#its just shit like picking too heavy a jacket or taking the longer path or being too slow to stand or bumping into things

[modpoppy]

idk what the thing is called where no matter what you do people act like youre insane and weird and incompetent and annoying but it s the worst!!!!

me asking for input on a decision bc i know i will get made fun of for asking but its better that than making the wrong decision and getting made fun of

dont get an actual answer

me making a decision, specifically trying to leave myself open for multiple options later, and getting made fun of for not making The Obvious Decision

me getting upset bc i specifically asked for advice so i WOULDNT get made fun of

me being accused of deflecting blame and not taking responsibility for my (ill informed) decision that isnt even the Bad decision, just not the simplest

[i-cant-sing]

Yandere RE8: TRP Part 4

Part 1 is here.

Part 2 is here.

Part 3 is here.

Part 5 is here.

Check out my MASTERLIST for more!

"Uhh... hello?"

You looked at the woman standing in the stairs. She was wearing a dark veil that matched the rest of her outfit- oh shit, that's a funeral outfit.

I really did pick a bad time to come here, didn't I? She's in mourning, she sees an intruder, and her day went from bad to worst. Yep, she's gonna kill me.

You took one look at the woman and then at all the possible exits: the doors- no, they'd be too heavy to move and what if they're locked? The window- but I'd have to jump out and just because it looks cool in movies to jump through glass, doesn't mean it'll work, Y/n.

So, the only option was to eliminate the threat. Or maybe... defuse it.

"This is your doll, right?" You asked, pointing at the doll, judging by the lace designs on both of their dresses. The woman didn't reply. "It looks like its been... used a lot. To be honest, she's very different than most dolls I've seen, definitely a lot more spookier." You nervously giggled, hoping she didn't mind. "But... she looks like she's been loved. A lot. Despite being broken from a lot of places, someone still took their time to fix her." You smiled sadly, remembering your own doll that Mia had ripped. "Wish I had someone like that. To sew up the wounds and fix them."You mumbled, not really sure if you were talking about your doll or yourself.

"Your doll, she's- she's very pretty. My sister would've liked her." You began. "Which is why I'm here. My family, we were in an accident- I know it was wrong of me to come here without permission, but I need to find my sister, Rose and my father, Ethan." You took a step closer. "They both of have blonde hair. Rose, my sister, she's just 6 months old. She was dressed in a baby pink onesie, bundled up in a blanket. My father, Ethan, he's about this tall and has big blue eyes. I think he was wearing a jacket, with blue denim jeans. H-have you seen them?" You asked, eyes full of hope and voice laced with eagerness.

Please, please let her have seen them. God, please.

Unsurprisingly, the woman didn't reply, but she did turn her head towards the left window. You didn't know whether she was telling you to get out of her house or signalling that they are out there, but you knew you had to leave.

Nodding, you slowly walked towards the window, your heart beating faster as you prayed that this wasn't some sort of trap, hoping she wouldn't attack you from behind because that would be like... really shitty.

But you left the house unharmed, and without looking back at the window because you didn't want to jinx it, you walked towards the forrest once again, thankful that the sun had finally came out.

Where are you guys?

You had been walking for a couple of hours now, the sun had been a bit warmer today, which was good since you hated the snow that surrounded you now. You looked at the map, tracing the path to your new destination. The Salvatore reservoir. It seemed like it would take you a day's journey to get there, and you sure as hell weren't seeing any lake in sight.

God, when will this nightmare end?

You decided to sit on a stone and take some much needed rest. Your feet ached from all the walking, and your calves were cramping. You rolled your head, popping it from the side, before taking off the rifle that had been weighing down, stretching out your arms. Digging through the little back pack you bought from Duke, you pulled out a thermos of coffee and twinkie. You don't know how or where he got it, but Duke had filled your bag with a couple of snacks; saying its for his loyal customer.

So, here you sat, in the middle of the snowy woods, eating a twinkie and drinking a lukewarm coffee. Both didn't taste good, but they're gonna keep you alive so, no complaining.

After drinking the coffee, you rested your head against a tree, recalling last nights events as you waited for the caffeine to kick in.

You tried to make sense of what happened when you got... locked in the basement. You thought you had forgotten about her, Angel. Guess not.

Wait- didn't that lady lock me in the basement? Maybe, she didn't look very hostile, her creepy doll looked scarier than she did.

You laughed at the irony. You always made fun of the horror movies where the family would become so attached to the most horrifying doll, and you'd scream at their stupidity, And yet here you were, falling for the cliche as you found comfort in that creepy doll.

Man, I'm really losing it here.

You sighed, closing your eyes as you tried to come up with the next plan. But the warm coffee had lulled you right to sleep, which was dangerous but you were too tired to care.

Just for a couple of minutes...

You woke up to the sound of growling and heavy steps. And as soon as you opened your eyes, you knew you had definitely slept for far longer than a few minutes. But that was not of concern at the moment. No, it was the source of the growling that had woken you up.

Just about 40 feet away from you were lycans. Plural. Not one, not two, but 5 lycans, and one of them was a really big one.

You held your breath as you watched them wander around; they hadn't spotted you yet, and if you stayed quiet, you hoped they would just go away.

Stilling yourself as much as you could, you watched them with wide eyes. One of them started to walk in your direction, it wasn't looking at you, which meant that it hadn't seen you, but he would if he kept on walking this way.

God, I know we haven't been on good terms, but like c'mon, you gotta give me a break. Please, I love you? Come on, you know this is not how I want to go.

You sent a silent prayer, and perhaps it worked, since the lycan suddenly turned the other way, joining its pack as they started walking deeper into the woods.

Slowly, you began to gather up your things, silently shoving them in your bag, one eye on the lycans and the other one making sure that you don't accidentally drop something that'd cause noise.

Fortunately, you didn't. You swung the bag over your shoulder, and took a step forward, careful not to step on any twigs.

Maybe God did love me. All that time in church-

THWACK!

You jumped back as a huge sheet of snow fell from the trees in front of you. You whipped your head towards the monsters and they all had stopped dead in their tracks. Slowly, one of them turned and if they hadn't heard the snow fall, they'd definitely heard the way your heart was about to burst out of your chest. Then, it growled.

Motherfucker.

You pulled out your gun just as the two of them began running your way. With a quick jump to the side, you dodged them and shot them two times each. Hearing your gun fire, the other two began running your way too, while the larger one stayed behind as it watched. This time, as you shot one of them, the other managed to kick you in the chest hard, throwing you against the rock. Luckily, you didn't hit your head, as you rolled and shot it dead.

Spitting out the blood, you looked back at the last lycan who had already started running your way. You began loading up your gun with trembling hands, but just as you aimed, the lycan took a giant leap and knocked the gun out of your hand.

Fuck.

The giant grabbed you by your neck, lifting you up high before throwing you across the ground. You wheezed, scrambling up to your feet as you began running away from it, its heavy steps following you. It roared angrily behind you, and that only made you ignore the burning pain in your chest as you ran faster.

But of course, God had decided to make you live a cliche horror movie, because you tripped over a fucking branch, making you fall on your stomach. You flipped over instantly, and saw your nightmare come true as the lycan jumped on you.

On pure reflex, you punched it square in the face, which you doubted hurt it more than it hurt you, if anything, the monster was momentarily perplexed, but that was enough for you to slip from under it.

But you were only able to take a few steps away when it suddenly grabbed you by your neck and lifted you up again, snarling as it began opening its mouth, revealing its razor-sharp teeth at you.

God, if you're hearing this, I'm converting to atheism because I did not need this today.

Looking at the horrifying lycan, you prayed one last time before you were eaten by it. Surprisingly, your life did not flash before your eyes, which you were kinda grateful for because you did not need to relive that before your death.

But that moment didn't came. No, what came were familiar moans of pain, and then the sound of a drill, followed by blood splattering on your face as the lycan was sliced vertically from the head to the toe by the aforementioned drill.

The lycan fell to the ground, revealing the pair of soldats that killed them and behind them a smirking Heisenberg, who rested against a tree, tipping his hat at you.

You were far too shocked to say anything, and after a few seconds, the man walked over to you, blocking the view of his monstrous creations just mutilating the lycans.

"So... that was a bit traumatising." He started, chuckling at your stunned face. "You okay, kid?"

What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck-

"Yeah." You took his hand, and he helped you up. You groaned at the pain, touching the tender side around the chest where the lycan had hit you. Yeah, you probably broke a rib.

Heisenberg helped you sit down on a tree stump. "Hmm, that bastard kicked you hard didn't it." Wait- "But that was a phenomenal punch you threw at it. Nearly made me burst out laughing."

"You were watching? Why the fuck didn't you come in before!"

He shrugged. "I just wanted to see if you could really handle yourself- which you were pretty good at, but then you lost your gun and it was kinda an unfair match from there on." He pulled out some pills from his coat. "i was just passing by when I saw those lycans moving away. Thats when I pushed the tree which made snow sheet fall and you know the rest from there on."

Your eyes went wide. "You did that on purpose? What the shit, Heisenberg-?! Fuck." You doubled over in pain, clutching your ribs, heaving.

"Shh, stay still, kid. Here, take these. They'll help with the pain." You eyed the bottle before popping two in your mouth. Hey, if he wanted me dead, he wouldn't have saved me from the lycan. "I just wanted to see if you were worth the trouble, and as it turns out, you are."

"You didn't have to almost kill me to see that. And now I've lost my gun. And I don't have any money to buy a new one. I doubt Duke gives freebies." You huffed out.

Heisenberg rolled his eyes. "God, you sure do whine a lot. Here-" He dropped a tiny pouch in your lap. "There's some coins in there. That should be enough to buy you a new gun. And for fucks sake, get a gun with more rounds! You don't have time to be loading a gun mid battle." He huffed. "So, where are you going now?"

You rolled your head from side to side. "Well, I went to the Beneviento house. Didn't find Ethan or Rose there. Now, I'm going to the lake."

"The lake? Huh, well if you survived Donna, then Moreau should be a piece of cake. You got the map? Let me show you the short cut, it's not far from here." You gave him the map and he showed you the directions.

"Where are you going then?"

"Mother Miranda called. Don't worry, I'll keep our meeting a secret." He then nodded at you. "Alright, I'm off now."

"Wait!" Your voice stopped him. "I don't know when I'll see Duke again. And I don't have gun, so what if another pack of lycans come?"

Heisenberg slumped his shoulders as he let out an annoyed sigh. "Fine. I gotta do everything by myself." He dog whistled and one of the soldats stopped maiming the lycan and ran to Heisenberg. "From now on, you're gonna listen to her."The soldat looked at you and nodded. "If she tells you to kill, you kill. If she tells you to die, you die. Follow her around and keep her safe." The soldat nodded. Then Heisenberg turned to you. "He's already dead, so don't worry about throwing him in danger. Oh and also, just take him into the sun every once in a while so that his engine can recharge. You'll know when he needs the sun."

You were baffled. "Wait, Heisenberg- how the- what the hell am I supposed to do with him?"

"Figure it out, kid. Think of him as a guard dog."

You looked at the soldat then at Heisenberg's retreating form, then back at the soldat.

"So..." The soldat stared at you. "You got a name?"

"Handsome." You nodded to yourself as you trudged, using the soldat's arm to support yourself. "That's what I'm gonna call you. Handsome. What do you think?"

The soldat was wearing a metal contraption over its eyes, so you couldn't really tell what it was feeling.

"Well, you don't seem to have any complaints, so from now on, you'll respond to the name "Handsome". Do you understand?"

The soldat nodded.

You laughed. God, the pain meds were either making me stupid or everything else funnier.

You looked at the map again. Just a couple of more minutes and then a right turn. And then you should see the lake- god, this map was confusing as hell.

"So..." you wondered what you should ask the cyborg. Oh right. "You seen Ethan? Blonde man, crazy big eyes. Or a baby, Rose?" The man shook his head no.

Sigh. What else could I ask him? What about how did he die? No, what if that's triggering? I can't handle a Terminator right now. And I don't think I should ask him about his past or anything that'll cause him to have a existential crisis. Ah! I've got it!

"Hey, how do you see?"

The soldat looks down at you for a few seconds then points at his metal contraption.

Wait- is that sarcasm?

You scoff. "Of course, you see with your eyes! I meant, with the whole metal thingy covering them, how do you- oh, there's this vision specs in them."

You smiled. "Hey, you're kinda like Cyclops, yknow-" you were cut off as Handsome suddenly pushed you to the ground, turning on his drill.

"Wait, shit- you don't have to be Cyclops! We can talk this out-" but Handsome was focusing on something else, and that's when you saw it. Two lycans.

Handsome ran and easily maimed them to pieces, I mean, you had to look away from the horrific scene midway.

The soldat returned five minutes later, covered in blood. He extended his hand and you reluctantly took it, letting him support you as you began walking again, your heart still beating like crazy.

But you calmed down when you finally reached the lake, the setting sun gave serene feel to the entire reservoir. You inhaled deeply before looking at Handsome. "Lets go down there." You pointed at the lake.

You were both sitting at the wooden broadwalk, your legs hanging off the ledge. You looked at the water, it wasn't crystal clear, but you could see some fishes swimming around, so at least it wasn't dangerous to life. You looked at Handsome, then at his drill and you realised he was still covered in blood. "Lets get you cleaned up, hm?" You said, pulling out a rag from your bag and dipping it in the cold water below. You began with cleaning up his drill, then dipping the rag back in cold water and cleaning his chest and his other arm.

"Good job back there, Handsome."You smiled as Handsome nodded. "Heisenberg was right, you are kinda like a dog. Hmm, I wonder if..." You tested your theory as you petted him on the head. "Good job, Handsome!" But the soldat only tilted its head in confusion.

"Hmm, perhaps not." You cupped the cold water in your hands and washed your own face, You looked at your reflection in the water. "You wanna go for a swim? I don't mind." Handsome shook his head. "Yeah, I'm not a fan of swimming either."

Handsome stared at you. You scoffed. "Oh so you pretend you don't understand what I say, but you want to hear the story? Fine, but I'm only telling you because it might be important later."

You both stared at the water as you began your story. "Well, when I was 15, I had snuck out of the house to go to a party. It was at this rich girl's house and I knew she didn't like me, but I was surprised when she had invited me to her place. Yes, a red flag I should've seen from miles ago, but I was young and dumb and desperate to climb the highschool social hierarchy." You chuckled. "Anyways, long story short, one of the guys there pushed me into the pool because I don't know if they thought it was funny to see me drown? By some luck, I managed to grab onto the pool ledge and pull myself up. I immediately left the party, embarrassed and cold and on the verge of breaking down. Then on the way back home, there was this car following me and then some weirdo catcalled me and tried to get me in his car. Now, scared for my life because I watched a lot of Criminal Minds, I ran all the way home, praying that he leaves me alone. I think he stopped when he saw a Range Rover following him, but I don't know. I just rushed back home." You sighed. "You know what happened next? I bursted through the front door, slamming it shut and I turn around to see my dad in the living room, looking surprised to see me. He stood up and looked me up and down and then said, "Y/n? You're drenched completely. And you're messing up the floor. You know what? Mia's in the bathroom right now, why don't you go upstairs and I'll clean up here. You know how she gets when there's water on the wood." And I was just so shocked, that I didn't say anything and went back upstairs. Once I was in the shower, that's when I broke down crying. I almost drowned, almost got kidnapped and my father was worried about me messing up the wooden floor? Hell, he didn't even ask me why I was coming home at midnight." Your tears fell into the lake, making small ripples. You chuckled, "God, I always wondered how tired he must've been from work that day to ignore all these visible signs of distress. I always hated his job, you know? They made him work way too much." You looked at Handsome who was looking at the lake. "Anywho, now you know I can't swim so, save me if I fall into this lake, okay?" He nodded.

You guys sat in comfortable silence for a few more minutes before a question popped up in your mind. "Handsome?" He turned his head towards you, only to see a mischievous smile on your face. "Are you seeing someone?" The man turned his back to the lake, making you laugh. "Ahh, so you like someone. Tell me, is it someone from the village?" The man further turned his head away from you in embarrassment. "Oh come on, tell me! Is it a girl?" He nodded reluctantly, making you punch his arm. "You dog! Does she know?" Handsome shook his head, making you smile. "Tell you what? As a payback for saving me back there, I'll help you get her. I'll be your wingman, Handsome, hm?" He nodded a bit enthusiastically.

"We all deserve good things, Handsome. No matter how we look, or what we are, these things don't really define one's self worth. Its our intentions, you know?" Handsome didn't know, but he nodded anyways.

"Good. Now, lets go check out this place. Keep an eye out for Ethan and Rose, okay?" You told him, not knowing someone was already watching the two of you.

So... thought?

What did you guys think about Handsome? I'm gonna post a pic of him soon if you guys want.

Part 5 is here.

[hargrove-mayfields]

Just A Dream Away

Chapter 5/13 read here on ao3!

for @harringrovebigbang

~~~~

Robin gets to the phone first.

Steve was too busy wallowing in his bed to get up and answer, though he figures it might be worth seeing who it is that’s calling. None of the kids call him anymore, but he always considers, even if it’s for just a moment, that it could be an emergency. He’ll know whenever he decides to get up, or if Robin even decides to pick it up.

Its ring echoes shrill and loud in the apartment, the tone making him want to wrap himself in a blanket and never come out, so he slides out of his bed, calling down the stairs in search of a solution to end the noise, “You gonna get that Rob?”

For a moment, he wonders if she’ll even respond. It’s barely been a couple of hours since he made her cry, but she calls back, “Are you expecting a call?”

Relieved to know she at least still tolerates him, Steve answers, “Nope.”

“Then no.” Comes her simple response, and the phone ringing promptly dies out, “Guess it didn’t matter anyways.”

But almost immediately, it starts up again, somehow sounding more sharp than before. Steve tells her just to get it so the ringing will stop, coming down the steps to see for himself who it is calling.

He watches Robin pull the receiver from its base, in the place of a greeting going straight for, “What do you want?”

Steve takes note of the fact that her mood isn’t entirely better yet, though he’s definitely glad she’s taking those feelings out on the telephone and not on him, but, despite her abrasiveness, she still receives no response.

It looks like she’s going to hang up before she hears something, her features closing off as she focuses on whatever comes through the other end, “Hello? I can’t hear you. Who is this?”

There’s a whining static loud enough for even Steve to hear from the other side of the room, getting louder, and then a pop that makes the lights flicker and the phone die out, making Robin shriek and drop it, shaking out her hand.

“Son of a bitch shocked me.” She mumbles, picking up the dead receiver and showing Steve the two burnt ends.

In the moment though, something he’ll perhaps feel bad for another time, Steve isn’t worried about his friend. He isn’t rushing to see what happened and check if she got burnt, he instead just freezes up, filtering through the overwhelming questions filling his head to ask, “Did you hear who it was?”

“No, it just sounded like it was all distorted.”

Her answer is nonchalant, but it makes Steve feel weak and panicky, sitting down at the table as pale as a ghost.

That’s obviously not a normal reaction, and Robin asks, tone more afraid than concerned, which he thinks that’s appropriate for what just happened, “What’s going on Steve?”

Grimly, he explains, “Mrs Byers’ phone did that twice before, blowing up after a call just like that.”

“Okay, well maybe there’s just a storm coming and it’s just a coincidence that happened to her too?” She tries to reason, but Steve already knows, he's felt this dread before. “No, Robs. It happened because Will called her from the Upside Down.”

“But then that means-“ Robin starts, working through the implications, Steve finishing the statement for her, “Someone is trapped over there.”

“Holy shit, but the gate, hasn’t it been closed for a year and a half now?“

“Unless someone else opened it, yeah.”

Stiffly she nods, asking hesitantly, be it because of her questions or the disagreement between them earlier, “Well what do we do?”

A reflection of his lack for anything but pessimistic doomsdaying anymore, Steve worries, “What can we do, Robin? I’ve only ever fought the things that end up in our world, and you’ve never even seen half of the monsters that come from over there. We’re too overpowered here.”

More rational than her friend, Robin suggests, “I think we should get a hold of Eleven. You said she's the one that really understands any of this other dimension stuff. She can help.”

But Steve shakes his head, “Her powers are gone. She might know what to do, but I don’t think she’ll be able to do anything.”

“So you just want to leave whoever it is over there?”

“No, fuck no. That’s not what I mean.”

“Then what should we do?”

“I don’t know..” Steve frowns, thinking hard before he answers determinedly, “But whoever it is, they reached out to us. We have to help them.”

~~~~

The phone doesn’t work.

What is Billy supposed to do? He’s tried everything, and with his last resort at reaching out a dud, he’s not sure what else he even can do.

So, in true Billy Hargrove fashion, he lashes out, cursing and unnecessarily yanking the phone jack out of the wall, the plastic handheld skidding across the kitchen tile into the corner, “Goddamnit!”

The noise may have been a mistake though, because, despite how sure he was the dogs wouldn’t find this place, he hears a chitter, and the click of claws on hardwood floors. The damn thing is in the house, and his machete is by the door.

A recurring theme with these hell beasts, is that there’s never enough time to run, but unless he wants to use decorative mugs or a cookie jar to fight it, he doesn’t have much of a choice but to try.

He makes two mistakes as he runs, the first being that he hesitates, not wanting to leave Steve. Even if he couldn’t find him he had gotten so damn close, but a snarl from the dog puts things into perspective, and, with a heavy feeling of remorse in his chest, he leaves through the backdoor as quietly as he can, bolting down the rotting back steps.

His second mistake is looking over his shoulder. Just as his boots touch brittle grass, he decides just to glance back and see how much space is between him and the hellhound, but the second he sees it, he just freezes up.

Because it’s fucking big, for one thing. It has to force itself through the door frame, meaning it’s wider than he is. It has a lot more teeth than the others. It’s skin is pale and it’s limbs much longer. Something tells him the others he’s seen are immature, and this one is close to its final form, whatever that may be. Either way, he’s decidedly not fucking around with that.

The daunting unfamiliarity of this part of Hawkins, intimidating as it is, isn’t Billy’s main concern right now. He just bolts like a coward, hoping against hope that there’ll be anything along his path he won’t have to corner himself to get that can be used as a weapon, basically his only other option for surviving this that this amped up dog will get bored of him fast.

But, and really, he knew this was the case, he just hadn’t wanted to admit he was prey yet, it easily charges him, going up on its back legs to knock him off his balance. It misses at first, so he thankfully doesn’t get pushed to the ground, but his reflexes, especially when blurred by emotion, are no match to a monster of this size, and before he can even process its next move, it clamps its teeth on his arm.

Now, he’s been here for a while. He’s had scratches and cuts and welts from their tails, but he’d always been quick enough, smart enough, prepared enough to not get bit. Which he really wishes was still something he could still attest to, because it fucking hurts. Razor sharp teeth from too many mouths tear into the muscle, a stinging pain all the way from the point of impact in his wrist up to his shoulder.

It’s his fault, all this stuff with Steve was getting to his head, feeling his presence and hearing his voice again for the first time in god knows how long only to be unable to reach him. It was doing things to his judgement.

But this is still bad. Really fucking bad.

As soon as it lets go, he knows it’s going to latch onto him again, so he does what he does best in a situation where he’s hurt and scared and alone. He cries, for one thing, but he also fights. But where he’d normally just use his fists and his ego to prove his strength, this world is built differently. Even with a pocket knife to stand up for himself that’s not enough to survive, but he’s still going to make it count. If at the end of this he goes down, it won’t be without a fight.

A fight to just get back to the way things were. To prove to himself he could do this and survive. For once in his fucking life, just to overcome hardship and move the hell forward, no cycles of hatred and pain, love and respect drawing him back. Nobody else in control of his body. Nobody else holding him back from being happy.

He just wants to survive this.

There’s blood on his jacket sleeve, but Billy refuses to look at how bad the wound truly is yet. There quite frankly isn’t enough oxygen down here to afford a panic, but from the pain and the blood alone, he knows it’s not going to be good for him.

The fighting isn’t going too well either, with only one arm not weighed down by injury and a knife the size of his palm his last standing lines of defense, it’s mostly him dodging the creature and flailing his limbs to either stop an incoming bite or confuse it, both of them too confident in its ability to tear him to shreds to advance further than that.

But it gets bored of fucking around with him, and it rises to its back legs again, and Billy knows he’s fucked, squeezing his eyes shut and blocking his face, but the attack never comes. There’s a huge crack of lightning in the ever looming storm above, and a chorus of eerie chittering from more dogs at varying degrees of closeness to where they are, and it draws the attention of the big one away.

While the monster is distracted, he uses that opportunity to his advantage, takes charge of his circumstances to give himself a fighting chance. That strategy never worked for him before, only ever got him into deeper shit, but he can’t exactly just stand here and be monster bait either so, though it breaks his heart to put that distance between him and Steve, Billy chooses to run.

[lilyharvord]

Would u consider writing a marecal fic where Mare gets pregnant without knowing in the middle of everything and then has a miscarriage during like a battle scene and she’s all confused and hurting and Cal is freaking out and then he helps her through it??

May I... may I interest you perhaps in Cal not knowing at all?... And it’s sort of in the middle of everything sort of not.... and she loses the baby while she’s alone? Um...so yeah, for some reasons I couldn’t stop thinking about that scene in The Help while I thought about this ask, so here we are...  wow this shit was sad... ): 

Closing the door as softly as he could behind him, Cal smiled to himself before softly setting his bag down next to the end table that took up more space in the tiny hallway than necessary. Edging forward to glance around the corner at the living room, his smile slowly died when he realized it empty. 

There was a set of schematics on the beat up coffee table, and a cup of tea next to it though. 

Stepping completely into the room, he ran his hands along the worn back of the couch, and glanced at the papers. They appeared to be a set of battle plans for an assault on a Lakeland stronghold. Tyton’s name was even signed at the bottom of them. Cal flipped the folder closed, not to stop him from looking at it though. The door was unlocked, which meant anyone could have been here. Gisa could have walked from her shop a few blocks over, or Ruth could have swung by and dropped off the tea leaves from the little terrace garden she kept. Neither of them had clearance for those files, and if they had seen them it put them at risk.  

“Mare?” Cal called softly, and regretfully. He hoped that his visit would be a surprise. He had a whole evening planned. First he’d surprise her here, then they’d take a walk into downtown Ascendent, and then he’d buy her dinner at her favorite restaurant on the lake. Plan never lasted the first ten minutes of battle. He found himself repeating that phrase more and more lately. 

When there was no reply, he walked back into the hallway and poked his head into the kitchen. The tea box was open, and he took the two steps it always took him to reach the counter. Mare’s shoebox apartment sometimes drove him insane, simply because it was so small they were always on top of each other when he stayed here. But it felt oddly empty without her loud personality filling it right that second.  

He set his hand on the kettle and lifted the lid. It was still practically full, and the water was hot. She had just poured her tea and sat down... he smiled and then gently closed the lid and spun around to search the kitchen. 

“I told you once that I was a good hunter. I still am a very good hunter, and if you want to be found...” trailing off with a smile, he edged back into the hallway and walked towards her bedroom. Opening the door quickly, he almost jumped into the space. The bed was mussed, she obviously hadn’t made it this morning, and her sleeping clothes were thrown on the chair near the window, but there was no sign of her. 

Now he just felt stupid for calling out like he did. 

Something clattered in the bathroom, something heavy. It almost made him jump out of his skin. “Mare?” He called to her. When she did’t reply, he crossed the room to the worn bathroom door. He remembered having to sand it down when she first moved in because the last tenant had left it a mess. 

The handle stuck when he turned it, and he tried it twice more before recognizing that it was locked. Knocking softly and calling through the wood, he tried to keep his worry out of his voice. “Mare are you okay?”

“Yes. Fine. Just need... a few minutes. Go to Gisa’s shop and wait for me.” 

HIs brows drew together when he heard the strain in her voice. Turning away from the door he crossed to the nightstand on the other side of her bed where he thought she kept the emergency key to unlock any door in the house. The landlord had warned her it was an old house and the doors tended to lock on their own and that it was best if she kept that key on her at all times just in case. 

Before he could open the door, there was another heavy clatter followed by a something that sounded suspiciously like a sob. Spinning on his heel, he dropped his shoulder as he hit the door as hard as he could. It splintered under his weight and he ended up almost spilling onto the ground when he fell through. 

He managed to catch himself on the sink but the first thing he still noticed was the metallic reek of blood that permeated from almost every direction in the bathroom.

“Get out! Get out Cal!” Mare screamed as she threw part of the towel rack that had fallen to pieces around her at his head. He barely managed to dodge it, but he couldn’t take his eyes off of the puddles of blood around the tiny bathroom. His heartbeat was practically in his throat as he slowly raised his eyes to see Mare curdled up on the floor against the edge of the bathtub, her face red and tear streaked. She looked terrified, or perhaps sick. All the color was gone from her face, and that scared him more than anything. 

Hesitantly, so he didn't touch anything around his feet, he slowly crouched down, searching Mare for a wound. There’s wasn't a visible one that could have possibly spilled that much blood. 

“There’s so much blood. I didn’t think there’d be so much.” Mare hiccuped before gripping her hair in one hand and clenching it into a fist. When she closed her eyes, more tears rolled down to the join the others in neck of her thick sweater. 

“Hey, okay, it’s...” was it going to be okay? Cal didn’t think that was best thing to say anymore, so he slowly rose to step over the blood and join Mare on the other side of the puddles. 

“I lost it.” Mare whispered as he slowly sank down onto the floor with her. “I lost it.” She repeated once more when he slowly wrapped an arm around her shoulders and brought her towards him so she could bury her face in his neck.

 Her face was burning against his still wind kissed skin. Glancing around the bathroom once more, Cal slowly began piecing things together. His stomach dropped to his knees when he reached the obvious conclusion, but he didn’t dare say anything in case it made this whole thing worse for Mare who seemed to have finally quieted in his arms. 

“I barely had it,” she croaked, “I didn’t even know if it was a boy or--or a girl. It didn’t even have fingers or toes.” 

He ran his hand up and down her back slowly, trying to keep her sobs at bay. She didn’t seem in danger of dropping into hysterics, but then again, Mare had always been spectacular at hiding how close she was to the edge. 

“I told Gisa... and she told my mom.” This time a tiny sob escaped. “I told Sara I was coming to see her tomorrow.” 

“Let’s get you in a warm bath.” Cal whispered against her temple. He pulled a hand away to stretch and turn the bath on when she didn’t protest. She only curled his jacket into her fist, but didn’t say anything else, not even when he slowly lifted her to remove her shirt and the remainder of her undergarments. Tossing them into the corner, he slowly wrapped an arm under her legs and lifted her off of the ground. Steam rolled out of the bath and around the room, fogging the mirror. The room was horrible at ventilating, it always had been. It drove him insane when he showered because it was like stepping out into a muggy Archeon day when he finished. 

Setting Mare in the water, he picked up a towel and set it over the largest puddle of blood before grabbing one of the small washcloths. When he turned around, Mare had drawn her knees up to her chest and was staring blankly at the other side of the bath. 

Dunking the cloth in the water, Cal sank to his knees outside of the bath before pressing it to the base of Mare’s neck. Squeezing it to run the water down her back, he whispered, “The next one...” he swallowed, realizing the mistake, and ended up biting his tongue. After this traumatic incident, he highly doubted there would be another one ever again. 

“I dreamed it was a boy two nights ago,” Mare’s spoke as if she hadn’t even heard him. Then again, maybe she hadn’t, because her lips had curled up at the edges into a whimsical smile that made him pause from wiping the cloth up and down her back. She closed her eyes and expelled a long sigh along with one more tear. He tracked its path as it rolled down her cheek, counting the long seconds that she sat in silence. The last thing he wanted to do now was say something that pushed her deeper into this terrible moment. 

When she spoke again, it was with a crushed whisper. “I’d already named him Shade.” Her shoulders caved with the name, and she dropped her head to rest it on her knees, as if suddenly the weight of that idea, or dream had become too much. Dropping the cloth into the water, he replaced it with his hand on her neck, caressing the heavy branching scars there. 

 “Then we’ll bury him by the lake. Near your favorite tree.” He whispered, and she finally turned blank eyes on him. He’d seen a similar ache in those eyes before, when she’d lashed out on the Blackrun, and when she’d stared him down on a balcony after making a decision that had almost ruined his life. It was a bone deep sorrow, an ache for a future that could never exist. 

He gave her a halfhearted smile in response, and she nodded before reaching out with a dripping hand to cup his cheek. Water rolled down and droplets landed on his pant leg, and still he couldn’t pull his eyes from her face. She returned his smile, but that look didn't leave her eyes. 

Reaching up, Cal closed his hand around hers and slowly brought her fingers to his lips. “I’m here. For as long as you need me to be, I am here.” And in that boiling bathroom, surrounded by smoke, he let unspoken words hang between them. 

And I will be there long after you no longer do. 

[superfanficnatural]

Maybe the apocalypse isn’t so bad after all

Pairing: Negan x Male!Reader

Summary: Negan finds you having some fun with some walkers, resulting in some unrequited attraction to intertwine the both of you. Deciding to go back to the sanctuary with him, the both of you couldn’t hold yourselves back any longer.

A/N: This is my first Negan fic so I really hope that you guys like it! I tried to make Negans personality as accurate as possible so there is a TON of f-bombs in here haha, also I know the summary sucks but I couldn’t think of anything to write xD, enjoy!

A/N 2: Spoilers for TWD seasons 6 and further but if you are reading a Negan fic then it’s not a spoiler lol.

Warnings: Heavy Cursing, Smut, NSFW 18+, Oral Receiving (Male), Dirty Talk, Anal Sex, Bondage (Rope and Blindfold), Daddy Kink, Slight Fingering, some others.

Word Count: 3.5K

Italics are thoughts

Gif isn’t mine

Negan’s POV

“God DAMN it’s been SO long since I’ve been able to let out some steam.” 

“Who the hell was that?” asked one of the four soldiers behind me.

We backed up and hid behind a wall, I peeked my head over to see some random fucking guy walking up to the gas station next to us. I counted a dozen walkers, he can’t be serious, I thought to myself. He took off the backpack he was wearing and to my surprise, he didn’t grab the pistol by his hip, instead reaching behind him to grab a machete that was hooked onto his back. 

“Now, who’s first.” the guy said, walking up to the walkers. 

Two of them walked up to him side by side and he swung his machete, beheading two of the fuckers at once, damn he’s good.

“Oh come on, you guys can do better.” he teased, inching closer to another three.

They were decently spaced out, walking in a single file line, cars on their sides making their path narrow. He shoved his machete into the first one's stomach, pushing him back until his machete hit all three. The walker at the front tried to grab him, flinging its arms out at his face. I was about to go help the poor son of a bitch until I saw him cut both of it’s arms off in seconds, swinging his machete once again, this time connecting with its head. Whoever this guy is, he’s fucking good. I was considering taking him in, seeing if he could help the sanctuary. 

“Damn, sucks for you.” he said sarcastically, coaxing a small chuckle to leave my lips, now this is the kind of person I want around me.

He shoved his machete through the second one's skull, piercing it and getting the third one as well. Seven left.

One was trapped in a car, another trapped underneath one, the other five in a group a few feet in front of him. 

“Come on you fuckers, come to daddy.” he joked. He’s a badass AND funny? Well fuck me.

He dropped his machete and I was about to yell out and call him a dumbass until he reached behind him, grabbing two medium sized knives strapped to the back of his belt. He approached the group, throwing one knife, he connected it with one of the fuckers heads, running up and tackling the second, his other knife going into it’s eye socket. He ripped out the knife and walked up to the other walker on the ground, taking the knife out, he ran up to the last three, simultaneously killing two of them. Turning to the third, he motioned him to come closer with his pointer finger. The walker was at biting distance and that’s when he shoved both of his knives into the sides of his head. He turned around and that’s when I saw the smirk on his face, blood covering it and his clothes, my pants tightened and my breathing got heavier, wait what the fuck? I’m not into- forget it.

He easily finished off the two remaining walkers and grabbed his machete off of the floor, walking over to his backpack and picking it up, I was tempted to walk out, try and get him to come back to camp with me. 

“You gonna come out or...?” he said, glancing over in our direction with a grin, we all instantly jumped behind the wall. After a few moments I decided to walk out, taking my chances.

Your POV

You knew there was a group of guys behind that wall this whole time, how else would you have survived this long without picking up a few skills?

“I’m not going to wait forever ya know?” you finished, growing tired of them hiding. You were about to make your way over to them until a man walked out, fuck. You hadn’t seen any attractive men since this entire fucking apocalypse and there he was, salt and pepper beard, slick black hair, a black jacket and baseball bat wrapped with wire, a complete fucking dilf. Attractive AND dangerous? Fuck me. 

“Don’t mean you any harm, was just walking through here until I saw you fuck UP those sons of bitches.” a foul mouth too? Damn, I guess some good things do come out of the apocalypse. 

“Right... anything else you need?”

“People, honestly, you got a camp or something?” he asked, testing you.

“No, I don’t have a camp, I also know there are four other guys behind that wall so you have a camp.” he was about to open his mouth to speak but you cut him off, “Don’t worry, I couldn’t care less if you have a camp or not, I’ll just be going on my merry way.” 

“Wait!” he urged, turning you back around.

“You need something, daddy?” you joked, not realizing the power behind your word until after you said it, a slight blush threatening to flash across your face. 

He smirked and his eyes grew darker, “Actually, I do. I want you to come back to my camp, I need tough sons of bitches like you,” he admitted.

Wait, he smirked?? He doesn’t look gay to me at all, I mean he looks like he can probably fuck whoever he want’s but he definitely does not swing that way, he was probably just laughing at my joke, yeah, that.

“I’ve always been solo, what makes you think I want to join up with you guys?” you asked, already considering it just because of this perfect vessel in front of you. 

“Can’t be solo forever, eventually you’re going to need some help. Plus, we got food, running water and electricity, clothes, anything you could ask for.”

“Electricity? As in I can shave my pubes after however many fucking years? Along with this ridiculously unfashioned beard?” you asked, perking up.

He chuckled, “Would I ever fucking lie to you?”

You chuckled to that in return, damn a sense of humor too? Who the hell is this guy?

“I’m Y/N, you?”

“Negan, and this here is my baby, Lucille,” he said, swinging the bat around.

“Oh god, you were definitely one of those guys who named his car some kind of name before all of this weren’t you?” you asked with a jokingly disgusted face.

He full body laughed at that, resulting in you letting out a small chuckle as well, “Something like that, so, you wanna join up with me?” he asked, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Fuck it, why not,” you responded with a smile, him giving you one in return.

You both made your way over to the other men, introducing yourself and them doing the same, you already forgot their names except for the one who looked important, Simon. They had a truck a few hundred feet down the road, “What were you guys doing out here anyways?” you asked.

“We came to this gas station looking for some gas, but from what it looks like, there’s nothing left.” Simon replied.

You nodded in acknowledgement, hopping on the back of the truck while the rest got in, Negan in the driver's seat with Simon next to him, you had a feeling he was his right hand man. 

After about an hour on the road, you reached a huge factory, fences with walkers hung up on them, smart, keeps the rest away. After a whistle from Negan, the gates were opened by two men, driving past them you saw they were fully armed, damn, this place is fortified. 

Parking in front of what seemed like the front entrance, you all got out and Negan motioned for you to come over to him. Walking into the building, you noticed a bunch of stalls and what seemed like people selling stuff, “On the first level, we have the point system, they sell what they have for other people in need and get points to buy stuff for themselves.”

“Seems a bit flawed but it’s better than nothing I guess.” you shrugged.

Walking past the hundreds of people, you noticed they all basically got on their knees as he walked past them, “What are you? God?” you joked.

He smirked, “To these people? Fuck yeah I am.”

Chuckling, you made your way up to the second floor with him, noticing long hallways with multiple doors.

“Up here the point system doesn’t exist, it’s where all the soldiers sleep, eat, and probably fuck, no points necessary.”

“Damn, sign me the fuck up.”

“Why else do you think you’re here smartass?” he nudged your shoulder.

“Fuck off, where are we going?” you asked, nudging him back.

“To your room, so you can settle in and cut those pubes that you were talking about.” 

You laughed, continuing on with him. He stopped at the end of the hallway and opened a door, a huge room that looked nice as fuck came into view, “There’s no way this is mine.” you said in disbelief.

“This one is mine, but yours is similar, come here.” he said, walking over to another door a bit further down the hall. He opened the door and you saw a room that was barely decorated, all of the essentials in place.

“Damn, last time I had a place this nice was in my dreams a few months ago.”

He chuckled and walked you over to the bathroom, you noticed a shower with a razor on the counter, along with some shampoo and body wash.

“I would normally tell you to not take too long with the hot water, I have a feeling you’re gonna go and stay as long as you fucking want anyway, so go ahead and take your shower and shave, I’ll be waiting in the main room.” he said, walking out and closing the door behind him. Wasn’t he the leader of this place? Does he really have the time to wait on me?

You stripped down, turning on the shower and getting in. Holy shit the water felt amazing, you didn’t even wash yourself for a few minutes, simply enjoying the amazingly warm water before eventually washing yourself thoroughly. Getting out of the shower you felt refreshed, the best feeling you have had in the past six, seven years? 

Grabbing the razor from the countertop along with the shaving cream, you shaved off all of your pubes, already feeling so much better. You didn’t want to get rid of your beard, it actually suited you very well, it just needed a trim and size-up. Grabbing the electronic clipper, you trimmed your beard about an inch, it not being too long anyways, and lined up your cheeks, cutting the area around your ear as well. Learning how to cut hair from your friend before all of this started, it helped out a lot. Trimming your hair down as well and shortening the sides, you looked like a new man. Probably ten times more attractive as well, your face finally shining.

Wrapping the towel around your waist since there weren’t any clothes inside the bathroom, you walked out and were met with Negan laying on the bed, Lucille perched up against the wall.

Negan’s POV

Why the hell did I get hard earlier? And why the fuck can’t I stop looking at him? So many questions were going through my head as I was laying on the bed waiting for Y/N. He was taking a while but I know shaving is a pain in the ass. I heard the bathroom door open and I was met with Y/N in nothing but a towel. Fucking shit he is sexy as hell. I could finally see his face clearly, beard and hair trimmed down, was he a fucking model before all this shit? His body was covered in a few scars, only serving to make him look more intimidating and sexy, his figure still lean, six pack abs, toned arms, legs I wanted to kiss and bite. I’ve never even considered fucking a dude, why the hell am I now? I was brought out of my head by Y/N clearing his throat, a smirk on his beautiful lips, “Got any clothes I can fit into?”

Your POV

You walked out and saw that Negan was checking you out, you fought your hardest to suppress your blush and instead put on a confident smirk, “Got any clothes I can fit into?” you asked, bringing him out of whatever he was thinking of. Without saying a word, he got up and stood in front of you, eyes darkened with lust, breathing heavy.

“Unfortunately we don’t, so you are going to have to fucking wait till we find some.” he slowly gravelled. Reaching out, he tugged at your towel, no fucking way this is happening.

“Negan, what-”

“Shhhhh, just let me see.” he cut you off with a whisper. Pulling your towel apart, it fell into the small space in between you two. You were already hard, the simple close proximity of him arousing you. He glanced down and you heard a low moan from his chest. He pushed you against the wall and buried his face in your throat.

“Why the fuck are you so goddamn hot, I never thought I would like another guy but the only thing I can think of around you is how fucking good your tight little ass will feel around my cock while I bend you over and fuck you.” he growled, nipping on the skin of your neck.

You felt your knees grow weak, mind going hazy from his dirty talk. He backed up and took off his jacket, his shirt following. There were multiple tattoos covering his skin, hair on his chest and stomach, if the world ending brought me to this moment, I wouldn’t change a thing. Before he could take off his belt, you grabbed his hand and stopped him, sucking on his neck and leaving a few hickeys, you removed his belt and pushed his pants down, leaving the underwear you got on your knees. Licking and sucking his cock through the thin fabric, his hand grabbing your hair, “Fuck that feels good.” he moaned.

You smiled and removed his underwear, his thick cock bouncing out, you licked your lips in anticipation, you knew he was going to burn just the right way. You teased him a bit longer, licking the tip and tasting his precum, fuck he tastes good. He pulled on your hair and you looked up at him, “Stop fucking teasing me and suck my goddamn cock.” he commanded. You smirked and took him into your throat, inching your way down until he bottomed out, another skill you kept, your cock sucking skills. You started bobbing your head up and down, licking the underside of his cock as you were going, feeling the vein throb. His grip on your hair got tighter and he started moaning, it was the sexiest thing you had ever heard. You wanted to taste him, pulling off, “Cum in my mouth daddy, let me taste you.” you huskily whispered, using the nickname from before. His eyes darkened even further if that was possible and you knew the name turned him on. Resuming your task, you started going faster, twisting your head as you sunk down on him, hollowing your cheeks. He started pumping his hips into your mouth, keeping his hold on your hair tight so you wouldn’t be able to escape. Pumping his hips a few more times, “Fuck I’m gonna cum down your throat, fuck yeah, you want my cum don’t you, my dirty little boy.” You hummed around him, the vibration triggering his release. 

“Oh fuck yeah!” Feeling his cum coat your tongue, you eagerly swallowed it all down, his taste arousing you further, making precum leak from your tip. 

He let out a huge sigh and took a moment to compose himself before grabbing you by the arms and tossing you on the bed. He reached into a cabinet next to the bed, pulling out a blindfold and some rope, “So, every room just has sex toys in them?” you jokingly asked. He chuckled darkly before responding, “Something like that.”

He climbed on the bed next to you, roughly grabbing your arms and tying them together, bringing them up to the bed frame. Putting the blindfold on you, he slowly backed up. You had never done this before and saying you were nervous was an understatement. You couldn’t see anything and barely heard any movement, you almost thought he just left you there until you felt his lips on your inner thigh, “Shit.” you hissed, the feeling intensified since you didn’t know it was coming. You felt him smirk against your thigh, his lips inching closer and closer to your throbbing cock, “You were made to suck cock, good little cock slut aren’t you? Well daddy is gonna be nice enough and return the favor.” 

You felt his breath ghost against your cock, feeling his hand wrap around it and slowly start to stroke it, the simple movement threatening to make you bust, the tension already too high. You felt his lips wrap around the head and you let out an appreciative sigh, his warm mouth enveloping you. He bobbed his head up and down and you wished you could see him, just imagining him sucking you off made you squirm in place. He brushed his finger against your rim and you let out an involuntary moan, him ceasing his actions for a second, then returning to it with his finger rubbing and tapping your hole. 

You started tensing up, “Fuck Negan, I’m gonna cum.” you moaned. 

He instantly pulled away, “What the fu- Keep going!” you whined.

He chuckled, “You’re only cumming when daddy says you can.”

He lifted your legs up and balanced them on his shoulders, you could hear him spit down on his cock to lube it up, feeling the tip press against your rim. You could already feel how thick he was, moaning in anticipation. 

He slowly started to push in, stretching your walls to their breaking point, “Oh fuck!” you shouted. You could feel the vibrations of his chuckle against you, your arms slightly hurting from the amount of force you were struggling against the rope with. Inching in, he finally bottomed out and you let out a loud moan, feeling completely and utterly full. 

“Today is your lucky fucking day, daddy is gonna fill you up with two loads, and you’re going to take this one deep inside of you.” he grounded out, voice low and husky.

He pulled out almost all the way until nothing but the tip was left then rammed his cock inside of you, “Oh fuck, Negan!”

He started relentlessly pounding into you, leaving no room for you to even breathe. The breath being forced out of you with each thrust, you could hear the bed creaking with the force behind each one, the sounds of his cock entering and exiting your hole filling the room. 

“Damn your ass is fucking perfect, warm and tight, perfect for my cock to fill and stuff with cum.” he growled, reaching down and nibbling on your ear. He was hitting your prostate with what seemed like pinpoint accuracy, each thrust bringing you closer to your release. His hips started stuttering and you could tell he was close. Wanting to return the dirty talk, “Fuck daddy, your cock feels so good inside of me, filling me up to the brim, cum inside me, breed me and make me yours.” you moaned in his ear, clenching the muscles in your ass to make it tighter. 

He let out a guttural moan and slammed into you, the force behind it greater than before, sending you into your orgasm, shooting all over your chest. He pumped his hips a few more times and released, grunting your name into your ear. You could feel him shoot string after string of cum into you. Pulling out, there was a trail of cum following his cock, your ass completely filled. He licked a stripe up your chest, collecting all of the cum there and taking off your blindfold, he claimed your lips and shared your cum. You moaned, intertwining your tongues together and sharing the taste. 

“Fuck you even taste perfect, how the fuck did I not find you before?” he asked rhetorically. 

He unwrapped the rope from your hands and reached for the towel on the floor, cleaning up the cum dripping from your hole and both of your cocks, plopping down on the bed next to you. Both of you let out huge sighs, more than satiated with what just happened. You turned towards him to notice a soft look on his face, damn, this man is incredible, you thought, gazing at his handsome face. 

He was wearing a huge smile, “What?” you asked with your own smile.

“Nothing, was just thinking that maybe the apocalypse isn’t so bad after all.”

Tag List: @negan-the-cat​ @negans-network​ @negandarylsatisfaction​ @magssteenkamp​

[first-and-last-neocount]

Whumptober Day 5

Aaaand here we are, second offering in the Escape!AU, though this is... third I think?... if we’re going by internal chronology of what I’ve got so far. I’m not even going to try to track that as we go, though, because of the whole still-adding-more-as-I-go-along thing. I’ll figure that shit out when the AO3 post gets made, lol. 

Have some EVEN MORE FEELINGS realization, friends! And also some sad, because y’know, Whumptober. 

With the rest of Damien’s family being pagan, I also had this headcanon that his relationship with them was pretty well trashed after he joined the Church, and that the Matriarch of Ganji had kind of... honorarily adopted him, and that they were still super close, and that’s why she backed him so firmly against the Patriarch’s bullshit. Having that headcanon, though, made me wonder - what must she have thought, when she heard about certain developmens?

Day 5 - Theme Chosen: Betrayal

Damien eyed the pile of letters with some trepidation. He had only meant to grab a few belongings from his rented room in Jaggonath before abandoning it permanently – the world needed to believe that he and Gerald had perished at Mount Shaitan, so he couldn't exactly tell the landlord that he wasn't coming back, but he'd wanted to pick up a few of the items he'd brought with him across the Dividers before he and Gerald left the city for good. He hadn't expected a pile of letters to be laying on the front hall rug, having clearly accumulated during the journey to Shaitan and back.

Gerald was currently at Alesha Huyding's house, convincing the woman to let them take the rest of Senzei's journals on the Iezu for their own project. They were supposed to meet at Karril's temple in less than an hour; Damien definitely didn't have time to read these all. He scooped the pile off the floor and started flipping through them quickly, discarding the majority of them at a glance. Most of them were notes from his fellow clergy members at the Jaggonath Cathedral, wondering where he'd disappeared to; there were a few unpaid bills from local merchants, and one heavy linen envelope with a golden seal that he knew must be his official notice of excommunication. The sight of it made his chest ache, but it was nothing compared to the shock that ran through him at the last letter.

The envelope from the very bottom of the stack was also fine quality, though it lacked the ostentatious gold seal, instead being tied shut with a red ribbon. Even at a glance, though, Damien recognized the delicate hand that had traced out the address of the Jaggonath Cathedral – it seemed the letter had gone there first, and been redirected to his temporary apartment when the messenger learned that Damien was no longer employed by the Church.

The letter was from the Matriarch of the Cathedral in Ganji-on-the-Cliffs.

Guilt pooled in his chest like icy water, and Damien cursed softly. Stuffing the two Church envelopes in his jacket pocket, he left the rest of the letters on the kitchen table and went to gather what he'd come for in the first place. There would be time enough later to deal with the two he'd kept; neither of them, he suspected, were going to be an easy read.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

He ended up putting off looking at the letters for a few days. Between gathering everything they would need to get them to another city, and tying up any loose ends they'd left behind, he actually managed to more or less forget about the envelopes tucked away in his pocket. Gerald had decided that their best bet was to head back northeast, retracing their steps yet again to get some distance from Jaggonath now that they had what they needed from the city; Damien wasn't any more keen on running into any familiar faces than the adept was, and agreed that it was probably the safest plan. Ensuring that they remained anonymous was enough to keep his mind occupied on the road, and it wasn't until they stopped at a dae three nights later that he remembered.

They'd both had their fill of sleeping on the unforgiving ground as winter crept closer again, and when the dae had come into view, they had agreed with only a glance that they could afford the minor risk  of dealing with the residents if it meant getting to sleep in proper beds for a night. Damien negotiated for their rooms while Gerald saw that the horses were stabled comfortably, and they met up in the common room of the dae, at a small table in the corner farthest from the light of the fire. As they sat down, though, Damien made to tuck the room key into his pocket – and his fingers brushed the envelopes still tucked into his jacket.

Either his face had shown his dismay or Gerald had felt it through their link, because the adept turned to look at him immediately, grey eyes narrowed in concern.

“What's wrong?”

“It's nothing urgent, just...” Damien pulled the letters out, feeling dread settle into his gut like a stone. “There were some letters that had been slipped under my apartment door, when I went back to get my things. Most of them weren't important, but I kept these two. I meant to look at them later that day, but – I forgot.”

Gerald's gaze fell on the golden seal of the Cathedral on the top one, and Damien heard his sudden, sharp breath. The former Knight's mouth twisted in a bitter half-smile.

“Yeah, I think we both know what that one is. This one, though...”

He pulled the other envelope out and set it on top, his heart in his throat. Gerald frowned at it, then glanced up at him.

“Who is this one from?”

“The Matriarch. In Ganji,” Damien whispered. “I wrote to her when we were sailing back from the Eastern Continent, telling her everything that had happened. The Master of Lema, what we'd discovered about the rakh, the Undying Prince... you.”

The adept went very still. He was rather like a hunting hawk in that way, a distant part of Damien's mind observed; when they laid eyes on their prey, such birds would freeze, in a manner that could look almost like a prey response itself unless one knew what to look for. In reality, the bird was preparing for the swift, sure, devastating movement of an attack – but the only warning you would get was that unnatural stillness.

“This is her response.” The soft words weren't a question. Damien sighed deeply, rolling his shoulders back in a fruitless attempt to shed some of the tension.

“Yes. And probably more, given that I'm fairly sure the Patriarch wrote to her as well – she likely knows by now that I've been thrown out of the Order, even if she hasn't yet heard about our... tragic demises.” He looked up and forced himself to meet Gerald's gaze steadily, feeling the prickling anticipation through the bond, the chill creeping over his skin. When he spoke, he kept his voice very low, not wanting to speak too loudly even though Gerald had put up a Warding when they sat down that would keep anyone from eavesdropping on them.

“I know you're hungry. Take what you need. This is going to be miserable for me either way.”

Gerald's eyes flashed, but the adept only inclined his head slightly, a silent gratitude. Damien swallowed against the lump that had formed in his throat, then reached with shaking hands to untie the ribbon and unfold the letter.

My dear son,

I hope you will forgive my informality. I know that, as the Holy Mother, I ought to have worded this more properly – but at the moment, I care nothing for propriety, so long as I can reach you.

Your letters have given me enough nightmares for a lifetime. This demon that conspires to corrupt our world, Calesta, is all that the Church most dreads; not a passive evil, but an all too active one, darkening the minds of men and swaying them to its nefarious cause. I was horror-struck to learn of the men and women that willingly served it, and what it plans for our world, but those concerns too have paled in comparison to the chill that fell over me when I read what you had written of our fallen Prophet.

Damien. If ever you felt, as I did, that our bond was that of true family – that you were my son in more than the titles that the Church proscribes, that I cared for you as I would have for a child of my flesh – then I beg of you, in the name of that bond... turn aside. I do not need it written out to know that you hope to save Gerald Tarrant, to redeem him from his dark deeds and guide him back into the light of God. I cannot stress enough how much I fear for you if you pursue such a path. There are some choices that a man cannot make without altering who he is forever, and some roads are too dark to retrace one's steps. You cannot save him. God's greatest gift is forgiveness, but a man such as that will not accept it, for to do so he would have to admit that his deeds require forgiveness – to admit that he has become a monster, and repent of what he has done. A man like Gerald Tarrant can never do that.

If you try to save him, I am certain that he will poison you. Slowly, no doubt, and subtly, for to have survived all that he has the Hunter must be a devious creature indeed – but inexorably, and perhaps, irrevocably. I know you, Damien, and your greatest strength is also your greatest weakness; your incredible determination. It has carried you through so much adversity, and it held you to our faith and cause when your family would have dragged you away... but I fear that it will also keep you from recognizing when you are outmatched, and hold you to your resolve to alter his nature, even as his corruption takes hold. If you are focused only on his redemption, you may not see what is happening until it is too late.

Please come home, Damien. I know it goes against everything we preach, but this once, I reach out to you and speak not as the Holy Mother, but simply as a mother. Come home. Let another fight this war; let the Hunter carry this burden alone, if you truly believe he wishes to make amends. We are all of us sworn to give our lives for the Church, but I beg of you, not like this.

Come home.

With all my love and prayers,

Carla

No title. No Holy Mother. Not her regnal name, Aelia II. Just her given name, as a mother might sign a desperate letter to her son.

Damien didn't know when he'd started to cry, but his eyes burned by the time he reached the end; his cheeks were wet, and his chest ached from staying quiet, even as his whole body shook with silent sobs. He dropped the letter on the table and pressed his hands over his face, past caring if his distress was obvious. No one else in the room was going to notice anything with the Obscuring still in place, and it wasn't as if Gerald needed the visual cues to know that he was upset – with the way he felt, in that moment, the grief and guilt had to be flooding out of him like blood from an arterial wound, staining the fae around him black and crimson.

He'd known, since the night he braved Hell itself to bring the Hunter back, that he was turning his back on everything he'd ever cared for. Not merely his faith, intangible as it was, but also his home, his friends, and his family.

Perhaps his parents and brother would not have disowned him for the choices he had made on this quest – but it was years too late for that to matter, after the way they had fallen out when Damien chose to join the Church. The faith of the One God had forced Damien to distance himself from their aggressively pagan lifestyle, and they had seen his choice as a betrayal, a self-righteous attack on their way of life instead of the deeply personal calling Damien had felt it to be. The only thing that had gotten him through that loss and upheaval had been the support of a woman who, at the time, was just another priestess at the Ganji Cathedral. Mother Carla had been his bedrock of support, his sponsor in the seminary and a gentle voice of reassurance whenever Damien felt himself faltering; by the time Damien was Knighted, she had ascended to the Holy Mother's seat as Matriarch Aelia II, and their bond had been unshakable. It had been Carla who recommended Damien for the experimental program teaching young Workers in Jaggonath, who had seen him off with a warm smile and the assertion that she knew he would do well, and that he would return to Ganji-on-the-Cliffs having shaped a whole generation of new minds.

And Damien had betrayed her.

It wasn't what he meant to do, but what did intent matter when measured against the cold facts of the outcome? He had betrayed the faith they held in common by choosing to forgive the Hunter's centuries of crimes; he had betrayed the Church they both served by thwarting Andrys's attempt at vengeance and helping Gerald elude the Crusade; he had betrayed the personal trust she had placed in him by deserting his duty and turning his back on the very principles that he himself had once preached to the Church's young followers. She had sent him east to further the vision of the Church, and instead he had struck it one of the most staggering blows it had suffered in centuries. She had reached out to him in compassion and love, ready to absolve him of every responsibility if he only turned back... but even if the letter had reached him in time, Damien knew in his heart that it still wouldn't have altered his course.

That, surely, was the bitterest betrayal of all – the knowledge that seared through him and left him shaking and cold and sick. That letter hadn't said anything that he hadn't already, on some level, known; he had held all those arguments with himself a thousand times, those long lonely nights on the road to Mount Shaitan. He had recognized the risk that his own stubbornness was blinding him, recognized that his judgement and morals were compromised, recognized that he was nearing the point of no return. Even with all of that, though, when the moment of choice had come – he hadn't even hesitated. He'd seen the murderous rage in Andrys Tarrant's eyes, known that it was the reckoning for all of Gerald's sins, and he'd still stepped in front of the bolt.

He might not have surfaced from that yawning abyss of despair for a long time, if not for the gentle sensation that ran along the link between himself and Gerald. Unlike the assertive, even imperious force that Damien was used to from the Hunter's power, this was softer, almost inquisitive; a coaxing tug, instead of a firm push. He was still too badly shaken to muster any kind of coherent response within his mind, and a moment later, he felt an equally gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Damien.”

With an effort, the former Knight swallowed back the sounds of pain he wouldn't allow himself to make and lifted his head, blinking through tears at his companion. Gerald had shifted his chair and was sitting close by his side now, one hand raised for that steadying grip on his shoulder, and the look on the adept's face took what little breath Damien had regained away; genuine concern, traces of sorrow and guilt – unmistakable compassion, raw and unpractised and honest. A more human expression than the Hunter's face had worn in centuries, one that no one else would even have believed him capable of.

Damien realized, quite suddenly, that his heart was beating so forcefully that it might have been trying to break free of his ribcage.

He heard himself speak, without consciously deciding to do so.

“I wouldn't change it. Even if I knew, if I could go back and do it again, I wouldn't choose any differently.”

Gerald's grip tightened on his shoulder, and for a moment he just held Damien's gaze, silent. Damien could see the thoughts racing behind his quicksilver eyes, and even with the link, he couldn't read them all – but suddenly he knew, with a certainty so firm that it had to be resonating through the link, that someday he would be able to. They'd been operating on the unspoken understanding that Damien would be helping Gerald fulfill his new goal of establishing proper communication with the Mother of the Iezu, and that their work would keep them together for some time yet, but in that moment Damien knew that it was more than that. He hadn't just chosen betrayal for its own sake, in that moment in the Hunter's Keep; he'd chosen Gerald, and that choice was always going to be there, just like the link that hummed between their souls. They were walking the same path now, and wherever it lead, they would be treading it side by side.

Finally, Gerald spoke, his voice soft but ever so steady; the unwavering voice of a man who had stared Death in the face, and made it bow to him.

“I don't know that I can ever find a way to repay you for that... but I swear, on my life, that I will never make you regret it.”

Damien reached up and took the hand that had gripped his shoulder in his own, lacing their fingers together, the Hunter's once-chill hand now almost warm against his own.

“That's good enough for me.”

[wilder-minded]

Slow Fire Burn Chapter 1

It's the implication that there is something going on between Gale and Madge. When Katniss goes off to the Hunger Games, who else does Gale turn to but the Mayor's daughter? Gadge, slight AU/mostly canon from Madge's perspective.

Madge Undersee x Gale Hawthorne AU.

This is a story I've been working through for years, one I just cannot let go of. I've also been posting it on my AO3 profile. https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilderminded

Over much of my life, I had gotten good at making myself numb to most things. I was numb to my absent mother's neglect; she was too ill with her own demons to do much of anything let alone raise me. My father did the best that he could but being the mayor of District 12 came with its own demanding schedule. I was numb to the alienation that I felt from my classmates. As the mayor's daughter, I very clearly did not fit in with the Seam kids, who did without even the most basic survival necessities. I wasn't too welcome with the Merchant kids either though. While they had more luxuries, they didn't have access to the wealth that my family did and most of them didn't trust me. I learned to keep quiet to protect myself from the taunting of my classmates, and I did not care much for the silly topics that other girls my age were enthralled with.

I guess that's why we were such kindred spirits, Katniss and me. We both had places we would much rather be, and we didn't feel the need to make meaningless small talk. The silence between us was comforting enough most days. My father liked her too, seeing as how he overlooked her activities and bought strawberries from her regularly.

When she took her sister's place at the Reaping, I could barely handle the sickening knot in my stomach and the guilt I felt. I knew I had to do something for the girl who was my only real friend in the district. I gave her the pin that belonged to my aunt, a tribute in the 50th Hunger Games. I had hoped that she would wear it as her token during the Games, but at the least her family could sell it for money to feed themselves.

As I watched the Capitolites parade her and the baker's boy around in the opening festivities to the Games, I tried to make myself as numb as I could to the very real possibility that she would not come back. My father was required to attend dinners in honor of the annual tradition and while I usually went with him, it felt especially wrong this time. So I sit alone in the living room of our large house for the required viewings.

As I sit quietly picking at the loose thread on the arm of my sweater with my hands slightly shaking, I think back to the day of the Reaping. How she had brought strawberries to us with her friend, Gale. He had lashed out at me over the injustice of the Reaping, how my name was only in 5 times. The social status of my family prevented me from having to take out tesserae like he and Katniss. His name was in 42 times. I tried to not take this jab personally, I could not control any of our circumstances.

Gale stood behind me in line to see Katniss after the Reaping, while everyone was waiting to say their goodbyes. I could feel the heat of his glare against my back, and I knew exactly what he was thinking.

It's not fair. None of this is fair.

I let out a sharp, frustrated breath as I jump to my feet. I do not want to sit here and watch whatever fanfare they are projecting on the screen in front of me. I pull on my shoes, wrapping my sweater tighter around my body as I slip out of my backdoor. I follow dark alleyways through town, to avoid Peacekeepers, until I reach the edge of the woods. I follow a well-worn path by memory until I reach a small clearing. I am not brave enough to venture deeper into the woods like others that I know, but this quiet space dimly lit by the setting sun gives me the solace I am looking for.

With the setting sun goes the busy noises of birds and the wind through the trees. I sit on a large rock toward the edge of the meadow, my arms wrapped around my small waist as I watch the way the grass flows with the gentle breeze.

I barely get a moment to relax before I hear brances crunching behind me. I freeze in fear, all of the possibilities running through my head. I whip my head around after a beat, my eyes searching the dusky tree line behind me as the noise gets closer. I take in a sharp gasp when I see a figure approaching closer, my heart racing until I recognize the face that emerges just a few feet from where I sit. Gale.

"Are you following me now?" I ask, watching him as he walks closer.

"I was just wondering what the hell the Mayor's daughter is doing in the woods, at night no less," he says calmly, placing his hands in his jacket pockets as he shrugs. His steel grey eyes trained on me in a way that I couldn't quite interpret.

I scowl at the connotations of 'the Mayor's daughter'. "Why aren't you at home watching the Opening?"

He sits down beside me and shrugs again, his eyes fixed toward the sunset through the trees. "Same reason as you, I suppose. Doesn't feel right to watch all of this happen and pretend that it isn't my best friend being groomed and parades around for a bloodbath."

I don't say anything for a moment, studying his tensed jaw and furrowed brow. "It's not fair," I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper.

"What do you know about fair?" he snaps, finally turning to look at me. I huff out a breath and meet his steely glare with just as much anger reflected back in my own sky-blue eyes.

"Stop giving me shit for things I have no control over, Hawthorne. You don't know anything about me," my voice in a bitter clip as I snap back.

He shakes his head, his lips in a hard line as he looks away again. "I know you've never known what it's like to go hungry. You've never held the responsibility of other people's lives..." he starts to rant and then trails off.

I let the heaviness hang between us for a long moment. "Neither of us can help the situations we were born into," I state quietly, and he nods. Though even without a word, I can still nearly taste the bitterness in the air.

We are both silent for a while before he speaks up again, this time his voice much softer as his head hangs down. "What if she doesn't come back? She's my best friend."

"I don't know, Gale," I say helplessly as he runs his hand through his hair, clearly frustrated.

I steal a moment to admire the boy beside me. In the settling darkness, I can just make out the line of his sharp features and I feel an old familiar, out-of-place feeling stir in me and I instantly feel a little guilty. I used to watch him at school, and as the years went on he grew more and more handsome. I found myself more attracted to the dark-haired men of the Seam than the blonde Merchant boys I should be attracted to. Which could only spell trouble for the daughter of a District mayor. Anyone could see that he was in love with Katniss, but that didn't stop most of the girls in school from having crushes on him.

"Why are you staring at me?" He finally speaks up without so much as a glance in my direction. Hunter's instincts, I think.

"Just trying to figure you out. You're hard to read, Hawthorne," I tell him, blushing when I see him smile a little.

"Good. Who says I want to be figured out, Undersee?" he counters, finally looking back over at me. I smirk and shrug, looking up at the stars that have become visible thanks to the sun's disappearance. He follows my gaze, "I never take a moment to look up at the night sky."

"The stars are so beautiful... Makes it hard to believe that life under them can be so ugly," I reply quietly, folding my hands in my lap as I look back down toward the ground. "I wish I could just escape it all. Run away from the Reapings, away from being the Mayor's daughter, away from everything."

He's silent for a moment before he speaks up again. "This will never end unless people stand up to the Capitol."

His words chill me to the bone and goosebumps cover my arms. No one says things like this in District Twelve, at least not this freely. Certainly never to someone like me. Any stirring of a rebellious spirit is shut down without so much as a second thought. "That will never happen. It can't," I say, trying to make myself believe it. It's the fear of the unknown that makes me want to refuse this as a possibility. Too many people would die.

We don't say anything for a few minutes, the air between us is uncomfortable. His words don't sit well with me. If the wrong person would hear this, it would be over for him, his entire family... I can't begin to imagine, I don't want to. After a while, I stand up, pulling my sweater around my body again. "I should be getting back before someone notices that I'm gone..." I know that no one is at home to notice my absence. No one lucid, that is. I start walking toward the tree line where the path begins when I hear his footsteps behind me. "I don't need an escort," I say defiantly, huffing out a frustrated breath.

"I'm not stupid enough to let a girl like you walk in the forest alone at night," he tells me, his long strides catching him up with me in seconds. I know that he has more knowledge about the dangers of the forests than I do, but the stubborn girl in me doesn't like the idea that I can't take care of myself. I try to speed up my steps, but his much longer legs have no trouble keeping up with me. Suddenly, in my haste I stumble and just as I'm about to fall face first into the dirt below me, a hand around my arm breaks my fall.

I stumble back into him a little as I steady myself, brushing back the waves of blonde hair that fell into my face. He chuckles, his hands out to make sure that I don't fall again. "Careful there."

I try to ignore the way my arm tingles where his hand just was and I huff out a shaky breath, starting off again. "I'm fine... but thank you," I say, glancing over my shoulder back at him. I can nearly feel his smile as I walk ahead of him and we don't say anything else until we reach town. I expected him to veer off toward the Seam as we reached the edge of town, but I felt his presence behind me as I retraced my steps through the alleyways.

As I climbed the steps to my house, I looked back at him and gave him a small, grateful smile. "You didn't have to walk me home," I brushed off, my voice soft.

He shrugged, his hands in his pocket as he looked up at me. "I know, but I wanted to anyway. Goodnight, Undersee," he nodded as I reached for the door, a small grin playing on the corners of his lips before he turned away and started back down the alley. I stood there for a moment, watching him walk away before I stepped into the warm glow of my house.

[ratonnhhaketon]

See The Fire In Your Eyes (Chapter 4)

Read on Ao3 | Previous | Next

Summary: Catherine Hays grew up in a picture-perfect, high society family in Virginia. She had her whole life planned out for her and was about to get married to a man she could not stand. When her brother uncovers a murder plot and has to pay with his own life, Catherine decides she can’t continue playing along. She takes control of her own destiny and goes south to a pretty little town called Blackwater.

Warnings: Swearing, Canon-typical violence, Kidnapping

Chapter 4 - Misadventures In Mail Delivery

It had been about two weeks or so since the incident with the stagecoach, and Catherine had definitely been keeping busy around camp. Mrs. Grimshaw quickly put her to work with the laundry, dishes, and assisting Pearson with the stew preparation. Adjusting to the life of an outlaw was a slow and strange process, especially after never having to do regular chores prior her entire life, but it was starting to feel normal. She even picked up new skills and hobbies that she enjoyed, like sewing, despite how many times she pricked herself while Tilly taught her the basics.

Catherine awoke to a particularly chilly morning and quickly got dressed in an effort to block out the cold air. A simple long-sleeved maroon shirt and a pair of black jeans, that she actually preferred over skirts after wearing them so often, accompanied her riding boots. She ran a brush through her tangled hair, taking time to pay special attention to a stubborn knot in the back, before putting it in a simple plait.

As she exited her small tent she raised her arms up and stretched, groaning a bit when her lower back popped a bit. Like every morning, she made a beeline to the fire and grabbed a cup of coffee.

Hosea called her over to the table he was currently sat at. “Would you mind taking a ride into town to pick up the mail?”

She gave a quick nod at him before downing the rest of her coffee. “Of course! What do we need?”

“Mrs. Grimshaw ordered some clothes and there are probably some letters for Dutch and myself.”

“Sounds good. I’ll get a move on now.” They shared a smile before Hosea returned his attention to the book in his lap and Catherine headed back to her tent. She grabbed the dark blue jacket that was slung on top of her clothing trunk before walking over to where Arthur, John, and Lenny were standing and enjoying their coffee. “Morning fellas,” she said with a warm smile as she pulled the jacket on.

The group replied with their own nods and small ‘morning’s of acknowledgement before she spoke up again. “Well I’m heading into town to grab the mail, any of you need me to pick up somethin’ from the store?”

Arthur spoke up first. “A pack of cigarettes would be nice.”

~~~~~

She looked between the other two as they just shook their heads. “Can do, Mr. Morgan. I should be back in an hour or so.”

The ride into town went smoothly as always. Catherine passed only a few people on the road, as the sun was still just over the horizon, and stopped at the post office first. She collected everything they needed, a stack of letters addressed to the ringleaders of the gang and a package for Miss Grimshaw. She securely strapped the package to the back of her horse before slipping the letters into the saddlebags and walking to the general store.

Catherine made a quick lap around the store, picking up Arthur’s request as well as a can of peaches for herself and some candies for Jack. As she stood at the counter to pay she felt someone staring at her and quickly looked around the store before taking note of the man paying a little too much attention to the box of biscuits in his hand. She passed the clerk a few bills before gathering her things and returning to her horse.

As she was putting the things into the saddlebags, that same looming presence of someone watching made itself known once again. Catherine quickly slipped the cigarettes and chocolate bar into the inner pocket of her jacket before she mounted and spurred her horse into a gallop to get out of town as fast as possible. When she was barely half a mile out of town the sound of steady hooves following her seemed to grow louder with each passing moment. She spared them a quick glance over her shoulder before turning off of the road and into the thick forest of Tall Trees.

Her mare protested every time she was spurred on to keep up her pace, but the stead never once slowed down. Catherine ducked and weaved through low hanging branches, keeping a hand held out in front of her face to avoid any collisions.

The sound of hooves only faded for a moment as she ducked into the forest before reappearing almost twice as loud. A small “shit!” escaped her lips as the sound of hooves and the edge of Tall Trees grew closer.

Catherine failed to realize that she was nearing a small cliff and, before she could slow down, her horse slid down the slope uncontrollably. Her mare began to freak out, frantically trying to regain its footing on the loose dirt and rocks, and bucked her off in the process. She fell to the ground with a hard thud, pain in her chest and the air fully gone from her lungs.

Between ragged breaths as she lay on the ground, trying to regain her breathing, she noticed the sounds of hooves had stopped and steady footsteps crunching leaves began to approach her. She tried to reach for her pistol but one of the men shot a bullet next to her head, obviously missing on purpose.

“The boss is gonna be very happy about this,” the other man chucked. The last thing she saw was her mare sprinting off in the direction of camp before the butt of a rifle knocked her out cold.

~~~~~

“Hey, Lenny!” Arthur called to the man on guard duty as he walked towards his horse. “Has Miss Hays gotten back yet?”

He adjusted the rifle in his hand as he turned to look back at the man behind him. “No, I haven’t seen her.”

“Damn, I could use that pack of cigarettes she promised.” No sooner than the words left his mouth did the steady gallop of hooves start to approach the camp. The two men looked towards the sound expecting to see the woman they were just discussing, but were met with her dark brown mare barreling down the path. Arthur, wasting no time at all, instinctively put his hands up to slow the horse and grab the reins. He calmed her down enough that she stopped moving, though she was still shaking her head and huffing from the unfamiliar contact.

The two men shared a glance before Lenny spoke up. “Well,” he exhaled. “This ain’t good.”

~~~~~

The world was a haze around Catherine as she started to come to her senses. The room she was in was mostly dark, with a small stream of light peeking in from the torn curtain. She blinked a few times to get her eyes adjusted to the space around her. It was a small room, with a mattress pushed against the opposite corner of the room and a table covered in playing cards and empty cigarette cartons next to her.

Her mouth was dry and tasted like metal. Her vision was still blurry from the darkness, but she could still tell her eyes were very swollen. Despite her whole body screaming and protesting against her, she tried to move. Her muscles ached against the rope tied around her hands and legs.

She stopped struggling when a male voice spoke up outside. “How much longer do we have to be in this shithole?”

Another man replied, “Another day or two, probably. Just waiting on Calvin to send word for us to send her back.”

She felt her stomach churn. Of course he was behind this.

The door to the cabin swung open and she could vaguely make out the shape of a man walking towards her. “Look who’s awake, boys!” As he walked closer she recognized the figure to be the man that shot at her earlier.

“I’d rather die than go back to that rat,” she spat, struggling against the ropes.

The man laughed and crouched down next to her. “As much as I would love to make that happen,” he said with a smile. “I’m afraid Mr. Foster specifically requested you be returned alive so he could decide exactly what to do with you.” He lifted up a hand to her cheek, stroking the soft skin with his thumb. God , she wanted to throw up. Or punch him in the face. “Pity though, that he gets to have all the fun with you. I bet you’d make a very-”

Before he could continue she moved her face to the right towards his hand and bit down hand, directly at the base of his thumb. He yanked his hand back and grabbed it, making sure that he wasn’t bleeding. Catherine looked at him with fire in her eyes and he returned the gaze with pure anger. “You bitch!!” he yelled, using his opposite hand to slap her across the face. Her head went back and hit off the hardwood of the wall behind her, a yelp of pain escaping her lips. The world started to spin around her and her vision started to get hazy. She vaguely heard the man spew some string of curse words at her before she blacked out.

~~~~~

The second time she woke was to gunfire outside of the small cabin. The men that captured her were not only yelling a lot between each other, but she had a feeling that they were losing the fight as well.

“Check inside, we’ll keep watch out here,” a distant voice said. It sounded hazy and muffled as it broke through the ringing of her ears.

The door to the house opened and she tightly shut her eyes from the heavy moonlight. After a moment she opened them to see a figure approaching her, to which she instinctively curled her bruised body further into a ball. Her figure shook violently from fear and the cold air surrounding her.

“Hey, s’okay. I ain’t gon’ hurt ya.” the figure spoke up in a soft tone. The voice was deep and gravelly but also gentle. One that felt familiar and safe.

She looked up with tears in her half-lidded eyes and said, “Arthur?” Her voice was weak and sounded almost like a wheeze.

“Shhh, it’s alright. We’re gon’ getcha outta here.” He carefully cut the ropes on her arms and hands. “Can ya walk?” When Catherine slowly shook her head Arthur bent down to slide his arms under her legs and behind her back. He hoisted her body up- to which she let out a loud cry of pain- and walked back out of the small cabin, careful to not hit her against the doorframe. She rested her head against his chest as they walked to try and stop the world from spinning around her.

For the first time in what was probably days she felt safe.

“Take her back to camp,” another voice spoke up. “We’ll stay back for a bit and make sure no one is left.” Arthur sat her on the front of his horse’s saddle and carefully got in behind her to assure she wouldn’t fall during the ride.

As they rode off back towards camp Catherine kept her head propped up against Arthur’s chest with her eyes closed, desperately trying to ignore the aching pain her body felt as the horse galloped. Her right hand clutched the front of his shirt, her legs dangling over the side of the horse, and a few stray tears leaked out of her eyes.

“Well be back soon, just stay with me.” She felt his chest rumble against her head as he spoke and groaned out in pain, to which he instinctively wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “I know it hurts but we’ll be back soon.”

She started to feel lightheaded and groggy. Using the last of her strength, Catherine opened her puffy eyes and looked up at Arthur. “Wasn’t.. O’Driscolls,” she murmured, voice nearly giving out at the end.

The last thing she heard was Arthur’s confused “What?” before her field of view was swallowed into blackness and she slipped out of consciousness again.

~~~~~

Catherine didn’t remember much of what happened after that. She remembered a lot of yelling, people rushing around, and what she thinks was Arthur and Lenny talking. When she was finally fully conscious she woke up to a very dry mouth and almost every part of her body in pain. She looked at her surroundings and realized she was back at camp, in her tent, with Hosea reading a book beside her cot. Upon noticing her awake he smiled and shut the book, and reaching for a cup of water he had resting on the crate next to her.

“Good to see you awake, Catherine.” He helped her lean up and drink, reminding her to go slow and breathe so she didn’t choke. “You gave us all quite the scare.”

Before she could reply the flap to her tent was opened and Arthur’s familiar hat peaked in. “Glad to see you’re up.”

She felt the corner of her mouth turn up in a light smile at his voice. Hosea waved Arthur in and stood before saying, “I’ll let you catch her up on everything, but make sure she eats something and gets a lot of rest.” He gave Arthur a pat on the arm before leaving and closing the tent’s canvas.

“How..” she started, struggling to speak as her throat was still sore and voice was almost gone. “How long was I out?”

Arthur sat down in the chair next to her and leaned back. “A few days. You’ve been in and out a couple times, but never as aware as ya’ are now. Hell, Reverend was considerin’ reading you yer last rights last time you were conscious.” They shared a chuckle at the thought before Arthur continued. “Took a hell of a beating back there but at least Miss Grimshaw will go easy on you for a while.”

Arthur looked at her for a second and took in her features. “Do you have any idea who those men were? ‘Cause you said they ain’t O’Driscolls when we were coming back to camp.”

She let out a sigh. “Yeah, I do.” Her gaze shifted from him to the canvas covering the top of the tent. “Calvin sent them. The man I was supposed to marry.”

He looked down at his feet and nodded, before looking back up at her a moment later. “I’m guessing he’s not too happy you left your old life?”

Catherine’s eyes returned to the man next to her. “Not at all.” She swallowed the lump in her throat and looked down at her hands, her thumbs fidgeting together in her lap. “I’m sorry you have to deal with this. I didn’t want to get you all wrapped into more problems than you already have.”

Arthur leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “Catherine,” he said with a sincere tone, “You’re a part of this gang now, which makes you family. And as a family one person’s problems become a concern for all of us. If this son of a bitch shows his face again we’ll take care of it.”

She smiled at the sincerity of his words, tears threatening her eyes. The two sat in silence for a moment, enjoying each other’s company before a thought popped into her head. “Oh!” she said suddenly. “Is my horse alright?”

Arthur chuckled at her concern. “She’s perfectly fine. An hour or two after you left she showed back up at camp without you, so me and Lenny figured you were in trouble. Real smart girl you got there, seeing as she was able to bring herself all the way back to camp on her own.”

Catherine smiled at the good news. “Thank god she’s alright.” Her eyes drifted to the trunk on the floor next to Arthur’s chair and she spotted her jacket laying on top of it. “Arthur, could you grab my jacket for me?” She gestured with her right hand to where it lay and he picked it up before gently laying it on the bed next to her. “Before I forget,” she said with a smirk as she reached into the pocket on the inner lining. “You might be wanting these.” She handed over the, now slightly squashed, pack of cigarettes to him.

He laughed as he accepted the gift, having nearly forgotten that he even asked for them. “Thank you very much, Miss Hays.”

“Consider it payment for rescuing me from my captors.”

[detectiveupstead]

Coming Back [Upstead One Shot]

A/N: my little take on what happens after 7x18 “Lines”. Jay is the first person Hailey talks to after Voight tells her of her New York FBI assignment.

--

He was waiting for her at Molly’s, wondering what was taking her so long to show up. The rest of the team was around him, the buzz of the bar familiar as those who just got off work congregated to the local bar. Jay noticed something off about Hailey during the case, knowing her well enough at this point to pick up on any subtle shift of her demeanor to know something was going on in that quick-thinking head of hers. But she hadn’t told him, probably hoped he didn’t notice. Jay smiled wryly into the lip of his beer bottle, giving an absent shake of his head. She should know better at this point.

Jay glanced towards the table where the rest of the members of Intelligence were, mostly trying to keep Vanessa distracted from the outcome of the case that resulted in her losing a relationship she held close. Jay felt for her, aware of how rough the past few days had been for Vanessa. His gaze slid past the table just as the front door of Molly’s swung open, and he straightened where he sat on the stool at the bar when Hailey walked in.

There was a blankness in her expression as she entered, and Jay’s eyebrows furrowed together slightly as she walked past the table with their team members, returning their greetings with a brief smile but never pausing to stop by them. Instead, her blue eyes met Jay’s green, flashing seriously, and Jay knew immediately something was going on.

As soon as Hailey reached him, she said, “I have to tell you something.” She gestured towards the door, ticking her head towards it, and Jay nodded.

Silently, he got up and followed her, briefly exchanging a confused glance with Kim as he went. He shrugged his jacket back on as they made their way through the busy bar, walking out after letting a few people in. The sidewalk wasn’t busy, cars driving past occasionally on the street Molly’s was located on. Two men stood a few feet away leaning against the building, sharing conversation and cigarettes. The sidewalk was illuminated by the streetlights, and the music and chatter from the bar was muffled as they walked a few feet down the path.

“What’s going on?” Jay asked once they stopped, hands shoving into the pockets of his jacket as the familiar Chicago chill bit at him.

Hailey glanced away from him for a moment, the muscle in her jaw working, and Jay recognized this as her trying to find the right words. His eyebrows drew together, an uneasy knot forming in the pit of his stomach as he waited. Finally, her eyes met his, bright blue even at this time of night. “Voight’s sending me to New York for a few weeks as a loan officer for the FBI. I leave tomorrow.”

She spoke factually, trying to keep her voice monotone and flat, and yet her reluctance to following a direct order seeped through the longer she stared at Jay. He, in turn, looked right back at her, her words taking a moment to process, silently hoping that she was kidding, unable to say anything. Because panic had instantly flared in his head, feeling as though the universe was repeating a cruel joke—and Jay wasn’t sure if he was surprised that this time, it felt a hundred times worse.

His lips parted, yet no words came out, a tight lump in his throat making it difficult to speak. The Chicago weather had nothing to do with the way Jay stood frozen, all too aware of his heart beginning to pick up its pace, the panic slowly but surely increasing and threatening to take over every cell in his body.

History was repeating itself with a twist. He’d already lost one partner to New York—to the FBI. What kind of shit cards was he being dealt with to have another one leave, too, even if it was temporary? Jay knew the situation wasn’t the same. He knew he and Erin were done before she left—knew that leaving was her choice. She wanted to be gone. To leave Chicago. And leave him. So she did, without a word or a goodbye. Gone just like that.

And that had hurt. It hurt so damn much, to the point where Jay started spiraling in a way that frightened him, only allowing himself to get help, to get better, after Voight and Hailey gave him the push he needed. Hailey.

He knew she didn’t want to leave—hell, he could see it in her eyes, swimming with distraught and reluctance and absolute loathing for the assignment she was given. This wasn’t her choice—a difference from when Erin left. Another major difference: Hailey was giving him the respect of letting him know instead of merely disappearing.

Yet, Jay still felt as though he couldn’t quite breathe easily. Like someone had reached into the cavity of his chest, wrapped an iron fist around his heart, and was squeezing until there was nothing left to squeeze. And maybe that was a bit of an overreaction, but it seemed appropriate. Jay was too used to losing people, whether it be of their own doing or to death, but Hailey—she was someone Jay never thought would leave. She was someone he counted on never leaving him, even if the idea of it may seem wishful.

Jay appreciated and respected the partners he’d had in the past, whether it be in the military or as a cop, but Hailey was someone Jay was desperate to have at his side forever. A voice in the back of his mind teased him every time that thought came across—wondering if he meant it in a professional sense or more personal, more intimate. Jay tried his best not to dwell on it too much, not wanting to dig himself into a hole.

Was he even aware the hole had been dug, and he was already a good few feet in?

But now she was going and Jay didn’t get a say in the matter, and it foolishly pissed him the hell off.

“No—what the hell? Not happening,” he scoffed with a shake of his head, refusing to accept what he already knew was a done deal.

Hailey’s expression fell, like she expected him to react this way, eyebrows drawing together in an almost sad frown. “I don’t have a choice, Jay,” she rasped quietly, giving a shake of her head that had her blonde ponytail only slightly swinging. “Voight signed off on it himself.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Jay groaned through a clenched jaw, turning away from Hailey as he ran a hand through his hair. His back was to her, staring out into the parking lot, letting out a few heavy breaths as he tried to calm himself down from the anger mixed with panic running through his veins. He ran his hand down his face before turning to look at Hailey. With a shake of his head, he demanded, “Why the hell is Voight sending you?”

Hailey was silent for a moment, lips pressed together, as if she didn’t want to tell him. But Jay kept staring, green eyes clashing with blue, until she let out a breath, the air fogging in front of her, before admitting, “He says they run things differently there. By the book. Thinks it’ll be a good lesson for me.”

The frown of Jay’s face disappeared, chin lifting as understanding dawned on his features. The uneasy knot in his stomach only tightened, willing his fingers not to curl into tight fists as he looked down at the blonde woman in front of him. In a quiet voice, Jay asked, “This is because of what happened to Darius Walker, isn’t it?”

Hailey’s throat worked, instantly telling Jay that his thought was right, blinking once as she added, “And then some.”

Jay gave a disbelieving shake of his head as he broke their gazes, looking away as his jaw clenched together tightly. Darius Walker’s death was brought on by what Hailey did, talking to those gangbangers who had no problem seeking revenge for their dead brothers. He knew it and Voight knew it. Jay knew, the moment he talked to her after she’d done it, that Hailey was turning towards a road he didn’t want her going down. Ever since her CI Cameron’s death, there was a cloud hanging over Hailey that Jay had been trying to figure out how to get rid of. He certainly hadn’t helped matters when he ended up in the hospital, he knew, and Hailey was crossing lines Jay knew only Voight to cross.

And it terrified Jay, admittedly, to see Hailey like that. She was one of the best detectives he knew, a hell of a cop, and he didn’t want her to lose any of that because of some bad choices. As much as he hated to admit it, Jay saw the motive behind Voight’s decision of sending her to New York. The lines were clear there, no doubt about it, and he understood Voight wanting Hailey to take note of it, to work along with it and bring it back home.

Jay just hated that it had come to this in the first place. Hated that he could’ve helped her, been there for her, more.

“You’re pissed.”

He hadn’t said anything for a few moments, and Hailey uttering those two words reeled Jay back into reality, a sharp huff escaping him as his eyebrows lowered into a glare. “Damn right, I’m pissed. I think I have a right to be, given that my partner just told me she’s leaving.”

So many things—so many things he was pissed about. Deep in his heart, Jay knew this move would prove to be important for Hailey, understood Voight’s reasoning for it. But his chest still felt heavy, weighed down by the ghosts of the past that never seemed to entirely leave him, unable to completely ignore the sinister voice in the back of his head that taunted him with Hailey leaving for good. Away from Chicago. Away from him. He’d recovered from his past heartbreak. But looking at Hailey, at the woman who’d become his partner, his best friend, his confidant—Jay just knew if his fear came to light, this would be a heartbreak he wouldn’t recover from.

Hailey’s eyebrows knitted together, taking a step towards him, eyes never leaving his. She seemed to have read his thoughts, as always. “I’m coming back, Jay,” she reminded him pointedly, her sharp voice contradicting the softness in her blue eyes, desperate for him to believe her. It was enough to get his muscles to relax, to let some of the anger burning his blood to disintegrate. “It’s a temporary assignment, just a couple of weeks. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Despite himself, Jay scoffed, shooting her a flat look. A car drove by, its headlights illuminating Hailey’s face, and something softened in Jay’s chest at the glow of her features. Bright blue eyes glowing with reassurance, and a gentle smile successfully calming him down. With a raise of an eyebrow, he retorted, “You say that like I’m not gonna notice that you’re gone for a few weeks.”

Hailey raised her eyebrows. “You better,” she replied, her light tone cracking the tension. A ghost of a smile curled at her lips as she added, “I gotta have something to come back to.”

Jay’s throat worked at her words, though he still smiled, a warmth spreading through him as he nodded, “I appreciate you telling me, Hailey. You know, before leaving.”

“Of course,” she responded, as if not telling him hadn’t even been a thought that crossed her mind. “We’re partners, and even though I haven’t been completely straight with you, I wasn’t going to leave the state without telling you,” she continued with a gentle laugh.

A wry, almost bitter smile curled at Jay’s lips. Without thinking, he muttered, “You’d be surprised how many people would.”

What did it say about Jay that he felt more pain when people merely walked out of his life on their own accord as opposed to leaving by death, even if slightly?

He looked away as soon as the words slipped past his mouth, teeth clenching together as he focused his gaze on anything but Hailey. It wasn’t as though Jay was embarrassed by what he said—with Hailey, there was no room for that. Being openly vulnerable wasn’t exactly one of his strong suits, but his blonde partner was slowly changing that over the years for the better. And despite moments of morally gray decision making, Jay had a feeling it was mutual.

“I’m not any of those people,” Hailey spoke up, drawing Jay’s attention towards her once more. She looked at him meaningfully, a softness in her beautiful features that always stole Jay’s breath. Hailey was, without a doubt, so effortlessly stunning and if Jay wasn’t so damn good at his job, if he was someone else, he’d probably get distracted by her in the field. It didn’t mean he didn’t try to steal glances at her whenever he could, though. Jay watched as Hailey took a step towards him, gaze never leaving his as she peered up at him. “This is my home. I’m not leaving it. Or you.”

Jay’s heart leaped into his throat as he stared down at Hailey, the truth weighing down her words meaningfully, hanging between them in a silence not even the business of Molly’s could disrupt. And as Jay looked at Hailey, there was so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to tell her—thoughts and feelings he’d been holding in for longer than he’d care to admit. But he was going to wait for when Hailey got back, to tell her when she was finally back home—back with him.

So he swallowed the emotions bubbling up, and instead he smiled, adoring the sight of her own small grin, before asking, “What time’s your flight?”

“9:15 A.M.,” she told him with a slight tilt of her head.

He smirked gently. “I’ll drive you. And I’ll bring coffee.”

Hailey raised her eyebrows, a teasing tilt in her voice as she asked, “You’re not gonna cry, are you?”

Jay gave a serious nod as they both began making their way back into Molly’s. “I’ll be sobbing on the inside.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder as they walked inside, a smirk dancing on her own lips as she approved, “Good.”

He wouldn’t be sobbing, of course. But as soon as Hailey would walk through the terminal gates at the airport, Jay knew he would be counting down the days until he could see her again.

[40sbarnes]

Medici: Spymasters of Florence

Chapter 9: Fool Me Twice

9 chapters already oh my goodness and we still have some ways to go so i hope you’re all still enjoying it!! i can’t say how much your likes and comments mean so thank you! there’s a little bit of overlap in this chapter from last chapter so sorry you had to reread the first conversation but now we get to hear the readers thoughts i guess, anyways!!! enjoy <3

pairings; slow slowburn lorenzo x reader, (friends) francesco x reader (i told yall!)

tag list; @brynthebulldozer @mythicalamphitrite @nana035 @valravnsraven @hannahhistorian92

The skirt of your dress was so heavy, your desperate pulls at it leaving your leg exposed to the cold cobble below you, the adrenaline flowing through your veins stopping you from feeling it. The moment you could, you grabbed your dagger out its holster, and drove it into your opponent’s stomach. But his hold around your neck didn't falter, he simply glanced down at where you'd impaled him, and began laughing maniacally, his grip on you only tightening. Your breath hitched in your throat, not knowing what to do. A door creaked open across the street, your head snapping towards it for help. But instead, you faced Lorenzo's bedroom door, finding yourself in his bed yet again. Just a dream, a nasty dream. You relaxed into his soft bed sheets, as he noticed you were awake. Where was he returning from? Oh, Lucrezia's... of course.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, not bothering to look at you as he turned away, beginning to get dressed.

"Like stealing your bed linen," you groaned, flopping onto your back, your skin soothed by the softness.

A beat passed before he spun around to answer. "They're yours, a starting payment for last night," He had a shit eating grin on his face as he worked on the buttons of his shirt. You failed to mirror his expression. Last night cost a lot more to you then Medici bed sheets. And you imagined it would cost a whole lot more to make it up to Lorenzo.

"I really am sorry, Lorenzo." You pulled yourself away from his bed, moving closer to him. The cool morning air nipping at your bare legs as a reminder you were only wearing one of his shirts. His eyes poured into yours, his gaze unfaltering.

"No need for an apology," he pulled his jacket on before doing it up, making a mess of the buttons as he focused on keeping eye contact with you instead of them, "that's the last time I'm saying that." You still didn't believe he wasn't furious with you.

You closed the space between you two, gently dropping your hands onto his, moving them to do up the buttons for him. He didn't say anything, but his jaw clenched.

"Okay," you wondered how to approach the topic, "no apologies, but we still have to discuss it."

He looked to the ceiling as you continued with the buttons. "And we will. When I'm back."

"Back?" You were quick to remark. He had only just returned from spending the night with Lucrezia, and he was leaving again?

"The Orsini girl is downstairs. I won't be long," He almost seemed scared to say it to you. As he should be. Why was Clarice here? You were certain your little talk had dissuaded her. Honestly you expected better of her.

"I thought you said-" Lorenzo didn't give you the chance to finish your thought.

"The visit was unexpected. I was certain she didn't wish to marry. She still couldn't. But she's been waiting long enough," he continued with his explanation. You couldn't hide your anger. Lorenzo was focusing on such trivial matters when you had ended another person’s existence last night. And going to speak to Clarice when he was still having dalliances with Lucrezia? It wasn't fair... to Clarice.

"Well good luck," you kept your thoughts to yourself for once, and turned for the window as you'd finished dressing Lorenzo.

"Y/n," his hand found yours, "I shan't be long. Please wait here for me. You need some rest and it's just easier." You could tell how sincere he was.

You didn't bother fighting, or speaking at all. A simple nod sufficed.

"Thank you, lock the door after me," Using the hand holding yours, he brought it to his lips to place a kiss onto your knuckles, leaving instantly after. Why did he do that? You held the hand to your chest, confused. After a moment’s thought, you did as he said and locked the door, your eyebrows still furrowed. How peculiar. You weren't some noble woman at a ball, he's probably just stuck in his ways, a force of habit. It didn't mean anything.

A shiver involuntarily slipped through your body. You thought of just climbing back into the warmth of bed but didn't want Lorenzo to return to you that way. You didn't have anything to change into as Lorenzo decided to burn half your closet last night. You went to root in his instead, but surprise, surprise, it was all men's clothes. You knew that wouldn't bode well when you had to walk through the streets of Florence later. Instead, you made your way back to the door, trying your best to listen before unlocking it and pulling it open gently. The coast seemed clear, so you danced across the hall to what you believed to be his sister, Bianca’s, room. The door was already open a crack. You listened carefully, hoping to hear her sound asleep but there was no noise to be heard. Maybe you had slept longer than you imagined. You slipped through the crack, seeing the room to be empty. You began to wonder where she was before you caught yourself, it didn't really matter and you should really be counting your blessings. You quickly stole a dress from her wardrobe, before sneaking your way back into Lorenzo's room to get dressed. You sat on the bed beside his folded shirt, awaiting his return, fidgeting in Bianca's dress, it had been hard to fasten by yourself and didn't seem to quite sit right.

Minutes passed and there was no sign of the Medici. You had picked at your nails long enough, and decided to give into your urge to snoop. Who could blame you? It was basically your job. You made your way around Lorenzo's room, picking up some of his trinkets for further inspection, and, although notably out of character for you, you put them back. It just didn't feel right to steal from him anymore. You hated yourself for feeling that way but you couldn't help it.

Your fingers landed on a small vial in the drawer of his desk, your tube of poisons. You still had most of what you'd purchased at home, but this was your original assortment you'd made he'd taken from you. You shook it slightly as you examined it. You were still fascinated with the practice of mithridatism. After contemplating it for a moment, you took another (tiny) dose. Things couldn't get much worse for you anyways. You'd just be more patient this time.

You soon grew bored, as you weren't making any money from your rummaging, and floated back towards the door. You pressed your ear to it, but you couldn't pick up anything from the thick wood. You went to the window instead, glancing around, watching as light rainfall splashed in the puddles from last night’s downpour. No one was out for walks in the garden because of the weather, so you didn't have to worry too much about staying hidden. Your eyes trailed down to the path by the front doors, to see Clarice being helped into her chariot. So they were finished speaking. You couldn't make out her expression from where you were, but her body language gave you some hints, although you weren't sure whether her hung shoulders and dragged feet meant the marriage was on or off. You turned to face the door, expecting Lorenzo any moment. But your expectations weren't met. Minutes passed and there was still no sign of him. Your eyes wandered back to the window, the raindrops soothing as they trickled down the pane, distracting you from your inner turmoil.

A bright blue blob appeared in the corner of your eyes. You blinked to refocus them, to see Lorenzo leaving in the same blue cloak he'd worn the day you first met. He headed in the same direction as Clarice, towards the town. It was a long walk in rain, you would know. You cursed out loud, 'shan't be long' indeed. You stomped throughout his room, going back to his closet to steal the plainest cloak you could find. You considered leaving the door locked just to irritate him, but decided against it, and exited through the window.

You followed the same route you took as last night, going around the city altogether, rather than taking all the winding paths into it. You kept your head down, and your footsteps light. You still weren't one hundred percent, but you were starting to feel much more yourself now that you'd rested. You didn't feel as weak as last night, and you made a mental promise to yourself to never let yourself be that weak ever again. You weren't sure you were fully in control anymore. It all seemed so fun just a little while ago, getting all this extra coin, for basically the same work. And you couldn't lie and say sneaking around with Lorenzo de ‘Medici behind Pazzi's back wasn't thrilling. But now it was all just stress. You'd gone too far. You couldn't turn back now. And you felt like you only had so much time left on this path. The walls were closing in around you, and there was no way out.

"Is that y/n Bellondini? “A familiar voice brought you out of your spiral.

"Who's asking?" You teased, turning to face Francesco. Your chest tightened as he embraced you, somehow also feeling a sense of relief to see him.

"How are you?" He asked when you eventually pulled away.

"Glad to see you," you reply, not sure how honest you were being. His grin grew at your words. "How have you been keeping?"

"As good as I look," he stood taller as he complimented himself.

"Oh," you frowned, "I'm sorry," you continued your mocking, resting your hand on the side of his shoulder as if to comfort him.

"I haven't missed your mockery, Bellondini," his hand moved to sit atop yours.

"But you've missed me, Pazzi," you used each other's names against each other. You couldn't say you didn't miss this light hearted teasing either, but it wasn't the same anymore.

Francesco didn't say anything more, he just contained a small smirk, while you both continued to look at each other. You smiled back, although you were far from happy. You knew you could never truly be his friend after what you'd done. You could never go back to just being a Pazzi spy. You could never return to a life you didn't even realise you'd been leaving behind.

"We better get out of this rain," you spoke after a second too many had passed. The clouds were falling down with more severity as the minutes ticked by.

"We best. I was just heading home," your hands fell as the moment ended, and Francesco's grin faded.

"I'll walk you," you offered, and you did just that. You spoke of trivial matters for the short walk, halting at the entrance, where you parted your ways. You dared not enter in the way the devil dared not enter a church.

As you turned to head back home, your eyes flickered towards the docks, as if your victim would be swimming along with no worries. You were relieved to see no such thing, and no trace of your crimes left. You would never curse the rain again. Your mind wandered as you walked, would Lorenzo have returned yet? Would he even notice your absence? Maybe he would, and feel relief that he didn't have to deal with you. You recognised that you were quickly becoming a bigger problem to him than you were an asset. You also recognised you had no real leverage with the Pazzi's over him anymore. Where had he even gone? Clarice had left separately. Where else would he go in such a hurry that he couldn't even tell you. If he were truly that busy why not just inform you rather than leave you waiting. You were glad you left when you did, humiliated that you even stayed that long in the first place.

A voice in the back of your mind was whispering her name. It made sense. What was the one place Lorenzo snuck off to? But he had only seen her last night? Unless you'd thought wrong. Maybe he did stay with you all night, and went to explain now. Your curiosity got the best of you and you switched your course, making your way towards Lucrezia's house in the heart of the city. You took shelter under roofs as you ignored your better sense, and continued on your path. Why did you even care if he was with her? Because he'd left you for her. Left you after you'd quite literally killed for him. That's why.

You reached her street, hiding around the corner of a building across from her home. You didn't risk getting any closer, still not feeling in the best shape. You stood there, the rain falling down all around you, questioning yourself every second you did. You kept telling yourself to just go home, warm up and recover from recent events but you just couldn't. You stayed, watching, it wasn't anything you weren't used to. You often had to wait hours on missions, but none that you'd been so invested in. It was difficult to let your mind wander to other things, your focus was unwavering for once.

Eventually, the door opened, and you watched as you had the first time as Lorenzo stepped out. He glanced upwards at the raindrops, quickly pulling his hood up, before making his way down the street, away from you. You don't know what else you were expecting. That first night on the rooftop you'd been waiting hopefully, before bragging your advantage to Lorenzo himself. But now you no longer felt you had the upper hand. 

[silverhandy]

I saw the devil (in me) - chapter 3

Chapter 1 I Chapter 2 I ao3

    The door to his hotel room closed with a hum and a soft click of an automatic lock. This time, he did take the cab, walking back would give him way too much time to really think about what Misty had said. It made Takemura feel like a coward, running away from her like that, but he couldn't help it. If he stayed there any longer, he’d fall apart. Right in front of her, all the pieces he’s been so desperate to hold together for the last few months would disassemble and there’d be nobody to pick him back up.

    Takemura threw the heavy wool coat onto the still pristine bed, the impact creating a small sea of wrinkles on the otherwise perfectly straightened linen. The hotel he chose was no Konpeki Plaza, but it was still far from the sleazy, off the road (and off the radar) motels he had a chance to familiarize himself with during his last stay in Night City. The room, with its generic, yet tasteful decor remained perfectly impersonal, walls devoid of any stains, no blood or other fluids on the dark carpet, fresh towels handcrafted into fantastical shapes neatly tucked on the bed. The only thing that made it feel lived in was a fainting fragrance of cologne, left behind by the previous guest.

    Takemura paced around the room for a few minutes before finally setting himself on the chair in the corner of the room. Whatever he was hoping he’d achieve by going to V’s funeral, he didn’t feel it. The guilt was still there. Just a few months ago he was so convinced that he’d be able to offer her an alternative, one that so few of this world could even dream of having access to, and she declined. He didn’t understand it then, but he did now. Strangely, this realization gave way to a different thought, one that he’d been trying to push as far back into his minds as possible, with little success. It wasn’t only V that Arasaka has failed. For the first time in his life, Takemura almost felt like Arasaka had also failed him.

    He couldn't really blame the company for not having the tech that is yet to be created, or for doctors and scientists who’d only sight and shake their heads. Those six months ago it finally hit him that even Arasaka has its limits, despite their far-fetched attempts to prove otherwise. What he didn’t understand was the way he was so decisively removed from the inner circle of the Arasaka family, transferred to a city almost 700km away from Tokyo, and given a job that he wasn’t suitable to do, his knowledge steaming from experience and practice. After all, he was a soldier, not a clerk. All he wanted was to continue serving, a modest gratification for the lengths he went to in order to uncover Yorinobu’s plot. V would certainly say that he deserved more. Takemura wouldn’t dare, even within the confines of his own mind.

    After a moment of hesitation, he pulled up his comms. It was stupid. Pointless. Above all, it probably wouldn’t even work, but despite all of that, he still found himself selecting V’s number. Before he knew it, a steady melody of an awaiting call rang in his ears. At least the number hasn’t been disconnected. Yet.

    Takemura didn’t know what he was expecting, exactly. There was nobody to pick up the phone anymore, and yet he was hoping that calling V’s number this one time would make up for all the times he didn't. Takemura let out a deep sigh, gestured to end the call and soon was left with an empty screen with basic contact information. And yet, when he now looked at it, it wasn’t empty at all.

    How on Earth didn’t he notice it before? He checked the date again, unable to believe that for all the time he spent staring at this one specific entry of his long contact list, he didn’t notice this aggressively yellow icon, gleaming next to V’s icon on his interface. Was it even possible that he missed it? What was he doing a little over three months ago, anyway?

    He barely remembered, that period of his life little more than a blur. Should he even open it now? Wouldn't it merely be opening old wounds, ones that even time didn’t seem to heal? After all, Takemura doubted there was anything V could say to him that’d push him from the path he found himself walking. There was no turning back, not when he was nearing the end of it, but he still opened the voice message.

    “Hey Takemura, it’s V. Been a while, huh? You must be back home already, bathing in all that Arasaka glory. Is the local cuisine as good as you remembered? I’m still waiting for you to show me that famed real food of yours. Onigiri with...what was it again? Umeboshi? Hope I’m not butchering the nomenclature too much. Anyway, I came back to Night City, moved in with Judy shortly after. I didn’t want to rush things with her, but considering the circumstances, it just felt right. Did I even tell you about her? Met her on the job and we clicked right away. You’d like her, I’m sure.

    I’ve been doing some small jobs, mostly for friends, in between dodging Viktor like the plague, but, uh...there came a time I couldn’t do either anymore. It was Judy who practically dragged me to his clinic and then the whole carousel I’ve been so desperately running away from started rollin’. Scans, meds, all of that, at first it felt like I was back at the Arasaka clinic, except Viktor actually listened to me and gave me some fuckin’ room. He has me on a cocktail of meds that get me through the day, but honestly...I hate seeing that expression on his face every time I come see him. I know he’s tryin’ to hide it, but between you and me, he’s doing a pretty shit job.

    Anyway, enough of me talkin’...I feel that maybe we didn’t end things on the right foot that time at the clinic. I know you wanted what you think was best for me, but you know what? Despite everything, I feel free. You should try that sometime.”

    The message ended with a beep and Takemura just sat there, eyes fixed on the ground. And then he played it again. And again.

    Halfway through the third, he heard a knock on the door. One quick scan of the people behind it told him it wasn’t housekeeping, so did the urgency apparent in the way his visitors made the door shake slightly with the impact. He stood up and walked to the door, letting the thick carpet muffle his footsteps. Before opening, he grabbed a gun from his coat and tucked it behind his belt, just to be safe.

    Two men stood at the door, a familiar signature written seemingly all over them. Takemura wouldn’t say he was relieved upon seeing them, though. Not at all.

    “Can I help you with something, gentleman?” he asked, switching to Japanese, just for politeness' sake.

    “You are to come with us.” the shorter one said, eyes obscured by the blue-tinted glasses he wore.

    “That is not possible. My flight leaves soon and I am afraid I will miss it if I take any detours.”

    “Takemura-san,” the man said, a hint of a smile appearing on his otherwise expressionless face. “this is not a request. Arasaka-dono wishes to speak with you and I assure you, you wouldn’t want to keep him waiting.”

    He was right. Takemura wouldn’t.

    “Alright then, allow me to just grab my…”

    “That isn’t necessary. We will take care of your luggage.”

    Takemura felt his stomach drop, the same uncomfortable feeling one has when walking down the stairs and missing a step. He couldn't quite pinpoint why, but instincts were often hard to fool and the man in front of him didn’t inspire any warm feelings in his heart. Not many people working at Arasaka did, but as long as he stayed in line, he felt safe. Only now, when he had crossed it, he felt how thin it truly was. And how much he’s lost his edge.

    Takemura turned back to grab his coat and put it on, but instead of bringing him comfort, the heavy material felt as if it was bringing him down. Something weird seemed to be happening with his optics too, the image glitching every few steps. He wouldn’t show it, though, walking out of the hotel with his head held high and mind racing to come up with various scenarios of how he should proceed.

    The car was parked right next to the main entrance. One of the men opened its door to let him in, but Takemura stopped abruptly, hit with an all too familiar feeling. His mouth felt dry and he could feel a layer of cold sweat covered his brow. Takemura reached out to steady himself on the doorframe and felt one of Arasaka henchmen lean in behind him, the barrel of a gun digging into his ribs and a hand reaching for Takemura’s own weapon, still tucked behind his belt.

    “Quite a kick, right? Now, let’s not make a scene here.”

    “I thought I was to talk with Arasaka-dono.”

    “You will, but first, let us drive to a more suitable place.”

                                                                ***

    Takemura doubted that an abandoned parking lot in North Oaks is a place suitable for anything, especially a conversation, but at this point, he didn’t have much to say on the matter. Before they drove into Westbrook, his interface was completely gone and all he could rely on were his senses, devoid of the advantages implants previously gave him. Takemura could feel cyberwithrawal symptoms setting in, slowly building up into the most unpleasant crescendo. Then again, with the way his night was going, maybe he won’t live long enough to have to suffer through it.

    “What are we doing here?” Takemura asked after they all got out of the car. The driver, too, slightly older than his companions, with a steel hand obscured by a long sleeve of his coat. The place was scarcely lit, only one of the big, industrial lamps still working, providing a shaky, unreliable source of light right where they were standing, the three men next to each other, Takemura facing them from a short distance of maybe three meters.

    The driver stepped forward and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. Takemura would surely feel his body tense at the sight if he wasn’t trembling so much at that point. To his surprise, the man didn’t pull out a gun to shoot him with, but a shard. Without any additional explanation, he plugged it in and his hard stare vanished, replaced by a stream of data reflecting on his eyes.

    “Takemura.” the proxy said, unintentionally mimicking Saburo’s voice.

    “Arasaka-dono.” Takemura grit his teeth and bowed to greet the men, fists clenching at his sides to stop his hands from shaking.

    “I am sure you know why you find yourself here. If it is any consolation, it is not only you that can be blamed for your current position. Hanako made a grave mistake asking you to speak to that woman. She planted a seed of doubt into your heart, one that soon grew into a weed and started eating away at your soul. There is a way to remedy that, however. You can still reclaim your honor by finishing what you started in Takamatsu. Right here, right now. There is no need for you to come back to Japan.”

    “Arasaka-dono, I…” Takemura started, but the man raised his hand, silencing him in one gesture.

    “Ishihara here will be your second, should your hand falter. I do not wish for you to suffer.” the proxy turned to the man to his left, the one with the glasses, and gave him a small nod. He stepped forward, revealing a small package he’d been holding, and placed it on the ground in front of Takemura, who immediately knew what it was. He recognized the maroon silk. As he looked back up at the three men, they didn’t move. They simply waited.

    And so Takemura kneeled, eyes fixed on the silk-wrapped sword in front of him. He leaned forward, carefully unwrapping the material until the blade laid bare, waiting for Takemura to grab its handle. Ishihara moved behind him, footsteps barely audible on the concrete floor.

    “You served the Arasaka family well through the years, but even a strong man like you is not immune to change or destructive influence. You surely understand that this is the only way.”

    Takemura did not see it like that. To go on his own terms, reconciled with his mistakes, that was the death he hoped he’d face. This felt like theatrics, a lot of effort put into making him feel like he had a choice where there was none. Takemura allowed his gaze to leave the proxy’s face and look beyond the guards, resting his eyes on the wall so densely covered with graffiti that none of it was legible. A vine crept up the stone, forcing its way into the cracked surface, destroying it even further in its primal pursuit of expansion. Below that, a pair of yellowish, feline eyes gleamed, just outside the circle of light.

    Despite everything, I feel free. You should try that sometime.

    “I do.” Takemura turned his head to the side slightly, just enough to see Ishihara standing behind him, his own sword in hand. Will he wait for Takemura to plunge the blade into his abdomen and only then make the cut? Or will he swing the weapon as soon as Takemura reaches for the wakizashi, intent clear enough in that simple gesture? He didn’t know, but Takemura wasn’t in any position to make bets.

    He leaned down and allowed his hand to reach for the wakizashi, still looking to his left. As expected, just as his fingers brushed the wooden handle of the sword, Ishihara swung his own, aiming for Takemura’s neck. The man reacted on instinct, throwing his arm to block the blade while his other hand grabbed the sword in front of him, fingers tightly closing around the handle. Takemura felt Ishihara’s powerful cut slice through skin and muscle, only stopping at the chrome reinforced bone. The blood soaked his sleeve almost instantly, splatters staining both of their faces, but Takemura grit his teeth and turned, blocking and forcefully guiding Ishihara’s blade away from himself, drastically widening the cut as he lunged forward to drive the wakizashi through the Arasaka agent’s chest. It went in with a grisly, wet sound of tearing flesh and bone. Takemura didn’t stop and turned once more, ignoring his opponent's desperate gasps, dragging Ishihara’s already limping body along, shielding himself from incoming bullets.

    The echo of shots rang wide through the empty parking lot as Takemura practically ran forward, pushing the already dead man in front of him with his full body weight. When his opponent realized he’ll have to reload soon, he took a few steps back, a glimpse of fear going through his face as he wrestled with the magazine. What it was he saw in his eyes that scared him so much, Takemura did not know, but seizing the occasion, he retracted the blade from Ishihara’s body, letting it drop onto the ground like a sack of flour, and lunged forward. Just as their bodies met, the other henchmen managed to fire, but only once before his dominant hand was sliced off in one strike, strong enough to sever the tissue and the wires that held it together. The man screamed as he saw his arm fall to the ground, but before the sound had the chance to echo off the ruined walls, it was cut short.

     Takemura could already feel his left arm lose sensation, growing weak and limp with every ounce of blood he kept losing, but it didn’t matter now, nor did the chills or the way his entire body rebelled against being cut off from augmentations so abruptly.

    The proxy didn’t move, didn’t even flinch, still standing those few meters in front of Takemura. He was armed, holster clearly visible at his hip, but he didn’t draw the gun. Takemura turned to face him, adrenaline still rushing through his veins and keeping him upright. Knowing it won’t be for much longer, Takemura made a few steps forward and stopped, weapon still in hand, his other arm hanging uselessly at his side.

    The proxy hummed.

    “An honorable death or a lifetime of shame. It greatly saddens me that you, of all people, chose wrong.”

    And just like that, the conversation was over.

    Takemura didn’t wait until the proxy fully regained awareness of his surroundings. Hardly honorable, but he doubted he could sink any lower and with the state he was in, letting the man come to his senses would almost certainly mean death.

    Cursing under his breath, Takemura went over to the agent’s bodies and patted them down, but didn’t find what he was looking for. He stood back up and turned to the car, feeling his legs grow weaker with every step. He somehow managed to drag himself onto the driver’s seat and lean to the side to open the glove compartment, throwing the bloodied wakizashi onto the passenger's seat. Dark spots obscuring his vision, Takemura was going in blind, frantically searching for the injector with his good hand. The wave of relief he felt when his blood-soaked fingers finally landed on the familiar shape was almost enough to knock him out on its own, but he forced himself to power through. Tearing off the safety lid with his teeth, he stabbed himself in the chest with it and pushed the plug.

    The effect was immediate. Another rush of adrenaline made it feel like his heart was about to jump out of his chest, it’s breathless beating throbbing in his temples, but the darkness creeping up on him disappeared. Takemura knew the effect wouldn’t last long, but he hoped it’d be enough to at least pull up a first aid kit from under the passenger's seat. When Takemura finally managed to rid himself of the coat and the jacket beneath it, he realized the extent of the damage. His arm looked bad. Really bad. If not for all the blood, he’d surely be able to see  bone and wiring, just barely keeping the limb together. His personal link was shredded, that’s for sure. The coagulants he tried using a second before clearly not working the way they were supposed to, Takemura tried bandaging his arm with one hand and somewhat succeeded, if not for the bright, red blood that soaked through the second he finished tying the knot.

    With a trembling hand, Takemura started typing in the address but found himself missing every other letter, too unsteady to hit them right, smearing blood all over the little screen. The autopilot seemed to take the hint, though, and for the first time in his life, Takemura was grateful for the existence of autocorrect. He confirmed the address and clenched his fingers around the wheel. He’ll try driving it for as long as he can, he told himself, but if he passes out on the way at least there’s a chance to roll up at the door of someone who knows what to do with the body.

    Takemura didn’t remember much of the ride, his hand half-heartedly sliding in the steering wheel, smearing the blood on the fine, fair leather. He could feel himself drifting in and out of consciousness, head swimming with every sharp turn the car took. Eyes on the road, he kept telling himself, fingers clenching on the wheel to the point where it was almost painful.

    After what felt like ages, the car pulled up into the familiar alley and stopped, a cheery voice announcing that he had arrived at his destination. Takemura unfastened the seatbelt and almost fell onto the sidewalk, narrowly avoiding tripping over the edge of the car by grabbing the open door at the last moment to steady himself. He could see people around him, their terrified glances, but no one moved to help him. Those last few meters felt like a lucid, colorful dream. Takemura could hardly walk straight at that point, the world around him akin to a badly cut film. Maneki nekos waving their little, mechanical paws. Scent of incense so sharp it was almost unpleasant. Porcelain set falling to the ground, breaking into hundreds little pieces, impossible to put back together. And a beautiful carpet, no doubt woven by hand, surely only a human could put colors and patterns and threads together so beautifully. Such a waste, he thought before he finally gave in.

    Misty will never get the blood out.

[hydrasweapon]

@weaponizedembrace gets the longest starter in history for our thing

            Howard doesn’t find Steve. Even after days, after months, he doesn’t find Steve. He keeps on searching, though – maybe because he cannot stand Bucky’s face whenever he comes back empty-handed. In the meantime, Bucky’s injuries heal up. Way quicker than should be possible, he’s as fresh as a daisy – minus the arm, of course. They want to send him home. He tells them very sincerely fuck you and that’s it. He guesses it’s also Carter’s and maybe Colonel Phillips doing that they leave him alone, but he doesn’t care. To be honest, Bucky doesn’t care about a lot of things anymore. VE-day comes and goes and he toasts with the other Howlies but then he walks back to the barracks, surrounded by screaming, partying people, and he feels nothing. The war in Europe is over and he has never felt more lost, not even in the trenches with shells detonating right next to him. 

          He reads about the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki and wonders what Steve would have said to that. Then he has to put the newspaper away because it feels like his heart is going to give up on him. He gets a lot of letters from his family but doesn’t know how to respond, so he only puts them in his duffel or sometimes in the pocket of his jacket and feels bad for never finding the right words. 

           In late August, Carter tells him that she’s going to go to New York City to continue the SSR’s work and also that there’s going to be an official state funeral for Steve in Arlington. Nobody, not even a super-soldier, could survive months without food or shelter in the icy, windswept wasteland of the Arctic. Bucky listens and doesn’t answer but he turns up the day Carter and Stark leave for the States in Stark’s private plane. 

          The ceremony is pompous. The Arlington National Cemetery is bursting at the seams because every politician wants to say goodbye to a hero and hopefully get some good publicity while doing that. Bucky has to puke three times behind a tree before he is able to walk up to President Truman to get his own Purple Heart medal and receive Steve’s Medal of Honor because there is no other family member left to take it for him. They even conjured a fucking statue up out of nothing. They want to take photos in front of that statue. Bucky is glad his stomach is already empty or he would have puked on the shoes of the President himself and wouldn’t that be something to put on the front page. 

          He doesn’t stay longer than it takes to get the medals, do some hand-shaking and take some pictures. There is a speech. The President said some words, too, but the real speech is by Colonel Phillips himself and Bucky can’t listen to that, he just can’t. They will think he’s rude but he’s pretty certain Phillips understands. He leaves the cemetery and promises himself to never come back to this place.

          Bucky takes the train up to New York. After half an hour, he feigns to be asleep because people keep thanking him for his service and welcoming him home and it makes his already empty stomach roil again. His parents and Becca are waiting for him at the train station. It’s when Winifred Barnes wraps her son up in her arms, that something breaks inside him. Bucky takes a deep, shuddering breath, and now the tears, finally, come. They stream down his face, soak his mother’s blouse, and he cannot get enough air into his lungs, everything is hurting, the pain squeezes his chest, his insides, his heart, and he falls to his knees and Winifred sits down next to him on the cold, hard ground, and just keeps him close and rocks him back and forth like a child, but he will always be her child, won’t he? No matter what.

          Bucky doesn’t manage to get a grip on himself for half an hour. All the time, his mother’s tight embrace doesn’t waver; Becca shields his vulnerable left side and his father’s hand is heavy and protecting on his shoulder. George Barnes glares at every passenger even thinking of making a stupid remark concerning this scene on a public station platform. 

            Then, somehow, Bucky manages to stop crying, or maybe he is just – empty. His father bundles his family up in the car and they drive through Manhattan and back to Brookly, home. Bucky is too tired and exhausted and falls asleep with his head on his sister’s shoulder. He doesn’t even notice when George picks him up carefully and carries him inside as he used to do back when he was a young boy and drifted off listening to the wireless in the evening. His and Becca’s child room changed into Winifred’s sewing room years ago but there’s still his old bed and when his father puts him down there and covers him with a warm quilt, he curls up and sleeps for hours.

            During the next couple of weeks, neither Bucky nor his family knows how to treat each other. Winifred bakes a lot, George urges Bucky to play cards with him in the evenings. Becca comes over whenever she can. Bucky visits his grandparents' grave; they had died while he'd been overseas. Apart from that, he doesn't really leave the house: There are always people on the street he knows. They welcome him back and either tell him how sorry they are for his loss or ask where Steve is (if they didn't put 2 and 2 together yet).

            He stays in his family home and stares out of the window and lets his mother put some meat on his bones and wonders what on earth he is supposed to do now, without his best friend and without a left arm besides.

            It’s shortly after Christmas (a rather silent affair) that Margaret Carter knocks on his door and kind of bullies him into joining the SSR once more. She knows all the perfect words for him to agree -- that Steve wouldn’t want him to spend the rest of his life this way, that he cannot live off his parents forever, that he is still a useful member of society. He agrees just to get her out of his room because she makes him feel scraped raw. Shortly after New Year’s Day, Bucky starts to work for the New York office of the SSR.

            The years pass. They are -- mostly a dull succession of days. His sister marries in 1949, a guy called William Proctor, who works for a shipping company and never saw the European Theater due to really bad eyesight. Dancing with Rebecca on her wedding day is one of the few memories Bucky will cherish for the rest of his life. She is so happy. 

           Unfortunately, being a married woman seems to mean that she absolutely has to marry her brother off, too. She introduces him to friends at least once a month and invites him over for dinner with -- what a coincidence! -- single ladies all the time. She also makes him visit the dance halls with her every other week. He doesn’t mind the last one -- it’s really nice to watch all the couples dance, learn this new Boogie Woogie thing. He is not interested in the gals, though. He simply cannot bring himself to think of love again.

            He's no longer working for the SSR but for an agency Carter, Stark, and Phillips formed of its remnants: the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division. The acronym makes Bucky want to both puke and cry. It doesn’t change much, workwise, though.

            1954 is a big year. He attends the weddings of Dum Dum Dugan and Jim Morita and it’s almost as if the Howling Commandos are back together. Even Falsworth comes to the States for the occasion, him and Gabe sharing pictures of chubby Montgomery Junior and little Steven. Gabe looks a little sheepish when he tells Bucky the name of his son and Bucky might be a little choked-up but he’s certain Steve would have loved this little, full-faced namesake. Only Dernier doesn’t make it.

            1954 is also the year Bucky has a vocal dispute with Peggy Carter and quits his job quite aggressively. But what else is he supposed to do when he’s down in former Camp Lehigh for a work thing and crosses paths with Arnim godfuckingdamn Zola? It’s only due to three coworkers that he cannot bash Zola’s face the moment he spots him in the corridor. He doesn’t give a flying fuck about Operation Paperclip. Carter’s words are like poison in his ears. He doubts she believes them, herself. But she has the greater good in mind and was probably overruled in Zola’s case. Bucky does not care. He will not work for an agency hiring this piece of dirty shit. He has nightmares for weeks, always seeing that grubby little face with its evil smirk in front of his eyes. 

            It’s complicated to find another job. Nobody wants to hire a cripple. Labor work is impossible for him, too. Shortly before Thanksgiving in 1954, Bucky notices for the first time that something is off. That he is -- wrong. When he asks for a job in a nearby factory, the boss asks him how he lost his arm. He doesn’t believe the war-story. “Look at you, you’re too young to have been in the war, son.”

            That evening, Bucky stares into the mirror. The guy is right: He looks like he came home from Europe yesterday. He looks like a guy in his mid-20s, not like a man going on 40. His younger sister looks older now. There’s not a single white hair. There are no wrinkles. He drinks a whole bottle of whisky and tells himself he’s having excellent genes. 

Shortly before Christmas, he gets a new job thanks to his brother-in-law and works as an accountant in the same shipping company as William Proctor.

            1958 is both a joyful and terrible year. Becca gives birth to her first child after years of trying to get pregnant. Little Emily Sarah is the cutest thing on earth and Bucky loves her with every fiber of his being. He tries to ignore the women gushing at him ‘being such a young, handsome father’ when he takes her out for walks. He turned 40 two months ago. He should not look like this.

            In late August, George Barnes dies. The doctor speaks of a heart attack. Bucky cries late at night, in his bed, when he doesn’t have to be the strong one anymore. He moves in with his mother again to support her -- so she can keep the apartment she lived in for nearly 45 years already, and so she has company and someone to watch over her. She, too, is getting older and frailer. Bucky could be her grandson, now, given his looks. When their old neighbor Mr. Lowenstein mentions this, Bucky cannot ignore it any longer. He calls Howard Stark.

            The passage of time manifested itself in a lot of wrinkles in Stark’s face. That’s how a man his age should look like. That’s what Bucky wants to see when he’s standing in front of a mirror. Stark looks taken aback at his sight, then explains in great detail that he’s an engineer and usually doesn’t do biological stuff but he draws a vial of blood either way and looks at it under a microscope and then tells him that he could be mistaken but the last and only time he ever saw cells like Bucky’s was shortly after they shot Steve up with Erskine’s serum.

            Bucky thinks of Zola and his countless injections and fire in his veins and pukes right across Stark’s workbench. Stark says there’s nothing he can do. That was Erskine’s area of expertise, not his. He really doubts Bucky is immortal but he will probably live to see his 150th birthday. Bucky could ask Zola, of course, Zola who’s working for S.H.I.E.L.D. now. But he’d rather cut his remaining arm off than ever seeing him again.

            He doesn’t tell his mother nor his sister. He tries to live on as if nothing happened but it’s hard. He notices now that he heals way quicker than the average human being. He gets bonuses because he never calls in sick for work. On a sleepless night, he walks through Brooklyn and over to Manhattan and back to the docks for work and doesn’t feel tired at all. He’s----he’s like Steve now. Or rather, was since that factory in Kreischberg. He just chose to never notice.

            He sees his mother age and little Emily Sarah grow up and his own face doesn’t change at all. Sometimes he wonders if everyone he knows is going to die and he will end up alone in this world. It’s a terrifying thought. More often than not he finds himself standing on the docks after work, staring into the muddy water. Steve is down there, too. A cold, dark grave. He wouldn’t want Bucky to off himself. He would be furious. That, and maybe whatever Zola did to his body would prevent him from dying, anyway. So Bucky thinks about it but never acts on it.

            In January 1961, Winifred Barnes dies. Bucky, confused he doesn’t find his mother in the kitchen as usual in the morning, goes to check on her. She looks like she’s still sleeping but her hands are cold. Bucky sits down next to her for three hours and cries and hides his face in her neck that still smells like her. It’s only when his brother-in-law pounds on the front door because he didn’t turn up for work that Bucky gets up and calls his sister.

            They bury their mother next to George Barnes. Bucky brings flowers every week.

            One year later, shortly before the assassination of Kennedy, Howard Stark pops up out of nowhere, looking mad and excited. He talks a lot of gibberish Bucky doesn’t understand, but he gets the gist either way. Howard invented the prototype of a mechanical prosthesis that will work like a normal arm made of flesh and bone does. It’s absolutely batshit crazy. The surgery needed to implant the sensors of the arm into one’s brain will probably kill the test subject. Bucky agrees, anyway. First of all, he doesn’t mind dying. Sooner rather than later (which means in over 100 fucking years). Secondly, having only one arm sucks. He has gotten used to it, over the years, but it’s still crap. And, in the end, if Stark manages to develop a working prosthesis far superior to what they got now, all the other poor cripples will benefit, too.

            Bucky doesn’t tell his sister because she would try to stop him. She’s mad as hell at him, though, and refuses to speak to him for one month when he comes back with a metal arm (because of course, he did not die). Emily Sarah thinks her uncle is absolutely amazing. 

The arm is better than any prosthesis he had so far. It’s not a real arm but he doubts anything will be like the real thing. He keeps it covered up whenever he goes outside. According to Stark, there’s nobody else who would survive such extensive surgery. He puts the blueprints away for later generations. ‘Now is just not the time’, he says.

            Then there’s another war. Bucky wonders why on earth the United States engage in whatever is happening in Vietnam. 20 years later and everyone seemed to have forgotten about Europe. They probably think now that there’s a wall dividing Germany and thus Eastern and Western countries, they have to do their bombing and shooting somewhere else. He’s getting more and more nightmares just reading the newspapers. Steve didn’t sacrifice his life so humans could fight on another continent. But nobody cares about Captain America anymore save perhaps for stupid comics and stupid movies and stupid biographies they want to interview Bucky for.

            His mood, never back to being cheery and humorous after the war, turns even darker. There are no more mirrors in his apartment. He’s sick of seeing his young face. He knows Becca and her husband noticed, too, but they don’t say anything. Some ghosts you just cannot explain. Some ghost you just cannot understand if you didn’t see them yourself.

            His only glimmer of hope is little Emily Sarah. He lets her dance on his feet. He lets her play with his metal arm. He picks her up from school if his job allows it. He tells her about a guy named Captain America he met in Europe who was really brave and heroic and saved them all. Those stories are her favorite. Unfortunately, she also notices the comics and thinks it’s absolutely hilarious that Captain America has a young friend whose name is also Bucky. Neither Bucky himself nor her parents tell her the truth.

            Then, on a rainy day in April 1966, Bucky gets the worst message imaginable. Car accident. Slippery road. No survivors. 

            He breaks down when he has to pick a coffin small enough for a child. 

            He lays them to rest next to his parents. Carter is there, too. She puts a huge bouquet of lilies in front of the headstones and squeezes his arm. Her cheeks are wet. Bucky doesn’t thank her, cannot open his mouth because he fears he wouldn’t be able to stop screaming. She knows, though.

            Bucky has to clear out his sister’s apartment the next day. When he stands in front of the big mirror in the main bedroom and sees his youthful face, chestnut hair, the skin free of wrinkles, he puts his fist through the glass. There’s a sharp-edged shard embedded in his wrist. He pulls it out and stares at the blood oozing out and then sits down and hopes. 

            Two hours later, the wound is scabbed over and the dizzy feeling has vanished. He takes the photos and other mementos and leaves the apartment.

            Stark does not seem surprised to find Bucky visiting his Estate in Los Angeles. ‘I tried to, you know,’ he tells him. ‘To reverse the effects of that serum. But I did not succeed. Maybe smarter minds in the future will be able to.’

            Bucky stares at him, feeling all the pain of the world settling on his shoulders. ‘I can’t wait that long. I can’t. Put a bullet through my head or reverse the effects, I don’t care.’

Stark is silent for a long time. Then he says: ‘Maybe there’s another option.’ And leads him down to the basement.

            The thing that looks like an iron maiden from the Dark Ages is supposed to freeze a person like you’d put a piece of steak into the freezer for eating it later. Little does Bucky know that Howard’s idea for it comes from Arnim Zola himself. Having received a terminal diagnosis, there is absolutely no idea too crazy for Zola to extend his lifespan or survive until more advanced medicine will save him. Stark toyed with the idea himself. What if he would get sick? What if he wants to go to a future where he isn’t limited by his own time and state of research? He doesn’t tell Bucky any of that. He only says: ‘It might kill you. It will kill every normal human, that’s for sure. If you don’t die, though, maybe scientists can help you in the future.’

            Bucky needs a week to take care of his belongings, money, and the apartment. He never felt more alive in the past 20 years than this week. He only keeps what reminds him of his family and Steve. It fits in two suitcases. He offers Stark all the money he’s got and the billionaire looks affronted. It’s probably only peanuts, for him. He takes it anyway, ‘to make investments. Gonna need money in the future, pal.’

            Then, on a Sunday evening, Bucky unscrews the metal arm, undresses, and steps inside the tank-like machine. The metal is cold under his bare feet. 

            ‘Do you really want to do that?’ Stark asks one last time. Bucky looks at him, all the tiredness of the world in his eyes. Then he closes his eyes. He doesn’t feel the cold at all.

[agoodgoddamnshot]

When the Morning Light Shines In - Geralt/Jaskier

[Gif not mine - also, while we’re here, tell me that that the head tilt henry gives there isn’t the loveliest thing you’ve ever seen.]

Originally posted to AO3 on my account.

Jaskier can’t think of any point in their travels together where he has woken up before the other man. In mornings where they were surrounded by trees, or half-way up a stupid, fucking mountain because of a stupid, fucking quest posed to them by some stupid, fucking man, he’ll always wake to the sound of Geralt moving around: whether it’s rolling up his own tent, or taking his blades to a whetstone, or fixing the last of Roach’s gear. He remembers Geralt telling him about not being able to sleep. Until then, he supposed, Witchers might not have needed it. Then again, until he met Geralt, he can’t say for certain that he knew exactly what a Witcher did and didn’t need.  

He can’t think of any point in their travels together where he has woken up before the other man – except for now.

Wakefulness comes slowly; tentatively stepping into the room like the watery morning light trying to fight its way in through the window. Their room looks out on to the small livery yard, belonging to the inn, and in the horizon beyond, he can see the sun starting to peer over the mountains. When light comes in, it sneaks and crawls along the floorboards, reaching for the bottom post of the bed; trying very much not to wake anything in its path – and shit, that’s a good line. If a firm Witcher’s arm wasn’t slung across his waist, keeping him pinned, he would write it down. Fuck it, Jaskier sighs into his pillow. I’ll remember.

Even though he moves only an inch, there’s a hum of soreness that ripples up through his spine. His skin is set alight as memories from last night whisper back; appearing in front of him like afterimages.

One of the first things he noticed when he woke up was how warm he was. Over on the other side of the room, embers are dying in the hearth, smothered by grey ash and smoke billowing up through the chimney. The Northern Territories are very rarely warm. Even the summers, although the sun tends to hang high in the sky on some good days, it can be hidden away by shields of thick cloud. But the air inside the room was just the right kind of warm, a kind that buried right into Jaskier’s bones.

The body behind him helps, too. He didn’t know what to expect from Geralt – the man puts on such an icy and cold front, that Jaskier only assumed the same could be said about his body. But all that comes from Geralt’s skin is heat. Most of the sheets and comforters had been kicked down towards the foot of the bed during the night. A light, white sheet lies over their hips. Even with nothing much to cover them, Jaskier still feels so warm. Something that makes his eyelids heavy and his muscles lax.

Jaskier lets his eyes slip shut again, burrowing back into the body behind him; praying to any god or spirit around that time could stop, so they didn’t have to go anywhere.

But once he’s awake, Jaskier finds it hard to go back to sleep. Instead, after a few moments of listening to the small town outside slowly begin to rouse, he tries his best to turn around – Geralt’s vice-grip on him making it none the easier – and face the other man. Distantly, he wonders how many people have seen him like this. Asleep, out of this world, and vulnerable. In their nights spent in the wilds, either on plateaus of grassland or sheltered by standing trees, Jaskier always noted that Geralt, when he did choose to sleep, never really allowed himself to go that deep into it. There was a good enough point to it – a monster would lurk in the shadows, ready to pounce. And Geralt had to be ready.

But even in nights spent in an inn, he wondered if Geralt felt it safe enough to sleep that bit deeper; knowing that vagabonds or sell-swords could be around.

It’s an odd word to associate with Geralt – vulnerable. Jaskier, for all of his word-smithing, isn’t really sure if it’s the right word to use at all. Geralt, although looking fairly asleep now, would probably be awake within seconds if someone, or something, were to barge through the door.

And gods, he hopes not. Jaskier spares a quick glance at the locked door for safety sake. He doesn’t know when he’ll have an opportunity to see this again. And he wants it committed to memory.

Or, because he knows how much it’ll annoy the other man, maybe a ballad.

“I can hear you thinking, bard.”

Jaskier looks up. Two amber eyes stare back at him, only a few inches away. A small smile tugs at the corner of Jaskier’s lip. “Sorry. I’ll turn it down, then. I know how much you seem to want your beauty sleep.”

He doesn’t get much of a reply. But then again, when does he from Geralt? Jaskier tilts his head, watching the Witcher settle back against the bedding and be pulled back further into sleep. Out on the landing, other residents in the inn are rousing and starting to leave for whatever it is that they need to do. Something makes Jaskier shuffle against Geralt’s side; they’ll have to leave soon. With winter slowly starting to creep in, the days are getting shorter, and the nights longer. There’s only a certain amount of time where they can spend walking along the roads.

And the more time they spend here, doing whatever it is they’re doing now, because Jaskier isn’t quite sure, the less time they’ll have moving on to Geralt’s next contract. Whatever that is.

“This might be the longest stretch of time you’ve spent in silence, Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice is nothing more than a rasping hum. “I can’t even get a moment’s peace during the night because of your sleep-talking.”

Jaskier’s brow creases with a frown. “I don’t talk in my sleep.”

Geralt huffs. “Yes, you do.”

And he could very well blame it on the fact that the room is warm, as is the body he’s pressed against, or memories coming back to him from last night are starting to be dug up like spring soil ready for sewing, but Jaskier can feel a flush blooming across his face and the back of his ears.

Thank the gods for Geralt having his eyes closed, then.

Before the Witcher can have an opportunity to look, Jaskier buries his face into the crook of Geralt’s neck. A movement the other man doesn’t shy away from.

After a few moments, Geralt rubs a hand over his face, wiping the last trace of sleep away. Jaskier feels like he has to mourn it, because within seconds, Geralt has displaced him from his warm spot, swinging his legs out from bed and sitting on the edge.

Pillowing his head on crossed arms, Jaskier takes a long look along the expanse of Geralt’s back. There doesn’t seem to be a stretch of skin that isn’t marred by some line. Faded white scars sit next to knotted messes of ones – ones that obviously were treated out in the wilds, and didn’t quite heal right. Jaskier’s fingers twitch. He wants to touch them; map them out like a map of stars. He wants to ask the man about each of their stories – if not for his own curiosity, then he could make some excuse about wanting to craft more songs about the Witcher’s past exploits.

But Geralt doesn’t seem too keen on moving just yet. He looks over towards the door to the room, locked and silent. Not one tavern maid had thought to knock or inquire as to where they were yet. Jaskier glances over too, noting with some strange feeling of pride the scattering of clothes that litter the ground. He spies his jacket and a single boot strung over the back of a wicker chair next to a small desk towards one side of the room. Beside it, crumpled on to the floor, is the black, lace-up shirt Geralt is so fond of wearing.

Jaskier lets out some sort of sigh. “So,” he looks over to the other man. “Where to today?”

His answer, for a moment at least, is a non-committal grunt. Geralt stands, wandering over where his underclothes and breeches had landed from the night before. As Jaskier lies back against the plush pillows of the bed, he mourns the sight of a naked Geralt too. Some anxiety-ridden thought picks at the back of his brain. When are you ever going to see this again? And something much worse suddenly looms over him. Will this ever happen again?

For all that Geralt seemed keen for it last night, Jaskier knows all too well how fleeting bed-partners can be. But something was different – for him, at the very least. Jaskier didn’t feel the need to peel himself away from the body beside him when the morning came. He didn’t want the body to move away either. Jaskier puts an arm behind his head, watching clothes slowly get back on to a body he had mapped so well the night before.

After what seems to have been a moon turn, Geralt finally speaks. “No one has offered a contract in a while,” he says simply.

When it becomes apparent that the Witcher isn’t going to finish that trail of thought, Jaskier speaks instead. “Are you going to seek one out?” Because he’ll be on the road again, wandering through another territory after gods know what. And Jaskier will follow, because he’s pretty invested at this point, but he just needs to know what they’re doing.

Geralt thinks for a moment, and then shakes his head. “No. I don’t think so. Not for now, anyway.”

And that, Jaskier sits up against the headboard of the bed, surprises him. “You’re serious?”

“Taking a few days off,” Geralt worms his way into his shirt, leaving the laces around his neck open for the time being. “I’m...tired.”

Tired. Jaskier tilts his head. But when the other man turns away, starting a search for his boots, in whatever realm they may be in, Jaskier lets his head knock back against the wall behind him. Geralt isn’t physically tired. He was, for a time. But as the morning light starts to get that bit brighter, Jaskier can make out the lines starting to darken the skin around Geralt’s eyes. The tiredness that has settled into his bones won’t go away with sleep.  

He’s so lost in his own thoughts, he doesn’t notice that Geralt has wandered back over to the bed, standing by Jaskier’s side of it. Jaskier fixes the sheets, now pooled around his lap. “Your boots are over by the wardrobe-”

“I’m not looking for-” Geralt stops, letting out a long sigh. “Can I talk to you about something?”

We literally just had sex a few hours ago, Geralt. You can talk to me about anything. Jaskier, for one of the very few occasions in his life, makes sure his jaw is clamped shut, so none of those particular words come out. Instead, he nods, settling the other man with the softest look he can manage.

Geralt gestures vaguely. Without saying anything, Jaskier moves his legs – drawing his knees up towards his chest, letting some space appear for Geralt to perch on while he fiddles with the ties of his shirt. The Witcher looks at everything in the room, except for Jaskier. After what seems to be an eternity, Geralt sighs. “You need to understand something, Jaskier,” he says slowly. Lifting a hand, Geralt taps fingers against the centre of his chest. “I don’t...know what this is. You’ll hear that a Witcher doesn’t feel anything. But I do. And it’s...confusing.”

Jaskier loops around his arms around his knees, drawing himself inwards. “Confusing?”

“Irritating,” Geralt gives a half-snarl. “I would very much like to know what it is; only because it seems to creep up on me. And I hate it.”

“You hate being confused,” Jaskier replies. “You don’t hate the feeling of...what you’re feeling. You just hate that you don’t know what it is.”

Outside, a forge’s billows are starting to huff. Blacksmiths shoe horses in the yard, the hammering of steel and iron pings and echoes up towards the room. It’s almost distracting, in a way. Reminding him that the world outside is still trudging on; despite the fact that Geralt seems to be having a mental breakdown over figuring out what love is. Or something similar. Because if it’s the same feeling that has been slowly brewing inside of Jaskier for the past number of weeks, then yeah, Geralt is in for a shock.

The Witcher sighs. It’s a sharp sound, one to break the otherwise quiet of the room. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” he looks over to Jaskier. “But, I find myself not knowing what to do with...”

Jaskier gestures vaguely at himself, and the current state of dress they’re both in. “This?”

Something akin to a smile ghosts across Geralt’s lips. “Yes. This.”

Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t know what to do either.” And it’s true; for all the beds and nights he has shared with the people before Geralt, he can’t think of a single time where he felt whatever it is that has wrapped so snugly around his chest.

“We’ll figure it out,” Jaskier says into the room. Whether it’s to assure Geralt or himself, he isn’t quite sure. But it’s enough to make the other man’s shoulders relax. Jaskier sits forward, letting one of his legs splays out against the mattress. With as much caution as he can manage, he reaches out, letting his fingertips skim along the Witcher’s forearm. Geralt turns his arm, letting Jaskier’s fingers follow the path of a vein down towards his hand.

He isn’t sure who starts it. Who leans into who, or who catches the other’s lips first. But Jaskier does know that is Geralt stops kissing him, he might just die. He lifts a hand, cupping the side of Geralt’s face. His thumb runs along the arch of the man’s cheekbone. It’s nothing more than lips moving against each other, but everything else around them slips away entirely.

But at some point, probably at the first swipe of tongue along the crease of Jaskier’s lips, the world comes back.

Jaskier is the one to break it – although, admonishes himself for doing it. Resting his forehead against Geralt’s, he sighs. “We only paid for this room for a night, you know.”

Gods, does he want to stay. It’s a thought the other man must be having too, because a small smile curls along Geralt’s lips. “Well then,” Geralt presses a small kiss to the arch of Jaskier’s cheekbone. “Get out some coin and we’ll pay for another.”

“I can’t with you-” Jaskier is broken off by a sharp gasp; lips and teeth skim along the length of his neck. A body stronger than his gentles him back, lying down into the downy mattress. He stares straight up at the ceiling, along the cracks and varnish stains of the wood. “I can’t do anything with you on me.”

His mind is torn – memories of last night surface, wakening muscles that had been sore not a few minutes ago. But he wants to be present. He wants to commit all of this to memory. He wants it all to feel familiar; how Geralt leans over him on his forearms, positioned on either side of Jaskier’s head. He wants his skin to remember what it’s like to be set alight by the soft press of lips against it. The warmth returns, blanketing them both. Thinking of it, Jaskier moves his legs as best as he’s able, kicking the sheet that had been slung over his hip out of the way. As soon as it’s gone, Geralt slots himself back between Jaskier’s parted legs. A strong hand goes to Jaskier’s thigh, shifting and moving it until one of the bard’s legs is hooked over the small of Geralt’s back.

“If you start something, Geralt,” Jaskier gasps, reaching up to card fingers through the main’s hair, moving it out of the way of his face. “You better finish it.”

Geralt’s answering smile is almost feral. “I’d be more worried about keeping up, bard. You won’t be leaving this bed for a while.”

[katehuntington]

Title: Changes - part two Word count: ±3000 words Summary “Changes”: Huntress Zoë Sullivan (OFC) crosses paths and swords with the Winchesters, when the brothers stumble on a case she’s already working. When complications arise, they are forced to work as a team. Summary part two: Four years after the demon attack, a young woman is playing a cat and mouse game with another supernatural creature. Only this time around, she’s the hunter. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures. Demon possession, supernatural creatures/entities. Smut, swearing, alcohol use/addiction. Kidnapping, mentions of torture and murder, illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks.�� Music: About A Girl - Nirvana Author’s note: I couldn’t be more excited to share Supernatural: The Sullivan Series with you. @coffee-obsessed-writer​, @soupornatural​ & @mrswhozeewhatsis​, who edited the early drafts, and my girls @girl-with-a-fandom-fettish​ & @winchest09​ who are deciphering the recent version; thank you for helping me with this story and for taking it to a higher level. Everyone who encouraged me to go for it, you are awesome!

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist 01x01 “Changes” Masterlist

     Rochester, Minnesota      November 24th, 2005

     Rain falls during a chilly night in November. Thunder rumbles in the distance, as heavy showers dim flashes of lightning that jump from one cloud to the other. Several miles outside of the city in the wide-open spaces, the world seems deserted. The atmosphere is threatening as nature shows her power. Straight roads cross the farmlands, not a living soul using them. No one is on their way home or driving away from it. Then again, in this weather, who would want to be out on the road? 

     In the distance, a light appears and steadily approaches. A bright shimmer reflects in the water on the asphalt, the sound of an engine building as the vehicle gets closer. It’s not an ordinary engine, not even close to the sound that modern cars produce these days. Actually, it’s not even a car.      A black Harley Davidson cuts through the night, roaring like a lion. The classic motorbike leaves a spray in its wake, the water catapulted from the back tire. The polished paint job shines proudly, catching even the smallest glint of light. Raindrops try to cling to waxed metal, failing miserably. It’s obvious the owner of this beauty takes good care of her. It’s the type of bike you would expect an old rocker to ride. The kind that listens to Metallica and is a member of a biker gang. A tough guy with a beard and big sideburns, who rides from roadhouse to roadhouse, consuming nothing but steak and beer. Nevertheless, this lucky Harley is ridden by a young woman. 

     The rider seems to be in a hurry; despite the slippery roads; she’s speeding down 75th street NW at ninety miles an hour. This woman and her Harley have reason to haste. The biker tries to focus on the road ahead, yet glances in her side mirror frequently, checking if she’s being followed. The sharp pain in her abdomen keeps her awake. She mutters to herself, biting down the pain. How could you be so fucking stupid? It’s your job to know what you’re dealing with, and yet you were caught off guard!

     The suburb of Rochester appears in the south; she’s almost there. The rider bends over her bike, clamping one arm around her waist and applying pressure.       “Fucking hell,” she curses.      She refuses to look down at her injury and keeps herself together. Hopefully, it’s not too bad, she doesn’t have time to get stuck in the ER. It’s during moments like these she regrets falling in love with her ‘94 Harley Davidson Road King, because a faster bike like a modern Kawasaki sports bike would be much more convenient right now. 

     She follows the road, which is shadowed by trees on both sides, until she passes through a small town, called Douglas. Again, she checks her mirrors, but there’s nothing on her tail. In front of her, several cars and trucks are driving up route 52. A sigh of relief escapes her mouth; back in the civilized world.       After turning right just before the highway, she speeds up again on the road running parallel to it. Finally, the motel appears in the distance, a building with a large neon number ‘6’ on the roof. The female biker parks her Harley in front of the motel and turns the ignition. Not nearly as graceful as usual, she gets off her bike and heads toward the entrance of the motel. With her right hand on her bleeding wound, she stumbles across the parking lot as she takes off her helmet. 

     A flash of lightning cracks the sky and reflects on the cars parked in front. For a split second, she thinks she sees a shadow standing in the rain. Quickly, she turns towards it, but it’s gone, yet her hand goes for the gun tucked behind her waistband, instinctively. On high alert, she scans her surroundings, her intuition telling her she’s not alone. Is she getting paranoid? He wouldn’t come out here and follow her by car, would he? That would be insane, he’d be too exposed.      Her hand slips from the grip of the weapon and she makes a run for it. After hastily entering the motel, she closes the door behind her. It’s warm in the lobby, country music playing in the background, a huge contrast to the chilling weather outside. Standing in the bleak light instead of mysterious shadows makes her feel a bit more at ease. 

     The old man behind the counter looks up from his paper, peaking over his reading glasses. An empty soda bottle decorates his desk along with some paper wrappers which once held a Wendy’s cheeseburger. She stares at the wrappers for a moment. Fuck, she would kill for a burger right now.      “You’re behind on your payment, Mrs. Johnson,” the old man remarks.      She throws a Mastercard on the desk while closing her coat around her body, hiding her injury and keeping the hand she used to staunch the bleeding firmly against her side. The motel manager thankfully doesn’t seem to pick up on anything out of the ordinary and takes the card without thanking her.      “I’m afraid I’ll have to charge you the extra night, too. It’s way past check out.”      “No worries, book two more. I’ll be sticking around for a few more days,” she returns.      “Business taking longer than expected, huh?” he assumes, while working the computer.      “Something like that, yeah,” she answers shortly, not willing to elaborate.      “Those two nights were the last slots. It’s busy this weekend.” The man behind the desk hits the enter button. “You’re in luck.”      She frowns at the comment. Right, luck. Looks like luck got me fucking shot. Thankfully he doesn’t have any further questions, she’s not in the mood for a chit-chat with the fossil. 

     The restless woman scans the parking lot outside for the third time, slightly out of breath, her face tense. Every once in awhile the motel manager glances over his screen, observing his client. Her black leather biker jacket is soaked through, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. Brown hair falls down her shoulders, the tips escaped her helmet drenched from the rain. Her dark eyes seem worried, makeup slightly faded. A young woman, who - according to the information he got from her when she checked in - married early, apparently. How old could she be? Twenty four, twenty-five, maybe? She doesn’t really seem like the marrying type, and he has seen many folks come and go. The poor girl looks pale, too, as if she’s ill or carrying a heavy weight upon her shoulders. A lot of shady business has happened in his motel, so he knows the signs. Maybe it’s drug related, maybe she’s fleeing from an abusive relationship. Who knows? He doesn’t bother to ask anymore. It would put him out of business if he would. Besides, she doesn’t seem like the person anyone would want to mess with. He does make a mental note to keep an eye on her and make sure his motel doesn’t turn into a crime scene.      “Here ya go.” He hands her back her credit card. “You know the way.”

     The mystery woman nods, picks up her helmet from the desk, and turns down the hallway. While entering room number 82, she takes off her jacket together with her tartan wind scarf and strides to the bathroom. Looking at her reflection in the mirror, her gaze drops to her abdomen, where a bloodstain has darkened her grey shirt. She lifts it up, the fabric sticking to the punctured skin. Fuck, that feels anything but pleasant. She reveals the bullet wound underneath, several inches to the left of her belly button.      “Shit, shit, shit.”       Carefully she takes off her shirt, her breasts only covered with a bra. Still staring at her reflection, she ponders on her next move. Maybe paying a visit to the hospital isn’t such a bad idea after all. That bullet could have ripped through a number of organs. The small intestine, descending colon, she remembers clearly from the books and lectures. The inferior mesenteric artery branches out there too.       “Would’ve been more blood if it was an artery,” she mutters to no one but her own lonesome mind.

     The fact that the bullet bounced off the wall before it hit her, could mean that it didn’t sink too deep into her skin. She decides to give it a try and fish it out herself; if she can’t solve the problem, a doctor’s visit is always an option.      The young woman grabs a clean towel and wipes away the crimson around the wound as she moves back to the bedroom. She takes a small briefcase from under the bed, putting it down on the table in the corner of the room. A sigh falls from her lips when she sits down on the chair, then opens the lid, revealing a wide range of surgical instruments and medical supplies. Gauze, suture thread, sterilizers, tape, syringes, catheters, and several small bottles with different substances ranging from morphine to epinephrine; enough gear to do minor surgery.      She swallows apprehensively; this is going to get nasty.      “Hell, I’m not doing this alone.”      Next to her bed, a bottle of whiskey beckons her. With a moan, the injured woman gets up, grabs the Johnny Walker and the glass next to it. She turns on the radio on the cabinet, twisting the volume button all the way, and walks back to the table, halting to face the mirror inside the briefcase. Filling up the glass with alcohol, she grabs gloves, forceps, and other supplies she is going to need. In the background, the first tones of About A Girl by Nirvana comes through the small speaker. With the bottle of Johnny’s Black Label on standby, she clears her throat while putting on the blue latex gloves. Here goes nothing. 

     There is a sharp increase in pain as the forceps slowly enter her body. With her eyes focused on the reflection in the mirror, her jaws clamp together as she tries to reach the bullet. She groans, fighting the intense agony that almost seizes her attempt, struggling to contain herself and steady her breathing. Not wanting to draw any attention is the only thing preventing her from screaming at the top of her lungs. Finally, the forceps touch something solid. With tears burning in her eyes, she succeeds in getting a hold of it, then carefully pulls back and drops the bullet into the glass. Quickly, she grabs the whiskey and takes large swigs, wincing at the afterburn.      “Fuck, that hurts,” she hisses, placing the bottle back on the table with a loud bang.

     The worst part is done, but it’s not quite finished yet. Shaky hands reach for the disinfectant, but unfortunately, the bottle of chlorhexidine is empty. Stupid, she should have stocked up immediately after she used it all last time. Oh well, whiskey will have to do then. And so she takes the Jack and pours the last bit of whiskey over the wound. The alcohol needs only a second before taking effect. But when the stinging pain does come, she’s unable to tone down the growl leaving her throat. But you know what really pisses her off? Now she’s out of whiskey, too. 

     Frustrated, the young woman clenches her fist, waiting for the pain to fade until it’s bearable. After several minutes, she has finally calmed down enough to proceed. She takes the thread and stitch scissors and finishes the job. The pain from the stitching needle piercing her skin isn’t too bad; it almost feels like a tickle compared to the forceps. After ripping a sterile wound pad out of its package with her teeth and soaking it in betadine, she places it over the wound and tapes it to her skin. All done. Unfortunately, she will live to see another day.

     With a sigh, she strolls over to the bathroom while pulling her latex gloves off her hands. Again, the woman - who basically just performed surgery on herself - looks in the mirror.      “Well hello, gorgeous,” she mutters sarcastically, registering the bags under her eyes, the run-down mascara and messy hair.       She looks like a train wreck and that’s an understatement. But considering recent events, she's lucky to still be standing. After opening the faucet, she bends over the sink. The water feels refreshing on her skin as she washes her face. With her hands on the edge of the sink, she closes her eyes. Time for a moment to stop, debrief, and take a breath.

     The fucking night she had. 

     What the hell happened out there? Where did this go wrong? She found a pattern, located the next victim. At least, she thought she did.       Burdened, the brunette turns around and slowly walks back to the main room. The interior of the motel is rather boring, but the bed is comfortable enough and there’s a television. Normally she insists on more luxurious hotels, but with two big events happening in the city, this was all she could find. 

     By the bed, she halts. A puzzle of newspaper articles, pictures, books, and blueprints lay spread out over the mattress as some sort of mind map. An outsider would think this so-called Mrs. Johnson might be a special agent. That, or a psychotic killer, but neither is true. In fact, her name isn’t even Mrs. Johnson. 

     Biting her lip, she narrows her brown eyes and tries to find some sort of link, an explanation for what happened tonight. Terry Cliffer, the guy she expected to be the next target, turned out to be the bad guy. The bastard who shot her certainly looked an awful lot like Cliffer. Somehow the suspect was on to her and made a change of plans, but what was the trigger?      She picks up two articles, both from the local paper, the Post-Bulletin. One is about a murderer with an ironclad alibi, the other a tiny report of a strange robbery. Both incidents took place during the same night, both suspects were caught on surveillance cameras, both claimed to be elsewhere at the time of the crime, and neither fit the profile of a killer or a thief. Two separate mysteries for the local police, one crystal clear case for a hunter. Until now, that is.

      She mutters unintelligibly, annoyed with the fact that she’s one step behind. There’s another question poking at her subconscious, maybe one of even bigger importance: how the hell did it shift so fast? She picks up a book from her bed and rereads the passage she labeled ‘Shapeshifting’.      ‘Shapeshifting is a common theme in mythology and folklore. In its broadest sense, it is a metamorphosis (change in the physical form or shape) of a person. Shapeshifting involves physical changes such as alterations of age, gender, race,  general appearance, or changes between human and animal form.’      Still standing up, she leafs through the book, trying to find what she’s looking for.      “Forms of shapeshifting, powers, punitive changes, needed items, yadda yadda yadda. Damn it, where is it!?” 

     Throwing the book back on the bed, she sits down, wincing, and pulls her MacBook closer on the table. Focused, she fires up the hard drive and opens her archives. After a bit of searching, the screen finally shows the information she’s been looking for.      “Shifting process: The shifting process takes several hours, but can be hastened by the shapeshifter itself, by tearing off its own flesh - Oh, that’s just gross.” She shivers, disgusted, staring and rereading the passage just to be sure.      It might be gross, but this is what’s happening. Something disturbed the monster she’s hunting, but did she mess up this job or did someone else blow her cover? 

     She has to go back to the roots of this case for everything to make sense. At least three people are connected to each other. Three people who don’t work together, who don’t live close by, but there’s one thing they have in common: they’ve all been seen at 110th Ave NW just outside Rochester this month. Traffic cams confirmed this, so the shifter must be hiding somewhere along that road. But where?      She opens a satellite picture of the area on her Apple computer and observes the houses alongside the road. The estates are spread out and have long driveways. It would take months to figure out where the shifter’s den is, and the creature will be long gone by then. Yesterday, she thought she had a lead. She discovered the thing uses the sewer system to travel. More than fifty percent of the houses out there aren’t connected to the sewer system, but have their own septic tanks, so she could scratch those off the list. Only nine of the remaining houses are empty. The problem is, she already checked those homes and ended up with nothing.

     “C’mon, what does your gut tell you?” she mumbles to herself.      One house, deep in the forest, captures her eye. It’s not connected to the sewer system, but on the last drive by, she saw a ‘for sale’ sign by the side of the road. Good chance it’s empty. It wouldn’t make any sense for the shapeshifter to hide out in the woods, miles from the sewer, but she has a feeling something’s going on in that place. Her intuition is the only thing she’s going on, since there are no leads left to investigate. Why is a voice in the back of her mind telling her to go there when it makes absolutely no sense?      “This is fucking insane,” she states out loud as she gets up to put on a new top.      Insane, maybe. But she is not going to sit on her ass and watch this monster get away with more abductions. What concerns her, is the people of which it stole their identities, are now missing. They could be dead for all she knows, but they could also be held some place, and in that case, every second counts. This stops tonight; she has been hunting this fucker for way too long. Determined, she gathers her stuff and leaves the room, heading back to the hunting fields.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to reblog my work or buy me coffee (Link in bio at the top of the page)

Read chapter three here!

[lovehugsandcandy]

Take Me Back to Places I Feel Loved In (Colt x MC, N*FW)

A/N: Title from “Boston” by Dermot Kennedy (along with the line “wandering ‘round in cities I feel lost in”). Longer A/N inside.

Pairing: Colt x MC, ROD

Length: 5275 words

Rating: N*FW (But a pretty light N*FW, at least. Swearing. Sexytimes.)

Summary: 5 times Ellie wasn’t alone for the night; 1 time Ellie wasn’t alone anymore.

A/N:  I’m sorry, I have been really behind and out of touch and just going through some shit so, if I missed something you sent me or an ask or a message or anything, I am so so sorry. Also, this feels like every story I have ever written but I can’t think of anything new and I’m sorry for that too. And also, 5+1 stories are apparently my jam because I like the structure cuz I can’t figure it out on my own and I’m sorry for that as well. This is my “I am dreadfully, existentially alone” piece, so I apologize for that too.

.

i.

“It’s just me.”

She breathed out a sigh of relief and flopped back against the bed, heart rate slowing from the petrified beat it hammered. She knew that voice like she knew her own name. She had wondered if she would ever hear that voice again.

It had been over a year since her terrifying race down the 405, over a year since Jason was put away and Hester and Wallace fled, over a year since her first day at Langston where she was thousands of miles from the corrupt cops and gangs of thieves in her past.

And yet, she never stopped looking over her shoulder.

Was it because she was afraid of what was behind her? Or was it because she wanted to see something that was never there?

And now, the summer after her freshman year, holed up in her childhood bedroom in her dad’s house, the room she knew better than any other place in the world, the room that no longer felt like home, her bedroom door opened. And in walked her past in flesh and blood.

“What time is it?” She rubbed her eyes, watching him shut her door. Without the hallway light, it was almost pitch black in her room, only slight glow from her laptop illuminating his sharp features as he sat in her desk chair to undo the laces on his boots.

“One.”

“What are you doing here?”

He didn’t answer, just finished taking off his boots and slipping his jacket onto the back of the chair, a hardened figure next to her desk, next to her science fair trophies and high school photo collage, the two parts of her life in sharp contrast. She inhaled when he dropped his elbows to his knees and cradled his head in his hands, head bowed in a way she had only seen once before.

“Colt…” She pulled the blanket back, sliding against the wall to make as much space as she could. “Colt, come here.”

He undid his jeans, belt buckle falling with a clank onto her rug, and made his way over, bed sinking under his weight. It was tiny, mattress perfect for a child but crowded with the weight of two troubled adults and a horrifying past that left scars both visible and broken wide only in the province of nightmares. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close, and he buried his head against her chest, burrowing against her as if she could provide some kind of solace from his world. She pulled the blanket over him link a cocoon, a minuscule hideaway where she could pretend that nothing existed outside this tiny bed and tiny mattress in her childhood bedroom.

“What happened?”

He only shook his head as she ran her fingers through his hair, soothing strokes that she hoped transmitted some comfort. 

“Colt, my dad will be here after-”

“I know.” His fingers curled into her t-shirt. “I won’t be here in the morning.”

She dropped a kiss on the top of his head, blinking tears from her eyes. When she drove across the country, leaving everything behind, she knew he was on a path that she couldn’t follow, a path he would need to walk alone. But she still desperately wished she could protect him from all the pain that rebuilding entailed.

She closed her eyes and saw the flames engulfing Kaneko Auto Body behind her eyelids.

And when she opened them again, true to his word, he was gone.

.

ii.

Ellie rubbed her hands over her face. Mona made this look easy. Mona also made everything look easy. And apparently, picking locks wasn’t easy, especially when you were running on zero sleep and carafes of caffeine. She had to be home before breakfast; she didn’t have time for failure.

She took a deep breath and resolved to try again, one more time. Slowly, she inserted the pick, turning it in her hands and listening carefully, tracking the click of successive pins as she clutched the knob and prayed. One last flick of her wrist and, finally, the knob turned and she was in.

She edged in, carefully, stubbing her toe before she snatched her phone from her pocket to light the way. Her eyes scoped out the new surroundings as she slowly shut the door. The hallway was narrow and her eyes were drawn to the corkboard in front of her, full of schedules and lists and notes in a very familiar scrawl. She stepped closer so she could trail her fingers over the script, feeling lighter now that she was touching something etched in his careful hand. 

She turned left, flashlight casting shadows against the wall as the hallway opened up into the shop floor. It looked like she remembered, bay doors in the same spot, rows of lifts and toolboxes an homage to the past, to the building that stood here before flames destroyed everything and everyone. She took a moment to admire it, marvel in the amount of work it must have taken to restore, before she slowly stepped up the stairs leading to the loft.

She hadn’t seen him since the summer, when he had barely spoken a word to her before falling into her bed. She hadn’t really understood it at the time but now, the first day of her sophomore year Thanksgiving break, when tests and papers and schoolwork lay heavy on her mind, now she understood the need to cling to someone, something, when everything was falling apart.

She edged the door open, silent as possible, and had just shut it behind her when his voice made her jump. “Hi, Ellie.” It was rough, hoarse and edged with a rasp that hinted at sleep deprivation and stress. She would have felt guilty but the relief that flew through her veins left no room for anything else.

“How’d you know it was me?”

He sat up to watch her, moonlight skating over his bare chest. “You cursed when you walked into the toolbox by the door.”

“Oh.” A smile flit over her lips. “Sorry.”

His lips quirked as he matched her grin but then fell as he took her in. She flushed under his gaze. She was sure she looked a mess, hair unkempt, clad in pajamas; she hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks. “What’s wrong?”

“I just…” She stepped closer to the bed. “I’m so tired, Colt.”

“Come here.” He opened the blanket, almost a mirror image of when she did the same for him, when she welcomed him into her childhood bedroom so he could fall apart. She bit her lip and felt weak as she toed her shoes off to slide in next to him.

He was so warm, bare chest hot against her cheek, and she could hear the steady thrum of his heart, loud and stable and solid in her ear. She took a deep breath. "School is hard. School is really, really hard.”

“I bet but you’re smarter than anyone I-”

“I’m not, I’m not,” she interjected, wailing, clenching her hands into fists. “I’m not smarter than the people there, they are-”

“You can’t think like that-”

“But I do, I do. Everyone has it together and I am just… ”

She trailed off as strong hands slid under her shirt, running lines up and down her spine, nonsense patterns at the small of her back. He hummed and she felt herself weaken against him, a heavy weight pressed down into his embrace.

He didn’t complain so she continued. “I just…everyone else is so smart and New York is so busy and chaotic, I’m just lost there and I have been since I started, and I constantly feel like I’m falling behind and no matter what I’m doing, I should be doing something else so I can’t even write a paper without panicking about the French conjugations I’m supposed to be working on and…” The words came out as a jumble against his skin. He fell silent, only nodded, hands never stopping their slow path up and down her back. A few times mid-monologue, she wondered if he fell asleep, but he was always focused on her when she lifted her head, eyes intent and lips pulled into a frown. And so she continued, talking and worrying and letting it all out until the caffeine left her blood and she could feel how tired she was, deep in her bones.

She could feel her eyes falling shut, worries and fears loud in the quiet space between them, her pain leaving only utter exhaustion in its wake. “Colt? What if I’m not enough?”

His whispered “you’re more than enough.” was the last thing she heard before sleep overtook her.

And when she edged out of bed, when the first rays of sunlight fell across her eyes, she watched him, for only a minute, pillowed in the covers, looking more peaceful than she remembered.

And, as she slipped down the hall to head home, she felt more at peace as well.

.

iii.

Finals were crowding out every other thought in Ellie’s mind as she dodged through incessant pedestrian traffic on her way back from her favorite coffee shop. Even this late at night, the city was densely packed, more people than LA crammed into a smaller area, all one on top of another, running ragged in a twisted hamster wheel with no end. She was still lonely, still lost, and navigating through Manhattan only made it worse.

At first, she loved the crowds, the vibrancy of the city an echo of life and possibility. Now, she had long since learned that it was all a facade. The blank dead eyes of the people she passed, hipsters and workers alike all staring at phones with headphones blaring, men in sharp suits steamrolling ahead, tourists dragging behind their heavy bags-all of it made her feel even more alone. She didn’t know how she could feel so alone when millions of people surrounded her, but the crowds of strangers and skyscrapers towering over her just reminded her of how small and solitary she really was. Her loneliness was palpable, a stabbing wound through the heart, a yearning gasp by her soul, a vague ache that stretched through the caverns of her mind and reminded her that she was thousands of miles from the people she loved.

Man, New York was hard.

She flashed her ID to get into her building and waited in the elevator, eyeing the three other people also going up, none of whom she had seen before and none of whom she would see again, and shifting the backpack on her shoulder. Once the doors opened, she trudged forward, feeling the weight of the books on her back and the depth of her exhaustion in every cell. She fished out her keys, turned the lock, and opened the door. She entered her single, dropped the bag, and screamed.

She managed to cut the noise off pretty quickly but it was still audible, so loud that the door next to hers flew open with a shout.

“I’m ok, Ingrid, I’m ok.” Ellie couldn’t pull her eyes from the shape on her bed, broad shoulders propped up on her pillows. “It was just a spider.”

That shape smirked. “A spider? Really? That’s what you’re going with?”

“A spider who can pick locks and only appears in my room in the still of night?” She rolled her eyes at him. “Sounds right. Colt, what the-? How did you get in?”

The grin that spread across his face was carefree, open. “How did you break into my garage?”

“You picked the lock to my dorm room?”

“Your school needs better security.”

“Colt…” She shook her head. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugged, quirking a shoulder as he watched her pull her books from her bag. “I was in the area. I have a deal tomorrow in LIC and I can’t miss it.” She crossed her arms until he continued, relenting under her glare. “I also wanted to check on you.” She looked at him dubiously. “I did. You, ah…you weren’t exactly 100% over Thanksgiving.”

She flushed, eyes dropping to the French book in her hands. “I know.” She bit her lip. “I’m sorry about tha-”

“Don’t be.” His eyes were earnest, honest. “Don’t be. You did the same for me. Last year.”

“When you broke into my house?”

His eyes clouded up and Ellie got the sense that he was looking through her, dullness gazing at something she couldn’t see. “When I had a rough time.”

“What happened?”

“It doesn’t matter now.” He shook his head and, just like that, he was back, eyes clear and looking at her fully, shrewdly. “How are you?”

“I’m…I’m ok.” He tilted his head, not fully believing her words. “I…finals are coming up. I just need to get through.”

“It’s almost midnight."

Her shoulders dropped. "I know. I just…” She trailed off. She couldn’t keep running at the pace she was going.

“Come here.”

She was across the bed in three steps, falling into bed next to him and burrowing into his t-shirt. “I’m better, I swear, I just-”

“Ellie, stop.” His careful hand lifted her chin, gentle, as if she were fragile and he could break her. Hell, she felt fragile and he could absolutely break her, just shatter her into a million pieces to be scattered into the dirt of New York, never to be recovered.  "Ellie…“ His fingers curved around the hinge of her jaw, his eyes so close to her that she was lost in their dark intensity, and she couldn’t stop herself from falling forwards, closing the distance between them.

Once her lips were warm, hot, scorching, once her spine was tingling, and her breath had been stolen by the seam of his lips, he pulled back to brush her hair off her face. Concern was etched on his face, in the clench of his jaw and every line in his forehead; she could feel tears starting to prick her eyes and willed them away before she spoke again. "I just…I feel so alone.”

“You’re not alone.” He bit his lip, flushed and plush from their kisses, and gathered her even closer. “You never are.”

But when she woke up, the bed was empty and only she remained.

.

iv.

The knob turned and Ellie smiled, triumphant. School was still hard but, apparently, she was getting better at some skills. She turned on the light of her phone before walking in, edging around the toolbox on the floor and taking a look around. It was just like she remembered, small hallway, cork board in front of her but, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she froze. There was a new addition to the board, a small white envelope with her name on it in thick blue sharpie.

She frowned and carefully pulled the thumb tack out. The envelope was heavy in her hand and she looked around, confused, before she slipped her index finger in the fold to tear it open. When her hand found jagged metal, she had to smile. A key. She held it beneath her phone, silver glinting the spotlight. She wondered how long it had been there, waiting for her.  At least it would be easier than breaking in.

She followed the path to the floor, slowly up the stairs, shutting the door behind her. She grinned triumphantly when there was no noise, thinking she had gotten in undetected, but her face fell when she saw the bed.

It was empty.

She looked around, wondering where he could be at midnight on a random Tuesday in June, before she sighed. She didn’t want to go home, not now; she needed to talk to him, lest he try to break into her dorm again only to find her away for a year. At least, that’s what she told herself, the desire to see him a hidden secret that lived in her blood, in the space between every cell that danced around her body and filtered through her heart.

“Colt?” Her whisper was met with only silence, only the dark night surrounding her. She glanced around the room once more, frowning when she didn’t see a familiar leather jacket.  She didn’t know what else to do but crawl into his bed, sliding in between the sheets and stretching out, hugging a pillow close. It smelled like that fancy hair gel he hid in the bathroom, mint evoking memories of her hands in his hair and his lips at her neck.

It was only a sub-par facsimile. It wasn’t the same, not even close, but it was enough that she could close her eyes and pretend and feel slightly better, slightly less alone. It was enough that she could fall into dreams where she wasn’t at school, where she wasn’t going to travel halfway around the world; dreams where things were different and their lives were intertwined by more than these stolen nights.

It was later than she thought when she woke up. Apparently, she slept well in his bed, encased in his warmth and scent and memories.

She sat up, slowly, watching the sunlight peek over the rooftops on 92nd, when a clang from downstairs made her pause. Now that she was listening closer, she could hear noise, the soft din of a crooning Spanish melody, an electric drill grinding on metal. There were people working downstairs.

She stepped down the stairs cautiously, squinting to see a couple men under an open hood, a pair of feet hanging out from underneath the car’s chassis. No one she recognized. Crap. She took a few more steps down, trying to be silent, eyeing the distance between her and the back door, when the drill stopped. 

She grimaced. She had been spotted. One of the men had seen her and gaped, elbowing his friend. Now that they were facing her, she could tell that they were brothers, likely twins, the only difference between them the tattoos that adorned the sides of their faces.

She nervously smiled as she walked down the rest of the stairs, hands in her pockets as she faced them.

“Oy, what the hell?” The creeper flew out from under the car, revealing a small girl, unnatural flash of fire engine red hair beneath a white bandana. “What are you fools do-?”

She stopped as her eyes fell on Ellie, widening as she crouched, then stood, exchanging a look with the twins.

Ellie gave a wave, awkward and small underneath the three pairs of strange eyes. “Hi.”

The girl raised her eyebrows and Ellie felt naked under her assessing gaze. “You must be Ellie. Boss Man and the Manic Man-Child are out of town on business but they should be back later today if you want to wait.” Her look turned dangerous, a leer that Ellie felt in her toes.

“Oh, no, I’m just gonna-” She gestured towards the door and, without waiting for another comment, she fled.

.

v.

She didn’t have to wait long.

Her dad was still shuffling around downstairs, the clanging of dishes loud over the drone of a documentary on the saran wrap industry, when her window slid open. Ellie held her breath as a boot swung over her windowsill, followed by a jean-clad leg, and then a leather-clad torso, and then a smirk-clad face.

He shut the window behind him as she studied him, finger to her lips and pointing downstairs to make sure he knew the need for quiet.

“I know. It’s why I didn’t break in through the door.” The smirk on his face was insufferable, absolutely intolerable, and she wanted to kiss it off his face. “I heard you came to see me.”

"Yeah.” She dropped her phone onto her bedside table. “I wanted to talk.” The fact that she wanted, desperately, to see him was unspoken.

He sat at the edge of her bed, hands in his pockets, eyes cautious as they mapped the features of her face. “What’s up?”

“I wanted you to know I wouldn’t be around in New York next year.” She hadn’t seen him in six months, time and distance weighing heavy on her mind. She wouldn’t be seeing him for longer soon.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m studying abroad for the year. In Paris.”

He beamed and laid against her bed, elbows propping him up over the pink fabric. “Ellie, that’s awesome. I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks.” She looked at her hands. “I don’t think you can ride your motorcycle to Paris.”

“Yeah.” He sighed. “I can’t exactly get on an airplane right now, either.”

“I know.” She swallowed. “I couldn’t pass it up and-”

“Of course not. Ellie, that’s fantastic. When do you leave?”

“September, start of the school year.” She looked at him, lying on her bed like he belonged there;. “I won’t be back until next fall.”

He sat up, suddenly intent, and leaned towards her, eyes glinting suggestively in the light. “I am so proud of you. But maybe we should make the most of the time we have.”

“My dad’s downstairs.”

“I know that.” His eyes never lost their shine. 

She raised an eyebrow at him, trying to memorize everything, every curve of his lips, every look in his eyes, to encode in her brain when they were separated by more than locked doors, when land and water marked a distance neither could cross. “You know, I have spent lots of time thinking about how we would do this.”

“I’m listening.”

“I mean, it’s not often I have a boy in my room with my dad down the hall.” She gave a pointed look. “The bed creaks so that’s out. So we would have to be on the floor.”

His eyes lit up, playful, intrigued. “Really.”

“But I’d want the blanket there, so no one gets a rug burn.”

Colt quickly grabbed the blanket from her bed, movements fast and choppy. He laid it down on the floor, spreading it out as much as he could, enough to fit one college student and the boy she wouldn’t see for a long, long time. “Go on.”

“I’d want some music, something soft and sexy but loud enough that any noises might be hidden.”

He pulled out his phone, scrolling and frowning. “I have rap and Toby’s EDM mix, which I do not recommend by the way.”

“You’re lucky I have us covered.” She moved to her desk; after a few clicks of her laptop, the speakers started up a playlist she thought she would never get the chance to use.

“What next?” He stepped closer.

“I’d need to lock the door." 

"On it.” He brushed by her, hand skating over her hip before he turned the latch.

She grabbed a pillow off her bed and handed it over. “Maybe put this at the crack at the bottom, try to muffle the sounds.”

“You’ve really thought about this.” He pushed the pillow into position.

“I’ve had a lot of time to consider everything.”

“But there’s one thing you haven’t considered.” He stepped over to her, eyes dangerously flashing over her.

“What?”

He grabbed her by the hips to pull her flush against him, lips stopping inches from hers. “You’ve never been able to be quiet with me.”

And he was right. 

She had to cover her mouth with her hands when he laid her down, sliding her pants down shaky legs and replacing their warmth with his own. She had to bite her lip, hard, shock of pain and taste of iron barely enough when his tongue delved into her center and swirled teasing shapes around her nub of nerves. And she had to pull him down, lips pressed into his chest to muffle the shout when he swiveled his hips just so and she fell screaming into a place where there was only pleasure and warmth and she never felt alone.

They were still on the floor, lying on the wrinkled blanket with Colt’s fingers threading through her curls when she sighed. “I don’t like being so far from you.”

“You’re already across the country.” He traced a finger over her cheek and down her neck. “It’s only a tiny ocean beyond that.”

“I know.”

He pulled her closer, eyelashes fluttering against her cheek as he dropped kisses down her jaw. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

“Promise?”

He pulled back to look at her, eyes sharp. “I told you I’d always be there. I meant it.”

She sighed, low in her throat, as his lips found her jaw again and continued a meandering path down. Colt only ever said what he meant but maybe he meant words unspoken as well, every intimate touch mapping a line of love across her body.

She was alone when she woke up, But she didn’t feel so alone. And maybe it didn’t make perfect sense, but it was a win in her book.

.

i.

“Ok, so now, the real question.” Ingrid paused until she had Ellie’s full attention. “Why aren’t you coming back to school?”

Ellie straightened the picture of the Eiffel Tower, hung over her new bed in her new apartment. “I dunno.” She shrugged one shoulder and avoided eye contact, instead busying herself in one of the giant boxes that contained the remnants of her life at Langston. “I guess I missed home and I had enough credits that I could graduate by only taking online classes and…”

“And?” Ingrid laid down on the bed, face melancholy, arms stretching from the wall to the edge of the mattress, long legs dangling over the side.

“And I was lonely.” Ellie grabbed a tiny French flag, another memento of her time in Paris, another year of wandering around a city she felt lost in, another year of being away from home and everything that she loved and everything that made her heart feel alive. “I just felt alone.” It was a loneliness that hung in her bones, inside the chambers of her heart, a pain that followed her like a shadow so every step she took echoed in the hollowness inside her.

“Ellie...you have me. And our friends at school. And your French advisor, who loves you. And the burrito guy at the campus center who always gives you extra guac.”

She pursed her lips and rolled her eyes. “I know. It’s just-” Three successive raps at their front door made her pause. “Urgh. Who could that be?”

Ingrid jumped off the bed, flouncing out of the room. “I’ll get it.”

Ellie shrugged, intent on finally emptying her giant suitcase; she didn’t really want to see the welcome wagon from the apartment building anyways. However, Ingrid’s cutting greeting made her pause.

“Hello, criminal deviant who broke my best friend’s heart.”

Ellie’s heart was in her throat as she ran to the living room, feet pounding on the hardwood floor, sliding in just in time to see Colt raise his eyebrows. “Hello, passive aggressive girl from prom.”

“Oh no, there’s no passivity here. I’m just aggressive.” Ingrid’s smile was all teeth, a shark dressed in bleach-blond highlights and impeccable attire.

“Not in the circles I run in, but ok.” He shot her a pointed look. “Hello, aggressive girl from prom.“

“Better.” Ingrid glanced over her shoulder. “I like this one. He sounds like he can be trained.”

“EXCUSE ME?”

Ellie couldn’t stop blinking at the exchange, at Ingrid and Colt squaring off in the doorway. Under normal circumstances, she didn’t know who would win this battle of sarcasm and wit; however, Ingrid had it partially right. There was one person Colt would always answer to and it was up to her to end this exchange.

“Stop, you two, stop it.” She shot Ingrid a look before turning to Colt. She had been back in LA for two days; apparently, word of her arrival carried quickly. “What are you doing here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Ingrid answered for him, shooting a wry look between the two before striding to the couch to grab her purse. “I’m gonna go.”

“What?”

“I’ll see you before I head back east.” Ingrid threw Ellie an air kiss before setting her sights on Colt. “Don’t you hurt her or I’ll hurt you.”

He only raised his eyebrows, watching her float out the apartment door without a backwards glance. “When did you two become friends?”

“It was a whole thing,” Ellie chuckled before catching his eye. “Colt, why are you here?”

“You know why. I didn’t mean to interrupt you guys, though.”

“It’s ok,” Ellie shrugged. “I was just unpacking.”

He smirked, examining the place, eyes falling on the hallway behind her. “You want help?”

~~~~~

He was not help. 

Ellie’s suitcase lay abandoned on the floor as she watched him take in the walls, mostly bare, with some exceptions. He stood in front of her Eiffel Tower photo and ran a careful finger over the picture frame. “You’re not in this.”

“No. I took it.”

He looked at her, eyes intent on hers. “Did you have fun?”

“I…” She sighed and sat on the bed. “It was…an experience. Paris was big and the people were nice but…It wasn’t home.”

“Where is home, Ellie?”

She looked at her hands.

Colt sat next to her, still watching. “Is New York home?” He was close to her but they weren’t touching, a sliver of blanket between their thighs.

He had been on her mind when he was two thousand miles away. He had been all she could think about when he was five thousand miles away. 

Now that they were three inches apart, why weren’t they touching?

“You’re home.”

She could tell that he was expecting that answer when he beamed, hands leaping off his lap to circle her shoulders and pull her close. “Why did you come back to LA?” The question was muffled by her hair.

Her reply was muffled by the fact that her face was buried in her shoulder. “Don’t be an idiot.”

“Just tell me.”

She pulled back to frown at him. “You know the answer to that.”

“It doesn’t hurt to hear you say it.” He narrowed his eyes, peering at her like he was trying to figure out the intricacies of a job.

She sighed. “I came back for you, Colt.”

His lips were on hers before she could blink and she melted into him, melted into the one place where she felt safe and understood and not so alone. His arms wrapped around her, tight, and, in that moment, she knew that coming home was the right thing to do. 

She could feel herself relax, the stress and fear of the last year falling away like every piece of clothing that he removed with reverent hands and eager lips, mapping each new inch of skin he revealed. She fell back against the bed, pulling him against her, wrestling his clothes off so she could feel miles of warm skin over her, his heartbeat solid and real against hers.

It was hard to feel alone when someone was inside of you, even harder when their lips were painting your face in gentle kisses, each one a promise that she wouldn’t be alone, not anymore.

After, when they lay together in a sated heap, bodies and limbs intertwined so fully that she couldn’t tell where she ended and he began, she realized that she had never really been alone.

And when she woke up, sunlight bright against the bare walls and bathing Colt in an ethereal glow, she realized she wouldn’t be truly alone again.

.

Tags:

Perma @desiree-0816 @leelee10898 @emichelle @client-327 @choicesgremlin @brightpinkpeppercorn

ROD @omgjasminesimone @mskaneko

Colt

@deimosensblog @alegria1580  @choicesarehard @thefarrari @moonlit-girl-wonder @going-down-downtown@soniadotalves@jolietmaraud @flowerpowell@poeticscolt @zaira-oh-zaira @umiumichan @akrenich @sibella-plays-choices​  @maxwellsquidsuit  @liamzigmichael4ever​ @octobereighth @i-only-signed-up-for-fanfiction

[violetsmoak]

Appetence [1/?]

AO3 Link:https://archiveofourown.org/works/20251420/chapters/47997634

Blanket Disclaimer

Summary: Red Robin is investigating the disappearance of a friend and stumbles into a spot of supernatural trouble. He doesn't expect to be saved by Jason Todd, miraculously alive five years after his death and now with the inexplicable ability to commune with the dead. Meanwhile, when Jason returned to Gotham he meant to maintain a low profile and not get involved with Bat business. That was before he found out how hot his Replacement is.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: #cemetery #haunting #relics

Canon-Compliance: Alternate Universe; Jason still died but was not found by Talia when he was resurrected. All other events mostly follow the same chronology as New Earth continuity, with mentions made to events in New 52

Author’s Note(s): My attention span was really terrible today and I couldn't focus on either of my two other fics even though the next chapters of both are completely planned out. So I'm posting the start of the third (and final) story that I'm doing for the JayTimWeek/Month challenge. Also, I'm really excited about this one. I spent more time planning this than either of the other two and I can't wait to hear what you guys think!I've got work stuff to do tomorrow so there may not be anything updated until Friday.

Beta Reader: I’ll get back to you on that.

________________________________________________________________

The Bat-Signal cuts through the dark and hazy clouds lingering above Gotham City, and for a split-second, Jason Todd has the urge to drop everything and race for the roof of the GCPD Headquarters. It’s hard to ignore the nervous jump of excitement in his stomach, the phantom sensation of a domino mask on his face and the heavy drag of a cape at his shoulders.

Which makes no sense, since it’s been at least five years since I even wore that shit.

Taking a drag of his cigarette, the smoke mixing with the familiar summer smog, Jason turns his back on Gotham’s literal beacon of hope and steels himself against nocturnal threats of his own. The city is for the caped crew—because apparently, the Bat has a posse now, he thinks with only a hint of a bitter sneer—and Jason has been fighting in a different arena for quite some time now.

He takes a final drag of the cigarette, and then grinds it beneath his boots, and shoves his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. It’s a weathered and worn thing that reminds him of one Willis Todd wore in one of the few memories Jason has of him that doesn’t involve alcohol or fists. He thinks it’s less pretentious looking than a trench coat and probably gives off fewer ‘creepy motherfucker’ vibes like the sartorial choices of certain other people. It’s also less likely to snag on things when he needs to make a quick exit while digging up graves.

Yeah, it’s a thing in his line of work.

Gotham Cemetery is a sprawling necropolis, as dark and forbidding now as it was the night he dug himself out of his own grave. Half a decade of Gotham-style tender, loving negligence has left the somber green hills overgrown and the majority of the old tombstones fallen or rotting.

You’d think in a city with the highest homicide rate in the country, the mayor would spring for better maintenance. Then again, it’s Gotham. The dead don’t pay taxes, so fuck ‘em.

Which…enough said.

Gotham and the world think Jason Todd-Wayne is dead and has been for five years now; in a way, it’s the truth. He’s no longer anything like the boy that was beaten to death by a psychotic clown, no longer the shrimp who fastidiously dyed his hair black and jumped into someone else’s cape and pixie boots just so he didn’t have to be his own screwup self anymore. He outgrew wanting to be Dick a long time ago, outgrew wanting to be Bruce, too, and embraced a whole new other set of skills to put him apart from them.

Most occultists and even homo magi need to put conscious effort and intent into calling up or even seeing a spirit. Ever since Jason died and then mysteriously got better, the dead appear to him as blatantly and a solid as the living.

John told him he was a fool to come back here.

“Someone with your gifts, they’ll drive you bloody mad,” his mentor warned him when he left London. “And I ain’t talking about the dead ones, neither.”

“You’re just saying that because Batman wouldn’t hold your hand that one time,” Jason retorted, shrugging off the concern. He is Gotham born and bred, his blood is in those streets, and he has always wanted to come home, even if it wasn’t necessarily to a stately manor or its inhabitants.

He clenches his fists.

Inhabitants that wasted no time in replacing him after he died. Jason was rotting away in fucking Arkham, and Bruce was shoving another kid into the tights.

If it didn’t involve seeing him, I would hunt him down and break his jaw.

He surveys the graveyard proper. The everyday observer considers cemeteries to be places of peace and eternal rest; quiet, if a little bit spooky. To Jason, they’re as gruesome as any major battlefield.

Spirits pack the way before him; some of them look relatively normal if dated by their clothes; many others are disfigured and bloody from whatever killed them, whether natural or unnatural. They clamor and crowd, eternally shouting to be heard, or screaming as they relive their deaths in their own personal purgatories.

In the beginning, that din almost drove Jason insane. Bruce’s teachings kept him rational as long as it could in the months after he woke up, and then John’s training helped him temper his own awareness further. By now, he can function almost normally, automatically filtering the voices out as he goes about his daily business; it’s only in places like this, where the dead outnumber the living, where it’s harder.

Jason reaches up, adjusting the noise filters in his ears—mechanical devices that need regular winding but are still more reliable than anything running on electricity of batteries. They’re like steampunk hearing aids, only instead of magnifying sound, they drown out the constant moan of the ghosts when he can’t do it himself. Just one of many methods of protection he’s learned over the years. Some are physical, like the prayer beads wrapped around his wrist or the bottle of holy water in his pocket; others—spells and symbols and mantras—are carved all over his body in tattoos and blood writing. Anything to keep the otherworld away.

“Personal space is a key to a medium’s sanity,” John told him once. “That and a good bottle of single malt scotch.”  

Jason ignores the moss-covered path that winds through the larger and more prominent mausoleums. He deliberately doesn’t search out the one in the distance bearing the Wayne crest—

(Still remembers the feel of his fingernails splitting against the wood of the coffin, choking on clumps of soil and insects.)

—and instead seeks a small structure much farther away. It’s in the furthest part of the cemetery, the shabby section almost hidden by overgrown willows. Half of the name above the doorway is obscured by vines, but it’s easy for him to make out the name etched into the stone with bold letters.

HAYWOOD.

According to the public record, Sheila Haywood’s body was returned to Gotham at the same time as Jason Todd’s. Bruce paid for her funeral and internment, which was just as well since she had no other family, and then she was promptly forgotten about.

By everyone except Jason, it seems.

It took some doing and a few weeks tracking down everyone that had worked at the same refugee camp as his mother, but he’d finally managed to collect what possessions she left behind. A colleague of hers had put them aside when there appeared to be nothing of actual monetary value in them.

A gold coin, small bone carvings of stylized animals, dainty trinkets of garnets, amber and lapis lazuli, a compact mirror, some seashells, a decorative fan, quartz paperweight, and a brightly colored feather. There was a picture of Willis in there, too, young and almost Jason’s double. No picture of Jason, though, but he hadn’t expected it.

He kept the picture but left the rest in the small wooden box, which he now removes from his messenger bag and sets down in front of the stone bearing his mother’s name. He follows that with various tools and ingredients. Black candles arranged in a star shape around the box, a chalice, a jar of detritus—teff seeds, driftwood and soil, all from the place where she died—that he sprinkles around in a circle, a handful of smooth obsidian stones to mark a pentagram joining the candles, the dagger John gave him for his last birthday, vials of oil and holy water.

Murmuring a few protection oaths, he shrugs off his jacket, leaving his arms bare, and then digs out a pack of matches to light the candles; flickering shadows dance across the mausoleum walls. He takes up the chalice to combine the water and oil, and then reaches for the dagger.

Hate this part.

Training to ignore pain doesn’t mean it goes away, and he grits his teeth a little as he draws his blade across his forearm, not deep enough to nick anything vital, but enough that the blood runs easily into the chalice. Without bothering to bandage the wound, Jason holds up the chalice in front of him and centers himself.

“Phantasma inrequietum, te voco,” he intones. “Eloguiorum mei audi: Sheila Haywood, te nominas!“ The stagnant air in the mausoleum starts to pick up. “In nominee creatricis, te impero, hic locum decede.” Hand over the top of the chalice, he swirls the liquid within, and then tips it into the open keepsake box. “Per sanguinem hominis et per sanguinem filii tui, non remane et apage! ”He strikes a match and lobs it into the box, not even flinching as the whole thing flares into flame; he intends to watch it until it burns to nothing.

“That’s not going to work, you know.”

“Jesus fuck!” Jason explodes, whirling to the right and glaring at the interrupter. “What did I say about sneaking up on me? Or just—showing up around me in general?”

The apparition in front of him doesn’t look impressed.

Sheila is still beautiful—or, at least, the side of her body that isn’t covered with third-degree burns and sections of pulverized bone—and still sharp. Cold, untouchable and self-interested.

But unlike the way she was before, she’s all-too present in Jason’s life now.

“Goddamn it,” he snarls, and against every lesson John has ever given him, lashes out and knocks the candles and detritus hard enough to send it skidding across the floor. “What the hell. I’ve done everything. You had last rites, your body was cremated, I just torched the things that had any value to you, why the hell won’t you just move on?”

“You’re asking the wrong questions,” Sheila replies, as always.

Jason scowls. “And of course, you can’t just tell me.”

She gazes at him balefully, and he runs a frustrated hand through his hair.

“Sheila, we’ve been over this. You can’t stay here. One, you know spirits that stick around past their time go Dark Side, and I really don’t want to have to exorcise your spectral ass. Two, it’s fucking creepy for a twenty-year-old guy to be followed around by his mother wherever he goes. What the hell is keeping you here? What more do you want from me?”

“Your forgiveness,” she tells him patiently.

“I already forgave you. Years ago.”

“You still call me Sheila.”

“That’s your name.”

“I’m your mother.”

“Who sold me out and got me murdered.”

“See? You haven’t forgiven me.”

“I have. I’m just stating a fact, Jesus…”

“Apparently the cosmic balance doesn’t agree enough to let me move on,” the ghost says dryly. “And to think, I used to be an atheist.”

“This is total bullshit,” Jason snaps, grabbing his jacket and stalking out of the mausoleum in frustration.

Three years of this mediumship crap, and neither he nor John have ever been able to figure out why the ghost of Jason’s dead mother won’t stop haunting him. Wards and sutras that keep even the nastiest spirits away from Jason don’t even phase her, and she’s inexplicably coherent.

And persistent.

As Jason stalks back through the cemetery, he can sense her in his periphery, gliding along beside him, unconcerned with his irritation.

“Can you just…stay away from me? Like you did in the beginning?” he grumbles.

“You were just learning how to communicate without going insane. I wasn’t about to disrupt that.”

“How considerate of you.”

“I try.”

“Look, I’ve had enough of the ghost-stalker thing for today. I went out of my way for this, you know. I didn’t even want to come back here. And now I’m back to the fucking drawing board.”

“It may not have been a waste of a trip,” she replies and vanishes.

“Oh, you can fuck off when it’s convenient for you,” he grumbles, though he already senses what she was speaking of.

Several yards away, a small boy, maybe eight, is clinging forlornly to an angel headstone. Translucent tears stream down his cheeks, but every now and again his face shifts, like a television caught between two channels, and his mouth widens into an unnatural smile.

Jason could have gone the rest of his life without seeing that smile again.

Still, he sighs and heads toward the kid.

“Hey,” he says, keeping his voice low and maintaining a safe distance from the boy, whose head whips up to stare at Jason in sudden fear.

“Who are you?” he asks, voice thick with tears.

“I’m Jason. You okay, kid?”

“I can’t find my mom,” the boy murmurs, wiping at his face. “I keep going looking, but I forget the way home. And then…I always end up back here.”

He sounds on the verge of tears again; it’s something Jason can understand.

With the puzzling exception of Sheila, who appears to come and go as she pleases, most ghosts are stuck in certain patterns and paths when they die, frozen in an infinite loop until they break themselves out of it or until some arbitrary higher power decides they’ve suffered enough. And for some reason, Jason can break them out of it.

“You could always try again,” he suggests. “I think you’ll manage it this time.”

The boy shudders. “There’s scary people here.”

No arguing with that.

“I know. I see them, too.” Jason glances at the headstone, scanning the name and dates. “Your name’s Cole?”

“Yeah.”

“If you’re missing, there are probably people looking for you. They might have posted something online about it. I’ll check it out, but it could take a bit.” He holds up his phone, glad to see it’s at full charge and bars; that’s hit or miss around so many ghosts. “Can you hang around here until I’m done?”

The boy nods, silent, face flicking back and forth between sadness and the unnatural smile.

Fucking Joker…

Jason does a quick search of the kid’s name, pulling up obituaries in the Gotham Gazette in the past year. It doesn’t take long for an article to pop up concerning the Joker’s latest escape and a list of the dead.

He narrows his eyes, startling the kid.

“It’s fine,” he lies. “The internet is just really slow.”

“Or our phone is really bad,” Cole tells him with the blunt honesty of a kid that grew up constantly surrounded by functional technology.

“Everyone’s a critic…”

Another quick search for the parents, phone lists and social media, and he’s got an address. Crime Alley, of course. He brings it up on his map and enables a view of the street, holding the phone out to the boy. “Is this your house?”

Relief settles and settles over his face. “Yeah.”

“What if I helped you find your way home?”

Cole makes a suspicious face. “I’m not supposed to go anywhere with strangers.”

“Which is really smart. But you see, I’m not really a stranger.”

“Oh yeah? Why not?”

“Well, I’ll let you in on a secret.” Jason bends down, conspiratorial, and Cole’s eyes gleam the way any kid gets when hearing a secret. “When I was a little older than you…I was Robin.”

The boy gapes. “Like…Batman and Robin?”

“Exactly.”

“No way!”

“Way,” Jason smirks, crossing his arms. “And I’ll tell you all about it on the way to your house. Including the time that I stole the wheels off the Batmobile.”

“No way!”

Despite his scandalized disbelief, the kid is obviously hooked.

Jason’s heart clenches a bit at the open curiosity on Cole’s face, the reality hitting him that this boy will never have a chance to do anything mischievous or fun ever again.

From one dead boy to another, this sucks…

As he leads him out of the cemetery, Jason starts to tell the little ghost about his life. He edits out the less pleasant bits, like dying and returning to life half brain dead with the ability to see and hear ghosts.

He figures a good story is the least he can do for the boy.

⁂⁂⁂

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