat silently, slicing her meat into delicate pieces that she could chew almost imperceptibly. Cosima ate her steak in larger chunks, chewing as she spoke.  Her excitement was palpable and a striking counterpoint to Delphine’s suddenly taciturn disposition.

             “It’s you, right? I mean a lot of it is you?”

 Delphine nodded.

 “I laughed when I read about your father.”

 Delphine smiled.

 “And the thing with the barbed wire? That was true wasn’t it?”

 “Yes.”

 “I thought so,” Cosima lifted and rained the wine from her glass. “No one could ever make that up.”

 “You’re too kind Cosima.”

 “No I am not. This is what I do Delphine. Do you have any idea how many bad scripts get made into movies?  How many I’ve had a hand in making!? I’m serious. The work is good.”

 “Do you really think it’s good?”

 “Yes.”

 “You don’t find the dialogue heavy handed?”

 “God no. It sounds like you, well like what I heard when you were living it. That’s as real as it can get I think.

 “And you’re not just saying this because you want to go to bed with me?”

 “I’ll sleep in a chair if you’ll seriously consider letting me take this to the studio.” Delphine chuckled and reached across the table for Cosima’s hand.

 “You’ll do no such thing, no matter what I decide.”

 They paid the check and climbed the stairs to their room. They undressed each other and made love many times over. When they were finally both exhausted, they turned over to go to sleep. Cosima notched her body behind Delphine and reached around carefully avoiding her injured tricep.  She grabbed for and Delphine’s hand.

 “Thanks for sharing the screenplay with me.”

 “I honestly didn’t expect you to read the whole thing. I just wanted you to see what we went back for, since I’ve made you my accomplice.”

 “Delphine, you’ve made me much more than that.”

 Mmmmmmm, Delphine murmured, sleep beginning to take her.  She snuggled her lover’s arm closer into her body.

 “Hey Delphine….” Cosima whispered, kissing her back. “It really is good.”

 “Be careful, Cosima,” Delphine cautioned through sleepy breaths, “You’ll make me vain.”

 “Oh, I’ll do better than that, woman.” Cosima replied, “I’ll make you famous.”