#our legs are exhausted and our spine is dying. and it was only three stops in one big room

[thereareeyesinsidethetrees]

headcanon that if they have to stand or walk for a long time, stan will stay by ford and keep an arm wrapped around his back

it helps ford feel safer and calmer and helps stan cause he doesn’t have to worry about losing his brother when he’s right there

those are really just bonus positives though. he started it so he could keep track of ford’s state and a. prevent him from collapsing and b. get a good idea of when he’s about to do that

[comfortwriting]

Tied To You - A.S

masterlist, requesting rules, guidelines, taglist

Anakin Skywalker x Fem Reader

About: After a night of intense sex, the reader falls pregnant with Anakin's baby.

A/N: to support my work, please reblog!:)

Word Count: 2.6k 

Warnings: 18+, smut, breeding kink, swearing, unprotected sex (p in v), fingering, oral (female receiving), masturbation, orgasm denial, belly bulge, degradation, force choke, mention of death, mention of food and eating, nausea and sickness.

Spending time alone in your apartment was tiring, lonely, and boring - but all you could do at the moment was eat, throw up, feel exhausted, and sleep.

You would try to keep yourself busy, practising new hobbies or picking up new skills, even spending time with C-3PO and R2D2 whilst your husband trained and went on deadly missions, but you were too tired to engage in long conversations with the droids - and they didn't know what to do.

Part of you wanted to start a family already, have a couple of kids, raise them, move them away to your home planet where you and Anakin could keep them safe - but Anakin often stressed that until he had the title of Master, he couldn't risk such a thing.

"Please can we try?" you asked softly, feeling broody.

Your husband sighed, climbing on the bed and crawling over to you "We've talked about this, my love."

You felt frustrated and started to bite your bottom lip, chewing on it, the soft skin in between your teeth.

"Anakin, your title doesn't determine your strength or power - if anything, the enemy knowing you're a Jedi master could put our children at greater risk. You have already broken the Jedi Code by getting married."

Anakin considered this, hiding his head in the crook of your neck, his nose brushing against your soft skin.

He didn't care so much about breaking the Jedi Code, he couldn't ever be away from you and refused to entertain the idea of practising celibacy.

"I don't want to lose you in childbirth as I've dreamt about, I don't want to lose them-"

Your hand got lost in his soft, damp hair. "Ani, the future can always change, and no matter what, we should still bring something beautiful into this world... even if I would die during their arrival."

Anakin didn't like this one bit, thinking of you dying, having to raise a child alone that would remind him of you every day - but the thought of him being powerful enough to save your life and have you bring his children into the world made his heavy heart lift and spread warmth throughout his body.

"Lady, Y/N, are you still unwell?" C-3PO asked, sounding as concerned as a droid could be "You have tears down your face."

You sat up in bed, reaching for your glass of water, sipping it slowly to calm yourself down - excitement and worry exploding in your brain. Grabbing a tissue, you wiped away your tears and took a deep breath.

"You cannot tell anyone, C-3PO..." you replied quietly "I think I'm pregnant."

Anakin thought of spilling himself deep inside you, getting you pregnant so you were tied to him forever. The idea of everyone knowing you were fucked senselessly and got pregnant made Anakin's dick hard - everyone would know you were claimed - by who? they wouldn't know, but you displaying the signs of being with child was enough for your husband's mind to change.

"Is that what you want?" Anakin asked, his voice low and gruff "You want me to fill you up?"

The hairs on the back of your neck stood up, goosebumps spread all over your body, your crotch starting to flutter at his words.

Anakin's tongue traced circles into the side of your neck teasingly before he started to suck on your sweet spot, nibbling at it, leaving a visible mark.

"Yes," you moaned out softly "I want you to fill me up so badly, Anakin."

The sound of you moaning his name and asking for his seed only frustrated your husband further.

Anakin pulled away from your neck and pulled off his shirt, climbing on top of you, your eyes landed on the huge bulge visible through his trousers, making you go bright red and hot. His hands instantly gripped onto your pyjama top, his skillful fingers undoing the buttons - until he became too impatient and started to tug - causing the buttons to pop off and shoot across the room.

"Ani!-"

Anakin's mouth latched onto your breast, sucking your nipple and swirling his tongue around it as his metal hand slipped into your pyjama bottoms, his cold fingers against your heat made you gasp, sending shivers down your spine and more goosebumps across your arms.

Your husbands lustfilled eyes bored into yours, staring at you as if you were something to eat.

Pulling away from your breast, Anakin planted a hungry, wet kiss on your lips and moved down your body, kissing and licking down your chest and stomach slowly, stopping at the waistband on your pyjamas.

You stared at Anakin's face, his eyes twinkling and biting his lip, his other hand stroking himself through his trousers.

"You want me to eat out your cunt?" he growled, pulling down his own pyjama bottoms and tossing them across the room, freeing his erect cock which slapped against his lower abdomen.

Anakin's hand reached down and took hold of his dick, he started to pump it, his eyes glued onto your desperate face.

You watched him pleasure himself and felt yourself get wet beneath him, warming up against his cool touch.

"I do," you replied nervously.

"You do, what?" Anakin snapped "What do you want me to do?"

One of his fingers dragged up and down your folds before circling around you clit, you bit your lip, suppressing a moan.

"I want you to eat my cunt," you said, your breath shaky.

Your husband smirked, clearly enjoying this.

He stopped pumping his cock and pulled your pyjama bottoms down your legs and off your ankles, tossing them to the floor. Anakin knelt down to lay on his stomach, lifting up your legs and putting them over his shoulders, pulling you closer, your pussy almost brushing against his soft, red lips.

Anakin spat onto your heat, his laces of saliva running down your clit and spilling down between your folds, joining together at your entrance hole, dripping onto the bed sheet. The feeling of his saliva against your most sensitive spot made you moan, giving you the urge to grab him by the hair so you could feed him your sex.

Anakin knew this, but you weren't in control, not today.

Your husband attacked your clit, sucking on it, moving his head as he did so whilst two of his metal digits coated your hole with his spit, lubeing you up before pushing himself inside of you, your walls instantly adjusting to them and closing in around them.

You loved the feeling of his metal fingers stretch you open, you liked the cooling sensation they gave you, you loved how slick they were, how easily they could slide in and out.

Anakin's tongue started to swirl around on your clit, bringing you instant pleasure.

"Ani-" you moaned "That feels so good!"

Anakin's free hand went back to tugging at his length, pre-cum dripped from the tip which he spread across the head with his thumb, his moan vibrating against you. His two digits pumped inside of you in a slow yet deep rhythm, feeling you shuffle beneath him, he started to curl his fingers inside of you, beconking you to come to him.

As he did this, he started to kitten lick your pussy, dragging his long tongue up and down your clit and folds, soaking up your juices and spreading them all over your cunt and all over his lips.

"F-Fuck, Anakin-"

Switching up once again, Anakin slipped a third finger inside of you, your walls accepting him in and once again adjusting to his digits stretching you out. He picked up his pace and started to finger fuck you at great speed, his kitten-licks no longer slow and drawn out, but instead short and fast - stroking your most sensitive space.

Anakin could feel your walls tighten around him and your legs start to shake, your tummy began to tighten and you could feel yourself getting close.

Propping yourself up on your elbows, you watched your husband devour you greedily, you were losing yourself beneath him.

"D-Don't stop," you panted, "Anakin, I-"

Anakin immediately stopped, he pulled out his slick metal fingers and pulled away from your heat, your juices and his saliva coating and dripping off his lips.

Your mouth dropped open, feeling betrayed by his actions.

With your legs still propped on his shoulders, Anakin bent over you and attacked your lips with his, pushing his tongue into your mouth, your juices spreading across your tongue. Anakin had to stop pumping his hard length or his seed would shoot onto your stomach, the fact that he made you could taste yourself made him twitch.

Pulling away you could barely form your words, still trying to process Anakin's teasing and betrayal.

"Do you like that, my love?" he asked "Do you like the taste of yourself?"

The fluttering started again.

You were annoyed that he denied you of release, but how could you not continue to melt under him?

You swallowed hard, his lustfilled eyes drinking you "I love the taste of myself on your lips" you replied.

Anakin brought his three metal fingers up to your face, hovering in front of your lips. You looked at them and then back into his eyes before taking his fingers into your mouth, sucking on them, swallowing the mix of your juices and his saliva, cleaning his fingers.

Anakin's head lolled back and he moaned, the sight of you sucking on his fingers making his cock throb painfully. He would fuck your face right there and then, but how would everyone know you were claimed if you swallowed his seed instead?

Your husband pulled his fingers from your mouth and spat on them, spreading his saliva across the entrance of your cunt before spreading more of his saliva on his large length, which made your mouth water... such a sight... such a beautiful sight.

Anakin lined his length at your entrance, one hand gripping the base, the other on your waist, he looked into your eyes and you nodded - causing him to slowly push himself inside of you.

Your eyebrows raised and your mouth dropped open again, and so did Anakin's, the two of you moaning out - his big cock stretching you open, your walls tightening around him and swallowing him whole.

Once you adjusted to your husbands size, he started to fuck you, bucking his hips and  holding your waist down onto him. The sound of you squelching with each trust he made only turned him on even more, which reasurred you as you felt slightly embarrassed.

"Don't be embarrassed, Y/N," he moaned "rearranging your guts sound so fucking hot."

Your moans filled the room, bouncing off the walls in all directions.

"You see that?" he asked you, fucking you faster "I'm fucking you so deep."

You could feel him penetrate you deeper, you stared down at your stomach, your eyes widening at the buldge - the outline of his large length so painfully visible you could run your hand over it.

"I can feel you in my tummy," you stared to weep out in pleasure, "Anakin you're so fucking big."

Anakin smirked and a flash of pride spread across his face.

"How does it feel?" he asked lowly, groaning as he continued to fuck you "How does it feel knowing that I'm going to plant my seed in you so fucking deep."

The way he spoke and the words he chose made your cunt start to strangle him.

"It feels so fucking good Anakin, pl-please cum in me."

"Call me Master," he demanded, he took his hand off your waist and held it out in front of you.

Your throat started to close as Anakin force choked you, the grip tightening around your throat, making you feel lightheaded and desperate for air.

"Y-Yes" you tried to speak, but couldn't.

"Yes what?" Anakin glared, pounding you, the sound of him slamming echoing in the room.

"M-Ma-"

Anakin released his grip, bringing his hand back to your waist, beads of sweat across his body twinkled in the nightlight, his beautiful hair sticking to his forehead.

You gasped and coughed, trying to catch your breath, savouring the air  your lungs so desperately desired, your head spinning.

"Master," you managed to breathe out.

"I'm going to knock you up, that way you will be tied to me." he panted "everyone will know what a dirty whore you are, spreading open your legs, allowing a celibate jedi to fuck you senseless."

"Master," you moaned "Master Skywalker - you will get into trouble-"

"Everyone will know you belong to me," he growled "your tummy will be so fucking full and your cunt will be swollen by the time I am finished with you."

Anakin couldn't hold himself back for much longer, your walls strangling him and the sight of you weeping from pleasure was pushing him over the edge. You couldn't hold back for much longer, either.

Anakin pressed down against the outline of his length through your tummy, the tip of his cock hitting and brushing against your G-Spot. Your head fell back and your back arched, your legs shaking upon his shoulders, a final moan escaping your lips.

"Master, I'm-"

As you released, Anakin choked you again, squeezing your throat, the sight of you desperate to breathe and the feeling of you gushing down his length made him at the point of release.

Anakin pounded you harder, deeper and faster, you moved your arms frantically, begging him to let go; he immediately stopped choking you and pushed himself deep inside of you, slashing your insides with his thick ropes of sperm, coating you.

Five minutes felt like eternity whilst you waited for your life and future to turn upside down.

You held the strange test in your hand, the two lines staring at you through the oval windows. More tears welled up in your eyes and started to stream down your soft cheeks.

"Oh dear," C-3PO panicked "This isn't good news, is it? How are we going to tell my maker?!"

You shook your head and started to laugh, "This isn't bad news at all, and I'll be telling Anakin myself."

Your husband arrived back on Coruscant, and despite feeling exhausted after an agonising mission and endless lectures from his Jedi Master Obi-Wan, his heart excitedly skipped beats knowing that you would be in his arms within a matter of minutes.

Making his way to your apartment, he could sense something strange, another presence inside.

Did you have friends over? Were you consulting a medic? Fixing up a new droid or... or had fallen for someone else?

Anakin couldn't wait to find out, so he burst in and found you alone on the sofa, sitting there nervously with a big smile on your face at his arrival.

"Ani!" you grinned, hurrying over to him, pushing yourself a little too fast "I've missed you so much!"

Your arms wrapped around him, and Anakin pulled you closer, his head resting on yours as he stroked your hair, closing his eyes.

Someone was here. Someone he was yet to meet.

"Are you okay?" he asked you, pulling away from the hug, looking around the room.

You noticed his movements and tugged on his hand, unable to contain your excitement or hide the news for much longer.

"Anakin, something happened whilst you were away."

Your husbands face dropped.

"Y/N-"

You knew he was already overthinking.

"No, I'm- I'm pregnant, Ani." you beamed, bringing his hand and placing it on your stomach "We're having a baby."

Anakin paused, feeling an immense amount of happiness explode inside of him. Against his palm, he could finally pin point the presence - the baby you made together, many nights ago.

You stared at your husband as his eyes that glued on your bump filled with tears, his other hand cupped your face and a smile spread across his lips.

"This- This is the happiest day of my life," he said softly, pulling you in for a kiss.

tags: @autobotrosestark

[winterscaptain]

faith.

Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader

a/n: we start to heal, kids! if there’s interest, i’ll write up the outtakes (wink wink) from this and post it sometime soon. your feedback keeps me going - please tell me what you think! also, if you haven’t already check out the inspo blog for ajf! (here’s the nsfw one, too - but it's definitely 18+ only!)

reality check (part one) | unimaginable (part two)

words: 3.5k warnings: implied sex, language, miscarriage/pregnancy mention

summary: healing is bittersweet.

masterlist | a joyful future masterlist | requests closed!

“Everything looks fine down here. Since it’s been about four days, your preliminary recovery is finished. The key now is to let your body rest and reset.” Brienne removes her gloves and tosses them in the trash. “You can try again in six weeks, if you want, but no penetrative sex for two full weeks.” She washes her hands and points at you, then Aaron, with wet hands. “I mean it.” 

You share a look with Aaron while Brienne turns around for paper towels. His lips quirk into a wry, almost sheepish, smile.

Turning back to her, you ask, “Is there anything I should look out for or do differently or anything?”

Please tell me there’s something I can control. 

She shakes her head. “You’re doing everything perfectly. Keep an eye out for any heavy bleeding or anything that doesn't feel quite right in the next couple of weeks.” A warm hand lands on your shoulder and another reaches across you for Aaron, who stands and meets her in the middle, capturing her fingers in his palm. “I have faith in you both. I know this one was a little unexpected on all fronts, but if you want to do this for real, I will make sure I’m doing everything in my power to give you all the support and resources I can.” 

Aaron’s brown eyes are soft and grateful under his knit brow. “Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate it.” 

She snorts and squeezes his hand before letting him go. “Oh, Aaron. I have a feeling you and I will know each other for a long time - Brienne is just fine.”

+++

Aaron slides into bed beside you and wraps you up in his arms. “Hey.” 

“Hi.” You lace your fingers between his where his hand rests across your abdomen. “How’re you doin’?”

“I should ask you the same thing.” 

You turn in his arms, and he gathers you to his chest while you throw one leg over his hip and wiggle the other between his thighs. You just want to be as close as possible to soothe the ache in your chest - it’s working. “I’m okay. My bits have stopped screaming at me, so that’s an improvement.” For now, you ignore the fact that he’s avoided your question. Sometimes it's easier to let Aaron think he’s won - for a while, at least. 

“Indeed, it is,” he says through a laugh. “I more so meant the other thing.” 

“What, like my emotional state?”

He shrugs around you. “Yeah, I guess.” 

“I feel like there should be...something to look forward to. There’s still a part of me that’s really excited, but there’s nothing to be excited about.” You shake your head, burrowing further into his chest. “It’s hard to explain.” 

His hand rubs up and down your spine, firm and slow. “Makes perfect sense. I think I’m right there with you.” 

It’s quiet for a moment. 

“I’m so sorry, Aaron.” 

You can feel him shake his head and he scoots impossibly closer to you. There can’t be a single inch of skin he isn't touching, or at least that’s what it feels like. “There’s nothing you need to apologize for. Nothing to be sorry for. Sometimes, things just happen.” 

Your eyes close, exhausted, and you push back the thoughts that have been swirling around in your head for the last three days. 

Yeah, sometimes things just happen. Getting stabbed nine times in your home by a career serial killer? Just happens. Your wife getting murdered by that same serial killer, perhaps? Yeah, that just happens. Or maybe your best friend ‘dying’ and then coming back to life? Sure. 

Maybe a couple massive losses in a couple horrible years just aren’t enough. 

What’s next? 

I’ll take ‘Losing a Kid for 1600, Alex.’

“Hey.” He taps the middle of your back with his hand to get your attention. “I can hear you thinking.” 

You grumble, “Sorry,” and turn over, your back pressed firmly to his chest. 

“We’re okay, sweetheart. We’re fine. Jack is healthy, you’re healthy, I’m healthy. We’re getting married.” You snort, and he laughs. “Alright. We’re getting married...eventually.” That gets a giggle out of you, and he continues. “We’re looking for a house we can actually afford because of our fulfilling and important jobs. We have one fantastic son already.” He kisses your shoulder. “We’re in good shape.”

Well, when he puts it that way…

He pulls you close, nuzzling into your neck and running fingers up your ticklish sides. You squirm and a little peal of laughter leaves you. “I’ve got you on all of those, don’t I?”

You roll your eyes, and you know he saw it in the mirrored closet doors on the wall across from you. “If you think I’m going to argue with the youngest AUSA in District history, you’re nuts.” 

A satisfied hum leaves him, and he slips his hand under your shirt, tracing over your skin. “That’s probably a good idea.” Kisses find their way across your shoulders as his hands hike your shirt farther up your body. 

“Aaron,” you whine. “Brienne said no sex.” 

You watch him deliberate in the mirror, making play at deep thought. “...No. She said no penetrative sex, if my memory serves.” His hands wander down to the edge of your underwear and you squirm against him despite yourself. He drops his lips to the sensitive skin behind your ear, making you shiver when he whispers, “And my memory always serves.”

“Damn you.” 

He grins and ducks under the covers, throwing your leg over his shoulder as he settles between your thighs.

+++

The following Monday is your first day back at work, and it’s more than a little difficult to be normal. Aaron had only taken the day after to make sure he was available to drive you to and from Brienne’s office for your procedure, but you’d taken the rest of the week. You’re not sure what Aaron told them - maybe a flu or a stomach bug or maybe you “just needed some personal time” - but you imagined everyone would ask you about it anyways. 

Aaron presses a kiss to your cheek before the elevator opens. You make sure you’re watching when he falls into Hotch Mode as the doors part before you. It’s difficult to hold back your fond smile, but you manage. 

You set your things down at your desk, noting the small purple orchid and note sitting by your desktop. JJ turns in her chair to face you. “Hey! How was your visit with Dean?” 

Oh. That works. Good one, Aaron.

Dean had moved to New York to start with a new brokerage house at the beginning of last summer, and you’d been meaning to get up there to see him. It’s a highly plausible lie. It also helps that Aaron could sell water to a fish. 

Well, he is a lawyer. 

“It was great. Nice to take some time, you know?” You smile at her and you’re sure it doesn’t look quite right when her eyes narrow just a touch. Settling at your desk, you pick up the note addressed to you and open it. 

A flower for my flower :) I know. I’m gross. Sue me. 

(Or don’t...I’ll use my J.D. if you do.)

I love you. - AH

p.s. Don’t worry - I’ll water it when you're away. 

“Conference room in five minutes - Garcia’s got something for us.” Emily strides past you all on the bridge and you grab your tablet. 

Derek offers you a hand and you take it, tucking yourself under his arm as you walk. “What’s the orchid for?”

You shrug, covering how touched you really are by the gesture. “I dunno. I guess we just have a very thoughtful section chief.” 

+++

Inspired by Aaron’s cover story, you give Dean a call when you make it back to the hotel that night after an exhausting day scouting crime scenes that have every indication of a serial killer running rampant through the tiny Maine township.

“Hey babes! How are ya?” His chirp comes singing through the phone, and you find yourself smiling. 

“I’m alright.” 

You can almost hear his eyebrows raise. “Nope. Bullshit. What’s wrong with you?”

“Well, if anyone asks, I just got home from visiting with you for the week.” You start to unpack your go bag, hanging up a couple of your nicer work sets and setting up the bathroom the way you like it. 

“What’s Aaron lying about this time?” 

You laugh, but it tapers off quickly. “Well, as it happens, we had a really shit week last week and I had to take some time off.” 

He’s far more solemn when he speaks again, “That sounds like a little more than a ‘I got a flat tire on my way to work and my coffee was cold’ kind of shit week if you actually took time off.” He pauses. “Oh please don’t tell me you broke off the engagement.” 

“Not at all, not at all. Aaron and I are fine, but…” Going back and forth for a moment, you ultimately decide to tell him. Maybe it will get easier if you say it out loud. “I, um. I miscarried last week.” You’re proud of yourself for spitting it out with only a little stumbling, and Dean’s immediate concern brings tears to your eyes. 

“Oh God, honey. I’m so sorry. Do you want to talk about it at all?”

“I mean -” you take a deep breath. “No? I don’t know. I feel really shitty about it and we talked to Aaron’s mom and I know it isn’t my fault, but -” You huff, getting a little frustrated. “It was a girl, Dean. Aaron was so excited.” 

Something creaks in the background, and you know he’s just settled into the ancient armchair in the corner of his studio. “Don’t forget babe, you were excited, too. This isn’t just disappointing for Aaron, as much as you’d like to make everything about him.” 

You chew on the inside of your cheek. He’s right. “I know, but -”

“No! No buts. This is a loss for both of you, and it's huge. Like, I dunno why people don’t talk about it more. Your kid is your kid is your kid if you wanted them and they didn’t make it. It doesn’t matter if you met her or not - you knew her and she was yours.” 

So, maybe the tears weren’t finished. Dean stops talking for a minute, and you know he can hear you sniffling. 

“Are you going to try again?”

And isn’t that the question of the hour?

“Well, we didn’t really try for this one, but I think we’ve caught the bug. I was planning on talking to Aaron about it a little more when I get home -”

“What’s the case?”

“Maine, probably a serial killer,” you answer promptly, getting right back on track. You’re used to Dean’s quick interruptions. Context is important to him and you’re always happy to provide it. “I don’t think we’re going to try, per se, but I don’t think we’ll be too concerned about being careful either. That way it’s a pleasant surprise instead of something stressful or disappointing, you know?”

“Ah,” he says. “A ‘fuck it and forget it’ approach. I dig it. And we all know Aaron can ‘fuck it’ with the best of them - you’ll have to tell me how the ‘forgetting it’ part goes.”

You laugh despite yourself, wiping at your cheeks. “How do you always manage to make me laugh?”

His laugh sounds from the other side of the phone, and it warms you from your fingers to your toes. You can almost forget its nearly five below zero outside. “What can I say? Laughter is the virtue of the gays.”

Your phone beeps at you, and it’s Aaron. “Hey Beanie, I gotta let you go. Aaron’s beeping in on me.” 

“Go get your tub’a humbus, babe. I’ll talk to you later.”

You switch calls, and raise the phone back to your ear. “Hey, love. What’s goin’ on?”

“I just missed you.” You can hear the sink in the background and you check the clock. 

Ah yes, dishes before bed because someone can’t sleep if there are dishes in the sink. 

“Hi!” Jack shouts from across the kitchen, and it makes you smile. “I miss you!”

“I miss you too, my loves! Though, Aaron, I must say -” you stop yourself. “Am I on speaker?” 

There’s a shuffle, and his voice sounds a lot closer when he replies. “Not anymore.” You know he’s smiling. 

You laugh. “I was going to say, it’s a lot easier to abide by our no-contact order when I’m five states away.”

“Don’t remind me.” You can’t see him, but he sounds at least a little pained. “We’ll be almost done with that by the time you get home, which is nice.” 

“Very nice, indeed.” Settling into bed, you pull the covers up to your chin. “I wish you were here with me.” 

You can hear him walk through the house, getting some distance from Jack. “Yeah?”

“Mhmm. As nice as your new digs are, Chief Hotchner, sleeping without you when I’m on cases is really rough.” A light laugh leaves you. “I still haven’t gotten used to it.” 

He hums. “Well, I’ll make it worth your while when you get home, how’s that?”

“I’ll hold you to it,” you say with a smile. “Goodnight. I love you.” 

“Get some rest. I love you more.” 

+++

Your first hunch was right - serial killer with a preference for blonde women in their forties. Luckily, those factors alone made for a nice, neat, narrow profile, and you were down to a small pool of suspects within days. 

It’s safe to say your heart isn’t in it. You’re almost relieved when JJ calls you out on the way to the medical examiner’s office.

“What’s going on with you and Aaron?” Her bright blue eyes stay on the road as she speaks, but you know she’s completely tuned into you. “You guys seem...off.” 

“We’re fine - the two of us, I mean.” You’re not sure how much to want to tell her. She isn’t Dean. You have to work with her every day, and as much as she’s your friend, it’s hard to talk about this when she already has a son of her own and another on the way. “There’s just, um, some stuff going on at home.”

She reaches across the console and takes your hand. “Whatever it is,” and she sounds like she knows. “You’re not alone.” 

You look over at her and squeeze her hand. There’s something mournful and heartbreaking about the set of her mouth, and something cold and sympathetic washes over you. “Really?”

She nods. “Ours was a girl.” Her confession is quiet and her eyes never once flicker from the road. 

Your voice is just as quiet, almost a secret. “Ours, too.” 

+++

Aaron’s waiting for you in the bullpen when you land in the afternoon two days later. Without shame, you sail through the glass doors and into his arms. It’s a treat - you never feel like you’re truly home until he’s holding you, and you usually have to wait until you get home. 

Derek teases you both on his way back to his desk, and you flip him off. Everyone’s in high spirits and you’re surprised their good moods have rubbed off on you, as well. 

Emily releases you all early with the promise you’ll have your after action reports into her by tomorrow afternoon. On the way home, you tell Aaron about your conversation with JJ, and he’s so moved by it, you’re almost brought to tears again. 

+++

The next morning, Aaron leaves early for a meeting at headquarters in DC. He kisses you goodbye, and in your half-asleep state you grab his tie and make an attempt to keep him right where he is. 

It doesn’t work, but you’re rewarded with a couple extra seconds of adoration, even with your morning breath. He chuckles against your mouth. 

“I gotta go, baby.” 

You whine incoherently at him, but he dodges your reaching hands and  whispers close to your ear as he brings the covers up over your shoulder. “You have another hour before you need to be up. Sleep. I love you.” Another kiss presses into your temple, and you hear the bedroom door close softly behind him. 

When another hour lapses (during which you dozed, quite thankful he told you to get some more sleep), you rise and get ready to head into the office. Jack’s up and getting dressed in his room while you get started in the kitchen. 

But, of course, there’s no need. Aaron has a breakfast spread ready and covered on the counter, with coffee just finished in the percolator. 

A god among men…

You pull your favorites from the pile, and set aside a few things for Jack. This cut your prep time in half at least, so you’ll have a little more time to eat and get settled before you have to be out the door. 

Assembling breakfast is easy, and you and Jack share space in relative silence. He looks up at you over his eggs and grins. Oh, how you love that boy. 

+++

When you get into the office, JJ’s reading a note, a little white envelope tucked behind it. You’re the first two in the office - a shocker, considering the two children between you, both under the age of ten. 

“What have you got there?”

She looks up and you can tell her eyes are a little misty. “Just a really sweet note someone left on my desk.” Waving it in the air, she asks, “Want to read it?”

You smile, setting your things down. “Only if you want me to.” 

She hands it over, and you take it, immediately recognizing Aaron’s handwriting. 

JJ- 

I wish we didn’t know the same loss, but I’m selfishly glad it’s you. Thank you for taking care of us so well. 

As always, anything for you. Just say the word. 

  AH

 “You know,” JJ says as you hand the note back to her. “He wasn’t like this before you.” 

You snort. “Don’t I know it.” 

“No, I’m serious. Even before you guys got together, you made him better. This -” she holds the note up and flicks it, “never would have happened eight years ago.” 

+++

By the time the next case is solved and everyone comes home, Brienne’s orders have expired. Jack is long asleep and you find Aaron in his office. His head is propped up on his hand, elbow on his desk, as he reads over some esoteric legal decision he’s decided to research as a hobby. 

Like he’s not busy enough. 

In fairness, he did defend his newest activity over dinner a few weeks ago. 

“What else am I supposed to do after Jack’s asleep and you’re out on a case? Watch TV? Go to bed early? No, I’m going to review legal decisions and take notes so I don’t bore you to death when you get home.”

“Aaron, you could never bore me to death.” 

“I wouldn’t take that bet.” 

He looks over his reading glasses, and his eyes light up. “Welcome home.” 

You offer him a warm smile as you cross his office and round his desk. “Hi.” 

Aaron drops his pen and pulls you close by your hips, and you lean on the side of his chair. “How was the case?”

“I would hate to spoil Emily’s report that will inevitably be about three hours late getting to your desk on Tuesday.” 

He raises his eyebrows. “I see.” His hand drops down to the outside of your thigh, and you swing a leg over his chair to straddle him, getting situated on his lap. “You know, I still have work to do.” 

“What? Is this Supreme Court decision more interesting than me?”

He shrugs, leaning forward again and picking up his file. His chin hooks over your shoulder, and you settle against his chest as he continues to read. With a sigh, he says, “You’re wearing an awful lot of clothes for someone who wants something specific.” 

You huff. “Oh, c’mon. It’s not like I’m getting any in here.” 

“You don’t know that.” His voice is even, almost distracted, but when you shift over him you can tell he’s affected. “Something might surprise you.” 

“Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

He takes another breath and, just like he’s done so many times before, says, “Sweetheart, I’m not suggesting anything.” 

+++

tagging: @arganfics @quillvine @stxrryspencer @agenthotchner @wandaswitxh @hurricanejjareau @fics-ilike @ange-must-die @ughitsbaby @rousethemouse @criminalsmarts @shrimpyblog @genevievedarcygranger @ssaic-jareau @good-heavens-chris-evans @angelsbabey @gublergirls @writefasttalkevenfaster @venusbarnes @hotchsflower @micaiahmoonheart @ogmilkis @marvels-agents100 @hotchslatte @risenfox @mrs-dr-reid @captain-christopher-pike @joemazzello-imagines @pinkdiamond1016 @pan-pride-12 @hotchlinebling @lee-rin-ah @sunshine-em @word-scribbless @jdougl-love @sageellsworth05 @nohalohoseok @giveusbackourbucky @bauslut @dreila03 @forgottenword @aaronhotchnerr @ssa-morgan @hotchnersgoddess @buckybau @phoenixfyre374 @sana-li @tegggeeee @abschaffer2 @ssacandice-ray @dontkissthewriter @ellyhotchner @a-dorky-book-keeper @lotties-journey-abroad @mrs-joel-pimentel-23-25 @laneygthememequeen @ahopelessromantic @violentvulgarvolatile @andreasworlsboring101 @mooneylupinblack @ssareidbby @violet-amxthyst @zizzlekwum @lcvischmitt @emmasjulixn @qvid-pro-qvo @mandylove1000 @simsiddy @slickdickwitchbitch @jeor @synonymforlame @roses-and-grasses @bwbatta @capricorngf  @missdowntonabbey @averyhotchner @garcia-reid-lovechild @cevanswhre @colbyskoalas @joanofarkansass @infinity1321 @katiejuliana @popped-weasels @evee87 @nuvoleincielo @spencerelds

[whump-town]

Come Down

You know, I have no idea if this is actually good. I find myself combing over it and it’s confusing, no doubt. It makes no sense. I might take it down. For now, I just submit myself to this. I wrote it... more or less. So, lets just ignore how it makes no sense plot wise and just enjoy that I have managed to write words—

Warning for suicidal ideations

Hotchniss

Takes right after Emily’s funeral

---

He buries her in the fall.

Surrounded by the team, he shivers as the breeze picks up the leaves littering the ground and scurries them across the dying grass. Each step that is taken, each uncomfortably cold shift of their bodies, is enunciated by the desolate crunch of the leaves under their feet. Of death in the air.

Emily always said there was a strange kind of beauty in death.

He hates that he can see that now.

“Aaron?”

He looks down where JJ clutches his left hand, her bright eyes searching for something in his own. Something lost, probably. He doesn’t feel very human now, she can see that. In all honesty, he doesn’t even want to hear the sound of his voice. He wishes he could tuck himself into this dirt and die with Emily. To stop feeling and breathing and living because his lungs feel heavy and his life having passed long ago.

So, he doesn’t respond to the way JJ says his name. Even though he can hear the desperation, the pain. She’s afraid they’re going to lose him and he’s too tired to lie to her.

JJ tucks herself into his side and for a moment he just blinks down at her. Something has been off about her since Emily’s death. As tears sting his eyes and he’s forced to look up and away so that they don’t fall, he lets it go. He doesn’t want to push. He doesn’t want to know.

They know everything now.

They know enough.

He’ll keep as much as he can for himself. He knows it’s selfish.

“You shouldn’t go home alone, Aaron.”

As sick as he feels leaving her behind, he can’t stand the thought of them in his home. In the spaces that they shared. The mugs that she touched last and the blankets that only she curled into. Even now, as JJ touches his hand-- he doesn’t want to be touched. He doesn’t want to be perceived.

All he has left are ghosts.  The shampoo sitting on the rim of his tub because she could never manage to remember to put it back on the shelf. The glass of water on her nightstand. The three pairs of leggings kicked under his bed. His flannel that smells of her because she's worn it more in the past few weeks than he has in the years he's owned it.

The ghost of her that haunts his body and lives within his head. Catacombs.

“I would prefer to be alone, please.”

He doesn’t look up but he sees their darting eyes. The way they doubt him, already. What does it say about him that whenever anything bad happens they always assume he’ll kill himself? He’d seen it in their eyes after Haley’s death and Foyet’s attack. Fearful that the moment someone wasn’t around to watch him he’d end his life. Abrupt, right there for them to find.

Were they afraid to lose him or to find him?

A fire roast within his mind. Sickness like thick timber logs, cracking, and popping. The heat makes his skin melt away and his brain browning to slime. His eyes remain open as if propped open by sticks, not by his own accord and not because he wishes it so. Machine more than man. Autopilot.

His heavy wooden legs lift and with head full of sludge, he walks away. Ears deaf to the soft call of his name. The cold no longer stings. His skin no longer feels.

He is numb.

There is nothing.

In his apartment, he expects to find her there. Another cruel joke played out at his expense but there is nothing.

A heating pad still plugged into the wall behind the couch. Her voice in his ear and if he closes his eyes, body swaying with exhaustion, he can recall the warmth of her fingers across his forehead. Her breath on his cheek as she’d leaned over him-- “Just sleep, now. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

What he would give to feel that pain. Something. Anything.

She hadn’t meant to lie.

When he woke on the couch some hours later, brain still burning and skull crackling, she had been long gone. Half-way to wherever it was she thought she could get to. Almost to safety. Ian Doyle had still found her.

Until two days ago, he’d never even heard that name.

Now, it’s all he thinks about.

Ian Doyle.

What else does he have to lose?

“Where are you going?”

He steps out on his front porch, two guns strapped to his body. There is nothing in his eyes, not even a hint of the flickering consuming knowledge of before. All of the edged sharpness, the intelligence has dulled. Absent is the swift movement of his anxiety. The man dressed as Aaron Hotchner is just his murderer.

With Aaron’s voice, the hallow man answers, “for a walk.”

Dave frowns. Yes, he could have safely assumed that answer. JJ had taken his keys at the funeral. Morgan was due to swing by soon and take his guns. They can not bring Emily back but they can keep him here.

“Mind if I join?”

Hotch looks at him. Frowns.

“It’s raining,” Dave points out. “Perhaps you would prefer a drive?” He motions back to his own car, hidden mostly by the lack of street lights and it’s dark color. Night has fallen, even though it is only four. The cold seeps into their clothes but Aaron does not shiver.

“I wouldn’t.”

Dave huffs, his breath measured out in front of him. “Is that so,” he chuckles with a shake of his head. “Alright then,” he caves. “Go on,” he nods his head in the direction Aaron had stepped in. “I’ll wait here for you. Mind if I start some coffee, I assume you’ll be back in time for a cup?”

Hotch simply hums, neither the truth nor a lie.

Dave goes into his house and Hotch leaves.

He doesn’t expect to return for that coffee.

-------------------------

Emily Prentiss had not intended to die.

Very few, ever do. Desperate souls, those most akin to the ache of loss like her Aaron, they crave it. There is something about the way the fabric of our lives decay that drives us so eagerly to the edge. Seldom successful. The point is to never focus on the failures. Only what lies ahead or, rather, what doesn’t.

Icarus bounding off the ledge, do you think he had feared what stirred behind him?

Had he longed to be tucked into the waves, nestled by their arms?

What does it matter?

All that matters is that Aaron Hotchner has strapped his wax woven wings to his back and jumped. The back she’d played, fingers digging into the bones and tasting the flesh. Drawing beautiful little sounds from his pale lips. She knows every inch of his body. From the pink flushed scar across his spine or the patch above his right hip, that aches with every rain fall.

He has jumped and expects to find her at the bottom of the ocean.

“Lauren.”

It has been a long time since she’s heard that name. One rooted close to her own. Lauren shivers down her spine, causes her heart to jump in her chest. Lauren is the name the shadows call to her. The corner of her room where only a plant resides but the breezeless room still beckons her closely. A name not quite her own but a part of her. After pretending to be Lauren for so long, she had become her. Quant, lilac scented, curly-haired Lauren.

Lauren Reynolds will always be a better woman than Emily Prentiss.

But, unlike Emily Prentiss, Lauren Reynolds is dead.

“Don’t ignore me, love.” Ian in all of his charm has never been able to shake his anger. He spits that little moniker at her now “love” but it’s bitter and twisted. It’s meant to make her feel possessed. His.

Her lips part to speak, to say something sharp and harsh but she’s beaten.

Rather, someone else is.

She hears the tired cry of pain from his lips. Aaron. It draws on, for as long as Aaron breathes the sound until it’s cut off with a whimper. “Ian!” She cries desperately out to him, to draw her attention back to her and away from Aaron. Raggedly, she can hear their breathes mingling. Breathless, both of them. The sound is plucked, she can picture his back bowed like a sting. His piano keyed spine arched to draw that cry. How long as Ian had him? What has he endured? Men like Aaron Hotchner do not sing for anyone. He requires training and discipline.

Not unlike the cello she had received for her ninth birthday.

Aaron had curled across her body much time and as her fingers had grown rough with the frequent use of her cello, she learned how to play his body. To draw sweet sounds from such big, monstrous figures. Both had bent to her will.

“Tell me,” Ian requests. “Do you think you’ll be fast enough? Will you save him?” He can not conquer her so he will take what she has left behind. With a tsk, Ian lowers his body closer to Aaron’s. There is no reason to fear the other man may catch his bearings. It has been three days and no one at home even knows he’s gone missing. He has lost too much blood, slept too little, and eaten even less. The strength of Aaron Hotchner has long since left his body.

Not that it would be of much use here.

Be it the strings of fate or the silly mistakes of a woman still very much a girl, this has nothing to do with him. Not his mistakes or his guilt, they have no place here no matter how he may fathom to be. This is about the Ambassador’s dead daughter, a woman conceived by the mind, and an Irish mobster.

“No.”

Long ago she had learned how impossible it is to think you can save the world. God, there are times when she found herself certain this damned Earth had condemned itself. Let it, she’d found herself sobbing. For the love of everything, let this damned soil swallow itself whole. He had reminded her of the goodness. Aaron Hotchner in all of his anger had shown her the soft places in her heart. Then she could see it all more clearly.

“No,” she can hear the trembling in her own voice. Love and fear, something she has felt for both of these men. She had fallen in love with Ian and grown to fear him. Aaron had scared her with the amount of love she felt for him. She had never been overwhelmed in her love for Ian and Aaron had never made her fear him. They are not the same.

“I don’t think I’ll save him,” she answers as truthfully as she can think to. “I’m afraid to know what that will be like, Life without him.”

With more conviction than she holds, perhaps with someone else’s body entirely she continues, “but if you kill him if you take him from me--” Her eyes close, as she pulls in a breath through her nose. Within her chest, her heart chips away at thinning ribs. She does not fear what will happen if it escapes. “I will kill you. I will take your reputation, your name, and your men. I will not stop, Ian, until every part of you that has ever been known on this damned planet is gone. I will kill your memory. I will make Ian Doyle a ghost that no one can even name. I will make you no one.” The final threat comes out a low rumble, she’s someone else entirely. Neither Emily nor Lauren. “That is all you have ever been, nothing. Nothing and I will make you remember that even in death.”

For a long moment, there is nothing. Just the truth of her words.

“I had thought us to be the tragedy to endure time,” his voice scoffs. A foul, nasty habit that has always betrayed him. As simple as Aaron’s tightening fists or worrying fingers, Ian’s dismissive noises have always given the true meaning of his words their proper light. As he now speaks with an inflection of dismission but he is hurt. “You, my Persephone in all her vibrant love and youth.” His sigh is wistful, turned mournful. Twisted with the vision he sees lost. “I, your Hades. Dark and jaded but for you, my love, oh by God I could have been life itself.”

He had not been life. In those first days, had Lucifer been life? The snake high in the bows of a tree curled fat and lazy with the sun. Tongue sharp and knowing. Ian had been looking for what was his own. As Lucifer guided that apple to Eve’s supple lips, Ian curled his body to hers. Men seeking their absolution. They’re own pleasure and wants and desires. And now, do we not speak as if Eve had created this atrocity on her own. Her hand did not create the apple and Emily had told them she was in too deep. She begged them to pull her out of the mission.

Time and time again men prove to be the cheapest thing in a woman’s life. Cowards.

Running her tongue against her bottom lip she dares speak. Ian’s silence has spanned long and leaving him waiting will only invoke his rage. “We were a job,” she speaks of their love. As that had been what it was. Not a romance. Not steady and sure but love. The hurricane it often is. “I was a womb and a mole,” her bluntness is unkind but not untrue. He is lying if he refutes these facts. He does not speak. “Lauren loved you Ian, not me.” Now she is the lair.

Ian hums and she understands that he knows what she does: that today makes them both lairs. “But you love him.” Not a question, a statement. “You love his boy as you loved mine but--”

Lauren Reynolds loved Ian Doyle.

Emily Prentiss loves Aaron Hotchner.

“I love him,” she caves. Foolishly, she hopes the truth will save them from the web of lies so artfully created between them. “I love him and killing him will not bring me back. It will not save us.” It will kill them all. She’ll make sure of it. For as long as history stretches, there is nothing but proof of the misfortune that befalls humans. Cain and Abel. Odysseus and Penelope. Achilles and Patroclus.

The last strangles the thought from her brain.

Too cocky for her own good. Ready to let ambition burn its ugly whole into her. Selfishly, she ran from them. Foolishly, she thought this all to be a problem she alone could solve. Ego and pride. As Cain had killed Abel, as Penelope was Odysseus’s perfect match, as Achilles’ pride had brought Patroclus to his doom-- Emily Prentiss will be the death of Aaron Hotchner.

Lauren. Cain. Odysseus. Achilles.

All wrapped into her.

And as she will end her story just as they had theirs. With bloodshed.

“Will you come for me, Lauren?”

Emily closes her eyes, “yes.”

Her arrival had not come with the stench of brimstone and fire but silence. The men that envelop her, do not speak a word. They seem disappointed, perhaps, but are not brave enough to accuse her of what she has done. Love burns a madness into the soul and Ian has become consumed.

“Oh, my love.”

She forces her eyes to Ian. Away from her broken little soldier in the corner. So stupid. So brave. Now, she sees the flickering heat of Ian’s madness. His voice had been wrong and now she can place it for the whine that it is. A child without his milk and cookies.

“Ian,” she greets but not as coldly as she wishes. There is a sadness in her voice. Mourning everything they have lost.

Softly, from the corner, she can hear Aaron dragging himself up. Those deep eyes searching, never sightless but disconnected. “Emily,” he rasps, surprised to find her flesh and bone and not just the haunted screams he has left in his mind.

Ignoring the pained call of her lover, she cups Ian’s stubbly cheek in her palm. Her eyes race between his, terrified to find this some illusion. To find that he has bested her once again and this time she won’t be his only victim. Most of all, she fears what will happen to Aaron. “You will forgive me?” she asks.

Ian nods, thickly swallowing around the thick of his arising emotions. “How could I not?” he asks. He returns her soft touch, brushing a finger across her cheek. “My Lauren… They said you were dead.”

You killed me, she thinks but knows better than to say. “They lie,” she whispers, instead. “I am here, now.” A part of always has been. With him, for better or worse. For whatever that means.

Her broken soldier shirks away from this. Aaron, head bowed, and steadily growing too weak to hold his body up lowers himself back to the cruel concrete. Too tired, too lost to care about the cruel lies Emily now tells. He has been stupid, he knows, but perhaps she will forgive him.

It had been foolish to come looking for Ian. What revenge had he thought himself capable of? Marching in the darkness to death, that is what had done. Searching to do right by a lover and found himself at the end of a gun. Some henchmen of Ian’s. 

Dragged here. Tortured here. 

He doesn’t feel himself drifting away. Dying. Not hopeless but weak. 

Emily will save him, he has no doubt of that. 

Eyes opened to slivers, light brown iris’ darting from left to right as he places himself. Frantically, her palm shifts on the back of his neck. Wet with sweat. More pertinent, he sees the swollen flush of her lips. She kissed Ian. He can’t feel his limbs but he moves them blindly, trusting that his left hand moves. It comes into his field of vision and though it does not feel like a part of him, he swipes his thumb across her lip.

It is better to have some disconnected part of him on her than any of Ian Doyle.

“Aaron.”

He smirks, teeth coated with the crimson of his blood. Aaron. Only for her. “You’re here.”

She nods, smoothing the tear that falls down his cheek. “I am.” 

So she had been what JJ was hiding the cemetery. “I missed you,” he slurs. Eyes sliding shut, he turns his head into her touch. 

“I’m here now,” she promises. “You don’t have to miss me anymore.”

He knows. It is not like before. Once again, he feels pain and underneath all that pain love. The place where Emily Prentiss has curled herself around his cold heart. He feels it all. 

“I’m here, Aaron.”

[heartofsnark]

Can You Feel The Sun? (Chapter Seven): Flying Towards An Early Grave

Notes: Still posting my little backlog, I will warn in advanced, the next chapter is the heist (finally) AND IT IS A CHONKER, but for now have a little appetizer with some fun times, smut, and foreshadowing!~

Word Count: 10860

Chapter Warnings: heavy foreshadowing, food, blowjobs, groping, protected vaginal sex, car sex

If you haven’t yet, you can read the previous chapter here!~

V’s body is heavy as she gets to her apartment door, ready to curl up into bed and call it a day. She’s exhausted with adrenaline gone. She presses her thumb to the panel. The little intercom doorbell is also the lock, scanning and searching for SID validation. It takes a moment to scan, it seems to be lagging more lately. 

Calling. 

The intercom says it’s calling, why is it calling? She can hear the automated ringing and her lights inside are probably flashing. It only does this if the SID doesn’t match the apartment owner’s, assuming them a guest. V presses again. 

Calling. 

She presses harder. 

Calling. 

She tries her entire hand.

Calling. 

She kicks her door, a heavy sound as her boot collides with it. That doesn’t help with the lock, but it makes her feel a little better. Just what she needs; bloody, sore, and locked out of her apartment for who fucking knows why? Her stomach growls as she pulls up the number for building maintenance. 

“Megabuilding Maintenance, how can I help?” 

“I’m locked out of my apartment,” V signs, her choker translator on. 

“What do you mean?” 

“The lock isn’t recognizing my SID.” 

“Can I get your name and apartment number?” 

V gives them the details and they say they’re sending a maintenance guy. All of the services floor is nearly shut down at the late hour, her stomach growling. No doubt the maintenance guy will take his sweet fucking time, so much for getting some decent sleep. She gets a burrito, a Nicola, and a little thing of ketchup from the machines. Sitting on the ground near her door, dumping ketchup on her burrito as she eats it. 

By the time the guy arrives she’s finished eating, drinking, and is a little unsure what’s dried blood versus dried ketchup on her shirt. She hops to her feet when she sees the guy walking up, a massive case of resting bitch face. V doubts he wanted to be dragged out at three am to help unlock a door, but it’s not her fault the tech fucked up. 

“You V?” he asks, voice gruff and annoyed. 

“Yep.” 

“Hard day?”  His eyebrow raises, gaze focused on her blood stained flesh and chrome. 

“Work.” 

“Ah… I see,” he nods, “so, what's the issue with your door?” 

Night City is one of the few places where one can just admit to being a mercenary for a living, even if it did earn her an odd look. V presses her hand to the lock button again and it once again initiates a call. 

“Doesn’t recognize my SID.” 

“Hmm, you are V, right?” He raises an eyebrow. 

“Who the fuck else would I be? The building has a picture of me on file for fucks sake.” 

“Hey, hey, nowadays with enough eddies anybody can look like anybody.” 

“If I had an identity worth stealing, you really think I’d be living here?” 

“Fair enough, let’s check something,” he pulls out a holo tablet, jacking it into the bottom of the intercom lock, “this will show what the lock is reading it as, try again.” 

V keeps an eye on his tablet as she presses her hand back to the lock and the projected information starts to show. And for a moment she sees herself; her face, her name, her information, and all the shit Vik had to set up for her to have SID. Then in a blink of an eye it glitches out and the information shifts. She watches her nearly mugshot like photo shift into that of a man, with short dark hair and dark eyes. V [REDACTED] becomes Robert John Linder. Birthdate shifting from November 12th, 2056 to November 16, 1988.  Birthplace shifting from Seven Devils, North Carolina to College Station, Texas.  

Who the hell is this old man? 

“Looks like it’s reading your SID chip as someone else's, strange, any chance you’ve been spiked by a ‘runner?” 

“No, even if I was, not sure why they’d want to make my SID register to some senior citizen.” 

“Weird, can’t think of how else this would happen? Seems like it starts to read your chip and then changes to this guy’s. Do you know him?” 

“Don’t hang around old folks homes too much, actually. Just some random dude to me.” 

“Hmmm.” 

“I can promise you, I’m not a ninety year old cowboy man.” 

“Somehow I noticed that, actually… looks like the guy is dead.” 

“What?” 

“Mmhmm, scroll down a bit and there’s the date his death certificate was issued,” the guy shows her, “you’ll probably need to have your SID looked at, see what’s wrong with it. For now, I can unlock it for you and have them add whoever this guy is to registered owners, so, you won’t be locked out until you fix it.” 

“Fine, I guess.” 

“But that does mean if this guy’s ghost decides to pop in for a visit, lock won’t stop him,” the man jokes, offering the first smile since he’s been here. 

“Somehow I’ll handle it, thanks for the help, and if it’s not too much trouble can you forward me the details of that SID info?” 

“Sure, no problem,” the maintenance man’s eyes glow and she can feel the very soft warmth and whirr of her neuroplant as it accepts the file. 

She gives one final thanks as he unlocks her apartment and she’s finally able to step foot inside. Thankfully her door locks behind her and she makes a beeline for her shower, scrubbing blood and sweat from her skin; finding bruises, cuts, and flesh wounds she hadn’t noticed in the midst of fighting. 

It takes her a little longer than expected to wind down for the night, the merc putting in her optic contacts and playing with the bot. Looking through its eyes, she has it twist and climb all throughout her apartment, making herself dizzy until she falls out of  bed and bangs her head against the floor. Finally, putting the cute spider looking tech away when she feels the knot starting to form on her head. Then, setting her alarm and sleeping for the night. 

V is still tired when her alarm vibrates beneath her pillow, waking her up as the sunlight streams in from her large window, warming her skin. She checks her phone, double checks the time and that Dex hasn’t sent the car for her yet. The young merc rushes through her morning routine; showering, brushing her teeth, dressing, and taking her medication with some Chromanticore in hopes of getting some energy back. 

She’s out the door and has her  mask on in a matter of minutes, phone buzzing with the message that Dex’s car is waiting for her. As she comes down the steps of her building she sees the same limousine and bodyguard waiting outside of it. But this time when he opens the door for her, there is no Dex, nobody. Chills creep their way up her spine, but she gets in nonetheless, sinking into the leather backseat as Dex’s guard starts to drive them away. 

The guard is quiet, doesn’t explain where they’re going or why, V has a feeling he wouldn’t tell even if she asked. So, she doesn’t. Only the radio drones on, a mixture of news and occasional pop music from bands and singers she doesn’t know or care to know; an anouncer coming over the radio to speak somberly. 

“Today marks the fifty-fourth anniversary of the attack on Arasaka Tower. Fifty-four years ago a group of terrorists stormed Arasaka Tower and detonated a bomb, which forever changed the history of our dear city. Devastating the lives of millions; thousands dying in the initial attack and more perishing in the aftermath as well. Today we ask for a moment of silence to remember those who lost their lives in this senseless act of violence so many years ago….:” 

A beat of silence, barely a moment, then the high energy voice returns. 

“Now, after this short music break, we return with the heartwarming story of Stumpy, the three legged puppy who’s gone viral after the use of  veterinary cyberware has given the pup a new lease on life!~” 

V rolls her eyes, sounds about right, barely a moment for something so somber. No real grief or empathy, time to move on to a cute puppy because that keeps people happy and listening.  She watches the city around her change, spotting the Valentino graffiti starting to cover the buildings and that they’re entering Heywood.  She sends a heads up text to Jackie, letting him know they’re not far from his house. 

A short moment after,  the driver is parking outside Jackie’s garage and she watches the older merc walking out. The guard opens the limousine back door and Jackie relaxes when he sees V, climbing into the seat next to her. 

“Hey, V, you figure out what’s going on?” 

“Was sort of hoping you had…” 

“Asked T-Bug, said it’s a surprise.” 

“Not sure I like Bug’s idea of surprises.” 

“Hey, hombre,” Jackie calls out to the guard as he starts to drive them away, “mind telling us where we’re headed?” 

They’re met with silence, because of they are. V nervously wrings her hands as she watches for signs of where they’re going based on the passing scenery. 

“Has to be something to do with prepping for the job, just wish I knew what.” 

“Speaking of which, you got the bot on you?” 

“Yeah, brought it just in case and if Bug’s there she’ll want to take a look. Wonder if there’s any chance of keeping the Flathead after this?” 

She knows Dex said it’s a single use toy, but...who knows, maybe she could somehow keep it afterwards. 

“Why’s that?” 

“Its cute.” 

“You think a military grade combat bot is cute?” 

“It's a little spider.” 

“You find the weirdest shit cute, I swear.” 

“It is cute!” 

“It’s-” Jackie looks out the window, “shit are we in Corpo Plaza?” 

“Maybe we’re just passing through?” 

As if only to prove her wrong, the limousine parks outside a store on Senate Avenue, the bright sign says Jinguji. Even looking through the window, it looks entirely like a place that her and Jackie do not belong. Brightly lit, immaculately clean with fancy designer clothes on display. 

“We’re here,” the guard tells them and the doors open with the press of a button. 

V and Jackie share a look before getting out of the limousine, standing before the Jinguji store like deers stuck in headlights. 

“Dex can’t be serious, Jinguji?” Jackie says, scratching at the shaved underneath of his hair. 

“Looks…. Fancy.” 

“Corp store, designer; a sock in there will cost you a few thousand eddies.” 

“I know he says we need to play corpo, but… I don’t know, it feels weird.”

“I’m sure Dex knows what he’s doing. But, uh,  you gotta take off the mask, chica.” 

“What, why?” 

“‘Cause its fucking Jinguji, they’re not gonna let you through the door looking like that.” 

“You’re one to talk, you got a ketchup stain on your shirt.” 

“Firstly, that’s blood. Secondly, you’re a wearing a jacket you stole off a dead guy last week.” 

“Not like he needs it!” 

“Jackie, V!” A voice yells out, drawing the merc’s attention into the doorway of the store, T-Bug in realspace, wearing a black netrunning suit, “would you gonks stop bickering and get in here?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the mercs speak and sign in unison, falling the netrunner into the corp store.

There’s a large lit up advertisement at the back of the store. Gold decor dripping down from the ceiling, plush white couches, and an ice bucket with champagne. To her surprise, there’s no other shoppers within the store. A man in a tailored designer suit sits at the desk, greeting the two mercs as they walk in. 

“Welcome to Jinguji, an oasis of elegance!~” 

V gives an awkward nod and wave. She’s not sure what else to do. She doesn’t belong here; she knows that much. A dirty black leather jacket under the bright lights and old raggedy boots on shiny polished floors.  The merc wants nothing more than to run out of the store, some of the clothes she sees displayed are nice, if she’s being honest. A few bit tacky for her taste, but others are cute or sexy with dramatic flair, but nothing she would ever really have a reason to wear. 

“Mind telling us why the fuck we’re here, Bug?” Jackie asks and the netrunner chuckles. 

“To get into Konpeki, you two will have to look the part. Rather than blindly guessing what will fit, Dex is flitting the bill and getting you both some corpo threads,” T-Bug explains, taking a seat on on of the couches. 

“Where is everyone?” 

“Store is rented out for the next couple hours, discretion. V, did you bring the bot?” 

“Got it in my bag.” 

“Lemme see, got to make sure it’s in working shape.” V puts the bot down on the table, T-Bug opening the case and looking over the bot, running diagnostics that the merc can’t begin to understand,

“Right this way, you two, I’m sure we’ll find something perfect for both of you,” the man who greeted them, grabs their attention again, “but it would be easier,  if I have a full idea of your features, miss.” 

“Told you,” Jackie taunts and V elbows him in the side, slowly taking off her mask and she feels bare. And she knows people have seen her face before, but this is work and it just feels… wrong. 

“Wonderful, so we’ll begin with the gentlemen, I think you’ll find we have a wonderful array of fine suits in our men’s department.” 

The man, who’s fancy name tag says Zane, shows them a vast collection of suits. They range from slick classic black ones, deep navy blues, florals, brights, embroidered, and every color she can imagine. Its hard to imagine the big merc in any of them. She’s always seen him in muscle shirts or his favorite red and black jacket. His eyes seem to land on a red suit with gold detailing. 

“Well-” 

“Point is to blend in, not stand out, Jack,” T-Bug calls out, scolding him without having to even look at him or his choice in suit. 

“Just black then.” 

“Wise choice, sir, our tailors will get your measurements and get the perfect fit for you.” 

Another employee guides Jackie to a fitting room and V feels the sudden urge to sink into the ground, Zane’s attention now solely on her.  She scratches at her cheek and flips on her choker translator. 

“Now, what about you? We have plenty of formal options in women’s fashion as well. A more androgynous business suit or perhaps a dress?” 

She’s shown mannequins dressed in tight body con dresses with various necklines, materials, colors, and a few well fitted pants suits. Her eyes are drawn to the dresses, if she’s being honest. She has a rather small collection of skirts and dresses, for off days, but she never has a chance to wear anything more formal than a sundress or mini skirt over leggings. These dresses are dramatic, gorgeous; some with mesh inlays or cut outs. 

But, like Bug said;  they’re there to blend in, not stand out. This isn’t an outfit for fun but for work and if something goes wrong, the last thing she needs is this going to shit and having to battle in a tight constricting dress or too high of heels. 

“I think a pants suit in black would be best; keep it simple.” 

“Understood.” 

V taken to a fitting room, given the chance to put on the ready to buy pantsuits in privacy. A stark white button up blouse, black blazer, and black slacks. And she knows immediately it will need to be tailored to suit her; the pants longer than her legs and the shirt loose around her chest. The tailor comes in after a moment and begins measuring, marking where things need to be taken in and raised. V left trying not to get embarrassed each time the measuring tape is wrapped around a part of her.

“Is there a way to make the blazer sleeves easier to roll up?” She signs once her arms are done being measured. The material is stiffer and harder to get tight around her elbows when trying; she wants her Mantis Blades easily used.

“Hmm, lets see, maybe it’d be best to use it more like an accessory rather than wearing it properly?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, you could just wear it over your shoulders like a cape,” the woman drapes it that way across V’s shoulders. 

“Not my thing.” 

“Then you can carry it, like this,” the woman shows  holding the jacket back over her shoulder with her fingers hooked in it’s collar. It looks alright, casual enough, though having a jacket and not wearing it still reads as strange to the merc.

“I’ll consider that.” 

“It can also help keep you cool. Now, lets talk about makeup, hair, and shoes.” 

V listens and nods as the woman gives recommendations; getting V a pair of low heeled black synthetic leather shoes. Then going into advice on hair; recommending french twist, a bun, or a low ponytail depending on how formal V wants to go. The woman recommends simple classic makeup styles and a few other tips for the merc to meet her full corpo potential. Finally, with measurements, adjustments, and everything marked; V is allowed to change back into her street clothes. She leaves the room, seeing Jackie already in his regular clothes again and sitting next to T-Bug. 

“We have all the measurements down and will begin altering the clothes immediately.” 

“Good,” T-Bug confirms with Zane, “remember we need them finished and delivered to The Afterlife by five.” 

“I assure you, our tailors are already on it.” 

“V,” T-Bug calls out when she sees the short merc, “got something for you.” 

V sits down on the couch, watching as T-Bug sets out a pair of white hearing aids. They’re designed like her normal ones, just more boring. 

“Hearing aids? I already have those.” 

“These are special, optic camo. No corpo worth their salt has anything less than top of the line phonic implants, with press of a button or a thought, these will go invisible.. They’ll work just like your regular ones, but look like you’re wearing nothing. Try them out.” 

She switches her blue hearing aids with the new ones, they fit well and she pushes the thought of turning the camo on.  V catches her reflection in a mirror in the store, she can feel them, but see nothing. 

“Perfect, no one will be any the wiser. This also means no signing or translator.” 

“Oh, I see.” 

“I know its not ideal, but it’s just the reality of it. Corpo types like this; lose your hearing, new implants. Vocal chords fried, get a new set in gold. Get paralyzed, new legs or entire nervous system. Go blind, new optics. They see you signing or using hearing aids, you’ll stand out like a sore thumb.” 

“I get it.” 

“No sweat,  I’ll do the talking, V,” Jackie comforts her and then turns his attention to Bug, “So, what now?” 

“We’ll go over the full plan this evening at The Afterlife, you two need to be there by five. We’ll talk with Dex and you’ll be in Konpeki by eight tonight, relic in hand before midnight strikes.” 

“So we get to kick back and relax until five?” 

“As long as you’re there by five and ready to go, I couldn’t care less what you do, Jack.” 

“Said this place was rented out, right?” V asks, noticing a dramatic purple dress that reminds her of a certain tarot card reader’s favorite color.

“Yeah, why?” 

“How much longer is this place reserved?” 

“Another hour, maybe two and again, I ask why?” 

“Ow, hell that for, chica?” Jackie looks up when V kicks him in the shin. 

“Call Misty, dumbass. Buy her something nice, make a date out of it before we go on the job.”  V tells him, remembering Misty’s concerns from the other night. It might ease her mind a bit to have a nice afternoon with Jackie, dress shopping and a fancy lunch in City Center. Just a chance to enjoy themselves. 

“Dex is nice V, but sincerely doubt he wants to pay for Misty a new dress.” 

“Oh no, if only one of us had scammed ten grand off of Militech, oh wait,” V says, pulling the Militech credchip from her bag and sees the twinkle in Jackie’s eyes. 

“You serious, V?” 

“Should get her a hell of a nice dress, maybe you a suit, and a nice fancy lunch; play corpo for an afternoon.” 

“Shit, V,” he takes the credchip from her fingers, “what’d I do without you?” 

“You two are going to make me puke,” T-Bug says, rolling her eyes while Jackie is already calling up Misty. 

“Just wait until Misty gets here and the constant pet names start,  you’ll really lose your lunch.” 

“Ugh, more reason to get out of here, I’ll be taking the Flathead with me to keep in working shape.” 

“Can I ask you something before you go?”

“Got more code you need me to check?” 

“Not quite, had an issue with my SID chip last night, was wondering if there was a chance I was hacked?” 

“You get spiked, jaina?” Jackie asks when he finishes chatting with Misty. 

“Don’t know, couldn’t unlock my door last night, reader thought I was some old dude.” 

“Hmm, SID hacks are tricky, we’re going to be using one for your covers in Konpeki. But they usually only alter your ID a bit and die after so many hours. Thing is, that wouldn’t really benefit anyone.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking, I don’t think anyone would get much out of pretending I’m some ninety year old dead fuck.” 

“I can jack in, see if I find anything in your soft.” 

“Sure, if you don’t mind.” 

V shifts her back to T-Bug, sweeping her hair off the nape of her neck and showing her neuroports. The netrunner pushes some loose strands out of the way and slots her personal jack into V’s biomon. A few moments pass and V can feel her cheeks flushing a bit, a weird feeling to having T-Bug directly touch her and jack in to her tech. This is the first time they’ve met in person, may even be the first time Bug has seen her face. 

“Everything looks clear to me, SID is registering as yours, no signs of a hack,” Bug explains, jacking out. 

“Weird, maintenance guy showed last night it was showing as some dead guy.” 

“Strange, must be some sort of glitch.” 

“Or you’re being haunted.” 

“Haha, very funny, Jackie.” 

“Hello… “ 

A soft voice calls out and V lights up seeing Misty poking her head into the fancy luxury store, looking every bit as nervous as V had been. Jackie is up and rushing towards Misty in a heart beat, pulling her into a hug and twirling her around, kissing her head. 

“You’re here, mi carina.” 

“Babe,” Misty says, giggiling as she’s put back down on her feet, then steps up on her tip toes to kiss Jackie’s lips. 

“Gonna puke,” T-Bug comments low under her breath and V tries not to laugh. 

“V, Bug,” Misty smiles at the two, “glad I got here before you two left out.” 

“What’s up?” 

Jackie walks Misty over closer to them, large hand on her hip as she rummage through her purse. After a moment, she pulls out three beaded bracelets. A mixture of beads in black, gold, and blue mottled with gold. T-Bug is already raising her eyebrow and V’s not sure how well Misty’s spiritualism will go over with the runner. 

“These are protection bracelets. Lapis lazuli, black tourmaline, and gold sheen obsidian. They’re all meant to help with creating a protective spiritual barrier, it should keep you all safe from negative energies and frequencies.” 

“Ay, you still in knots over this, mi alma?” 

“It would just make me feel better knowing you have a little more protection, babe.” 

Misty slides the biggest of the bracelets onto Jackie’s wrist and he gives her a soft smile, kissing her temple before starts to give the others to V and Bug. The young merc slides it on with a smile and T-Bug takes it in hand, with a less enthusiasm. 

“Thanks, Misty, I appreciate it,” V tells her and elbows T-Bug in the side, earning her a glare, but the netrunner plays nice. 

“Thanks…” 

“I know it’s not much, but a little protection is better than none and should keep energies bright.” 

“Right….” 

“Well,” V cuts in before Bug can say anything else, “we’ll be getting out of your hair, have fun you two!~” 

“Thanks again, V, see you two at The Afterlife.” 

Jackie waves them off, Bug packing up and V putting her usual hearing aids in their case, away in her pocket. The runner and young merc leave the store, Dex’s guard already left a while ago, so V will have to either call her car or use the public transit. Come to think of it, she’s not sure how she’s going to kill time until its game time. 

“V,” Bug stops her outside Jinguji before they go their separate ways for now, “gotta ask, you really believe in that spiritual crap?” 

“No, but she does and it makes her happy, so, why not?”

“I guess, if she really thinks a bracelet is going to save us from Arasaka.” 

“Won’t kill you to accessorize a little, Bug.” 

“Whatever you say.” 

They say their goodbyes and V is left thinking again about what she wants to do to pass the time. She could do a few short gigs, but her mind is preoccupied with the heist. Ultimately, V finds herself taking the NCART to El Coyote Cojo. Mostly just because she’s bored and maybe something or someone there will occupy her time.  The bar isn’t too active at the early hour and she doesn’t see Mama Welles around. 

“V!” Pepe greets her when she walks through. 

“Hey, what’s up?” 

“Same old, same old. Jaquito is still out, Senora Welles is out shopping, but Jake is taking out the trash in the back if you want to say hi.” 

“I think I might go and do just that.” 

Playing grab ass with one of her go to lays seems like a solid way to waste her time. V walks through the bar and out one of the backdoors that open to the alley with the dumpster. Sure enough, Jake is there tossing away a trash bag. He’s around 6’5 about as tall as Jackie, muscular, with a head of ginger hair shaved down on the shades and a thick beard. 

She throws her arms around his waist, feeling the muscle underneath his shirt. He teases his fingers over her forearms, the chrome of his Gorilla Fingers cyberware sending a soft chill through her skin. 

“Hey, V, new chrome?” He runs over the chrome patterns in her arms. 

She hums against his back in response, not wanting to move. But, he twists in her arms. He cups her face in chromed fingers, for a moment, his browns furrow in confusion. 

“No hearing aids?” 

She pulls away, enough space for her to sign. 

“Camouflage ones, it and the blades are necessary for the gig.” 

“Oh yeah, Jackie’s been talking everyone to death about this heist you two got planned. He better be damn glad no one here’s got loose lips.” His hands drop from her face and loosely wrap around her waist, fingers starting to graze over her ass. 

“Can’t blame him for being excited.” 

“Hmmm and you?” 

“Nervous.” 

“Figured as much,” he squeezes her ass, “you looking for a distraction?” 

“If I wasn’t I wouldn’t be letting you grope my ass in broad daylight, now would I?” 

A low dry chuckle echoes in his chest and he dives in for a kiss. It’s quick and rough, his beard scratching over her skin before he pulls away. She can’t help but giggle as he pulls her back into the bar, hand still shamelessly on her ass. 

“Pepe! I’m going on lunch break!” 

“Yeah yeah, go on.” 

“C’mon,” Jake guides her out of the bar, “lemme at least buy you lunch first.” 

“You actually trying to be nice today?” 

“Something like that.” 

V settles into his passenger side seat as Jake climbs behind the wheel. They pull away from El Coyote Cojo, driving around Heywood and finding a drive in to go through, Burgers, fries, and pop bought; Jake finds a relatively empty place to park meanwhile V has already begun taking the pickles off her burgers. 

“So, you wanna actually talk about it?” Jake asks, taking a bite of his burger. 

“Not much to talk about,” she signs with salt covered fingers and a mouthful of fries, “biggest job of our career. Nerves are natural.” 

Not to mention the shady client, the fact they’re robbing Arasaka, the fact they’re robbing Yorinobu specifically, the fact they have to play corpo, that V will have to force herself not to sign, and that every fiber of her being is screaming that something  is going to go wrong. Then she has the weirdness of her SID chip fucking up on her mind as well. 

“Yeah, but you overthink, so I know that little brain of yours is spinning in a billion directions.” 

V shrugs, “No more than usual, so,  what’s been going on with you?” 

“Not much, been thinking of quitting the bar.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, get to work the day shift so I can pick the twins up from school and spend some time with them. But, day shift in a bar basically means staring at a wall and waiting for Senora Welles to cut me a paycheck.” 

“You don’t like getting paid to sit around and look pretty?” 

“Not gonna lie, it’d be hard to find a boss as forgiving as Senora Welles.” 

“Not every boss would let you take an hour or longer lunch just to play grab ass with me?” 

“Eh, pretty sure if she knew what I was doing with her precious adopted daughter, she’d already have me fired.” 

“Oh please, she’s known you longer than me.” 

“Yeah, but she likes you more, you’re basically her kid and I’m her employee,” he pauses watching V roll her eyes, “you know, she’s been worrying a lot about you and Jackie, lately. She knows things are getting riskier with the merc work and-” 

V quiets him with a kiss, not wanting to hear another word of this. She comes to him for a distraction. The kiss is messy and he tastes like greasy fast food, but she’s sure she’s not any better, pushing her tongue into his mouth. She cups his jaw with one hand, scratching over his beard and as he deepens the kiss, she drops her other hand into his lap. He’s already half hard in his jeans, pressing into her touch as she gropes him through the denim. Jake curses against her lips, breaking their kiss. 

“You talk too much, honey,” she chastises him, a soft smile on her lips as she undoes his belt buckle, he lifts his hips, allowing  space to pull his pants and boxer down just enough to get his cock out. 

She pulls her legs up into her seat, on her knees so she can fully lean over the center console into his lap. V pushes hair back behind her ear and takes his dick into her mouth; not bothering to tease, swallowing around him. The taste of him on her tongue causes a heat in her center to stir, getting slick between her thighs as she bobs her head up and down. He groans as she strokes and sucks him, teasing her tongue ring along the head of his cock. The bitterness of his precum and the salt of his skin making her dizzy with need. 

His chrome fingers slide across the expanse of her back, reaching out to grab her ass. He gropes and fondles her through her pants, the rough feeling of her jeans and panties being pressed against her sensitive wet folds. Jake curses as V alternates between sucking, licking, and taking him as deep into her throat as she can. 

He tugs on her hair, bleached strands wrapped around chrome, pulling her mouth off him. Drool covering his cock and her lips. She pouts at him for stopping her, cheeks flushed and breathing heavy.  He gives her a swat on the ass, barely hard enough to sting. 

“Want inside of you.” 

That’s all the explanation he gives and she pulls away, thankful that the windows of his car have steamed from body heat, she begins to quickly strip off her clothes. Its clumsy as she tries to strip down in a car seat, throwing her jacket off into the back, kicking off her boots, before yanking her pants and panties down in one fluid movement. She curses herself for not wearing a skirt or something with easier access. A part of her mind recognizes how stupid she must look, still in her shirt, bra, and her socks staying on after tugging off her pants. But lust has killed her ability to think, just wanting him inside of her. Jake has rolled a condom on, but otherwise has simply watched the flustered merc strip down. 

V’s easily able to jump into his lap, straddling him and having her back to the steering wheel. She steadies herself with one hand on his shoulder, the other lining his cock up with her entrance, sinking herself down onto his dick. She’s slick enough that she takes him all in one movement, both cursing out at the feeling. The stretch of his cock inside of her and the tightness of her cunt around him. Jake digs his nails into her hips and bounces her on his cock, fucking up into her. He takes complete control, setting a brutal pace that leaves V reeling with every thrust. All she can do is wrap her arms around his neck and moan against his sweaty skin, accepting each harsh movement of him inside of her. 

The tension inside of her grows tighter with every thrust, every smack of skin against skin like a strike of a match trying to grow a larger flame. She can’t think, can’t focus, every thought consumed with pleasure and a desire to be pushed over the edge. Bruises form on her hips where he hold her, where he uses her for pleasure. The chair of his cheap car creaks with each bounce and a few thrusts slams her lower back into the steering wheel, but she doesn’t care, couldn’t if she tried. She whines and whimpers against his skin, feeling her end nearing. 

And then the tension snaps, orgasm hitting her fast and hard, she digs her nails into his skin, squirming and writhing as she moans out her pleasure. Mind a haze as she’s overwhelmed with her pleasure. He thrusts a few more times and she nearly chokes at the continued stimulation, the feeling of him fucking into her already sensitive cunt. Then he curses, bringing her hips down fully to meet his own one last time before he cums, spilling his seed inside the condom. 

V rolls off of him and back into the passenger seat, hating the empty feeling  Her skin is sweaty and flushed, as much she hates it, she needs to get her clothes back on. Fumbling to get her pants and panties out of the passenger side floorboard. Pulling them on and shoving her feet in her boots. V waits as Jake ties off the condom and adjusts his jeans, opening the car door and tossing the condom away into a nearby dumpster. 

The Night City air feels cool compared to the heat of the car after fucking, she watches him light up a cigarette outside of the car and grimaces. He climbs back into the driver's seat, keeping the window rolled down and she makes a gagging sound as the smoke hits her nose. 

“You coming back to the bar with me?” He asks, blowing smoke out of the window. 

“No,” she signs, thankful the choker translator can survive sweat, “I’ll catch the train back to Watson.” 

“Let strangers see you sweaty and fuck-dazed?” 

“Well, it’s a good look for me.” 

“Can’t really deny that, now can I.” 

She rolls her eyes and grabs her jacket getting out of the car, walking away on still slightly wobbly legs. V takes the train back to Watson, fiddling with her holophone the entire way. The merc gets off at the stop closest to her megabuilding and makes her way to her apartment; lock recognizing her on the first try. 

V checks the time and decides to get ready to go to The Afterlife. Those nerves she had managed to fuck away for a moment creep up on her all over again. She shakes her head not wanting to focus on her anxieties, she strips down and grabs a shower, cleaning off the sweat from her liaison. 

The merc pulls her hair back in a small low-set ponytail and does her makeup to the recommendations of the stylist. She gets dressed and uses the new camouflaged hearing aids, she takes her mask with her too. Though she knows she can’t wear it into Konpeki, she’ll still be walking into The Afterlife. That thought alone twists her guts into nervous knots. 

The Afterlife is the go to bar for the top of their game, Major Leagues mercs and fixers. It’s where the biggest deals are made, the easiest place to catch a drink and a job, but only mercs or fixers of a certain standard are allowed through its doors. Jackie brags about the place like it’s heaven for mercenaries. If they’re going to become regular fixtures of the bar after this, then she’d prefer to maintain her usual level of anonymity for fixers moving forward. She’ll drop the mask when they’re finally in corpo threads. 

V slides on Misty’s bracelet as well, fiddling with the beads meant to provide some form of protection. Her mind goes back to Misty’s tarot card reading, while she doesn’t put much weight on it, her friend’s fortune telling often sticks with her. The Wheel of Fortune is sticking out to her; she could care less if the cards thinks she’s stupid or if she’s about to fall in love, the latter of which so ridiculous she can’t help but dismiss it. But the idea of conflict sticks out, fear of the heist going wrong has been heavy on her mind. Something always goes slightly wrong, no job is perfect. But this has the highest stakes she’s ever encountered. 

V has new cyberware, the best possible tech and upgrades from Vik. She has Jackie, her best choom and partner in crime who’s never let her down. There’s T-Bug, her friend and brilliant netrunner who could bring half of Night City down if she wished. Their fixer is Dex, one of the best in regards to his job, he has everything to gain by having their backs covered. They have military grade tech and an inside look into Konpeki. They are going in under the best possible circumstances. 

She has to remind herself, review this again and again, that if something goes wrong someone there should be able to take care of it. But, those nerves don’t fade even as she leaves her apartment. 

The Afterlife isn’t far from V’s apartment, practically a hop and skip downtown. Barely five minutes pass before she’s under the roofed alley, nearing the club. Vivid cyan and purple graffiti across the wall, trash along the way.

“Porque ya tengo planes para esta noche!" 

The voice is familiar, Jackie’s and V pressed her back to the side of the vending machine, he’s telling someone he already has plans for tonight. He sounds frustrated, like he’s on the verge of pulling his hair out. 

“Virgen Santsima, ma! Te vas a enterar mañana,” a beat of silence, “también te quiero, ma."

The conversation ways on her, he’s talking to Senora Welles. Remembering Jake talking about her feelings, that the matriarch has been worrying herself half to death. And it sounds like Jackie has been on the receiving end of that worry for a while.  V pulls her mask on and rounds the corner past the vending machine, stepping in front of the main entrance of The Afterlife. Her friend standing in the doorway under the harsh green light. 

“Heh, about time, chica,” he greets, tucking his phone into his pocket, she catches the blue of Misty’s bracelet mingled with his usual gold ones. 

“What’s going on?” 

“Ehhh, y'know. She's worried about me - whatever. Can't help herself, y'know - checkin’ to see if I'm not rottin' in some dumpster… like most of the Welles boys. Been worse lately.” 

“Why’s that?” 

“Started climbin' our way up. Got more an' more knives out there, waitin' to stab us in the back. Higher stakes, higher risk. She can see that.” 

“Look like you’re about to keel over.” V reaches out, touching the red blotches on his skin, stress and sweat inflaming his skin. 

“Years of merc work, and yet,  still sweat like a roasted pig when I talk to my ma. It's really startin' to wear on me. More tell her everythin's OK, more I feel like I'm straight-up lyin’.”

“Well, hopefully you had a nice date with Misty at least.” 

“Went about as well as talking to my ma right now,” he scratches at the back of his neck, “for two women who don’t get along, they sure agree when it comes to worrying about me.” 

“They worry because they love you, worse things in life than people giving a damn about you.” 

“Yeah, yeah, don’t matter none. Not anymore, Afterlife, here we come, baby!” 

Jackie changes the topic and she can’t really blame him for it, rubbing his hands together and practically cheering in excitement. This is everything they’ve talked about, everything they’ve said they want. So, why does she still have a lump in her throat? 

“Afterlife… we’re really here.” 

“Does not get any higher, choom. And you know somethin' else? We fuckin' earned it, chica!” 

“No point in standing around then, is there?’ 

“Ready to get your cherry popped?” he laughs leading her into the club, “Yeeeah! Come on!”

“Little late for that one, Jack,” she teases as they make their way down the stairs, a pair of double doors opening up for them. A short step down into a small hallway with mercs and fixers alike talking under the green glow of a sign bearing the club’s name. 

“Place used to be a morgue - you believe that?”

“Really?” 

“I know, right? Way before our time, that. When proper burials were still a thing.”

They come to another set of doors, through the small window V can see the true club main room beyond them. But a man stands guarding them, around Jackie’s height and a similar bulky build. Cyberware indented along his jawline and nose. His face is stony, eyes sharp when Jackie and V stop before him, then he puts a large hand out in front of him. 

“And who might you clowns be?”

“Jackie and V,” the taller of the mercs says with a grin, “Dexter Deshawn is waitin’ on us.” 

The bouncer gives them a look and V is glad for her mask helping hide her emotions. His expression is dismissive, looking down on them, making her feel all at once that she has not earned her place in this club. A baby merc, new to the city, barely six months under her belt and she’s standing at the Afterlife. How the fuck did she get here? 

“Yo, Dex. Got two live ones sayin' they're here to see ya,” his optics glow as he calls Dex, “Yeah? All right, then. Says he needs a second or two. Go get yourselves drinks or somethin'.”

The doors open to a green and cyan lit club. Music louder as the barrier breaks away, people fill the room. Some sipping on alcohol and other’s puffing away on cigarettes; the smell of nicotine and booze wafting from the bar. 

“Way ahead o' you, viejo,” Jackie laughs and leads the way in. 

V follows him around the corner; the large bar coming into full view. It’s lit green, the same neon sign reading Afterlife at the top of it. A bartender in a blue button up slings drinks to the patrons. Floor to ceiling columns, like tubes, are places around the club each filled with water with a dancer twirling around inside with strategically place chrome clothing covering the most private parts of them. Everything is basked in that green neon light, despite being surrounded by mercs like her, she feels so completely out of place. 

Jackie marches proudly across the bar floor, stride confident and unwavering. 

“This is it… The heart o' Night City! That's it right there - beating. Hear it?” he proclaims as they pass by rows of half closed off booths, “Can you imagine? Susan Forrest, Boa Boa, maybe even Morgan Blackhand… All sat on those stools, fell asleep on that same bar.”

Jackie sits in one of the barstools, beaming and brimming with excitement. His eyes wide as he takes it all in, the place he’s dreamed of for all his years. V climbs into the seat next to him, placing an elbow on the bar, leaning her head onto her hand, as she shifts to face him. 

“Doubt that puts us in the same league as them,” V teases, Morgan Blackhand brought down Arasaka Tower. They’re stealing a biochip, hardly the same thing. 

“Oh, but we are. They just don't know it yet,” Jackie tells her with a wink and she can’t help but roll her eyes. 

“We-” 

V drops her hand when she realizes Jackie’s attention has gone elsewhere, an older woman walking past the two. She’s nothing unusual, older looking than most of the crowd here, sure but nothing immediately stands out to V. An older woman with long gray hair shaved on one side and a bright yellow cropped sweater, She marches her way across the bar and into a blue lit booth, moving past a guard.  

“'Ey. See that old lady there?”

“Yeah, didn’t know grannies were your type,” V taunts him again, he’s always given her shit for her taste in older people, yet he’s ogling some grandma? 

“Fuck off,” he playfully smacks her, but nearly knocks her from her chair, “that’s fuckin’ Rogue, best fixer in all o' Night City.” 

“Thought Dex was the best?” 

“Pff… Rogue was linin' up jobs when Dex was still shittin' in diapers, heh. Place belongs to her.”

“What can I getcha?” The bartender cuts in, hands down on the bar in front of them. She’s a woman with long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and a soft round face. 

V doesn’t drink on the job, something she’s always stuck to. But, this is Jackie’s dream and she knows how he likes to celebrate. If nothing else, their banter has failed to undo her nerves, maybe booze will do the trick. 

“You order,” she signs to Jackie and he grins. 

“You drinkin’?” 

“Special night, pick me something nice.” 

“Two Tequila Old Fashioneds with a splash of cerveza and a chili garnish.”

“A duo of Johnny Silverhands, comin' up,” the bartender starts to put the drinks together, “somebody did their homework.” 

“Guessing the dog ate mine,” V signs, confused because what the fuck is a silver hand?

“Age-old tradition. Drinks're named after our regulars,” she explains, putting the drinks down in front of the mercs. 

“What’d I have to do to get a drink named after me?” 

“Snuff it,” she grins, “ In mind-blowingly spectacular fashion, Mid-op'd be best.”

“Aah, what a beaut of a tradition!”

“Steep price for a drink, not going to lie,” V signs, letting her nerves speak for her, if only for a moment. Her guts are in knots, she can only hope the alcohol will untangle. All of the merc’s usual stress relieving tactics other than a weed brownie, have failed to do much of anything.

“Hey, everyone's gotta go sometime, right? Why not in style? Death’s nothing but the final flourish!” 

“To hitting the major leagues,” she signs, holding her shot in the other hand.

“To becoming legends.” 

She pushes her mask just up above her mouth, careful not to smudge her lipstick and  they throw back their shots. Smooth but strong booze with a kick of spice from the garnish, a burn in her throat. Not her style, but she’s had worse. She pushes her mask back down, regarding the bartender, her nametag says Claire. 

“So, who else can I drink here?” She still has no idea who Silverhand is, but maybe there’s a name she does recognize, reading the posted drink menu. 

“All on the menu…”  

“'Cept there's a spot missing. Morgan Blackhand, right?”

“Heh,  true. Morgan's yet to make up his mind he's dead or still kickin',” Claire tells Jackie and V rolls her eyes. 

“Think he’s still alive? It’s been years,” Jackie asks Claire. 

“No way he’s still alive,.” The radio was just talking about the devastation of the tower going down, if that many folks were killed who were just near it, then there’s no way someone who was in the tower survived. 

“Why not? Look at Rogue. Peeps from that era - a species unto themselves.”

“And one day we’re gonna be there too,” Jackie probably proclaims, “speaking of which, name’s Jackie Welles if you want to write down my recipe.” 

“Sure.” There’s a playfulness in her tone, just going along with Jackie’s whims. 

“Shot of vodka on the rocks, lime juice, ginger beer… oh, and most importantly - a splash of love.”

“Haha, I'll remember that.”

“Gag,” V signs just to see the glare Jackie levels her way, the playful smack of her arm. 

“Okay, what’s your drink then?” 

“Literally, the only thing I drink is like cherry cola with a splash of bourbon.” 

“You know those are usually supposed to be reversed, the bourbon and coke.” 

“Maybe so, but, and hear me out… cherry cola tastes better.”  

“Heard you were Dex’s latest finds,” Claire tells them. 

“Just biz, no big deal.”

“How'd you know?” V raises an eyebrow behind her mask. 

“My job to know. Look around - how do you think meres earn their reps? Through gossip rivaling that of schoolgirls, that's how.”

“Mr. DeShawn see you now,” a booming voice rings out behind the mercs, turning around she sees Dex’s bodyguard. The first time she’s heard his voice. 

“Love to hang, imbibe the vibe, but we got an important meeting,” Jackie tells Claire, getting up from his seat and V following suit, throwing some cash down on the bar. 

“Break a leg.” 

“This way,” the bodyguard tells them and the mercs falls in line behind him. He leads them around the bar, past the crowd and through a door towards the back of the club. The lighting shifting, more blue than green as they walk past another vending machine. 

“Damn, holmes, you're huge... Work out?” Jackie asks, unable to stand the silence. 

“Hmm.” A vague grunt as they pass through another door, the music fading as they get further from the main bar. But V can just hear the starting beat of some old dad rock, something about losing another day to pointless drudgery. 

“Same here, y'know, in the ring. You do some kinda exotic shit? Kempo? Ninjitsu?”

Nothing as they turn another corner. 

“Think you could take me, drop me?”

“Jackie…” Why must he sound like he’s picking a fight with the guy?

“In here,” the guard says, stopping and standing in front of another door. 

"Este pinche tipo..."

The door opens and they’re greeted to the first room with warm lighting, though it just seems to be a storage corner. With a cabinet and vending machine. But to the left are barely see through walls of a booth that takes up half the room, through them V can just see T-Bug’s outline and leather couches. 

They walk around, the front of the booth opened. A wrap around black leather couch goes around the back wall and left side of the booth. Dex sat on the back portion, talking into a holo about Excelsior and cold hard eddies. T-Bug sat to side, a table in the center of the room with the Flathead, Jinguji boxes, and shards placed on neat little index cards. There’s a small disconnect leather seat in the right corner, next to the door. 

“Gotta bounce,” Dex hangs up, “well, if it ain’t Miss V.” 

“Whole family in one place! Hah! Finally!”

“That’s one way to put it,” T-Bug teases and a shine of blue catches V’s eye, the netrunner wearing Misty’s bracelet. She can’t help but smile. 

“A’ight, then… Set your butts down comfy,” Dex tells them. Jackie plops himself onto the larger couch next to T-Bug, comfortably spreading his arms over the back of it while V takes the smaller seat, putting her at an angle to see everyone.  She stifles a laugh, seeing Jackie’s leg excitedly bounce up and down. 

“Sweet booth, is it soundproof?” 

“Jackie…” T-Bug scolds and V stifles a laugh. 

“Now, now, Mr. Welles is right. We gon' be goin' over some sensitive material. But if it's all right with y'all, I'd like to start with a question for Miss V… Evelyn Parker - how'd you fare?”

All eyes on her, stomach still twisted in a vise, this is her chance. She’s got to tell him, but she doesn’t want Evelyn hurt. Some fixers will go to any length to get revenge on a client or merc who does them dirty. But, he’s got a right to know the shit she pulled. 

“Intel was good, brain dance was exactly what we needed….” 

“So, she just wanna see wha'ss good, or was there somethin' else?”

“Honestly?” 

“Wouldn’t ask for anything else, Miss V.” 

“She’s high risk as far as clients go. Shady as fuck, naïve as all hell, and genuinely thought she could make me another offer.” 

“Another offer?” Dex’s brow raises about his sunglasses. 

“Wanted me to cut you out for more cash, told her no, of course. But, wouldn’t do business with her again, if I were you.” 

“Cut me out… shiiiit, now that’s rich,” Dex laughs, Jackie nervously laughing along, “Clients... never learn, do they?” 

“You’re not pissed?” 

“Lived in NC too long to blow my top every time some amateur thinks they can take me for a ride. Parker ain't the first and sure as hell won't be the last.”

“Fair enough,” V lets out a sigh, thankful if nothing else that Dex doesn’t seem prone to getting too mad at Evelyn. Maybe she’s being too kind, but she can’t help but think Evelyn is more naive than malicious when it comes to the offer. A stranger to the merc world. 

“I do appreciate you sharin' this info, though, Miss V. You see, trust… …is essential in any partnership that's to be long-lasting and fruitful.”

“Figured you had a right to know, so, what’s the plan?” 

“This.”

Dex gestures towards the shards on the table, V takes the one in front of her and slides it into her shard slot.  UI and graphics lighting up her mask, a map pulling up on the tech. 

“Me and Dex've already covered the fine detes. Ops wise, should be a stroll on the beach.”

“Elaborate, I wanna hear it.” 

“A Delamain'll drop your asses at the front door of Konpeki Plaza,” a picture of the hotel shows,  then two names, “You'll stroll right in thanks to your false identities. Then, with Bug's help, you'll breach the hotel's subnet…”

“Mine and the Flathead's help.” Images of the hotel’s interior and the bot flash by. 

“Last but not least, you slip into Yorinobu's penthouse and klep the Relic,” his words bring up images of the heir and his suite.

“Goes without sayin' we do this on the hush - ideally no bodies, not a one.” The shard shows them The Relic and then blips out. 

“You'll have T-Bug on comms for the duration. Time for your burnin' questions.”

“What’s our cover?” V asks, they’ve been told a thousand times they’ll be acting like corpos, but that’d be hard to do if they have no idea what their story is suppose to be. 

“Hello, Ramón Victorino,” T-Bug looks at Jackie and then to V, “and you’re Hannah Conwell.” 

“Ramón - yeah, OK. What do we say we're there for?”

“Biz as usual. Corpo arms deal. Case anyone asks, you there for a bogus meetin' with Arasaka's defense rep - Hajime Taki. Anything else?”

“How do we get in the penthouse?”

“Yorinobu's got barely any muscle. Hardest part'll be penthouse security. If we wanna disable, we'll need to neutralize Konpeki's dweller - elite ‘runner monitoring the hotel's subnet twenty-four seven. Only catch is there's no way to get in the dweller's den from the outside.”

“Hold on, how you want us to get inside a room you can't get into?”

“Trust me when I say whatever hitch you think up. T-Bug's solved it already”

“This is where the Flathead comes in. You'll have to get him in the ventilation shafts, guide him to the dweller and force the dweller to… take a break. Flathead'll stay there, jacked into the dweller, but thanks to that I’ll be able to roll out your red carpet into the penthouse.”

“Anything else?”

“Transports a Delamain?” She has no idea if the company has an ASL sign like most other corporations and doesn’t have time to think of one on the fly. 

“Preemest cab company in all Night City… Nada mal,” hackie tells her. 

“DeShawn don't ever work with anyone but the best. I consider Delamain just that.”

“Yeah, who needs creepy, nosy cab drivers when you've got a clean AI to get you from point A to point B in style?”

“And how he bags a permit to operate every year's still a mystery.”

“If everythin' goes as planned, Delamain'll drop you back here. If things get sticky, he'll head for the safe house.”

“Which is?”

“The No-Tell Motel. Quiet, no questions asked. Make our next move from there. But I'm flat certain that won't be necessary. Though, there is one more consideration for if it does.” 

“What’s that?” 

“Hate to put you on the spot, Miss V,” Dex explains, “but if shit goes sour, I’m gonna need to know who I’m letting into the hotel. Mask can’t go with to Konpeki, so I’d sure feel a hell of a lot better if I knew what was hiding behind that thing.” 

“Oh… yeah, that makes sense.”  

Even if she’d have Jackie with her when shit goes down,  Dex is trusting her with this heist. The least she can do is trust him to see her face and not write her off or sell her out to The Herd if the chance arised. Not that she can see that happening anyway… 

“Don’t even know why you wore the thing in, V,” Jackie teases. 

“Well, there are other fixers here, didn’t want to give away my face…” 

V carefully pulls off her mask, feeling exposed all over again, a new set of eyes on her face. The merc knows how she looks; five feet with a head of bleach blonde hair and big gray eyes. Not the picture one conjures in their mind when they think of a capable, strong, badass merc. Sprinkle in her disability and the reactions to her deafness; most people think she’s not a threat, weak. 

“That what you’ve been hiding behind that mask? All that fuss, for what?” Dex laughs. 

“Hard to take,” she stumbles over her English trying to sign at the same time, “be taken- seriously sometimes when you’re five foot nothing, deaf, and look like…” 

“Gutterpunk Barbie,” Jackie cuts in to tease, earning him a sharp kick to the shin. 

“Fuck off.” 

“Trust me, Miss V, you pull off this job; ain’t nobody in their right mind gonna underestimate you” 

“That’s the hope...”

“Any other questions?” 

“I got a question. When do we get to the real reason we're all here?” Jackie asks, shooting a wink V’s way. 

“Now's a good a time as any. Fresh talent gets thirty percent always, but I'm willin' to make an exception in your case. I'ma cut you a nice, juicy forty as a bonus for your honesty, V.”

“Much appreciated.” 

“Ka-ching baby!~” 

“Last thing, Konpeki's got a strict no-iron policy. Security gates, the works. So you dawgs'll leave your lead-spitters in the ride, take the Flathead inside in its case.”

“Got your suits from Jinguji on the table.” 

“¡Chido!”

“Thanks, Bug.” 

“So, not to count chickens, but when'll we see our eddies?”

“All depends how Ms. Parker unrolls herself or her role, but a week, two tops is my guess.”

“And what do we do in the mean time?” 

“You sit tight, heads down, 'cause ol' uncle Arasaka be watching. Now, as that ol’ Greek dawg says, life's a banquet - so don't go thirsty, but don't get drunk, either,” he tells them as he leaves the booth, “Your chariot awaits outside.”

“My cue to delta, too. Gotta prep to jack in, be there when you come on comms. Any other issues, now's your chance,” T-Bug tells them, shifting her feet and something catches V’s eye. Delta V emblazoned on the netrunner’s boots, was that there before?

“Plan - your take?” V shakes the thought from her head, must be a brand or a runner thing V doesn’t know.

“Enough, I hope, to put me in a luxury Creton Villa from which I'll never set foot in cyberspace again.”

“Send me a postcard?” 

“No offense, but I'm gonna burn any and all bridges - need a clean break.”

“Gonna take Misty’s bracelet with you?” Jackie teases, grinning because he caught it too. 

“Shut up,” she tells him, rolling her eyes. 

“Uh, just realized something, what’s gonna happen to our clothes? I don’t want to lose my mask…” 

“No worries, put them in the boxes, we’ll have ‘em sent back to your places.” 

“Alright then, lets get this show on the road.” 

“Let's get to work, go ahead and get changed, Delamain is parked out front, uh, okay-”Bug starts to trip over her words when the two mercs start taking off their jackets, “you can use the bathrooms.” 

“Eh,”

Jackie and V shrug their shoulders, the outfits are right there. Not much point in dragging them out to the bathroom. The pair shared a bedroom for the better half of six months, a room with one bed. They’ve seen each other naked plenty, boundaries destroyed a long while back. 

“Why do I bother,” T-Bug rolls her eyes and leaves the booth, letting the pair change. 

V kicks off her boots and takes off her socks, Jackie tugging off his jewelry first. 

“So, you’re nerves still going crazy?” Jackie asks her as she tugs off her shirt, his own tossed off. 

“What do you mean?”  She tugs off her pants, both mercs soon standing around in their underwear. 

“Can’t hide that shit from me, chica, been giving me twice as much hell as usual. You’re freaking out.” 

“High stakes, Jack, of course I’m a nervous mess. Means I give a shit.” 

She pulls the slack on and tugs on the white blouse, buttoning it up. The two of them putting on the corpo clothes, similar in look. Black slacks, white button up tops, black suit jackets, and Misty’s beaded bracelets for protection. Each perfectly tailored for their body types. 

“Don’t sweat it so much, V, we got this.” He sticks his fist out. 

“Sure fuckin’ hope so.” She bumps her fist to his. 

Their street clothes are packed away in the boxes, V puts in her optic contacts and slide on her heels, then they start to make their way out of the booth. But, Jackie stops her with a hand on her shoulder and he taps his throat. She catches on taking off her choker translator, neck feeling bare and odd without the tech. With that they leave out through the club, Jackie carrying the Flathead case and the smaller merc keeps her head down as best she can. Her stomach still in knots as they spot the Delamain in the parking lot. 

Her life is about to change forever; hopefully for the best. She’s on the cusp of having everything she’s wanted since she’s come to the city. The verge of earning the respect of everyone in this city and finally feeling like she’s someone, like she’s done something. 

So, why does she feel like she’s about to puke?

[cherryrogers]

when dusk falls {2}

DYING LIGHT

pairing: bucky barnes x reader | royal au

warnings: mentions of death, angst — reader is in her sad hours :/

summary: As you arrive in Hydra, you reluctantly begin to adjust to your new life.

a/n: i can’t express how excited i am to get into this story. i’m so impatient i was mad that this is only chapter 2 bc i want to get deep into the plot so bad :( for now, i offer you a part that should be titled ‘rambling about random story aspects that add nothing to the plot’..... enjoy !!

series masterlist

The journey from Taria was everything but pleasant.

As the carriage was pulled further and further away from your beloved palace, you made sure to consume every ounce of green expanse before you reached the land borders, refusing to let the gorgeous greenery of your home fade from your mind in years to come.

Brock nattered endlessly in his seat beside you, almost pressed against you in the small space. You didn’t hear a word of it, tuning out the unnerving rasp of his voice, only focusing on the vibrancy through the window.

Passing cosy villages, and brilliant gardens, and glimmering lakes, you concluded that Taria would be a hard place for anyone to forget, nevermind it’s own princess. You noticed the smiling faces and giggling children as you passed through the Roseleaf village, one of the larger residential areas on the east of the land. The carefully tended front gardens filled with an array of rainbow hues, the young couples walking hand in hand along the paved road, the little red robins flitting from tree to tree — you took it all in.

You were sitting in that carriage for Taria; its people, its nature, its values. Being sent away to a bitter nightmare of a land for the sake of your kingdom’s safety and happiness. Because that’s what a princess would do for her land. Protect it with her life.

The promise of its safety was the sole thing stopping you from breaking down into sobs next to Brock. There was no choice, there never would be between your freedom and your people.

The last bearable moment of your journey ended when the carriage reached the end of Taria, and the beginning of the Heartlen Ocean — the body of water that connected Taria and Hydra.

You’d been transferred onto a large sailing boat, one significantly bigger than the rowing boats scattered along the docks. In a tiny cabin below the main deck of the ship, you were escorted to and told to rest, as the voyage across the sea would be long and the waters would only be calm for another few hours. Of course, the seas around Hydra were vicious and rough, but you refused to sleep under their watch. You couldn’t if you wanted to. Every emotion under the sun was coursing through your veins; fear, anger, despair. Putting your mind at rest was impossible. It was as if they’d disregarded the fact they’d practically kidnapped you, and were complicit in the agreement that was forcing you into sudden marriage with the son of a cruel dictator.

You feared you’d never sleep peacefully again.

It took seven hours to arrive at Hydra. During that time, you’d remained under the deck, quiet as a mouse. Staring at the divots in the dark wood of the ship, knees tucked tightly to your chest, bare feet almost numb from the drop in temperature as you entered Hydra’s vicinity.

Thinking about Sharon, how adamant she was on getting you out of Taria before you could be taken. About Steve, who’d been burdened with the knowledge of the agreement and sworn to secrecy. About your parents, who entirely blamed themselves for the ordeal, even while having no other choice.

Perhaps if they’d sailed back a little earlier, noticed the signs of early labour quicker, or just not been so foolish as to seek help from the most selfish man on the planet, their daughter would be safe at home. Their princess. And she’d be free, happy.

But it was too late. It’d been too late from the moment their little rowing boat left the docks twenty years prior.

Seven hours, and you’d ended up in the bitter Kingdom of Hydra. Two soldiers escorted you off the boat, rushing you towards another black carriage identical to the one you’d been taken in at the palace. The sky had fallen significantly darker, a thick grey mist shielding the ground below from the sun’s warmth. Icy air bit at your skin, had your teeth chattering and lips numb the second you rose from below the ship’s deck.

Those around you remained unfazed, used to the freezing climate. To the dull skies and unsaturated expanse. Taria was to them what Hydra was to you — an entirely different reality.

Brock noticed you shivering in the carriage beside him, chuckling mockingly at your discomfort. Ignoring him, your eyes burned holes in the fabric of your dress in your lap. You didn’t want to let your gaze wander outside, seeing a cold, monotonous space rather than the colourful liveliness you adored back home.

Again, you passed through villages. Villages that were anything but reflections of those in Taria. The houses were much smaller, more compact than cozy. No quaint plants and shrubs complimenting the open front of the house, no bouncing children or chirping birds. Each house appeared identical, and not a soul was in sight. Likely huddling up in their homes, out of the cutting wind that’d soon transform into a bustling blizzard.

You caught sight of a figure in the window of the last home along the lane, only for a moment. A child, a boy. His high cheekbones and pin-straight nose stuck out to you. A frown played on his lips as he observed the carriage travel by, the same one he’d seen the day before, led by the same dark horses that sent shivers down his spine.

Cheering up the children back home seemed to be a gift you possessed. Not that they often weren’t baring toothy smiles, but when they wandered the palace garden and the markets with a solemn expression for whatever reason that day, it was instinct for you to lift their spirits. A box of red velvet cupcakes or some children’s books that’d been sitting in your library for years seemed to do the trick, and each and every time, it was heartwarming to watch the light reappear in their doe eyes.

Yet that boy, along with the thousands of other children living day-to-day under King Alexander’s rule — their happiness wasn’t something you could provide them with. Not when the man was stripping you of your own joy. When you were losing the light you were always eager to share with those who needed it.

If Taria was the planet’s garden, then Hydra was it’s graveyard. A place where dreams died before they could even begin to flourish. Where nobody desired to live, where too many people were forced into a meagre existence. And you were simply another soul Hydra had stolen for itself.

Another couple of hours passed again until the castle finally came into sight, only barely among the cloudiness of the night. The castle you’d only heard horror stories about, where too much blood had been shed and lives lost. And it was where you were going to live for the rest of your days. The thought alone put a deep frown on your lips.

You were exhausted. It’d been an early rise for you that morning; up and ready by eight o’clock, you took a trip to the markets before it was busy and stock was selling fast. You were to be back by nine for breakfast with your parents, but one of the merchants had been insisting you tried one of her cinnamon sugar pretzels, doused with golden syrup, which were usually sold out within hours of the stall opening. The sweet treat was delicious, you’d found, and you’d bought three more to bring back to Sharon and your parents.

A simple, lovely morning. And how quickly the day turned sour.

The urge to sleep was tugging at your eyelids, but you suppressed the need, nipping at your wrist to keep yourself awake. You’d have to succumb to sleep eventually, but you’d do it in the comfort of a bed far away from any soldiers, far away from Brock. Still, the thought of falling into such a vulnerable state, in the castle appearing more and more enormous as the carriage approached it, was indeed unnerving.

It looked like something out of a story book. Dark grey brick, looming towers with tall turrets atop them, an unnecessarily large gate guarding the inside — the image of a villain’s abode.

All underneath a shadow black sky, without a star in sight. No light, no hope. Only darkness.

The carriage continued along a winding, rubble path, it’s destination being the towering gate where six soldiers stood guard. With every yard you grew closer, your heart only pounded harder against your ribs. You’d truly fallen into a never ending nightmare; reaching the castle was only the beginning of it.

It was so cold. The thin dress and lack of any footing was certainly not helping your cause. As the carriage came to a final stop, your legs only barely allowed you to climb out of the transport without slipping to your knees. A soldier remained by your side, silent and still, while Brock ordered the remaining men to take the horses back to the stables.

Upon spying their commander, the soldiers stood guard ordered for the portcullis to be lifted, and soon an echoing clanging noise filled your ears.

While you weren’t eager to enter, the cold had already numbed your fingers and toes. You feared you’d fall ill if you were outside any longer, not that you imagined the inside of such a menacing castle would be any more comfortable.

“Inform the king of our arrival as soon as he wakes.” Brock called out to the lone soldier, who nodded curtly before marching away, into the darkness of the castle corridors.

Like a baby deer, you were left shivering in the cold, eyes wide and legs stiff. Brock took his sweet time striding over to you, before his lips curled into a condescending smile.

“Welcome home, Princess,” He teased, making a gesture towards the enigma of a building behind him. “Allow me to escort you to your chambers.”

With reluctance, you followed him into the castle, wincing at the clang of the gate beginning to shut again behind you.

The stone pavement of the castle was hard against the soles of your feet, as you paced quickly to keep up with Brock’s stalk. Lanterns scattered along the thick brick walls illuminated what would be the pitch black hall he walked you down, a faint smoky scent in the air.

For what felt like hours, you winded around corners and through halls, wondering if you’d ever make it to your chambers. Brock talked, asking silly, mocking questions that you didn’t waste your breath answering, arms crossed firmly over your chest.

Until he said something that made your blood boil a little hotter in your freezing body.

“I’m in shock of your compliance, Princess,” He smirked over his shoulder as he guided you up a dark staircase. “Already accepting the King’s plans for you?”

A scowl pulled at your lips. “I haven’t accepted anything. This isn’t compliance, this is me being here to protect my own.”

“Ah, she speaks!” Brock chuckled grimly, the sound bouncing off the walls of the narrow stairway. “Can she put a smile on, too?”

You ignored him. He laughed again, expecting it.

At the top of the stairs, a long corridor presented itself, identical to the hundred you’d already walked through. It was only at the very end of it that you finally stood still, eyes landing on an old wooden door, deep brown with no pattern etched into it. So plain, so dull — you’d never seen a castle so ancient with so little life.

“This room has been assigned to you until you and the prince are wed,” Brock spoke, pressing a rough hand to the door handle and pushing it open. “A maid will arrive when you wake to prepare you for the morning.”

“The morning?” You raised a brow.

“When you are to meet the king,” A grin tugged at his lips. “He is indeed eager to meet his future daughter-in-law.”

The feeling isn’t mutual, you thought, but kept it to yourself as you shuffled through the open door.

A singular lantern to your left enlightened the space before you.

Dreary like the rest of the castle, the room almost blended into the deep sky through the large window straight ahead of you. Translucent navy drapes hung from the chestnut bed frame, the singular bed topped with a sheet of similar colouring tucked into the corner of the room. A tall closet opposed it, likely filled with dresses that the maids had tailored to your size (however they learned that information). The hardwood flooring pressed into your feet; you already missed the soft crimson carpet that covered the expanse of your bedroom back home. There was a door off to the left, presumably leading into a small bathing room, and a long silver mirror on the other wall reflected its dark presence against the smoky grey brick.

And that was all. No books, no chestnut desk to sit at and swipe red on your lips or rose on your cheeks. Nothing to simply pass the time of waiting for a wedding you were utterly dreading.

Brock grinned a goodnight from the corridor, and you couldn’t even turn around before the echo of his boots filled the narrow, empty space.

A frown immediately pulled at your lips, as you gently closed the door behind you, the click of the lock prompting tears to form in the corners of your eyes.

As you tenderly removed your dress, hanging it up in the back of the wardrobe, you bit your lip to keep your emotions at bay. The braclets you’d slipped on at home remained on your wrist, a reminder of where you truly belonged. You played with them as you blew out the candle light, stealing the only spec of warmth from the room.

The nightdress you’d been given was thin, the creamy linen not doing much to shield you from the icy air that managed to nip at you in every corner of the castle. Sighing, you padded over to the bed, climbing under the fresh sheets, and that’s when the first tear fell. Burning hot as it trickled down your cool cheek.

That bitter night, you weren’t blessed with the pleasure of a long slumber. One salty tear turned into two, and two into many, many more.

And so, your most disconcerting nightmare began.

* * *

Dreams were deadly; you soon learned that after waking from your first night of sleep in the grand castle situated at the very bottom of Hydra’s land.

Perhaps a nightmare would���ve been easier on your mind. It certainly would’ve prepared you for the daunting reality you’d wake up to in a few mere hours. Because you dreamt that you were back in Taria. That Hydra’s soldiers didn’t step foot on your home land, that you’d finished that chapter of your enthralling novel, that Sharon returned to the library with a steaming cup of chamomile tea, and the two of you rested there for the remainder of the day. Uninterrupted, safe.

A soft but urgent knock on your bedroom door woke you from the sweet dream that morning, and upon recognising the drab setting you were in — still dark, the sun rays being rejected rudely by the thick heavy clouds encompassing the land — the harsh reality of your new life came flooding back.

Creaking quietly, the bedroom door opened ajar, an unfamiliar figure peeking through into the room. A woman, a girl even. She couldn’t have been older than eighteen. Her eyes widened as they drifted to the corner of the room, spying you still clutching the navy bed sheets to your chin.

“Forgive me, I didn't mean to wake you; I was told to come here at ten on the dot. My name is Wanda, I was happy to learn I’ve been assigned as your maid, Princess.”

Blinking, your vision became a little clearer. Clear enough to assess the girl frozen in her place in the doorway. Strawberry blonde hair cascaded down her back, pulled back loosely at her neck with a burgundy ribbon. As you propped yourself against the headboard of the bed, her doe eyes got impossibly wider. Brushing out the creases of her moss green skirt, she stood taller, pressing her lips into a thin line.

So nervous in your presence, she seemed. You wondered if the treatment she received from the royals of Hydra had something to do with it.

“It’s— It’s quite alright.” You swallowed, possibly more anxious than she was. If you weren’t so exhausted from the journey to the castle, you likely wouldn’t have slipped into a slumber so easily. That was after you’d sobbed until air could no longer be snatched from your lungs, and you drifted off with a sore throat and tear tracks staining your cheeks.

You’d fallen asleep between the same walls as one of the most ruthless kings to date, as well as an army of remorseless soldiers ready to comply with his every order. The thought made you shudder; that, and the sheets falling from your shoulders, exposing your skin to the cool room.

Wanda crinkled her brows, picking up on your discomfort. Slowly, as if not to cause you any more distress, she slipped between the open door and closed it behind her.

“I’ll run a hot bath for you, Your Highness. I’m afraid it’ll have to be quick; King Alexander would like you escorted to the throne room within the hour.”

You remained quiet. Still barely awake, still barely able to comprehend the situation you’d so quickly fallen into.

The maid clasped her hands in front of her, considering her next words carefully before offering the tip of her lips. “I understand that you only arrived here a mere several hours ago, Your Highness — I think a warm bath will only do you good, if I may say.”

It would have certainly been nice, considering the climate you’d been forced into abruptly. You’d picked up on some of Brock’s ramblings in the carriage the night before; he’d said something about a blizzard being on its way. Judging by the thick fog and the chill already bringing goosebumps to your skin, he was right. You weren’t looking forward to the process of adapting to the weather.

As soon you gave Wanda the faintest hint of a nod, the girl rushed towards the adjoining bathing room you had yet to familiarise yourself with, and soon enough the harsh streaming of water began to fully wake you for the morning.

Lavender swarmed your senses as you stepped into the small room, observing Wanda as she swirled oil into the warm water with a delicate hand. Throwing a smile over her shoulder, the maid shook off her hand before wiping it quickly on her skirt.

“I hand-picked the lavender and made the oil myself this morning. I’ll be honest, I’m not meant to leave the castle unless I’m ordered to do so, but with a storm brewing, I was eager to collect as many herbs and flowers as possible before my duties for the day started,” A soft chuckle left her lips, before she shook her head, a rosy tint pooling in her cheeks. “Forgive me, I— I haven’t served a lady in several years. I can’t imagine my rambling would amuse the men of the castle.”

If your mood hadn’t been so sour, perhaps you would have smiled at her excitement. The happiness others radiated you tended to absorb; no wonder every moment on Taria was an enjoyable one.

It astounded you how bubbly the strawberry blonde appeared. A delicate daisy in a daunting forest — she bloomed without sunlight. Of course, it could’ve been an act in front of the prince's bride-to-be, but there was a certain spark to her that felt genuine. Maybe it really was because of the presence of another woman.

King Alexander’s wife — the former queen of Hydra — had died almost a decade earlier. Being so young and out of the loop with politics and the states of other kingdoms, you hadn’t heard much about her at all. Even if you were older, you’d likely not hear anything more. If she ever engaged in politics, attended balls or kept in touch with other queens across the seas, she was very quiet in doing so. Queen Mara of Hydra — the only time you heard her name spoken was when she passed. As a child, when the severity of death and its impact on kingdoms was so foreign to you.

You assumed Wanda used to serve the late queen; perhaps she was more pleasant than her husband. For Wanda’s sake, you could only have hoped so.

“Thank you, Wanda.” You spoke, voice barely above a whisper. The maid wouldn’t have heard you if she was standing any further away.

But she did, and she curtsied in return. “Of course, Your Highness.”

The bath was nice, you’d admit. Like a warm hug after a long day. Except your day had barely started, and as soon as you were to step out of the heavenly hot water, you’d be pulling on a dress that wasn’t sewed by the dressmakers you’d known since childhood, making your way down to a throne room you were completely unfamiliar with, and meeting a king that you had no interest in ever crossing paths with.

And soon enough, that was where you were.

Stood in the centre of a cold room, face to face with a man you’d only heard terrible stories of.

Wanda had picked out a garnet red dress for the morning. You hadn’t owned many red dresses back on Taria, preferring cooler tones like emerald green and the royal blue attire you’d arrived in Hydra with. And that dress seemed to be the only one that actually fit, your new one pinching tight at the waist. Though when Wanda was only offering you compliments as she combed out your hair and polished your shoes, you weren’t about to complain.

It wasn’t the dress that was stealing the breath from your lungs, however. It was the monarch who sat proudly in his dark throne before you.

Four soldiers either side of the throne stared straight past you, as the king himself stared at you. Sandy blond hair laced with grey fell over his forehead, and he wore a solemn expression as he eyed the new arrival to his kingdom.

“Princess _____ of Taria,” Alexander spoke, the rasp in his voice bringing goosebumps to your skin. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet your acquaintance.”

You remained stoic, refusing to meet the eyes of a king who was more monster than man. As you looked to the right of the throne, you spied Brock among the soldiers too, observing you with interest.

The king soon realised that you were immensely uncomfortable; it wasn’t like he’d expected you to act any different.

He glanced over his shoulder, silently calling Brock over. The commander was at his side almost immediately. So cocky in front of you, and so obedient to the king — typical.

“Take the soldiers outside,” He ordered calmly, before leaning forward to murmur something inaudible to Brock, who nodded firmly, then making a swift exit with the ever-submissive soldiers behind him.

Soon enough, you and the king were left alone. The silence was deafening as you awaited his next words, both reluctantly and with anticipation.

The throne room was so large, so intimidating. Walls scattered with grand portraits of previous monarchs, small square windows barely letting any sunlight pour through; not to mention how your hands were almost numb. It was difficult not to miss the beaming sun in Taria, how it would seep through the curtains on a bright morning, how the warmth would dance across your skin and the light would reflect in your eyes.

It was almost as if Hydra completely blocked it out.

The king exhaled, clasping his hands in his lap as he leaned back in his seat. “If you have anything you would like to say, by all means, don’t keep quiet on my account.”

Considering him for a moment, you tightened your jaw. It was like he could sense the hundreds of questions swarming your mind. While you worried that he wouldn’t be so impressed with what you wanted to say to him, he couldn’t reprimand you for anything. Not when you were to marry his son. Anything you said wouldn’t matter once you left the room; he’d had your fate in his hands since the moment you were born.

Your eyes flit to his, tears burning at the back of them. “My parents were desperate for your help—”

“And I helped them.” He commented nonchalantly; his disinterest feeling like a slap to the face.

“You took advantage of them,” You corrected him, not appreciating the interruption. “They wouldn’t have accepted your deal if my mother’s life wasn’t at stake.”

Idly fiddling with the rings encircling his fingers, Alexander sighed. “Things have a certain way of falling into place, I believe. I’m not sure it’s a coincidence that your mother happened to go into labour on the same day that her and your father decided to sail across the Heartlen Ocean, stray further from Taria than they ever had before, leaving Hydra’s help as their own hope.”

“This was never meant to happen, I refuse to believe that.” You shook your head. Taria was the only place you’d ever belong. Only selfish men like the king had a true place in Hydra.

“You were born here, Princess. You took your first breath of air in this castle. It was inevitable that you would find your way back.”

“I am not here by choice,” You insisted, resisting the urge to yell, to scream about how much you hated the man in front of you for snatching your life away right before your eyes. “Hydra has allies, with kings and queens that would be more than glad to arrange a marriage between their daughters and your son, yet you chose Taria’s princess before I was even born — why?”

Hydra’s group of allies were certainly limited, but they weren’t the only kingdom that idealised a dictatorship and control over every aspect of their land. The king could have made strong connections with them, people who shared his mentality, his brutal methods. But he didn’t. He did the complete opposite, and that was extremely odd.

The king contemplated answering the question, he truly did. Words hanging from the tip of his tongue. But instead, he waved you off with a steady hand. “The answer to that will be clear in due time.”

You narrowed your eyes, about to protest, but you were soon interrupted by his booming voice unexpectedly.

“Bring in the Asset.”

His stare diverted, until it was focused on something behind you. Heavy footsteps clambered outside the room, along the echoey hall until they reached the doors of the throne room. They opened with an eerie creak, and upon throwing a look over your shoulder, your breath immediately hitched.

Three soldiers stood either side of, well, another soldier. But he wasn’t like them, not at all. His presence managed to freeze you in your stance, unable to fully turn around.

He was tall, a great deal taller than the other soldiers. Dark, untamed locks fell around his angular face, framing his sharp jaw and chiselled cheekbones. And he was so broad. The soldier attire almost looked more fitting on him, with his wide shoulders and muscular thighs. Protecting his shoulders were the same metal plates, with that same red star imprinted on the left side. A gasp almost escaped your lips when you noticed his arm, shimmering silver even in the dull light. The man, he couldn’t be another mere soldier. And he wasn’t — they called him the Asset.

For some reason, they wanted you to meet him.

With a proud expression, Brock met your eyes as he led the soldier in your direction, stopping only a foot away before he stepped to the side.

You swallowed, forcing your body to turn around, and you were met with perhaps the only splash of bright colour in the castle.

Azure blue eyes pierced into yours, making your palms clam and your knees weak. Unlike the other soldiers, he didn’t just stare past you; he stared through you, with eyes that were so blue yet so dim. His features remained blank, but even then his eyes burning into you made you feel small, almost too seen.

“I understand that you never took on a personal guard in Taria,” The king spoke from behind you. “I won’t be as foolish as your parents to leave you without one here.”

He gave a nod to Brock, who stepped towards you and the soldier, waving the other soldiers away with a hand. A grin tugged at his lips as he turned back to you. “The Asset is the best soldier we have. His only mission is to protect your life at all costs.”

Your brows pinched, and you just about managed to pull your eyes from the soldier’s to Brock’s. “Am I in such a state where I need a guard with that sole mission? Your best soldier, at that?”

“There are some cruel people living in Hydra, Princess. We wouldn’t want any of them getting their hands on you.” The man answered, practically smirked, knowing you’d already fallen into such hands.

But he was right, in a sense. Hydra’s royals weren’t exactly immune to danger. Rebellions were rare, but another one at any given time wasn’t an impossibility. Especially if the rebels believed your parents had chosen for you to marry into Hydra’s kingdom — you were fresh blood, and that made you an easy target for them.

If it wasn’t the rebels trying to hurt you, it’d be those that could simply for the fun of it. Because crime was so normalised there; everyone was constantly on edge, scared for their safety when night fell and silent shadows began to rome the unprotected villages. It was no way to live.

“He’ll be at your side at all times,” He continued. “Day and night; he’ll only rest when he must. Refer to him as ‘soldier’ and nothing else; he’s a guard, not your friend.”

You wouldn’t have expected anything else.

The king perked up from behind you, almost making you flinch. “Soldier, take the princess back to her chambers. A maid will arrive shortly with a meal for her.”

Huffing quietly, you glared over your shoulder. Apparently they weren’t stripping you of your freedom gradually, but completely all at once. Wonderful.

His expression remained nonchalant as he tipped his head at you. “I’m afraid my son is dealing with political affairs out of the kingdom today; he won’t be in attendance tonight. You’re to meet Isaac at breakfast tomorrow. I can assure you, he is looking forward to the pleasure of your company.”

If only you could say the same.

Your eyes turned back to the soldier, who had already spun around and was ready to comply with the king’s order. Soon enough, he was leading you out of the grand room, back to your sombre chambers.

The walk was silent; he wouldn’t talk to you, of course — it wasn’t in his job nature to do so. Even him, a tall, cold-eyed, man who was more muscle than anything else, was so obedient. Too obedient. So compliant that his expression never changed, he wouldn’t speak to you because he’d been strictly ordered not to, and his sole purpose was deemed to be the protection of your life. And he didn’t bat an eye. You wondered why. Why they were all soldiers first and humans not even second, but never at all.

You thought about the truth behind the soldier’s cold exterior for the rest of the dreary day.

Back in the throne room, seconds after he saw you wind around the corner into the dark corridor with your guard, Brock approached his king with a questioning crinkle in his brow.

“Your Highness, while I would never doubt your methods, I’m concerned that without a routine mind-wipe, we may begin to lose control over the Asset.”

Alexander considered his words. “Truthfully, I believe his brain has been tampered with enough to permanently erase his past from his mind. Alas, if he begins to show signs that his memory is recovering, you’ll know what to do.

As long as the princess doesn’t get any foolish ideas, the Asset shouldn’t pose a problem to us at all.”

[geminimoonbeamx]

Moon lit Serenades

A/N: Dedicated to the reader, may you find happiness. I am so nervous for TROS, I saw a rumor that Poe dies and lost it. That plus the fact that there is literally no Plus Sized ReaderxPoe community? I had to remedy that. This is porn.

Warnings: This is porn. Serious smut from pretty much start to finish. Please enjoy.

Summary: Poe seeks comfort after a particularly hard mission in the only way he knows how. A Poe x Plus Sized Reader story

I am a moth, who just wants to share your light.

I’m just an insect, trying to get out of the night.

I only stick with you, because there are no other’s.

You we’re all I need.

I’m in the middle of your picture.

Lying in the reeds- Radiohead 

War had finally caught up with Poe Dameron.

Had finally taken it’s toll, and far more then it’s chunk of flesh. Battle wary and blaster shocked, it was hard to think of the resistance these days as just that- a resistance. No, this was more of a bloodbath.

War.

He’d never thought of it like that before, always held his head high, a defiant flame in his eyes. This was fuck the system- fuck the First Order. Fuck anyone who tried to tell him what to do. He was willed, motivated by the sheer rage that anyone would have to live their life in oppression. Under the thumb of Snoke or Phasma, dead and gone now- Hux and Ren hopefully to follow sooner rather than later.

And that fire to see them fall was still there...but it was dimmed.

Had been stomped on, choked out.

Watching people you love die for you, because of you on a daily basis...it wasnt something he’d wish upon anyone. Friends, family. Allies, brothers and sisters in arms. His fleet which had once flourished with dozens of pilot’s was down to a mere handful of lucky ones.

He was willing to breathe and bleed for the cause. It was in his blood- the sticky substance that matted his dark hair to his head as he climbed out of his X-wing. His parents had been the same.

Was he willing to keep watching others die for it though?

He couldn't stop form pondering the question as he and his unit arrive back to the makeshift base, in the middle of nowhere on a planet in the outer rim- the name of it he could barely pronounce. The shabby hut like quarters made the memory of D’quar and its green covered everything throb longingly in his gut.

That seemed so long ago, now.

No matter. No time for getting attached. They’d be on the move again within a fortnight, never staying any one place longer than a month at a time. Rey usually kept them one step ahead, connected to Ren through the force in a way that made Poe’s stomach churn, but that came in handy with them not getting caught.

Thinking about Kylo Ren always made him sour from the inside out. Muscles clenched in memory of the torture he’d endured at the hands of what used to be Leia’s son, but was now just a shell with his dead fathers nose and the mark of his dead uncles betrayal on his black soul.  

Poe would kill him in an instant if he got the chance. He prays to fuck that one day he does.

Clenching his fingers into fists is painful right now- the small mission had gone awry and they’d had to punch their way out of it. Literally. He’s feeling the aftermath of it all over, aching and sore.

He doesn't have it in him to attend the debrief. Can't muster the will, not right now. Maybe after a hot shower, maybe after he gets some food in his stomach and allot’s himself a moment to wallow. He forces himself to stand straight, spine elongated in a way that has his bones and muscle screaming.

Poe tries not to limp, as he scurries away to lick his wounds. He fails.

“Poe, you need to see a medic!” Finn insists, somewhere behind him. Always worried, always caring. Poe has nightmares about the night that he eventually loses him, too.

“Don't worry, I will” Finn wonders how someone who looks like they’re going to keel over at any moment- can manage to sound so cheeky.

Rey, who stands beside Finn, bruised bleeding herself wonders if he realizes that Poe is on the verge of tears. The pilot rippling and vibrating so hard she could feel it, taste it on the air.

Neither of them say anything though. The just watch him disappear into the stormy, starless night.

----

Sleep isn't something that comes easy to you as of late.

Not only did you spend your days(and most hours of your nights, too) in the Med Bay, you had never been the kind of person that could handle big changes, sharp adjustments. This hop forts every couple of weeks trend was killing you.

Your mind couldn't relax, R.E.M. State was always just out of reach.

Especially when he was gone...which also seems to be a trend these days. The missions just kept getting longer and longer- the time that he was on base shorter and farther between.

But it was raining tonight- the soft rhythmic  pitter patter of it on the roof of the hut reminding you of your home planet, you could almost pretend you were there; the smell of petrichor tricking your brain. Making it easier to curl up on the bed that was really more of a cot and cozy into the Resistance standard blanket.

For the first time in two weeks- you sleep. Hard. Like a rock. The exhaustion finally overtaking your body, and putting you out of commission. General Organa was right to send you back to your bunk, physically removing you from your post.

You feel kind of, extremely, guilty for the attitude you’d thrown at her -

“I’m fine, if I don't do my job, who’s going to?”-

aimed her way even though she didn't deserve it. She was right, of course. She tended to be most of the time. Why anyone ever doubted her, why you ever doubted her, you didn't know.

The sleep is dreamless, just the way you prefer it...you hadn't always, but nothing was better then the nightmares. Nothing is far from peace, but close to quiet. A middle ground that could be called purgatory, depending how you looked at it.

So when there's a knock at your door, the wooden one that gave you more privacy then you’d had in months, that wakes you from your much needed slumber, you can't help but feel the irritation surge through you. Your hypothetical feathers bristled as you huff and puff and pull yourself out of bed, yanking a pair of breezy sleep pants up your chubby legs and a robe over your shoulders- not wanting to answer whoever it was in the near nude.

When you pull open the door- well, it was the one person who wouldn't have minded if you had greeted him in your panties.

“Poe?” You question, because your eyes still haven't adjusted, your mind still three fourths asleep and one fourth confused.

“Yeah, it’s me, sweetheart” And oh? Sweetheart? In that gravelly voice, tired and worn and fragile...you're instantly aware of what kind of state he’s in.

When you pull him inside, flipping on the light orb, and are able to see him. Clearly now; all bloody and bruised, you inhale sharply. His eye is blackened on the same side of his face that seems to be saturated in crusted crimson.

“Stars, Poe” You whisper as you crowd him, urging him to sit on the cot that’s still warm from your body heat. Poe frowns, pretty lips pulled down as he takes it, and you in. Your hair rumpled, your robe falling off your shoulder as you gather medical supplies from what seems like all over your small “room”

The first thing you do is take out a small capsule full of neon blue liquid from a jar and hand it to him. He takes it gratefully, tossing it down the hatch before you can even offer him water. Painkillers aren't the easiest to come by since they’ve been on the move.

“I woke you up, didn't I?” He inquires, after he swallows.

“Obviously” You answer as you step back into his orbit, close enough that he can smell your skin. That his eyes can trace each of the freckles that dot across your nose, your cheeks. You put your finger under his chin and tilt his head up, and fuck, isn't that a pretty view?

“I’m sorry” He whispers, hissing between his teeth as you, gently but deftly, begin to clean his head.

“Mmm, it’s fine. I’m awake now,  Kriff Poe, you look like warmed over shit. This gash in your hairline is going to need stitches” You’re focused, wiping and dabbing as you speak.

He didn't realize, until that moment, just how much he missed your voice.

“Your bedside manner is spectacular as ever” He grins as he says it, even though it hurts to do so. His busted lip is next on your itinerary.

“Well when you show up at my bedside and not the other way around, I’m pretty sure that changes up the rules”

“Didn't you miss me...at your bedside, that is?” He pushes on, he wants you soft and sweet for him but he knows from experience it takes a bit to get there. Especially since he’s been gone so long.

“Stop distracting me” You mutter. You're only half pretending to be completely focused on the task at hand, at this point you could probably stitch a wound with your eyes closed.

“M’sorry” He’s not. It’s selfish, but he really isn't. He’s not sorry for barging in on you and waking you up, or for sitting in your bed reeking of blood and days worth of dirt. How can he be, when this feels so good? Your soft little hands working at him, healing with every touch. There’s no hurt when he’s around you- only good.

The painkiller makes the edges fuzzy, makes the fact that your repeatedly pulling a needle through his skin seem mild. It’s not like it’s his first time getting sewn up, and he highly doubts it’ll be his last.

Poe can't stop staring at you, dark eyes hooded. Hungry in a way that he doesn't care to hide. Drinking you in, gulping. It’d been almost a month and he was dying to get his fill. Your round body, nothing but curves and dips that he was itching to touch, is mostly covered, but the robe is still hanging off your shoulder. Satin skin exposed, so pretty and pristine.

It’s almost out of his control when his hand skims up our arm, skin seeking out skin. His palm sears as it settles on your upper arm. The plush flesh so soft under his calloused hands that he’s almost worried that it would give if e pressed down too hard.

In the back of his mind he knows better, though. Recalls just how much you can take.

“Poe” You warn tightly, lashes fluttering as you shoot him a look. One that makes him chuckle, because you're not fooling him.

He’ll play, mostly because he wants to, but he knows you missed him as much as he missed you.

You wonder if he can feel the way that you're trembling, already shaking for him. It’s stupid, you feel stupid, and yet you cant stop it. You have healers hands, medic’s hands- and at least you can get them to stay still as you finish with his head, then his lip.

Going insane from the simplest touch, from the way that he rubs his thumb in circles over and over on your upper arm. You remember when that would have made you uncomfortable, big arms that you wanted covered at all times used to be a big no-no.

But with Poe it was different. He wasn't there to judge. He just wanted to feel.

You don't want to pull away, but you have to. Your brain is torn, but ultimately resorts back to it’s resting state: health driven. Medically inclined.

“You need to go take a shower, wash the rest of the blood out of your hair. The hot water will help to start to bring down the swelling” you instruct, and it would be how you talked to any patient. Except for the way you cradle the side of his face, your voice breathy as you touch is thick locks that are greasy. A bit tangled.

Poe nods, he knows your right. Knows he should have done that before he even came here…

“Can I come back?” It’s hopeful, he spits it quick- desperate.

It feels like someone yanked, hard, on a loose thread inside your chest.

“Always. You know that”

--

While he showers, forced to go a few huts over to the community bathrooms, you’re a flurry of anxious thoughts and movement. Tidying up the small space and yourself the best you can. You’d showered earlier in the evening, using the last of the last of the Obsidian Lily oil that you’d carried with you. You still smelled good, pretty.

Your hair was wild, but not untamable and you end up brushing it smooth. You hadn't shaved since before he had left and curse yourself for not doing so earlier. How were you supposed to know that he was coming back tonight? Growing up on your home planet, there was a moss based soap that everyone used that minimized body hair. But still…

You wished, like you had more than once, that you could be better for him.

You're trying to swallow that horrid ugly little thought back down when your door opens, Poe not bothering to knock this time. Barges in, and he seems a bit more like himself in that moment.

His hair has gone back to his natural curls, thick and bouncing, dripping and the navy, loose materialed sleep clothes hang on him. Dont cling to him with dirt and sweat...all and all, he looks so much better.

Or so you think. Until you see him in the right light, his top falling open and revealing his chest.

“Poe!” You exclaim and his thick brows furrow, he had been drying his hair with one of your spare towels.

“What?”

“Take off your shirt” You demand and one side of his lips pull up- a smirk that doesn't meet his eyes.

“You know if you ask me nicely, sweetheart, I’ll give you whatever you want” It’s a purr, a ploy. Many a person- male, female and Wookiee had fallen for that charm of his. Your own name thrown in that pot.

But he was hurt, had to be in pain, and that thought cut through the others that that coy tone had stirred up.

“I’m serious, that bruising looks deep- why didn't you show me this earlier? You could have internal bleeding! Something could be broken”

Poe would never let it be known, would deny it to the ends of the galaxy...but he loves the way you fret over him. It makes him feel warm.

“Okay- Okay!” He sighs as you start to reach for him demandingly, knowing that you'd pull it off yourself if he didn't. There's a handful of winces as he tugs the fabric up and over his shoulders. You’re silent the whole time, and then for a long moment after.

“Oh...baby”

It’s the first time you've called him that tonight. In weeks. The first time an affectionate name has slipped from your mouth.

You can't help it, can't help the overwhelming feeling of...horror. Of shock and worry. His tanned chest and abdomen are hard, dusted with ebony hair that matches that of which grows from his scalp...and covered in bruises.

Four huge patches of yellow, and black and purple and blue...he looks like a fucking water color painting. You’d seen him in some pretty bad states over the years, and this was up there with some of the worst. The worst? Well you didn't like to think about that particular bloody day.

You reach out, fingertips tracing the purple bloom on his left ribs.

“It’s not so bad” And that’s Poe in a nutshell. Always trying to convince not only the people around him, but himself, that things were going to be okay.

“That one’s a deep tissue bruise” You point out to him, fingers gently probing, trying to detect if anything is broken “It has to hurt like a bitch, it’s going to get worse before it feels better”

“Not so bad” He loves the way you're touching him, and his hand, that big paw, goes to our waist. Holding you. Urging you to keep going “Those painkillers are something else”

You snort through your nose. He’s something else- you tell him of that fact, often.

Poe can only be so patient, can only allow you to touch him, feather light, for so long. Eventually, his impulses win out. Just like the always do.

You’re almost done, checking his bones, when he grabs your hand, envelopes it in his large one. It’s still for a moment- the air sparkling with energy. His eyes are mahogany, dark wood. Deep forests as they stare down at you.

The want in them is raw, unbridled.

“I missed you, so fucking much. Every day. Have I told you that yet?” His words, mixed with the timbre- vehement. Honest. It makes you want to squirm.

“No- you haven't” You wish your voice at that moment wasn't so anxious, weak and almost a whisper. Something about Poe had always brought this out in you. He was so bright, beaming. Everyone around him flocked to him, in hopes of just being able to taste a fraction of his light.

Sometimes, you still couldn't believe that he let you fill your cup, that he sought you out, parted the crowd for you.

You had never been a weak woman; had never let your weight or your too loud opinions or your tendencies to be overly emotional make you feel small, or less then...but being with Poe-- the level of intimacy was suffocating.

You felt burned up. Icarus who flew too close to the sun, who willing allowed himself to be burned up just to feel its warmth for a moment...you could relate.

“I did” Poe continues “I missed the way you feel, the way you taste-”

You close your eyes at that, images of the last time you’d gotten a moment alone with him, of a head of dark curls between your legs, assaulting you. Smacking you right in the face.

“-You taste so good, Y/N. Should've bent you over when you came to say goodbye. You would've let me, huh? Let me get one more taste- you have no idea how bad I want to stick my tongue inside of you. All the time. No one else gets to taste, right?”

Poe is well on his way to being rock hard, already. It had taken all of him to not jerk off in the showers.

“No one, Poe. You know that” you’d meant to tell him to fuck off, that you didn't belong to him. That he couldn't just have you whenever he wanted you. That came out instead.

“I need you” He tells you, roughly “feel how bad I need you, Y/N, fuck” he still has your hand in his grasp, againts his chest. When he begins to slide it downward, you know where its destination will be.

That doesn't stop the thrill, the flip flop of our tummy that comes with Poe pressing your hand to his crotch, hard and hot. The thin pants the only layer between your palm and his erection.

“You’re the only one who gets me like this, I need you to make it better, Y/N”

The switch is flipped then. Hard.

You’re surging forward, and he's meeting you halfway, your mouths slotting together. Lips and tongue, so much tongue. He talks all about how you taste, but stars, the way he tastes is intoxicating. Want to suck the taste of him off his tongue, off his cock.

Its blurry and ferocious. Hands everywhere. Touching, grabbing. While you are gentle with him and his tattered body, he doesn't extend that same sentiment. He’s groping, fingertips bidding into flesh. Groaning into your mouth as he clutches your thick, dimpled thighs. Reaches around to squeeze our ample ass.

Best ass in the galaxy, he'd write fucking sonnets about it, if he was good at anything but flying.

Clothes are shed, way too fast you worn Poe who doesn't listen. Because he never does- and he ends up hissing in pain, and relenting, sitting on the cot and letting you take off his pants. Slowly. You make it up to him by standing over him, grabbing his hands and guiding them to strip you. Slow drags of fabric over supple skin.

You’re so fucking sexy, and he tells you so as he urges you into his lap, you stay on your shins to mind his middle. Poe worships with his words. His fingers and lips do their fair share of praying next.

“Fuck I missed these the most” your breasts are large, heavy globes. Puffy sweet nipples are pebbled and just begging to be sucked on. He licks them messy, wet before he does just that; sucks them into the hot cavern of his mouth.

“Oh, oh, ugh” Your hands are twined in his hair, dripping down onto his thighs already, when Poe feels the wetness drip on him, his fingers go searching, hand pressed in between your thighs. Fingers slipping through sopping, heated flesh. You grasp, a high sound as he presses up and circles your clit, firm and pointed.

It’s so good, pleasure shoots down your legs, all the way to the tips of your toes.

It’s not enough. For either of you.

“Poe, fuck. Please” He’s injured, and you know it hurts him to do, and you should scold him for it, but when he manhandles you, flips you easily onto your back to that he can climb on top and situates himself between your thighs-

It’s just as hot as it always is. You know you have to be dripping down onto the cot, can feel your slick covering your thighs, slipping down your crack.

Kiss, Kiss and Kiss and Kiss and Kiss and…

You get lost in it, caught up in the way his stubble burns. His fingers slide back inside you and he watches your face as he crooks them, pumps them fast. Finger fucks you until you’re sobbing, letting out animal sounds.

“Do you still have the implant” he pants, head swimming. He gets like this when you let him make you feel good- wants to go down on you, but wants to be inside you even more.

“No, I took it out in the last few weeks” You’re cheeky, even with his fingers burried inside you. He loves that about you, “Of course I do, Poe”

You’d be damned before you ever brought a child into this world.

Poe holds your thighs wide, staring between them, your pussy wet and clenching around nothing. You’re so vulnerable for him, it makes you dizzy. He lines himself up, clock head dipping into your slit, resting against your hole, when thrusts inside of you it’s in one fluid movement.

You mewl, so full it’s hard to breathe and Poe makes a punched out sound. Like he’d been shot by a blaster in the chest and his hips start undulating, needing to be deeper. It feels so right inside of you. Feels safe. He wants to tear into your softness, rip you open and nestle inside. Settle himself in your bones.

You let him take what he needs, how ever he needs it. On your back, on your hands and knees. You bounce on his cock when he gets to achy,letting him run his hands all over your tummy, sides, breasts.

He can have it all.

After, the two of you lay spent, cuddled tight to one and other in the small cot. Standard issue thrown over your naked bodies, the sound of the rain starting up again mixed with Poes breathing is a lullaby you hadn't known you needed.

This...thing between you might have started as a way for both of you to numb the pain. To seek support. But it was more now. You were so in love with him that it made your eyes sting if you thought about it for too long.

“You’ll always come back to me, right?” Its so, so timid that he almost doesn't catch it and you almost hope he’d miss it.

Poe does what he always does; tries to convince you both that it’s going to be okay.

“Always”

You let yourself believe him.

Well I wasn't expecting this to turn into pure porn, but here we are lmfao. I loved writing for Poe and there will definitely be more of him coming soon! If you are able- listening to All I Need by Radiohead and the Hot Like Fire cover by the XX really sets the tone for this. I actually dropped a line from hot like fire in this- who can point it out?lol

As usual, I'm going to ask that if you can please give me some feedback. I truly love interacting with my readers and would love to hear your thoughts and opinions.

[goodomensblog]

Afterward - Part 10

A Good Omens Choose Your Own Adventure Fic

Here’s how it works:

I’ll write a scene.

At the end of each scene, you’ll be presented with 2-3 options for what the characters will choose to do next.

Comment or reblog to vote for your choice. I’ll count all votes after the first 24 hours after each update is posted.

Read: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9

(#1 won this round! It’s heist timeeee)

Afterward - - Part 10

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

“...so, in summation, we, well - slightly bent the rules and kept the jar of Hellfire.”

“How?”

“Swapped out the real jar with a fake and,” Gabriel shrugs, “the demon didn’t notice when he brought it back. Truthfully, the poor guy seemed a little-,” he stops, awkwardly grimacing as he taps a finger against his head.

“Idiot,” Beelzebub hisses, fingers curling, piercing the couch with jagged holes.

Gabriel waves a hand, and the shredded couch knits together.

“Works out for us though,” Crowley says.

Beelzebub, slumping in exhaustion, manages a nod. Extending a sharp nail, they reach out, poking a fresh hole in the newly repaired couch.

Aziraphale, glancing down, presses a staying hand on Beelzebub’s wrist. 

“Rest,” he counsels. “Save your energy. We don’t know how long it will take Gabriel to return with the Hellfire.”

‘Me?” 

Three sets of eyes are, at once, glaring at the Archangel.

“Obviously,” Crowley says, breaking the silence.

“Hey - I already told you it was here. I could have easily kept that to myself.”

“You are literally the only one here who can get it,” Crowley replies, incredulous.

“Yeah, well, I’m not going to,” Gabriel says, crossing his arms. “You all don’t even know what’s been going on in Heaven today. Frankly, it’s a mess. In fact, I should be out there right now, you know, doing my job. People are on high alert. It’s a whole thing. Even I couldn’t just walk on in and take the Hellfire.”

“Gabriel,” Beelzebub says, forcing their weak voice loud. “I’m not - I’m not asking you for a favor. I know - I know you wouldn’t - If you do this, I’ll pay up - I’ll pay up later. You know I’m good for it,” Beelzebub hisses, forehead creasing in pain. “Anything. Just - ugh,” shivering, the demon heaves a wheezing breath and goes quiet. 

Their dark gaze turns up, dull and half-lidded, as if they already know what the Archangel’s answer will be.

Gabriel had listened, holding himself rigid, posture perfectly straight. And now that Beelzebub has silenced, Gabriel turns his head down, nostrils flaring. He shakes his head.

“I cannot-”

“You can. And you will,” Aziraphale interrupts.

Gabriel turns at the interruption, lips curling into a sneer.

Aziraphale, bracing his hands on the couch, presses up. Beelzebub watches him rise, dark eyes unreadable.

Hands fisted at his sides, Aziraphale turns. Standing straight, he looks at Gabriel, head tilted to meet his eyes. 

“You’ll retrieve the Hellfire. Because Beelzebub is dying. And it is within your power to save them. And because,” and when Aziraphale pauses, drawing a breath, his wings flicker in and out of existence on this plane - and they don’t look quite right - but they’re gone before Crowley can see more than a glance.

“It is the right thing to do,” Aziraphale finishes, head held high.

“You don’t get to decide what is right-”

“I just did,” Aziraphale snaps. His fists are trembling.

Crowley, circling around Gabriel, curls his fingers, knuckles cracking as nails shift to claws. “I’d listen to the angel, Archangel.”

“Fighting will draw attention. Thought you wanted to avoid that, seeing as you are a traitor,” Gabriel says, shifting to keep both angel and demon within sight.

“Oh, I would prefer it, yes. However, I’m starting to think Heaven might be otherwise occupied today. What did you call it? A mess?” Aziraphale asks, stepping into a stance Crowley recognizes. Last time he’d stood like this, he was holding a flaming sword. “So I’m wondering if they’d notice a power surge at all. Especially from the residence of an Archangel.”

Shivers climb Crowley’s spine, because this is a side of Aziraphale he doesn’t get to see very often. Smiling, sharp as a knife, Crowley prowls, matching Aziraphale’s stance.

“Just say the word, Aziraphale,” Crowley calls, gleeful. 

He does usually prefer more creative methods to outright violence. But for Gabriel, who sent Aziraphale to burn with a cold, guiltless smile, Crowley is happy to make an exception. 

“I don’t want to drag you into this, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, eyes on Gabriel as he circumvents the coffee table.

“Please angel, you’d have to drag me out of it.” 

Crowley is moving opposite Aziraphale, keeping the Archangel perfectly between them. 

Gabriel spins, trying to face both of them at once.

“You have a choice to make, Gabriel,” Aziraphale calls.

“I can take you. Both of you,” Gabriel replies, the nervous edge in his voice undercutting his bold words.

“Maybe,” Aziraphale says - as Crowley calls out:

“Can you though?”

Violet eyes flick back and forth between them - and then to Beelzebub, pale and sunken on the couch.

Crowley is almost disappointed to see the fight go out of him. 

Tension bleeding from his rigid spine, Gabriel shrinks back. Letting out a string of sharp, ancient curses, Gabriel drags a hand down his face.

“Fine,” he says, vitriolic. “But I am not touching that damned jar. Someone will have to risk coming with me.” 

Cold eyes look to Crowley.

“Fine by me.”

Aziraphale, gaping, scurries between them. “No - no. Not fine.” Eyes wide, Aziraphale turns on Crowley. “You are not going out there. Not with him.”

“I can probably disguise myself well enough for a quick trip to the - er, wherever. Like Lil’ Gabbie said-”

“That is not my name.”

“Like Gabbers said, Heaven’s preoccupied today,” Crowley shrugs - and it has not escaped his notice that Gabriel has yet to reveal what precisely has Heaven so worked up. 

“They won’t notice me if I take steps to conceal myself. Besides,” and here Crowley pauses, lowering his voice. “Best someone keeps an eye on our favorite Archangel anyway. Ensure he doesn’t make any extra stops along the way.”

“I’m right here. I can hear literally everything you’re saying.”

Crowley, casually flicking his middle finger over Aziraphale’s shoulder, continues.

“Really angel. I’ll be fine. More than fine once I get my hands on the Hellfire.”

Behind Aziraphale, Gabriel shifts, his already rigid posture stiffening.

“Yeah, stop that. I’m not going to waste it on your sorry ass, Archangel.”

“Try it and I’d smite you where you stood.”

And then Aziraphale is turning, and the air is vibrating around them. 

“Touch him and I swear to God that I will end you, Gabriel,” Aziraphale says, the terrible timbre of truth resounding with a buzzing pressure, laying weight to his every word.

Crowley’s skin is prickling - in reaction to both the gathering power and Aziraphale’s words; heart in his throat, he reaches out, placing a staying hand on Aziraphale’s arm.

Electricity sparks between them. It is red - no blue, no, it’s black and white and silver and gold and -

Angel and demon start, pulling apart. 

The electricity fizzles out, curling and twisting into nothing, like smoke from a doused flame.

Crowley glances up, meeting Aziraphale’s startled gaze.

“What…?” 

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale answers, pale and hushed.

Behind them, Gabriel heaves a deep, exhausted sigh. 

“You two had to go fuck up something else, didn’t you?”

“We didn’t-” Aziraphale starts, bristling - then halts, glancing down at his wrist.

Crowley turns his own wrist over, inspecting the cut that is, by now, nearly healed.

“Huh.”

“Yeah huh. Look, I’ll deal with whatever fuckery you two managed to create later. You want the Hellfire or not?” Gabriel glances, as if on impulse, back at the couch. 

Beelzebub’s eyes have drifted closed.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, turning.

“I’ll be back before you know it, angel. Promise,” Crowley says, and believes it - because lying to his angel about something like this would be unforgivable. 

As if he can feel the truth, resonant, in Crowley’s words, Aziraphale stops. Lips pressing together, he looks Crowley up and down. Brows curving, concerned skin wrinkling between them, he says, chin quivering, “Crowley, I-”

“Are we going or not? Come on.”

Crowley reaches out, brushing his knuckles over the back of Aziraphale’s hand. There are no sparks, but Aziraphale, nonetheless, shivers beneath the touch.

“Don’t open the door for anyone, angel,” Crowley says, and with a snap, shifts his body. 

The Archangel Michael stands, slouching, in the center of the room. Pursing golden lips, Crowley removes his dark glasses.

“Seriously,” Gabriel says, flat and exhausted, “What happens if we run into the real one?”

Hands on his hips, Crowley shrugs, arching one of Michael’s manicured brows. 

“I am the real one. I’m walking around with the Archangel fucking Gabriel. The other one’s clearly the impostor.”

Eyes rolling to the ceiling, Gabriel heaves a deep breath. “Fine. Let’s just -”

Beelzebub, reaching out, grabs hold of Gabriel’s pants.

“Ten minutes,” Beelzebub says, voice quieter than a whisper. “Think I can last...ten more minutes. Understand....asshole?”

Gabriel’s expression is impossible to read. Lips pressing together in a hard, flat line, he drags his leg loose of Beelzebub’s grasp.

“Hey,” Gabriel calls with a sharp look toward Crowley and Aziraphale. “Is this happening, or not?”

Crowley, flicking his fingers in a mocking salute, gives Aziraphale one last lingering look. 

“Be back soon, angel.”

“I believe you,” Aziraphale says. Eyes wide, and hands wringing in front of him, he watches as Crowley step up to the door. 

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale calls as the door swings open. “What I said earlier - I meant it. Don’t lay a hand on him.”

Gabriel, casting a withering glance back into the apartment, slams the door.

Tapping a heel against gleaming marble floor, Crowley turns a long look at the arching halls.

Heaven.

“Try not to sully it with your sin,” Gabriel says, and sets off at a brisk pace down the hall.

Crowley, sneering at the back of his head, flips him off with Michael’s manicured hand, and strides purposefully after.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

After six thousand years, Crowley again walks Heaven’s halls….

A fun one this time! Choose how much energy Crowley will devote to “getting along” with Gabriel on their Hellfire acquisition mission:

0% energy - Crowley will be 100% bastard. Because Gabriel is the actual worst and he deserves it.

50% energy - Crowley will be reasonably civil - unless Gabriel is really asking for it. They do have limited time, but Crowley isn’t about to let Gabriel walk all over him.

100% energy - Crowley promised Aziraphale that he would return unscathed. If he has to play nice with Gabriel to ensure his safe return, he will.

Comment or reblog to vote :) (ALSO thank you all so much for voting and participating in this! I just absolutely love reading your thoughts behind why you are voting for any given option.)

Read Part 11 Here

[shutupandshipit]

One More Surprise - Oneshot

Summary: Post battle, Aizawa reflects on his newly graduated students ...... Really, just a plot bunny of a drabble.

Pairing: Bakudeku with background Aizawa/Toshinori

Rating: T

Notes: I have no idea how to summarize this drabble. This is the shortest thing I've written in literal years, and the only reason I did write it was so that it didn't become a plot bunny in the middle of my current projects.

Either way, enjoy angry/protective Midoriya because Aizawa sure didn't.

The plan wasn't supposed to go so utterly sideways. Not that plans were ever supposed to go sideways, but sometimes, it all worked out. Often times when he was with All Might or Present Mic, an inverted plan would invariably work out somehow. This time, it hadn't. This time, the plan had been well and truly fucked.

Aizawa didn't really want to think about the things that had caused the near failure of the mission. The only reason it wasn't a failure is because they'd caught the villain and no one had died. Yet. No one had died yet, but they weren't out of the woods. Well, no, not they. All Might, Present Mic and himself were fine for the most part. Present Mic had ruptured a vocal cord, but would make a full recovery. All Might had gotten caught in the path of a descending blade, but it hadn't hit anywhere vital. He was going to be fine. Aizawa had sustained the worst damage of the three teachers, a broken arm and a knife through the eye. He already knew before they got to the hospital that he'd lost the eye while All Might's filled with blood to mimic his own, but his arm would just need time to heal. The worst they would feel would be the echoes from their pairs' that had gotten caught in the ensuing battle.

No, not they. Their students were far from being okay though.

Sitting at Bakugou's bedside, watching the young man's chest rise with labored breaths from several broken ribs and a repaired lung, he couldn't help but think of how close they'd come to losing him. How close they still were. He'd been in and out of surgery for the past sixteen hours, and each time they seemed to find something else wrong. The first had been to amputate the remainder of his leg, hanging off by only a sinew of muscle, mutilated and infected beyond saving. He'd nearly crashed because his lung collapsed during the surgery. The second surgery to repair his collapsed lung and broken ribs had led to the realization that the infection had entered his body and was beginning to cause organ failure. Several courses of antibiotics and a healing quirk to reverse the infection later, and they'd found several bulging discs in his spine and a spinal fluid leak. That had required yet another surgery.

Post third surgery, Bakugou still hadn't woken up, and now they were worried that his head injury was worse than they'd first thought.

Then there was Midoriya, sporting a missing arm, a ruptured spleen and his own head injury. He'd come out of his surgery without more issues, but as far as Aizawa knew, he hadn't woken up.

Aizawa sighed heavily, slumping further in his chair. They'd really fucked up this time.

Of course, Midoriya and Bakugou weren't their students any longer, but they'd only just graduated. How had they come so close to dying right after graduation? Before they'd found their mates? Really been heroes? Aizawa and the others were supposed to protect them and guide them into that new life.

Instead, he had a whole host of injured post-grads and two in critical condition.

He inhaled deeply, rubbing at his forehead. "My stupid trouble kids," he muttered.

Bakugou shifted on the bed, groaning quietly. "Deku. Deku. Where's Deku?" he muttered restlessly.

Aizawa dropped his hand, staring at the teen to see if he continued, but he seemed to settle back down though he was panting harder than before. He reached out, placing a gentle hand on Bakugou's shoulder. "He'll be alright. Worry about yourself right now."

As he pulled back, there was a commotion out in the hall, and he sighed again knowing somewhere in his bones that the commotion was about to be in the room with them.

'Kacchan! Where is he? Kacchan! Kacchan!'

'Midoriya-shounen, you need to calm down. You only just woke up, and you are still gravely injured. Please, restrain yourself. Bakugou-shounen is not in any state for visitors,' Toshinori said calmly, but as loudly as ever, trying unsuccessfully to calm Midoriya down as he stormed down the hall.

'I'm not going to calm down until I see him! Kacchan! Kacchan!'

Aizawa stood on exhausted limbs, walking to the door and pulling it open to step into the hall. His eye socket was throbbing beneath the gauze, and looking at Toshinori's blood filled eye only made it hurt that much more.

"Midoriya-" Toshinori's head snapped up as he noticed Aizawa at the end of the hall, and before he could stop him, Midoriya whirled around. His face was red and purple, one sleeve of his hospital gown flapping as he marched towards Aizawa.

He stared at Aizawa desperately as he stopped in front of him. "Sensei, please! Let me see Kacchan! Where is he? They told me he almost didn't make it through the last surgery, and he's still in bad condition. Please! I need to-" He inhaled sharply, dropping his chin to his chest as the tears finally spilled down his face. "Please, just let me see him. I need to talk to him, and then- And then-" Sniffling, he rubbed at his face.

"He's not awake yet, Midoriya. Even then, you two should wait until you're more healed-"

"No!" Midoriya burst out again, glaring up at him with the expression of an omega going feral, "It can't wait! I need to talk to him now, even if he's not awake! He'll hear me. I'm being polite here, Sensei, but I'm not asking. I'm going to see Kacchan even if I have to force my way in."

Aizawa wrinkled his nose as the defensive and protective pheromones Midoriya was pumping out, a potent mixture after the events of the day. It was as if Midoriya was protecting his...

Aizawa sighed, staring towards the ceiling as if asking the gods for help. "If he wakes up at any point and you two start fighting or you are too rough with him, I will forcibly remove you from the room." He hadn't even finished speaking when Midoriya ducked under his arm into the room. Toshinori stared at him in confusion as he huffed and turned to follow the teen. "He's only going to get worse if we don't let him see Bakugou. Better to get it over now," he muttered in reply.

Just inside the door, Midoriya was crying harder than before and had collapsed to his knees. "Kacchan, Kacchan, no," he sobbed, crawling across the floor to Bakugou's bedside. "You're so stupid. Why did you push me out of the way? Why? Why? Why? Kacchan-" His voice had dropped into a keening whine as he pulled himself to his feet with his remaining arm and pressed his forehead to Bakugou's shoulder. His fingers twisted into the blanket resting where Bakugou's leg should have been.

When he pressed his nose into Bakugou's neck, Bakugou's heart monitor jumped to a steadier, healthier beat.

Aizawa and Toshinori glanced at each other out of the corners of their eyes.

"Stupid, stupid idiot," Midoriya murmured before suddenly pulling back again. The tears on his face were fresh, a continuous stream, but his expression was one of determination as he leaned over Bakugou. His mouth was full with his canines. For an omega, they were abnormally large, almost the length of an alpha's.

Aizawa had to keep himself from stepping forward to pull Midoriya away. He wanted to see what was really going on because clearly there was. Something neither he nor Toshinori had realized in three years.

"You can't die, Kacchan, do you hear me? You can't die!" Midoriya yelled into Bakugou's face, merely inches from his nose, "How are you supposed to become the number one hero if your dead? How are you going to leave our pup without a father or an alpha? Did you hear what I said, Kacchan? I'm pregnant, and you're about to leave them!"

Aizawa and Toshinori nearly snapped their necks looking at each other this time, feeling the same sort of shock. "Jesus Christ," Aizawa muttered under his breath as his dropped his head into his open palm, "You've got to be kidding me."

Midoriya was still yelling. "You're going to let an extra kill you? You're better than that! I'm the only one allowed to take you out of this world! I'm your mate, and I'm telling you that you're not allowed to die! Do you hear me? You're not. You're not. You're not." Midoriya's voice died away again, replaced with his sobs as he dropped his head back into the crook of Bakugou's neck.

The heart monitor jolted again, Bakugou's breathing picking up just the barest amount.

"Fucking trouble kids," Aizawa growled, staring at the pair. He wasn't sure how he hadn't seen it, not just their mate bond, but the clear as day claim mark on the back of Midoriya's neck right where Aizawa's own was. He hadn't smelt a difference in their scents or sensed a shift in their bodies. He supposed that was because they were already so close when they came to him even if there was a rift the side of the Pacific Ocean between them to begin with.

"Come now, Shouta, we used to be like that too," Toshinori murmured under his breath, subtly shifting closer to Aizawa.

"We were never like that," Aizawa said in a monotone, glaring at the pair. Even so, he traced the scaring of his claim mark with the tips of his fingers.

Bakugou's hand had come to rest on the back of Midoriya's head while they weren't looking, and Midoriya was staring down at him like he was seeing the stars for the first time. "I'm not going to die, you one armed nerd," he croaked, breath wheezing between his lips, "It's going to take a lot more than a D-lister to take me out." He was grinning like he didn't know there was an audience. "You're pregnant?"

"Yeah," Midoriya sobbed, mouth twisted into a painful smile, "Yeah, I am. I made the doctors make sure they were alright."

"How long-"

"A month. I could never find a good time to tell you. I'm sorry. I was scared."

"Shitty nerd, you don't have to be scared of telling me that." Bakugou huffed out a groan of pain. "That son of a bitch didn't kill me, but it sure feels like he fucking did."

"Nearly, trouble kid," Aizawa said, and Bakugou turned hazy red eyes to him, "You've had three surgeries already. You have a lot of rest and healing ahead of you. Same with Midoriya, and apparently there's a third that needs that rest as well. So, cut this heartfelt reunion short, you two. Midoriya, you need to go back to-"

Bakugou's warning snarl was deep and strained. "He's not going anywhere," he growled weakly.

"Bakugou-shounen, be reasonable-" Toshinori began, but Midoriya's own snarl joined Bakugou's in a chorus of complete unreasonableness.

Aizawa threw his one good hand into the air, turning towards the door. "You're not actually my students anymore. I don't have to keep an eye on you anymore. Do what you want. Get in trouble. Get yelled at. I don't care. Just remember you two are literally missing limbs, and one of you had a ruptured spleen just a few hours ago." He stepped out into the hall, Toshinori following fretfully behind him.

They turned just before closing the door, and the pair had already gone back to staring at each other adoringly.

"They're going to rip off a nurse's arm," Aizawa groaned, staring at the ceiling again.

"They'll be fine," Toshinori murmured, scratching at the back of his head.

Aizawa looked at him. "Spit it out, Yagi. You look constipated."

"Did you ever think about having pups?" he asked after a moment.

Aizawa turned, heading towards the nurse's station before answering. "I was too old when I finally found my mate," he said without looking over his shoulder at said mate. Stopping at the desk, he glanced over his shoulder, "Plus, we already have too many troublesome pups as it is." Toshinori was grinning as he turned to talk to the nurse.

[notapaladin]

burn your kingdom down

me: i wrote something with teomitl losing his shit when acatl was killed, let’s have it the other way around this time!

me, 10k words later: oops

tl;dr: Dealing with Tezcatlipoca a second time (see Obsidian Shards) is bad enough, but then...oh, then the Smoking Mirror decides to pay back His personal grudge, and Acatl gets to show him why you don’t ever mess with a High Priest for the Dead. And why you especially don’t do that by threatening Teomitl’s life in front of him. There’s some gore in this!

Also on AO3!

-

Acatl probably should have remained on his guard, but the Empire had finally seemed to be stabilizing itself. Of course he could still feel the boundaries straining around Tizoc’s existence, and of course there was still the terrible fallout of the plague to deal with—nobody in his order had been getting enough sleep, and Ichtaca had outright threatened to hand him over to Mihmatini if he didn’t take better care of himself—but aside from that, there had been no outstanding supernatural cases for him to concern himself with in months. He’d even had time for semi-regular meals at Neutemoc’s house.

And then, naturally, the first bodies started turning up outside the palace, and it all started going downhill from there.

One dead man was bad enough. Two was a pattern. By the time Acatl was summoned to examine the corpse of the third one, still without anything he was comfortable calling a lead, he was starting to get annoyed. In all three the circumstances had been the same—there would be a disused alley or an empty courtyard, clear one moment and hosting a fresh corpse the next. Each one had been left closer and closer to the palace walls, an obvious warning. No—an obvious threat.

At least nobody had disturbed this one yet. The setting sun bathed the courtyard in long shadows, forcing him to work by torchlight, but the magical traces were clear.

“Same as the rest?”

Teomitl stood in the entrance, arms folded across his chest. He’d found the first body and hadn’t stopped scowling since. It only softened slightly when their eyes met, which was something Acatl was not going to think about. Not with murders to solve, at any rate.

He’d long since dropped to both knees for a better look at the latest victim; now he stretched, rolling his shoulders back and wincing at the crack of cartilage. Maybe Teomitl’s on to something with the training regime. Or maybe I’m getting old. “Mm. Strangled, and the heart carved out. And the magic surrounding the corpse isn’t from the underworld.” Still, it felt horribly familiar, and he frowned down at the exposed chest cavity. The knife that had been used to open it had left a shard behind smaller than his littlest fingernail; as he plucked it out, a greasy shimmer caught the light. Not Mictlan’s green, but close.

Teomitl nodded, grimacing. “Tizoc is getting impatient.”

The mental image of Tizoc’s impatience pulled an instinctive growl from his throat as he rolled to his feet, gingerly holding the obsidian shard. While he and Acamapichtli still weren’t what he’d call friends—lately the man had taken to asking after Teomitl’s health in a distinctly insinuating way that made him want to hit something—he remembered Tlaloc’s slain clergy whenever they met, and every time it sent a hot spike of treasonous anger through him. “Hrmph.”

Judging by the look on his face, Teomitl was thinking along the same lines. “And we still don’t know enough to satisfy him. I’ll try to delay him as much as I can, but he’ll want answers.” Then he sighed, eyeing the dead man. “I think I would have preferred a beast of shadows. At least you could track those.”

“I’m not eager to fight another one of those things.” The memories of the last time were entirely too clear for comfort. “Bring that torch closer?”

Teomitl obligingly held the torch closer, frowning over Acatl’s shoulder as he prodded at the knife shard with his priest-senses. Definitely not underworld magic, but I’ve felt this before. I know I have. But where—

He fumbled it, and Teomitl slid a hand under his to catch it before it hit the ground. The reaction as it struck the web of Huitzilopochtli’s protection layered over his skin was immediate; Teomitl hissed through gritted teeth at the flareup of light, and Acatl snatched it back hastily. It had left a red mark behind.

All at once, Acatl remembered where he’d felt this particular magic before. No. Duality preserve us, not again. But Teomitl’s fingers were shaking, and that demanded his attention first. “Are you alright?”

Teomitl glared viciously at his own hand as though it had betrayed him. “I’m fine. What is that thing?”

“A knife shard.” Memories painted themselves across his mind—a bloodstained courtyard in Colhuacan, Ceyaxochitl nearly dying in front of him, striking down a god with the Wind of Knives at his back. “Covered in Tezcatlipoca’s magic.”

For a moment, Teomitl was silent. Acatl wondered what he was thinking; he’d told him and Mihmatini about that particular case once over dinner, but where Mihmatini had been upset at how close he’d come to death, Teomitl had just gone quiet. It was the same sort of quiet he saw in his face now. Then he took a slow breath and squared his shoulders, and Acatl watched as the youth he’d once mentored—the youth he’d once feared would be reckless and uncontrollable and a perfect mirror of Tizoc—became the Master of the House of Darts. “Right. You have our permission,”—he used the royal we, that marker of his status as the keeper of Tenochtitlan’s armory—”to do whatever you have to in order to catch the dog’s son who’s been doing this. I’ll see that you have every resource at our disposal. But you’re not to go off after him alone, understand?”

Acatl blinked, taken aback by the vehemence in his tone. “I wasn’t planning to.”

Teomitl studied the mark on his hand as though it was the most fascinating thing in the world. “Good. I just...I don’t want you to forget you’re not just a simple priest anymore, Acatl. You shouldn’t be charging into things on your own.”

He’d heard Teomitl speak with that tone of angry concern before, but never with so much softness mixed in. And never while saying his name like that. His face burned, and he had to look away. “I won’t. I’ll—I’ll call for you before I make a move, alright?”

“See that you do.”

Acatl was spared from answering by the arrival of his clergy ready to take in the body for further examination, and by the time he looked up again Teomitl was gone.

Things moved very quickly after that.

Yes, the knife shard was definitely impregnated with Tezcatlipoca’s power. No, His priests had no idea where it could have come from and were downright insulted by the notion that it could have been one of them, suggesting it was a rogue sorcerer—which didn’t narrow it down in the slightest. No, nobody knew the dead man; like the others, he’d been a recent arrival to Tenochtitlan, a porter with no connections in the city or anyone who could have wished him harm. The merchant who’d most recently hired him barely even remembered his name.

Acatl did, though. He made sure of it. Quiahuitl, age around thirty-five, born in Tlacopan. No living relatives aside from an elderly aunt, also in Tlacopan, who would probably never know of her nephew’s murder. When he heard that, he thought of his own nieces and nephews and had to take a moment to breathe. I’ll give you justice. I swear. Calling up his soul for answers only gave them a vague direction within the city—south—and no further leads.

But Teomitl was as good as his word, and that helped immensely. In the days following his discovery of the shard, Acatl grew used to at least one seasoned warrior hovering around the gates of his temple; evidently Teomitl had ordered them to put themselves at his disposal, and though he was leery of pushing their loyalty too far he had to admit it was wonderful having extra sets of legs with which to cover ground. Teomitl himself showed up two days into their investigation to see how they were progressing.

...And also, apparently, to ensure Acatl remembered to eat food and catch more than three hours of sleep, which he snapped out in a huff and followed up with “Mihmatini worries about you.” It didn’t in any way detract from the way he was blushing. Acatl ate the meal he’d brought over and tried very, very hard not to think about that.

Mostly he succeeded. There was work to do, after all. Still, he had to sleep, and while his body was exhausted his mind began to race as soon as he laid down. Teomitl was fitting into his role as though it was made for him, arrogance polishing itself into steady authority and his usual impatience visibly kept in check. The more Acatl watched him with his warriors, the more he could hardly believe he’d had a hand in shaping him into the man he’d become. There’d been a moment, backlit by the sun, where he’d looked at him and nearly been bowled over by the depth of his pride.

But it wasn’t pride that kept him awake. He stared up at the dark ceiling without seeing it, because his mind’s eye was full of the long line of Teomitl’s spine, the rippling muscles of his arms and shoulders, the radiance of his smile. His fingers twitched with the remembrance of how badly he’d wanted to take Teomitl’s hand in his. Ah. I still love him.

Looking back, he couldn’t tell when it had begun; it seemed he’d simply woken up one day with the knowledge sitting in his heart like a hot cinder. The sky was blue. Water was wet. He, High Priest for the Dead, was in love with Teomitl. As much as he intended to go on ignoring it—Teomitl was not his to want for so many different reasons, not to mention that there was surely no way under the heavens the man would want him in return—it had a terrible tendency to resurface at the worst moments.

He closed his eyes. It didn’t help. We have a sorcerer to catch. I have murders to stop. This...I cannot be distracted by my feelings. It’s not as though I can ever tell him—gods, he’d probably never speak to me again. I have to forget about this.

Eventually, mind still full, he drifted off to sleep.

&

Of all people, it was Ezamahual who followed the traces of magic to a merchant’s warehouse in Zoquipan. The trail was old—whatever spells had been wrought there had begun to fade—but there was enough for a connection, and after a long night of questioning the people living around it, preparations begun. Its neighbors were all ordinary people with no magical training, but they were entirely forthcoming with what little they’d noticed. There had been tendrils of dark smoke in the air, a chill breeze coming from odd angles, men in plain cloaks slipping into the building in the dead of night when they all knew that the merchant who owned it had been away on business for nearly a year.

Acatl had made a promise to Teomitl, and he didn’t intend to break it. He sent word to the palace.

“We’re ready.”

Since you’re so determined to worry over me, he didn’t say. More and more, he was starting to wonder if the stories he’d shared of his cases before becoming High Priest had actually upset the man. It didn’t seem possible. Teomitl was a seasoned warrior who took enough risks with his own life; surely the idea of Acatl wading into danger wouldn’t affect him so.

He didn’t have much time to ponder it, though, because Teomitl arrived at the head of a small group of warriors barely an hour later. He looked just as resplendent in an ordinary warrior’s padded cotton tunic as he did in the full regalia of the Frightful Specter, and Acatl had a hard time tearing his eyes away. It was worse when he looked over Acatl’s assembled priests and flashed a thin blade of a smile. “Let’s go.”

They went.

Boats might have been faster, but the risk of alerting their quarry wasn’t one Acatl was willing to take. They strode through the city at a measured pace, and he found his gaze lingering on Teomitl’s back. The last time he’d been in Zoquipan…

“He’s mine. Aren’t you, Acatl-tzin?”

He squeezed his eyes shut, shuddering at that memory. He’d forgiven Teomitl, but it was impossible for him to ever forget the sick anger and the fear that had nearly choked him that day. He sent a brief prayer of thanks to the Duality that Chalchiuhnenetl had been effectively banished; Teomitl had informed him in a carefully neutral tone that she was living in Coyoacan now, about as far as you could get from anything and still be technically within city limits. She wouldn’t be breathing any more poison into Teomitl’s ear, and Teomitl had grown past any urges to listen to it. That, at least, would no longer be a problem.

But it was still a distraction, one he didn’t need. He grit his teeth and banished it from his mind. No. I have to focus. The warehouse should be around here.

The buildings grew smaller and more densely packed as they walked, their frescoes less and less elaborate until they finally started to fade out entirely. There was something unsettling about all that blank white adobe, bare of even the shadow of paint. He tried not to let his gaze linger on it for too long. The people, too, seemed faded—not precisely shabby, for this wasn’t a poor part of town, but worn-out and too careful. Old, beaten dogs, he thought. He wondered what else their quarry might have done.

“Hm.” Teomitl had fallen back to walk next to him, and was eyeing the area critically. He’d accepted a sword crafted of proper magical obsidian for this mission; now he rested a hand on its hilt as though contemplating when to lift it. “Does this place feel odd to you?”

Since he’d been trying to get his shoulders to unhunch themselves from up around his ears for the past quarter-hour—despite knowing that he’d dealt with Tezcatlipoca’s creatures before, his body was having other ideas and seemed determined to ring the alarum bells—he grimaced at the question. “It does. What are you thinking?”

“...That this area shouldn’t be this…” He waved a frustrated hand. “Dark. It feels dark. I don’t like it.”

He nodded. “How does your magic feel?”

Teomitl closed his eyes on a slow exhale. When he opened them again, jade reflections swam in his pupils for an instant before vanishing. “It doesn’t feel as though there’s been a curse or anything cast recently, but…”

Just to be sure, Acatl cut his own earlobes and whispered the words of a spell. Nothing. They were still walking down the same quiet street with warriors and priests surrounding them in a tight formation, Teomitl all jade-green brilliance by his side. “I don’t see anything. Stay on your guard.”

Teomitl snorted. “As though I’ve been off it since we got here?”

“You’re not the only one who worries,” he snapped without thinking. He regretted it almost immediately; an argument at this stage would be the farthest thing from helpful, and there was little Teomitl hated more than being an object of concern.

But Teomitl—for once—wasn’t arguing. He turned his face away, but not before Acatl caught the faint tinge of red in his cheeks. “Hrmph.”

He pinched his ears to stop the flow of blood. It was that or give into the sudden, absurd desire to swipe a thumb across one of those high cheekbones and see just how hard that made Teomitl blush. Sternly, he banished the thoughts from his mind. He’d probably take my hand off for the insolence, and I’d deserve it. I don’t have the right.

After a long moment, Teomitl spoke again. “...It wasn’t like this before. I’m sure of it.”

“Oh?”

Teomitl’s gaze slid over the entrances of houses and his warriors’ faces with the same coldness. He didn’t look in Acatl’s direction. “Chalchiuhnenetl wouldn’t have tolerated a thing like this in her domain. Her departure must have created a space for these bastards to flourish.”

He took a breath. “...Do you regret—“

“No.” It came out in a near-snarl. “I only wish I could have removed her from the Fifth World altogether.”

Then he did turn his face back towards Acatl, and Acatl’s breath caught at the look in his eye. He’d seen Teomitl furious, of course, but not like this. Not accompanied by so much self-recriminating guilt, as though by failing his own high standards he’d failed Acatl too. It made something twinge hard in his chest. “...Teomitl…”

Teomitl stiffened, shaking his head. “Never mind. We need to keep moving. You said it’s not far?” At Acatl’s nod, he switched to his usual impatient stride.

Acatl kept pace, unable to stop himself from glancing at Teomitl out of the corner of his eye. Teomitl’s spine was rigid and his muscles tense; he wanted, desperately, to take his hand. He settled for brushing against his arm as they walked, resolutely closing his mind to all acknowledgment of the way Teomitl shivered at the touch. It meant nothing. For his own sanity, he had to believe it meant nothing.

Then another two warriors slipped out of a side street with a nod at Teomitl, falling into step with them as they turned a corner. He knew they were close. As they continued, a ripple of alertness ran through his priests; he felt his own blood turn to ice as a yawning cavern opened in his gut.

“Acatl-tzin?” One of his newer priests drew close, biting his lip.

He set his hands on his knives, feeling the staccato beat of wrong wrong wrong pulse through him. Even his previous encounter with Tezcatlipoca hadn’t made him feel quite this ill, and he willed himself not to retch. The raw emptiness of Mictlan didn’t help much. “We move in. Quietly.” Gods, I hope we’re not too late. The previous murders had all been roughly two weeks apart, but it wasn’t impossible that the perpetrator had decided to speed things up, especially if they felt threatened. And it had taken only four deaths last time for Tezcatlipoca to be summoned into the world.

It’s not the same. He breathed out slowly, seeking calm. All the victims last time had obsidian mirror shards in their hearts, and it looked from the outside as though their hearts had simply given out. These men were strangled, their hearts torn out—it’s not an overreaching god trying to meddle in the Fifth World. No, these deaths were by mortal hands, and mortal hands will avenge them.

They made it within sight of the building—small and nondescript, no windows, exactly the same as every other building on the street—when he felt the tension in the air snap.

He reeled. Around him he was vaguely aware of his priests crying out, heard the confused mutters of Teomitl’s warriors, but he couldn’t respond. All within him was a howling abyss, a screaming tempest that filled his nose with the stench of a thousand funeral pyres and scorched his lungs when he tried to breathe. He dropped to his knees and felt pain radiate up his legs from the impact with the packed earth, but the choked-off scream that gurgled out of his throat had nothing to do with any bodily injury.  

Chaos. This is— He blinked frantically, but his eyes refused to focus. Black spots danced at the edges of his blurry vision, and for a terrible moment he thought he was going to faint.

“Acatl?!”

Teomitl, frantic. He dimly registered strong, calloused hands on his shoulders, but he couldn’t make his own hands work long enough to do anything about them.

“Something’s happened,” he gasped.

Teomitl’s hands left him. He didn’t shout, but the clear authority in his voice must have gotten everyone’s attention anyway, because the noise around them abated. “Stop.”

“Acatl-tzin, are you—“

He forced himself upright on shaky legs, breathing hard. Slowly his vision cleared, and he became aware that his priests, though shaken, hadn’t been affected nearly as badly as he had. There was the occasional magical downside to being a High Priest. “I’m fine. Let’s keep moving.”

Teomitl hadn’t gone far, and now he studied him thoughtfully for a long moment. Finally, he nodded and turned to address his warriors. “You heard Acatl-tzin. Be ready for anything.”

They advanced as a loose unit. Acatl saw hands resting on sword hilts, noticed the way a few of the other priests were nervously hefting their knives.

As they drew closer to the building, he could taste the magic; it hung thick and acrid on his tongue. Pyres. The smoke of an erupting volcano. The blood of jaguars. Obsidian, heated until it melts and then reshaped into—into—gods, no—

He broke into a run.

Of course, the warriors all outpaced him immediately, but he and his priests formed a tight knot hard on their heels. They burst into the warehouse nearly at the same time; he almost ran right into Teomitl’s back when the man stopped suddenly, staring into the dark room beyond. “Southern Hummingbird blind me.”

Then he stepped aside so the rest of them could enter, and Acatl was hard-pressed not to echo him. We’re too late. Duality strike me down for a fool, we’re too late.

The warehouse itself was empty; whatever had been stored there had long since been moved out. In its place, someone had traced a quincunx and glyphs that covered nearly the entire floor, fresh blood covering the old ones until Acatl couldn’t tell what they’d been originally. Sloppy, mused the analytical part of his brain. Or else each ritual was only intended for a single use. He couldn’t tell immediately if all the blood used had been human; if so, it represented far more than the three dead men they’d found.

No, he corrected himself. The four dead men they’d found.

The last one was on the opposite end of the room outside of the array; he had been laid on a curved stone, the better to pull out his heart. Acatl skirted the edges of the room carefully to take a closer look, aware all the time of Teomitl behind him.

The dead man’s blood was still steaming. He knew what he would feel when he touched the skin, but he did it anyway. He needed only a brief moment to confirm his suspicions. “He’s still warm. This happened a few minutes ago, at most.”

One of the priests tilted his head back to glare up at the opening in the roof as though it would provide answers. “Nobody’s here. Surely we should have seen it if they’d climbed out?”

A burly warrior swore and snarled, “We’ve been watching the area all day; nobody’s left!”

Teomitl raised his voice. “Search everywhere—“

Something covered the skylight, and they were plunged into darkness so absolute that Acatl couldn’t even see his own hand in front of his face.

No. Oh, no.

He didn’t dare move. From the noises around him, the rest of their forces weren’t following suit; he heard thuds and curses and a distinct grumble of “That was my foot, Chimalli!” He wondered how they were even finding the words to complain. His own tongue seemed to have been frozen to the roof of his mouth, and he could no more have spoken than he could have sprouted wings.

The air stung his eyes. He blinked, breathed in, and tasted smoke again. Slowly, he regained control of his tongue. “Move towards the entrance. Whatever’s coming, we don’t want to be trapped in here with i—“

A frigid tide of magic knocked him off his feet and sent him crashing hard, back-first, into a rough adobe wall. He curled instinctively to protect his head, but it still rattled him; when he could think again, he registered the burn of scraped skin and a distinct throbbing ache that would no doubt be a spectacular bruise tomorrow. Teomitl. He was next to me. Where…?

He opened his eyes and immediately wished he hadn’t.

The dead man was sitting up. The smoke and darkness that had filled the room had been wrapped around his limbs; Acatl saw the shadows of a jaguar headdress, the crumbling remains of a shinbone and foot wrapped in something like the ghost of obsidian, and felt his insides turn to ice. Around him, the warriors and priests they’d gathered had been flattened to the ground in groaning agony; those who had been furthest from the epicenter were staggering painfully to their feet. None of them had been able to reach their weapons yet. Teomitl had been flung into the opposite wall, and from the way he was favoring one hand Acatl prayed he hadn’t injured something.

It seemed to take an eternity for him to stand and draw his knives. By the time he managed it, Tezcatlipoca had swung His legs down off the sacrifice stone and was looking over the assembled warriors with the air of a nobleman inspecting a merchant’s stall and finding only shoddy goods. “So this is how I am greeted?”

“No.” It was too soft, and he lifted his voice. He couldn’t draw enough breath to scream. “No.”

The god turned slowly, head tilted. The empty space where His heart had been shone green and horrible. “Oh,” Tezcatlipoca said with a rictus grin. “Little Acatl. I remember you.”

It hurt to breathe. He sucked in air anyway. “Then you remember what happened last time, my lord. Let the man go, and return to your place in the heavens.”

“...Hmmm.” Tezcatlipoca’s grin didn’t budge. “I don’t think so. This world deserves a new order.”

Then he opened his arms, and the array flared to life.

The surge of magic brought Acatl to his knees, but that probably saved his life; when the first ashen jaguar leapt from the quincunx, its spots black voids, he was able to dodge its first swipe and slice sideways at its paw, pinning it to the ground and buying himself just enough time to scramble out of range.

Some of his priests weren’t so lucky. He heard screaming, felt the bursts of magical protections activating and living blood hitting the edges of obsidian knives, but he didn’t have time to look. The jaguar still had a second front paw and a set of enormous fangs, and it was doing its best to rip itself free for another try at him.

An arm landed nearly at his feet. One of the screaming voices cut off with a horribly final gurgle. He dropped to one knee again, discovered to his considerable relief that Tezcatlipoca’s jaguars did die when they were stabbed in the throat with magical obsidian, and risked the briefest of glances to see how the battle was going.

It was chaos.

All around him men were fighting for their lives; the jaguars outnumbered them two to one, and though they died like any animal they seemed to get stronger as more blood was spilled. With a spike of horror, he saw one flow around a sword-strike, rippling like water, and savage the warrior holding it. The last time any of his priests had been in battle like this had been when Tlaloc had made his bid for the Fifth World, but the same tactics that had served them well against Tlaloc’s creatures weren’t working nearly as well here. The air was full of a choking miasma that weighed on the limbs, making it hard even for Acatl to breathe; he wasn’t sure how the rest of them were managing.

Teomitl, at least, had had the presence of mind to summon his ahuizotls. He fought surrounded by them, jade-carved and glorious, adding algae and deep water to the stench in the air, and for a moment Acatl had hope. It lasted until a jaguar bit one of his ahuizotl’s heads off, and the magical backlash dropped Teomitl to a knee just in time to grapple with it.

I have to fight. I have to… But there wasn’t enough clear space anywhere for a quincunx, and some effect of Tezcatlipoca’s incarnation seemed to be slowing his thoughts. The god himself was lounging on His sacrificial stone as though it were a throne, watching the battle with undisguised glee, and Acatl hated Him. With effort, he rose and took a step forward.

The wind blowing through his soul rose to a mourning wail, and he gasped at the chill that seized his bones—but when a lament sounded in his mind, he could have wept in relief.

Acatl. I am coming.

He didn’t think he’d ever been so glad to hear the Wind of Knives. We took Him down once. We can do it again.

He flung himself into the fray. All else faded but the need to keep moving, to keep his allies safe. Lord Death’s protection flowed over him like a veil—meager in the face of so many jaguars, but the cold pit of despair under his ribs kept him alert and went some way towards clearing his mind of Tezcatlipoca’s smoke. It, and his knives, would have to be enough to hold them until the Wind of Knives arrived from His cenote. He slit the throat of one jaguar, narrowly dodged the grasping claws of another, and nearly collided with a priest clutching the stump of his arm as the life faded from his eyes.

We’re losing ground. A coil of intestines wrapped around his ankle, and he nearly stumbled before catching himself and turning it into a swipe along the ribcage of a jaguar trying to maul one of Teomitl’s warriors. The man barely had a moment to catch his breath before he was screaming, choked and awful, as another one latched its jaws around his neck.

Another scream cut off behind him. He whirled to meet a jaguar, its jaws bloody, only to recoil as an ahuizotl literally dragged it backwards and went for its eyes. Thank you, Teomitl. But there was another to replace it, and as he fought for his life he heard—felt—a warrior die. A priest was next. Another warrior, this one collapsing in front of him with his face gone.

He sucked in a breath and clamped it behind his teeth before it could escape in a scream of pure rage. No.

He forced himself towards Tezcatlipoca, shutting his ears to the sounds of men dying around him. If I kill him, this ends. He could feel the Wind of Knives drawing ever closer, and when He arrived the tables would turn. They could hold out until then. He was sure of it. He lost a knife in a jaguar’s ribs, picked up a sword from a fallen warrior’s hands and swung blindly, savagely, at anything in his way until it splintered—and he didn’t look behind him or around him, because if he let himself be distracted then all was lost. He just had to get into position for when the Wind of Knives arrived...

It was growing horribly silent. The god was watching the carnage avidly, giggling to Himself as blood splattered the floor—but then His gaze fell on Acatl, and He frowned thoughtfully.

“Hmm...I think not.”

A jaguar bore him to the ground, and he screamed as its claws raked his back. Pinned on his stomach, he couldn’t even twist out of its hold. This is it. He couldn’t breathe. He knew, with distant clarity, that a rib had been broken. Cold, stinging smoke blew over the back of his neck. This is where I die.

“Acatl!”

Jade Skirt’s magic like a flood washing over him. A crunch—the jaguar went limp, heavy dead weight for a moment before dissipating into smoke—and then, before he could even rise, a scream. Teomitl’s scream, raw with pain. A wet thud.

He was on his feet before he even realized he was moving, utterly blind to the searing agony radiating from his ribs through every limb. All the men they’d brought with them were dead or dying, and Teomitl was crumpled on the ground with a jaguar’s bloody claws in his chest. His tunic had been ripped apart, loose fabric dyed crimson with his blood; Acatl couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not.

“Teomitl.” It came out in a flayed whisper.

Teomitl made a sound. It was more of a gurgle than anything else, but it meant he was alive. Barely. Acatl could see the dull gleam of exposed bone and knew that they were out of time. That they wouldn’t be able to stall until the Wind of Knives arrived, because unless Teomitl saw a healer—and gods, he was trying to move, he’d only bleed out faster—he was going to die. That he’d cared for him in a thousand small ways, had made a home for himself in his heart, had just saved his life, and he was bleeding out in front of Acatl’s eyes.

Red rage descended over him, and he lunged for Tezcatlipoca.

The likelihood of his own death, any possible strategy—it all vanished from his mind. All he could think about, all that mattered, was sending Tezcatlipoca back to His place in the heavens as swiftly and as violently as possible. You hurt him. You dared—you dared lay your hands upon—

The raw scream that burst from his throat was cut short when Tezcatlipoca grabbed his arm, His touch like being flayed with dull knives, and tossed him aside like a ragdoll. Acatl hit the ground and rolled, landing hard on his side; all he could do was lay there, stunned, and watch as Tezcatlipoca strolled over to where Teomitl had fallen. “...No...”

Negligently, the god waved his jaguar away. “Oh, stupid mortal. This isn’t like the last time.” His voice was a thing of unholy glee.

Acatl couldn’t move. Everything hurt, and he was sure his arm was broken. Each breath scorched his lungs and sent a nauseous spike of agony through his chest. He could barely even feel his fingers wrapped around the handle of his knife. If he’d had enough breath, he was sure he’d be weeping.

And the god was still talking. “You see, this time, little Acatl...I don’t have a heart for you to stab.” He knelt over Teomitl’s prone form and grabbed his jaw, cruelly forcing his head up so Acatl could see his face. “So I’m going to take the man who holds yours. I think that’s a fair trade.”

No.

No.

It beat in his head like a heartbeat, and he couldn’t think past the enormity of it. “You can’t.” Somehow he got his feet under him and pushed himself up with his good arm. He nearly slipped in a puddle of blood; though he caught himself on one knee, it winded him, and he had to take a moment to breathe. “I—will not—allow it.”

Tezcatlipoca laughed, high and cruel. “You can’t stop me.”

Acatl closed his eyes. He didn’t have time for a long ritual; he could barely focus on the words of even the simplest spells. The Wind of Knives would never arrive in time. All he had was a single knife and raw determination.

And he was High Priest for the Dead facing an inhabited corpse, a transgressor of the boundaries he kept, in a room full of men whose living blood was still dripping from the walls to soak into the floor.

Yes. I can.

His fingers tightened on his knife hilt, feeling the ridges of the leather cord wrapping for an instant before he opened himself up to the power stored within the underworld obsidian, that direct connection to Mictlan he’d only ever called on once before. It didn’t get easier the second time. The bottom dropped out of his stomach, rage draining out in favor of a deep, hollow emptiness. He felt dry dust under his fingers, felt the way his bones ached and shifted under his skin. In his mind rose the lament of lost souls carried on a chilling, biting wind. We go down into the dust, into the darkness. We go down, Lord of the Place of Death, to stand before Your throne.

There was a ritual he’d been taught when he ascended to his place as High Priest, one that had almost never been used in the history of the Empire. There was fresh, wet blood on his hands.

His eyes snapped open. The skin of his hands was smoke and translucent obsidian, gray dust like clouds where the fibers of muscle should be. He could make out his own bones underneath it all, glowing like distant torches or the last shimmers of moonlight at the bottom of the lake. The faintest breeze in the air brought the dying whispers of a ghostly lament to his ears, stirring the loose ends of his hair.

Tezcatlipoca was still smirking, gently amused. “Good, you’ve decided to watch while I kill him. I knew you were no coward.”

The blood splattering the floor pulsed like a heartbeat. In, out. In, out. The blood of a dozen men slain in battle, their souls not yet delivered to the Sun’s Heaven. One living High Priest with a blade of underworld obsidian to direct the flow of magic.

“O Lord,” he breathed, “I deliver this transgressor to You.”

He saw the exact moment Tezcatlipoca realized what he was going to do; the god’s eyes widened, and then He was flowing towards him like a jaguar Himself, all smoke and teeth and fury. In a moment He’d be on him, and then they would stand no chance.

Acatl slashed open the back of his hand, tracing a quincunx in his own blood, and slammed it down onto the nearest dead man’s face.

The man’s spirit erupted from his cooling skin. His comrades’ souls joined his, flowing out of open mouths and open wounds like smoke. Those who had lost limbs were limbless now; those whose heads had been torn off were headless. Gaping wounds bled gray, powdery dust into the air. They formed a wall around Acatl, but he could still see through them—could see Tezcatlipoca stop midstride, could see Him slowly and instinctively take a step backwards as though freezing in place would protect Him.

The ghosts descended, and the god screamed.

There were words in that scream—something about how he was going to reign, how they had no right to stop him—but Acatl was past caring about it. All he could do was hold onto the magic running through him, the underworld flowing in a torrent through his veins. While he focused, the ghosts would maintain their forms and their connection to the Fifth World, and he couldn’t let them go until it ended. Until the sliver of Smoking Mirror’s power was fully severed from the body He’d borrowed, banished back to the Heavens.

His lungs burned. His heart beat slow and sluggish in his chest. He rose and took a step forward, and it felt like he was moving through tar.

He spoke, and the syllables lay on his tongue like the finality of the grave. “Your time is not yet come.”

He felt it when Tezcatlipoca’s presence in the Fifth World vanished; the smoke and ash in the air dissipated, and the heavy mist that had hung over his mind began to clear. When he breathed, he smelled only blood and fresh death. As the body dropped—now only so much meat—he took another breath, filling his lungs, and ran the flat of his knife over his bloody hand until his connection to the underworld was severed.

The ghosts left gratefully, voices like the rustling of dry leaves. Thank you. Thank you, priest.

He wobbled on his feet, drained down to the marrow of his bones. He felt halfway to being a ghost himself; for an instant it was hard to remember who he was or what still had to be done.

Then it came back to him in a flash and he ran, stumbling through gore and fatigue, to Teomitl’s side.

Teomitl was still laying where he’d fallen, one hand pressed to the ruin of his torso. Up close, the extent of his injuries took Acatl’s breath away. He’d been mauled; a drawing swipe of razor-sharp claws had opened his chest to the bone and continued all the way to his stomach, deep enough to slice through the muscles of his abdomen. As Acatl approached, he turned and blinked blindly in his direction. “Ah...Acatl…”

Acatl dropped to his knees next to him, tearing off his cloak with shaking hands. His abused arm screamed, but he ignored the pain. He had to stop the bleeding before he could do anything else—but Duality, there was so much blood. “Don’t try to talk.”

He pressed the cloth directly on his wounds, and Teomitl didn’t even flinch. He’d lost a lot of blood already; the heartbeat under Acatl’s fingers was distressingly weak. “Mm.” He tried to raise his head, but flopped bonelessly down a moment later. His voice was so soft that Acatl almost missed it. “I love you.”

He loves me. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t possible that he was hearing this now, of all times, with the man dying in his arms. He was, for a moment, absolutely sure that no air was making it to his lungs. “Teomitl.” It came out in a rasp. “By all the gods, shut up.”

Teomitl’s smile was red and horrible, blood staining his teeth. Acatl could have wept. “Wanted...to make sure you knew.”

“I love you too—“ Teomitl coughed wetly, and Acatl felt his pulse stutter. Before he knew it, he was grabbing his hand and squeezing it like a lifeline, eyes burning with unshed tears. “Teomitl, Teomitl, I love you so much but you have to stay with me, please!”

There was a strangled, awful attempt at a laugh. “I know what a mortal wound looks like, Acatl.”

No. No, gods, no. “It’s not mortal—it’s not, you’ll be fine, you just have to lay still! Help is coming, I promise, just—“ He cut himself off with a sob. I can’t lose you. Not you.

A shaking, bloodstained hand came up to cup his cheek, thumb gently stroking away his tears. “...Should have told you sooner.”

The hand fell.

Grief and terror surged through his veins with a ferocity that nearly sickened him, and for a moment all he could do was curl around Teomitl and fight back tears. He wanted to weep. He wanted to break something. He wanted to carry Teomitl in his arms and run to safety, but his arm was broken and Teomitl’s injuries were so severe that moving him unwisely would only deal further damage. Duality—gods, please. Please don’t take him from me.

He felt the Wind of Knives’ arrival, but didn’t bother turning around. Keeping pressure on Teomitl’s wounds was more important. His pulse was fluttering like a trapped bird, and Acatl really didn’t like the way he was breathing. Gods, let him not have punctured a lung too.

The minor god’s voice echoing through his mind at this distance was enough to send a chill down his spine. I see you didn’t need my help. He sounded almost amused. If the circumstances had been different, Acatl would have punched Him.

“Teomitl does.” His voice cracked on the words. “Find someone—”

A hand came to rest on his shoulder, the knife-points of the obsidian shards barely even tickling. Rest. Do not weep. You have been a valiant comrade, Acatl, and for that I will grant you this favor.

The Wind of Knives swept out the door, and he took a slow, shuddering breath. Another. Another.

By the time a half-dozen civilians burst into the room with the announcement that the High Priest of Patecatl had been sent for, he’d stopped crying. Teomitl’s heartbeat had remained steady under his hand, and he drew strength from that.

He’ll be alright, he thought. He has to be.

&

It still took entirely too long for Acatl’s liking. The black-robed High Priest of Patecatl was an older man, hard-eyed and serious and not at all appreciative of being dragged halfway across the city with his entourage, but he took one look at Teomitl’s injuries and sucked in his breath before swearing softly and ordering Acatl to leave.

“But—“ he began.

“This is a very delicate process, Acatl. Move.” Judging by his narrowed eyes and the set of his shoulders, he was prepared to shove Acatl out of the room himself if he was too slow.

Acatl moved. That this meant he could have his injuries looked at by one of the other priests was immaterial; even the grinding, nauseating pain of having a definitely-broken bone wedged into place and splinted before they began casting spells to speed its healing wasn’t enough to distract him from the increasingly frantic chanting going on inside. Heavens, do not take him. Not yet. Please.

When Ichtaca arrived to relieve him of the task of dealing with their slain comrades, he had to take a moment to remember that he was, indeed, still the High Priest for the Dead. His tongue didn’t seem to want to work properly. His mind didn’t seem to want to work properly. Teomitl said he loves me. “It was...Tezcatlipoca was summoned into the Fifth World. I banished Him, but...“

“Acatl-tzin.” His second was looking at him in something like pity. “You can tell us what happened later. Get some rest.”

“Our priests...the warriors...“

“We will handle their bodies.” He’d brought Palli and Ezamahual with him, and both men were eyeing Acatl as though they expected him to collapse any minute.

The priests of Patecatl were carrying Teomitl out on a stretcher, and his eyes followed the motion helplessly. From this distance, he could just make out the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

Ichtaca didn’t smile, but his demeanor softened. “Rest, Acatl-tzin.”

He started walking. He could rest at the Duality House, once he was sure Teomitl was safe.

The sun was low in the sky, tinting the light gold, and the realization took him aback. Gods, was it really only this morning that we set out? It felt like it had been an eternity ago that he and his priests and Teomitl’s warriors had left his temple; his bones ached as though he’d been awake for years. He still couldn’t believe that he was alone, that Tezcatlipoca’s creatures had cut through the trained fighters he’d brought with him like a knife through wet paper. He drew a long, slow breath. I only lived because He was toying with me. Because—Tlaloc’s lightning strike me, because He holds grudges. I’ll have to be very careful around Him from now on.

Fatigue made his head swim, but he forced himself onwards. Patecatl’s priests moved in a seamless knot, eating up the ground in a similar purposeful stride to the one he’d come to associate with Teomitl—but where Teomitl’s pace seemed to suggest he held some sort of grudge against the ground, the healing priests’ antipathy extended to everyone in their way. He had absolutely no chance of catching up to them, but he could settle for keeping them in sight.

After Teomitl’s words, he refused to do anything else. He loves me. He loves me, and he might yet die. He lost so much blood, and the Duality only knows what effects the Smoking Mirror’s touch might have had on him…

By the time he staggered into the Duality House, it resembled nothing so much as a freshly-disturbed anthill. Priests of the Duality were clustered with Patecatl’s healers, and the courtyards seemed to host far more confused and dismayed warriors than they normally did—the normal number, after how Mihmatini had reacted to Teomitl’s attempt at a coup, being zero. He couldn’t see his sister in the crowds.

Just as he determined he should ask around, she strode out of a small receiving room with a face like thunder. The thread of magic that connected her to Teomitl was a line of fire around one ankle, and by the shaking of her hands she’d already been well informed of her husband’s state. Her husband. Acatl felt briefly sick. Things between them may not be as they were, but he told me—gods. It will break her heart if she finds out.

Mihmatini took one look at him and her expression of barely-contained fury twisted; for a moment he was sure she was going to scream at him, but then she took a long breath and closed her eyes. When she spoke, her voice was steady. “I heard it was the Smoking Mirror. Come in; the healers are still with Teomitl.”

He followed her in. The room held only a fresco of flowering trees for decoration, but there was a table and two mats, and he collapsed onto one with relief. His legs felt like jelly. The next room had to hold Teomitl and the healers; though the entrance curtain was drawn, he could make out quiet chanting and the grassy smell of Patecatl’s magic. A slave must have been waiting for his arrival, because he was served water and a dish of frogs with tomatoes nearly as soon as he’d sat down.

She waited until he’d drank before addressing him. “So.”

“So,” he repeated. The food smelled wonderful, but he wasn’t tempted. He wasn’t sure he could keep anything down.

When she met his gaze, her eyes were hard as flint. “Tezcatlipoca.”

He took a deep breath and told her everything starting from the moment they’d reached the warehouse. By the end his hands were shaking, and he had to clench them into fists in a futile effort to keep his composure. We thought we were going off to face a simple sorcerer. A dozen men are dead because we were wrong.

She covered his hand with her own. For a long while, they didn’t speak.

The first healing priest exiting the sickroom broke their strained silence. His voice was rough and low, as though he’d worn himself out chanting. “Teomitl-tzin will live. You can see him now.”

Mihmatini nearly rushed past him, all dignity as the Guardian forgotten. Acatl waited until all the healers had left, ignoring their sidelong glances, before testing whether his legs would even still support his weight. They did, but barely; he had to catch his breath, leaning on the table, before he could rise fully. The noble thing, the right thing, would be to give Mihmatini space with her husband. As damaged as their relationship had been after the attempted coup, he was sure her love for him hadn’t disappeared. He’d just be an interloper. Unwanted. Intruding.

But Teomitl had told him he loved him, so he followed Mihmatini in.

Teomitl had been laid on a thick mat, his chest and stomach heavily bandaged and his right wrist splinted. His normally-dark skin was distressingly ashen; when Mihmatini clasped his good hand, he didn’t so much as twitch. She made an awful hitching gasp, and Acatl braced himself for her tears—but then she shuddered, inhaled deeply, and looked up at him with glimmering eyes. “Sit down, Acatl.”

Acatl sat, staring at Teomitl’s face. He’d never seen him so still, not even when the plague had struck him down. The bandages were very white against his skin. If he hadn’t been so drained—so empty, after all the events of the day and the magical backlash of using his own body as the rallying standard for a dozen angry ghosts—he thought he might have joined Mihmatini in almost weeping. I was the one who should have told you sooner, Teomitl.

“He’ll be alright,” Mihmatini murmured. She was stroking his hand now, so gently that it broke his heart.

She loves him. She loves him, and I’m a selfish monster for wishing she didn’t. His voice felt like it was coming from very far away. “I know.”

“He’ll wake, and smile like he always does, and he’ll be back to driving me mad with his,“—she made a noise, and it took Acatl a moment to realize it was a twisted snort of amusement—“his awful clinging in his sleep, and all the rolling around he does, and it will be fine. I won’t even want to strangle him over it. Much.”

“...Mm.” He hoped it sounded agreeable, and not as though the mental image was making something clench painfully in his gut. He had no right to be jealous over what he’d never have. When Teomitl woke, he would simply...never mention what the man had told him. Yes. That was a fine idea. His fingers twitched restlessly, and he wished he could wrap them around Teomitl’s hand instead.

She was silent for a long while. When she lifted her head to lock eyes with him, her tone was as matter-of-fact as though she was discussing the weather. “He’s really not that annoying, most of the time. I can see why you’re in love with him.”

Acatl froze, the breath knocked out of him. The yawning pit opening in his stomach had nothing to do with Mictlan. He couldn’t think past the blood roaring in his ears, never mind meet Mihmatini’s gaze—but he couldn’t look away, either, and so he stared blankly through her without seeing her.

Her voice was soft and understanding, and that made it so much worse. “Does he know?”

He thought, briefly and shamefully, of lying. In the next minute he dismissed the idea; he wouldn’t do that to anyone over a matter like this, never mind his own blood. “...I told him. During—I thought he was going to die in my arms.” His throat was so dry and tight he could barely force the words out. “But—Mihmatini—“ I was never going to let it grieve you. I would never step between you two, I know it’s not my place, you’re his lawful wife and my favorite sister and I know how much you still care for him...

She heaved a sigh of pure relief. “Thank the Duality, I was getting sick of him sighing over you.”

“He—I’m sorry, what?!”

His brain seemed to have stopped working. Or perhaps there was something wrong with his ears. There was no way she’d just said what he thought she said. He opened and shut his mouth, but no words came out.

And now the sigh was exasperated, and she was looking at him as though he was the stupidest man alive. While this was hardly unprecedented for her, he couldn’t help feeling it was—for once—undeserved. “You heard me.”

“I...I did, but…” But it didn’t make sense. Gods strike him for a fool, it didn’t make sense. “You knew?”

“I suspected while we were courting, but eventually...he told me himself. After the incident with his sister.” She huffed out a breath, brow furrowing at the memory, and he fought the urge to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. “It’s the only reason I didn’t divorce him then and there. I would have, you know, if he’d said anything foolish like that he was trying to kill Tizoc-tzin for insulting me, or that he was only trying to remove a corrupt, useless Revered Speaker. And that was part of it, but do you know what he told me first made him want Tizoc-tzin’s head on a spike?”

He shook his head mutely. He couldn’t imagine it.

She dropped her gaze to Teomitl’s bandaged chest, watching for each steady breath. “It was when he and Quenami tried to have you executed for treason.” There was a wry quirk of a smile. “I couldn’t blame Teomitl for that. Murder is an appropriate response in that case, you know!”

“...Oh.” It was all he could say. The memories of that time hadn’t faded in the least, and Teomitl’s seething anger back then suddenly made a terrible amount of sense. It was for me. It was—because he loves me. He’d even want to...gods.

Mihmatini shrugged as though she wasn’t upending his entire view of how the world worked. “I always knew I’d have to share his heart; I’m just glad it’s with you and not some concubine. I know you’ll treat each other well.”

“I…” He swallowed past the lump in his throat and made himself meet her eyes. “I’ll try.” I don’t know how, but for him—I’ll try.

She reached across Teomitl to squeeze his good arm, and her smile warmed his heart. “Take joy where you find it, and with my blessing.”

He had to close his eyes as her words settled. She knows. She knows, and she approves, and I...Duality, I don’t deserve such a sister. Her husband loves me, and I—I am allowed, encouraged, to love him back. When he wakes...we can figure out where to go from there.

“...So long as I never have to hear details.”

He choked, feeling his face catch fire. “Mihmatini!”

&

It took three days for Teomitl to open his eyes.

Acatl had foolishly thought that he would have the luxury of fretting over him. He quickly discovered he wasn’t so lucky; he barely had time to breathe. Funeral vigils for the slain warriors and his own dead priests had to be arranged, their families notified. The entire plot turned out to have been masterminded by the Smoking Mirror’s host himself, a sorcerer who’d declared himself a member of a group called the Sixth Sun Burning; further questioning of his friends and relations revealed that he was the only member, supposedly making Tizoc froth with impotent rage at not having anyone to execute for it. Acatl was apparently still beneath the Revered Speaker’s notice no matter how many gods he banished, which he couldn’t help but be thankful for. By the time the merchant whose warehouse had been coopted for the scheme arrived, furious in his demand for answers, he was hard-pressed to keep his own temper.

Of course, as soon as he dismissed the merchant, an offering-priest burst into his receiving room. “Acatl-tzin—“ He had to stop and suck in a deep breath before continuing. “Teomitl-tzin has awoken—Mihmatini-tzin said you’d want to be informed—“

He was abruptly no longer tired. He couldn’t remember ever having been tired. “Ichtaca. If anyone needs me, I’ll be at the Duality House.”

Ichtaca exchanged a long-suffering glance with the offering-priest. “Of course, sir.”

He ran.

Mihmatini met him at the gates to the Duality House. There were dark circles under her eyes, but her smile was soft and radiant. “He’s still weak, but he’s recovering well. He’ll be glad to see you.”

He had to stop and take a deep breath, willing himself to be calm. He knew he was blushing, but that couldn’t be helped. “...Thank you.”

Teomitl had been moved to the chambers he was sharing with Mihmatini at some point, the brilliant murals at odds with the stark furnishings. He looked exhausted, still ashen-faced and fragile around the edges, but he was sitting up with only a faint grimace of pain and picking carefully at a dish of flatbread with roasted peppers. When Acatl pushed the entrance curtain aside, he set his plate down and stared up at him. “Oh. Acatl.”

“Teomitl,” he said helplessly. For a moment he couldn’t make his legs work, and then he took the three steps necessary to bring him to Teomitl’s side and sat down hard.

Teomitl was still staring at him as though he couldn’t get enough of the sight. Acatl saw the way his fists clenched in his lap, the little wrinkle of concern between his brows, and ached to soothe him. “You’re alright.”

Truthfully, he didn’t feel alright. The priests of Patecatl had only been able to do so much with what they’d had on hand, and he’d still had very little sleep. But none of that mattered now, because Teomitl was fidgeting and averting his gaze and he couldn’t forget what he’d came here for. “Look, about earlier—I don’t know how much you remember, but…” I love you. I need to tell you properly.

Teomitl went rigid, gaze fixed on a point somewhere on the opposite wall. His voice lashed out like a whip. “I won’t apologize.”

What. He found himself temporarily speechless before managing to get his tongue back in working order. “Apolo—did you not hear me?”

“I.” Teomitl blinked at him. Acatl watched as he slowly turned red, jaw going slack until he shut it with an audible gulp. “Oh. Fuck. That’s what Mihmatini meant.”

“...You didn’t.”

Teomitl let out an annoyed huff, making an impatient stabbing motion with his hand. “I was bleeding out! You picked a terrible time to confess.”

Well, now, that couldn’t be borne. He sucked in a breath. “Says the man who told me he loved me with a hole in his guts—“ But the sensation of hot blood flowing over his hands was still too fresh, and he had to cut himself off with a shudder.

“I thought I was going to die. I didn’t think I’d be around for you to reject me.”

“Well.” He swallowed hard, suddenly and unaccountably nervous. “I’m not.”

“...You’re not.” Teomitl’s blush was back with a vengeance, and he still wasn’t looking directly at him. But he patted the mat next to him, a clear invitation. “...Come here?”

Oh.

Acatl shifted over to sit next to him. For the span of a few heartbeats they still didn’t touch, and he wondered if he was brave enough to make the first move—but then Teomitl’s hand shot out and latched onto his, and he made an entirely involuntary noise that definitely was not a squeak. His heart was beating so hard it was a wonder it stayed in his chest; from the heat in his face, he knew he had to be at least as red as Teomitl was. When their fingers laced together, he found he had no words to describe it.

After a long moment, Teomitl broke the silence between them. “...I truly do love you. I’m sorry it took so long for me to say it.”

There was a shy, soft smile on his face, and Acatl had to smile back. “There’s no need for apologies between us.” Not for this. Not ever for this. You have my heart, no matter what.

Teomitl turned towards him, and he went breathless at the look in his eyes. He knew an instant before it happened that he was going to be kissed, and it was the easiest thing in the world to tilt his head and lean in. He’d imagined it before—gods, had he imagined it, in the kind of detail that had left him frankly humiliated by his own lust afterwards—but nothing could compare to the reality of Teomitl’s mouth on his. He hadn’t expected it to be gentle, hadn’t expected the soft noise Teomitl made when he separated their joined hands to turn into an eager moan when Acatl dared to put an arm around him and pull him closer.

Even when they broke apart, Teomitl was smiling. Their noses brushed as he murmured, “I saw you avenging me, you know. You were magnificent.”

He averted his eyes, feeling something twist unpleasantly in his chest. It wasn’t enough. You still nearly died. “Hmph. Shameless flattery.”

“Acatl.” Warm fingers brushed his cheek. “Duality curse you, take the compliment for once.”

When he parted his lips to protest, Teomitl kissed him again. He decided not to argue.

There were better things he could do with his mouth.

[moirai-au]

Timeline: Arc 5 - The Orator, several days after Mars’ dissapearance

Warnings: mention of kidnapping

Taglist: @immabethehero @bupine​ @tabbynerdicat @i-maybe-exist @its-ethan-bro @sandinthetardis @honestlyitsjustkenna @taikeero-lecoredier 

Cecil breathed in, his arm draped over his eyes in an attempt to stifle his pounding headache. He felt cold and weary, the feeling of Dave’s fingertips ghosting over his the only thing keeping him grounded.

He breathed out. Any minute now. Any minute and they could-

 The door slammed open, letting in the pale light of early winter morning. Dave and Cecil started and jumped to their feet as Ollie entered the house- exhaustion clinged to their features, their movements stiff and jittery. “Anything?”

This song and dance was familiar to them by now. But this time, the air felt colder than usual, and thick with an overwhelming sense of dread- a feeling that none of them could really place, but all-encompassing all the same.

The younger man looked… angry. But it wasn’t his usual fiery rage, the one that had fueled him for the last few days, the one that often led him to lash out and go off to do something reckless, no. It was righteous anger, more focused, but just as scalding.

He didn’t speak, stepping up to the table in the middle of the room. Then he dropped something, and it was like the sword of Damocles fell right onto their heads.

 A sleek, matte back cat mask. Mars.

 Dave looked like he was going to be sick, while Cecil gripped the fabric of the couch so hard his joints became white. “Where.”

His voice was level, too level for it to be genuine. Ollie was used to the doctor’s cold demeanor by now, but he could start seeing the despair seeping through the crack. “South-east, in a clearing right by the lake. There were footprints, two different ones. Signs of a struggle. And tire tracks.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dave croaked out, falling back onto the couch to bury his face in his hands. Cecil clenched his jaw, his expression morphing into something sharp. “I can’t do this,” the father muttered, his breathing rapid and shallow. “ I can’t- it’s- it’s been days, he could be anywhere by now. Oh god, he could be-”

“He’s not dead.”

 All eyes turned to Aster- the green-haired man was sitting prone on the carpet, his legs drawn up against his chest and his back resting against the bottom of the couch. His words were spoken in a tone that didn’t leave room for doubt- like he was stating facts rather than trying to convince someone.

Ollie seethed at him. “And how, pray fucking tell, do you know? You sure as shit didn’t help us find him.”

The imp looked back at him in bored annoyance. “Our Deal,” he said slowly, like he was speaking to a toddler. “It’s still active. Scars was the main contractor. If he was dead, it would’ve been nullified.”

“You can tell?” Dave asked quietly from his place on the couch. “How?”

“I can feel it.” Aster shrugged. “A Deal isn't just some agreement that’s up in the air.”

“Then what is it?”

Cecil’s hoarse voice rang like cold ice in the room- the older man was still sitting at the table, but his head was up now, half his face covered by a trembling hand, his right eye staring at Aster with frightening intensity. “You keep mentioning it. Yet we know nothing of it.”

“You never asked.”

“Well I am asking now,” the doctor said sharply, getting up and briskly walking up to the demon. “So start. Talking.”

 The others felt a shiver run down their spine at the sight- they knew the doc was a… driven person, but they’d never seen him act with such fevered intensity. Something was up. Aster bared his razor-sharp teeth at him from his spot on the floor. “I don’t take orders from the likes of you, you pathetic excuse for a-”

The rest of his words died in his throat when he felt himself being pulled up by the collar, so startled by the sudden movement he didn’t even swipe at his aggressor. Ollie’s face was distorted with barely-repressed rage as he pulled the fiend to his level. “Now you listen,” he spat between clenched teeth, “We don’t have time for your bullshit. I remember the terms. No lies, we can’t hurt you, you can’t hurt us. See?” he smirked, “I’m not hurting you right now, am I?”

Aster only growled in return, his clawed hand ghosting over the red-clad boy’s jugular. Ollie didn’t falter at the obvious threat. “But if you don’t start fucking explaining that demon shit to us, if you’re hiding something that could help us find Mars…”

He maintained eye contact with the fiend, murderous intent coming from both of them in waves. “I won’t hesitate to beat it out of you, deal or not, demon or not.”

 Aster stared at the human. He was young, the equivalent of mere spawn for his kind. Yet he looked ready to lose himself to violence, to burn down spacetime itself to find Scars. He snorted- guess he was finally reaching the end of his little game of pretend, so he might as well come clean now… just a tad. 

He opened his mouth, a string of sharp hisses and clicks rising from his throat. Cecil and Dave blinked in confusion, and Ollie squinted- what was the fucker playing at now? “What the hell was that.”

“Me.” Aster tsked. “I’m not a ‘demon’. I’m-” The same sounds again. “You humans don’t have a name for us, obviously. ‘Climbers of the Black Sun’ is pretty close. Or just ‘Sunbound’.”

The three humans gaped at Aster, trying to process the bombshell that had just been dropped on them. “Then-” Dave sputtered, “then why’ve you been calling yourself a demon this entire time?!”

“I didn’t. Never said I was, you just kept calling me that.”

“Ugh!” Ollie groaned, letting go of Aster in disgust and anger. “You- you and your fucking mind games and twisted words and- God, I fucking hate you.”

He seethed for a moment, pacing back and forth through the living room with his fists curled tightly at his sides. They were too clean- he wanted them bruised and bloody from beating the hell out of that lying piece of shit.

 Aster scowled. “Stop that. I can feel your intent from here, it’s distracting. And you can’t just go at me because you feel like it. A Deal is binding. When it’s violated or broken, there are consequences, and not good ones.

“All parties involved are bound… linked by the Deal. When Scars asks me to-” a few clicks and hums, a frustrated snarl. “-add someone to the ‘not to be messed with’ list,” he continued, annoyed with the lack of the proper terminology in the human language, “the Deal... extends to that person.”

Dave ran a hand through his hair, dislodging his snapback who fell on the couch. “So… all of us are like… connected by this thing?”

Aste’s neck twitched to the side, fingers tapping rhythmically on his forearms. He was obviously struggling to make them understand a very much non-human concept. “It’s not as simple. I am a Sunbound. Sunbound can make Deals with other Sunbound.”

He jerked his head to the side with a low chirp, then back up straight. “Scars is… not Sunbound. But he has something. That most humans don’t. Lets him do… human magic.”

He growled and scratched at his arms, his body doing a weird back-and-forth motion, black clawed hands twitching. “A Deal is... hook-string-rope. Needs an anchor. You,” he pointed at the humans in the room, “No magic. No anchor. Flat-smooth-slippery. Deal can’t… stick well.”

He put a hand to his face, mimicking a mask. “Scars. Magic. Rough-magnet-nooks. Deal works with him.” He raised his arms at his sides, palms up. “Me and Scars. Link. You- magicless humans- get echo. Afterimage. Exists, but indirectly.”

“So basically you two share the strongest connection while we get the shitty ADSL bandwidth?”

Aster glared at Dave. “That’s literally the worst way I’ve ever heard it described as, but sure, why the fuck not.”

 Cecil squinted, understanding flashing across his features. “Is that why you two look so much alike? Why your body was molded after him?”

“Didn’t inherit Mars’ height though.” Oliver jeered. Aster flipped him off, and the doctor raised his hand in an authoritative gesture. “Quit it, this is important. Aster, how strong is your connection to Mars?”

The demon -or “sunbound” as he called himself now- peered at the older man; Doc was so guarded all the time, it was hard to tell what he was thinking or feeling, despite his own extra-sensory abilities. “...Deal is steady. Link is strong.” he said cautiously.

“You said it was similar to a string. Is it possible to follow it somehow?”

 David and Olive perked up. Aster stayed silent, still, his expression unreadable.

After a while he blinked, letting out a quiet click. “I don’t know. Never been tried before.”

Dave gaped at him. “Seriously?”

“My realm was- small.” Aster dismissed flippantly. “There was no need to track anyone down like this.”

“So you can’t do it.”

“I didn’t say that! I can figure this out, and I will!” the fiend hissed back at the red-clad vigilante, who smirked internally- there truly was no better way to get the fucker to do something then by jabbing at his pride. “Then you better work fast. And if you end up wasting our time I will destroy you, consequences be damned.”

“Fine.” Asten spat, plopping down on the carpet with a loud bump. “I’ll try. Scars dying isn’t advantageous to me anyway.”

“Do you… need us to leave? So you can focus?” Dave asked, already getting up. Aster stopped him with a wave. “Don’t. If I have to do this, I’m going to do it right.”

He sighed at the father’s confused gaze. “You’re all part of the Deal. There’s a better chance of success if you help.”

“Hold on, does ‘helping’ involve letting you into our head? Because you can fuck right off with that.” Ollie warned as Dave and Cecil wordlessly joined Aster on the floor. The green-haired creature stared at him impatiently. “Do you want to find Scars or not?”

Ollie didn’t respond, his green eyes burning with stubborn drive. Aster tsked. “That’s what I thought. Now stop bitching and sit your ass down.”

[salty-apples]

Under lock and key

The sky was a vibrant blue today. More blue than I've known it to be in the three months that we've been living here. It was a clear blue on a hot day with no clouds to break up the monotony of sky and sun. No ripple or disturbance. Nothing. 

The sky was blue yesterday but it did not move Agav. "Rain's on its way," he'd sniffed when I noted the blinding brightness of the day. Agav offered nothing more than his thoughts on the weather. He was right. It rained last night. 

Mama had told me it was best what she and Uncle were doing. "It is not good that you should still be unmarried at your age," Mama had whined the day after my graduation. "Look at Leila," Uncle chipped in. "Your sister is happily building her family. You could have that. You should have that." My happiness was all that mattered to them. So they chose Agav to give it to me. 

The rain began an hour ago, sinking my mood lower than an anchor. Hunched over on the window seat, my book laid carelessly aside, I watch Agav as he taps away on the computer. He says nothing. He hardly makes a sound. In this house of many rooms, Agav and I are like wandering ghosts. We say few words to each other, all at the right times of the day and nothing more. In an hour, I will ascend the stairs and retire to a room where I will sleep alone. Just like I've been doing for three months. Just as if I was never married. 

"Come Mahdi," Uncle had tried to pacify me when I railed against Mama. "You ought to be thankful and happy. You know Agav. You've known him since you were children."  My anger had boiled over that afternoon. It had not been enough to see my employment letter thrown into the bin and hidden under piles of rotten bananas. Agav had stood outside the door quietly waiting until Uncle invited him in. Leila had smirked, one hand resting on her swollen belly while the other cradled a toddler. She needs to stops giving birth, I had thought at the time. She needs to leave me alone.

Agav won't come to bed. Not when he doesn't see it as his. I sleep here alone, going through my daily ablutions without so much as a friendly word. 'Good morning,' 'Here's your food,' and 'Good night' are all we say to each other. Mama had promised me that things would improve. "He's just shy," she had chuckled the day after the wedding. He's not, I wanted to say. I am.

A loud thud wakes me up in the middle of the night. I search for my watch, turning it over in the darkness to check the time. I can't see anything and I can't hear anything either. Not the sound of Agav walking from the living room to the kitchen for coffee. Not the constant tapping of his pen on the desk as he mulls over something. The corridors are empty as I tiptoe out of the room. "Agav?" I call out tentatively. The scarf I tie to bed has slipped, pooling around my shoulders and providing some warmth on this wet cold night. "Agav?" I call out again. No answer. I don't expect one anyway. It's just like him not to answer quickly. 

Leila had prided herself on being the town beauty. Her conceit had grown even worse with marriage. "Mahdi dear, marriage would suit you," she laughed as I fumed. Five pregnancies and counting and yet, she had lost none of her youthfulness. Every time I came home on holiday, it seemed as if she was only growing fresher. Motherhood suited her, I believed but not marriage. Wearing a veil in the morning because you spend your nights crying is not a way to live. But she approved of Agav and hers was the only opinion Mama cared to hear.

The lights downstairs are off. Agav likes to work in darkness. I never complain about it as I find myself suited to this arrangement. But now is not the time. The silence in the house is choking me, pushing me forward into the living room until my leg hits something and I stumble. I pick myself up and start to feel around to find the offending object. Instead, I find a hand. It is Agav. An unconscious Agav. 

The wedding day of a woman of Dacca is said to be the crowning day of her life. For me, it was the lowest. Each step towards the temple had been torture, bringing me closer to a man whose presence in my life I had not agreed to. The road to sadness is paved with happy smiles and Uncle and Mama and Leila had the brightest ones. It had been a bright clear day and I had cursed the sky for not sending the rain.   

My back strained as I dragged Agav upstairs. All the lights were on. What a wonder it must have been to the neighbours to see our house lit up like a Christmas display. Slow progress I made pulling him up, each tug and lift sending sparks of pain dancing along my spine. I, who had always looked so small beside the Agav, the giant of Dacca was heaving like a pack animal to haul my husband to a bed he had never claimed. 

A hand on Agav's forehead had told me that things were horribly wrong. He was running a fever. His face and lips were ashen and his breathing laboured. What could have happened between the time I went to bed and the time I heard him collapse? Had he been sick and I hadn't noticed? Perhaps if he was awake, he would have grudgingly volunteered some answers. Now was not the time. Emergency services would not be able to reach us in time. The riots had cut us off from the rest of the city. If I waited till morning, I was risking an early widowhood. We were alone. All alone in this house of many rooms with no one to turn to. 

On the day we left Dacca, Mama had begged me to give Agav a chance. "I gave him many when he courted me," I retorted. Uncle only shook his head and left to speak with my new husband. Our flight was called and I began to tear up. A new life in a new country with a new husband I didn't understand. "A child will make things better," Mama promised me as I hugged her goodbye. I snorted at her words. A child? Ha! If only she knew that Agav has been sleeping on the floor. 

"Mahdi, is that you?" Mama sounded groggy with sleep but I couldn't bring myself to apologise. "It is Mahdi, Mama," I wept into the phone, "Agav is dying and I need your help."

Agav had gotten the house for free from a friend of his father. It had been a lucky stroke for him, one in a series of many. When we had first arrived, the neighbours were curious. Most tried to gain entrance, to be able to brag that they had been welcomed into the home of the strange new neighbors. Agav had been polite but firm. 'We did not want any company' and  'yes, we were thankful for the casserole,' he would answer with a small smile. Those smiles were rare. Rare for a man who preferred to look like stone than to risk cracking his facade to reveal softness. 

He was smiling now in his sleep. Mumbling as well. My eyes are tired from watching him for two days. Mama had given me instructions, directing me on which plants to pluck from the garden to administer to him. A ginger root poultice on his forehead and a hot drink of strained Shasha water every two hours. Anxiously, I waited for the herbs to work, to show me some proof that Agav had not left the land of the living. His eyes had twitched first and then his lips. His breathing evened and I relaxed my shoulders. Agav would live. I would make sure of it. 

"Won't you say hello to Agav, Mahdi?" Leila would taunt me whenever  Agav passed by our house. From my hideout under the window, I would shush her, a plea for her to leave me alone. Why would I want to say hello to Agav? I was too little to be noticed by him. Too young. Too flighty. Leila would laugh and speak even louder. "Agav!" She would yell. "Mahdi says hello!" I never knew what his response was. Crouched under the windowsill, I would burn from embarrassment and pray for the ground to open up and swallow me whole. 

I rouse myself from my memory just as I hear Agav mutter my name. Little Mahdi is gone and in her place is an older one, the wife of her childhood neighbour. The wife who is worn down from lack of sleep from looking after a sick husband. The wife who is lifting his head to give him a drink of water. Agav's eyes are yet to open and I am so so tired. Bone tired. I move to the other side of the bed and crawl between the sheets. I keep my distance from Agav, knowing he would have wanted it just so. Just as Agav's breathing stabilises, I drift off into an exhausted sleep. 

Agav had been quick to get workmen to fix up the parts of the house that needed fixing. I had been quicker to send out my resumes. Staying inside was not an option. Agav had known this. "I won't stop you from pursuing your dreams," he had informed me on our wedding night. An hour later, he was bundled among blankets and soundly asleep. 

Offices are closed but not my ambitions. Despite caring for Agav full time, I have found time to look up work. My hands are itching to do something, to be in another place that is not here. I want to be busy. The kind of busy that let's you forget that yours is a static marriage and the knowledge that you might never grow to like your partner. 

It's been a week since Agav fell ill and two days since I began to notice clear signs of recovery. It pleases me to see the colour slowly return to his face. He has stopped murmuring in his sleep and I have begun to sleep a little easier. The doctor I had called over the phone has assured me that Agav will be fine. "It was merely fatigue," he'd informed me. "Must be the riots. Everyone's on edge these days." I agreed with him. It must be the riots indeed. 

"You can't play the game if you don't have a partner!" Leila had yelled from the edge of the field. Surrounded by the other children in our age group, she was the unofficial leader, the one who set the rules for the games and split up fights. As her younger sister, my duty was to tag along and support her decisions. I rarely joined their games but that day, I wanted to. I looked among the others, searching to see whose hands were unlinked. And then I saw Agav, an elder among children, sitting quietly under the pear tree and observing the world around him. He was only one without a partner. Shyly, I had shuffled up to him, hoping he would not be upset with me for disturbing his peace. "Brother Agav," I had ventured with a tiny voice, "Leila says it's a game for two. Would you be my partner?" Agav said nothing. His eyes like those of a hawk looked me over and fixed themselves to my ear. Slowly, he reached up and held the lock of hair that had escaped it's bindings. Tucking it gently behind my ear, he answered. "No." 

The brush goes through my hair repeatedly, the familiar motions calming me. It's been a few days since I have let down my hair and taken care it. Since Agav's illness, I have let my morning routine go to rot as I spent my time between brewing Shasha water and applying cold compresses to his fevered brow. My hands move from scalp to tip, gently untangling the knots which have managed to form. I pull the mass of hair over my shoulder to oil and braid when I hear a groan behind me. I turn sharply and find Agav blinking against the sunlight and attempting to stand up. "Don't!" I caution him and move to his side. "Don't get up. Whatever you need, I will get it," I tell him. His eyes, though unsteady, hold mine. His mouth opens as if he wants to speak but he says nothing. Instead, he reaches out to touch my hair and tuck a wayward lock behind my ear. 

Mama liked to give lessons on the magic of coconut oil while she made it on the weekends. Aunty Alia, my uncle's second wife would sit with us and help to mash the coconut shafts to extract the water. "You want to trap a man, my girls, use coconut oil on your hair." Aunty Alia would laugh long and loud at the statement, enough to annoy Mama. "You laugh," Mama would scoff, "How do you think I snagged a husband? One whiff of my hair in the market and I was married within a month." A wistful smile would find its way to Mama's lips while Leila and I giggled. 

Agav has been awake for two days, slowly regaining his lost strength. This morning, I heard him pick his way down the stairs while I make our breakfast. I can tell that movement makes him dizzy but he does it anyway. That is his way of handling it, of fighting back and making sure his muscles don't waste away from a lack of motion. I hear him as he picks his way to the kitchen, his hand making noise as he feels his way down the corridors.  I hear him as he pulls back a chair from the kitchen island and lowers himself into it. I can feel his eyes boring into my back while he says nothing. I continue with my work and attempt to ignore his brazen staring. 

"I like your hair," he says suddenly. I stop beside the range, startled. When  I turn to look at him, I see him smiling. Smiling at me. Self conscious, I pat my head and take hold of the end of my braid which grazes my waist. "I like your hair," he says again. "I like how it shines under the light. It has a very nice colour." My hair is reddish brown, an embarrassment in a family of raven haired people. I lower my eyes as heat spreads from my belly to my cheeks. "Thank you," I whisper and go back to my tasks. 

"How is he doing?" Mama asks when she calls. "He is better now, thank goodness," I answer. It's been a week since Agav complimented my hair. He is moving around without holding on to the walls, rearranging rooms so that he has something to do. Occasionally, he will call me into a room to ask my opinion on its furnishings. I would give it and he would smile. "Be honest, Mahdi or are you scared you'd hurt my feelings?" His chuckling would cause me to crack a smile. "He is better, Mama. Better than ever before."

Agav comes to bed now. When I leave for bed, not too long afterwards, he's in the room as well. At first, he looked unsure of staying here. "I've never shared a bed with anyone," he admitted with shyness written on his face as he looked around. His clothes have always in the room but not him. He sees nothing of himself here in a room made up to my tastes and preferences. "It is fine, Agav," I tried to reassure him. He nodded and looked away, a blush staining his cheeks. I laughed at him, at his bashfulness and embarrassment. Eventually, he got into bed, staying on his back to look at the ceiling. He turned to look at me, to really look at me for the first time since we had had our hands bound with red cord in front of the entire town of Dacca. "This is nice," he said with a smile as he stroked my hair. He continued to stroke my hair until I fell asleep.  

For the first time since we were shut at home, we hear news that the riots have begun to disband. The chaos outside is lessening and the roads will soon be opened. It's been a month and half now for us at home. A time of laughs and secret smiles. While I work in the garden, Agav stands ready to help or extend a glass of water. In the kitchen, he joins me to cook. Last night, he'd made me sit while he made dinner. "But Agav, you don't know how I arrange the spices. You'll scatter the rack!" He'd grinned when I complained. "You forget that I lived in a house full of women for most of my life," he'd countered, "I would never scatter a spice rack." Resigned, I watched him put our meal together. Amazed, I had watched myself finish every morsel on plate. 

I come home later than Agav. My days at work are long but fulfilling. The riots have at least done something good. More jobs have opened and more people are needed to work. Agav however, is lucky. He gets to work from home if he wants. I open the door quietly, not wanting to disturb him if he's asleep in the living room. "Surprise!" I hear from behind me and I jump, screaming at the top of my lungs about demons in the dark. When the lights come on, I find Agav rolling with laughter on the floor. "Happy birthday, Mahdi," he wheezes between chuckles. I chuckle along with him and shake my head. When I enter our room, I stop in surprise. On my dressing table is a vase of fresh roses and a large bottle of coconut oil. Gifts from Agav.

Agav and I are lying awake. Dinner was hours ago as was our card game. Agav is a trickster, I've come to know, using sleight of hand to spirit away cards. It's raining outside and cold but in here, it is warm. Life has long since gone back to normal outside. No more riots, no more impromptu lock downs. Inside is where the changes have happened. It's almost the end of the year and in a few days, Leila, Mama and his mother will be coming to spend a month with us. We have rooms enough for them. Agav's eyes are sparkling with tears. He's not one to be ashamed to cry. I've seen him a few times shed a tear when looking at my flowers and herbs. There's no space between us on the bed now. His hand is on my belly, as it has been these last few months. "Are you happy, Mahdi? Tell me the truth," he asks in a soft voice. My eyes stray to where his hand sits, on the large swell marking the presence of a third human. My hand meets his and grasps it. This is our life now. All this is ours. "Why wouldn't I be happy, Agav," I answer in a voice thick with unshed tears. "Why wouldn't I be?"

[tilltheendwilliwrite]

Blue Sky Eyes... teaser

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x OFC

The beat up truck rattled terribly as it made its way toward his house. Between the rust and the blue smoke of burning oil, Bucky was surprised it ran at all, but behind the spider web of cracks through the windshield, he could just make out the image of the woman driving.

Shy of five am by all of ten minutes, he arched an intrigued brow and leaned on the rail of his homes wrap around porch. The old farmhouse had gone through many reincarnations throughout its life, from one bedroom to two, from a single story to one and a half, and finally into what Bucky had envisioned for it all his life. Open plan, wide plank hand scraped hardwood floors, lots of glass, plenty of chrome and stone surfaces. It wasn't a typical ranchman's house of walls of wood and animal heads, but then he'd never professed to being the typical rancher. Unlike plenty in these parts, he had money. Not buckets of it, but enough to buy back the family ranch and make of it what he wished. 

Still, he didn't know anyone with a truck that old or a face that pretty. When she finally pulled up in front of the house, the dogs that had been barking at the barn had made it to her door and were barking at her window.

He tilted his head and watched her stare at his two Wolfhounds and three Russian Hounds in fear before her eyes darted back to him.

Bucky let out a piercing whistle and called the pack back to the porch where a soft word of Russian had them all settling to lay alertly at the base of the stairs. He returned his attention to the woman and gave her a nod. In all honesty, they were friendly. It would take special command or act of aggression to have the hounds tearing into a person. And when she pushed open the shrieking, rusty door of her dying pickup, Bucky knew he'd never want to see his dogs sink teeth into her milk-pale skin. She clung to the door, and he noted the pink colouring her shoulders.

This was not a woman used to being in the sun. Or anywhere near a ranch if he judged her by her footwear. Flip flops were not appropriate anywhere around the grounds.

She'd yet to step out from behind the truck door, and Bucky finally called out, “Help you, ma'am?”

She took a limping step forward. “I'm… I'm looking for Mr. Barnes? Mr. James Barnes.”

It had been a lot of years since he'd been called James. Not since his mama was alive and giving him hell. “That depends on if you're lookin’ for senior or junior. If you're after senior, you missed him about six miles back when you passed Our Lady of Mercy Cemetery. If its junior you're after, you're lookin’ at him.”

She took another limping step, still clutching the door. “I suppose its junior then. I hear you need a cook, Mr. Barnes.”

He straightened and tipped his hat back. “That I do, ma'am, but I'm not one to have this sort of conversation across thirty feet of lawn. C'mon in the house and we can discuss it.”

He turned to head for the door when she called out, “Wait! What about the dogs?”

“They won't hurt you long as you ain't got a mind to hurt anyone else,” Bucky said frowning a little.

“They won't jump up will they?”

Bucky peered at her for a long moment. In the rising sun, her hair was a glow, a halo of platinum that couldn't be natural. She stood clinging to the door in a white peasant blouse and long jean shorts, her right leg slightly bent and hidden behind the door frame.

“They won't bother you if you don't bother them,” he assured her.

She looked skeptical for a moment before limping back to the pickup and pulling something from within. It wasn't until she swung the door shut with a slam and the pole landed that he realized why she'd been worried. The silver forearm crutch caught the light and sent it flashing back at him as she made her way slowly across the grass.

“Myesto. Tikho,” he murmured to the dogs, telling them to stay and to be quiet. They wouldn't move without his express permission now, no more than to catch her scent as she went by. Then he made his way to the bottom of the stairs and waited for her. When she arrived, he held out his hand.

“I know how to climb stairs,” she said still eyeing his dogs.

There was no heat in her statement, and he figured she was used to people offering her pity, trying to do everything for her because of her disability, but that wasn't his intention. “And I know a handrail would make all the difference in assisting you with that, but as I've yet to get around to puttin’ a rail up on these extra wide steps, my hand will have to do,” he said softly, his tone without condemnation or pity.

She looked up at him, and Bucky felt a fist punch him in the stomach. Her eyes were the bluest he'd ever seen. They were blue. Sky blue. Like the vast expanse above them. Big sky eyes. The kind you could drown in. The kind a man could lose himself in.

She seemed to search his for a minute before she took his offered hand. “Thank you, Mr. Barnes. I'm not used to simple kindness.”

“It's Bucky, and thanks isn't necessary if I can get your name.”

“Maybe.”

He gave a small smile. “Are you a fairy that givin’ up your name gives me power over you?” he asked, teasing her just a little.

She gave a disgruntled sigh and finished the last uncomfortable step. “No. My name is Maybe. Maybe Cole.”

That put a full smile on his lips. “Well, Miss Maybe. Welcome to Red Star Ranch. Let’s head inside, and we can talk.” He led the way and held the door before calling softly, “Faina.” One of the wolfish looking Russian Hounds lifted her head and then came to his side. “Vernut'sya v saray,” he said to the others, sending them back to the barn and to guarding his livelihood while he kept the sweet bitch with him. Out of the pack, she was the calmest yet the most fierce when it came to protecting what Bucky claimed as his.

He had a feeling about Maybe. A feeling he hadn’t felt in years. One that stirred his protective instincts while setting an alarm bell screaming. The woman was trouble with a capital T. He just didn’t know why yet.

She’d stopped to gape in amazement a few feet in the door. “Wow. This was not what I expected when they said your ranch was looking for a cook.”

Bucky chuckled softly and walked across the open expanse of living and dining room to the granite and maple kitchen where he took down a second cup and poured her a mug of coffee. “I like my living state of the art. I’m citified that way.”

Faina bumped his leg with her nose, and he took a dog biscuit out of a jar. “Sidet’.” She sat and waited patiently until he handed her the cookie. “Good girl.” Bucky scratched her ear and watched fondly as she trotted off with her treat to flop on the big pillow by the window and munch.

When he looked up, Maybe was still standing by the door. “Would you be more comfortable on the sofa?”

She seemed to shake herself awake from watching his dog and made her way across the room, her limp prominent. “Counter’s fine. I’m sorry, I’ve never seen dogs like yours before.”

“Most people haven’t. The three reds are Russian Hounds. Great for guarding and hunting. The two big greys are Irish Wolfhounds. Excellent protectors. The keep away the predators.”

She sat and nodded, accepting the coffee he nudged her way. “So… about the job?”

“Who sent you?”

“Mary, down at Sherman’s Dinner. I went in looking for work, but…” She lightly shook her cane. “People have a hard time hiring cripples.”

“Can’t image waitressin’ would be easy with only one hand.”

She frowned at him, likely trying to figure out if he was making fun of her or being serious. “I went in for a cook job. I can work just fine.”

“I’m sure you can. You taught yourself to drive with your left foot after all.”

She looked surprised before a small smile flitted across her face. “Yes, that I did.”

“What qualifications do you have?” he asked.

A shadow flitted over her features. “Big family dinners where I learned to cook at my grandmother’s elbow. I went to culinary school in New York, worked a couple of different restaurants in the big city before deciding that life wasn’t for me. Struck out west, moved around a bit, wound up in Easthallow and they sent me out here.”

“At five am?”

She shrugged. “It’s a ranch. I expected you to be up and started early. I didn’t want to interrupt a day in progress. Figured it was best to catch you at sun up.”

By the look of the bags beneath her eyes, she hadn’t been sleeping anyway. Bucky took in her face. It was delicate, elegant, like fine but brittle china with sharp angles and edges. There was a whole lot of bravado happening, but he could tell she was exhausted. Tired of life, of running, of continually being scared. He’d seen it all before. Some he’d seen on his own face when he’d looked in the mirror.

But her shoulders were straight, her spine stiff, and her blue eyes never wavered. They made her appear like the fairy he’d named her, as did the white blonde hair that matched her eyebrows. She was a bit otherworldly in her appearance.

“I’m feeding a crew of fifteen at the moment.”

“I can handle that,” she murmured.

“Just lunch though. Breakfast and dinners are only gonna be seven. I’ve five crew that live on site. The other ten have places in town. You’ll need to stay here. I can provide you with ground floor accommodations. There’s a ranch truck you can use for grocery runs. The store in town knows to put it on my tab.” He took his cup to the sink and rinsed it out. “Have a look around. If there’s anything you need, write a list. I’ll see it gets ordered in, or have someone run over to the Walmart in Gainesville. We’ll want good, hearty meals. None of that skimpy New York plating.” 

“What would you know of New York plating?” she asked.

“You’d be surprised. I told you I got citified enough to do this to my house,” Bucky chuckled.

Maybe sat quietly for a moment, just observing him, her mind working hard and only Faina’s chewing to break the silence. “You’re not going to ask for references?”

“Nope.” He shook his head. “Though you’ll be gettin’ the chance to audition when you make lunch for the hands today.”

Her brows shot up to her hairline. “And my leg? You’re not at all curious?”

Bucky cocked his head to the side. “You’ll tell me when you want to. I do have one question though.”

“Shoot,” she nodded.

“Is the thing you’re runnin’ from gonna come looking for you here, and if it does, will it be dangerous?”

The blood fled her face. “It shouldn’t,” she whispered. “But if it does? Yes. There will be danger.” She rose and looked away, shame paling her further. “I shouldn’t be here. I’ll go.”

“Maybe.” He stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. She immediately stiffened causing Bucky to release her. “I didn’t tell you to go. I’m only asking to be prepared. You stayin’ in town?”

She shook her head. “Everything’s in my truck.”

“Let’s get your stuff. I’ll show you where you’ll be staying, and you can start on that list. And if you don’t have boots, you’d best add those to the list. You can’t work here without boots.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Nah, doll. It’s just Bucky.” He held the door open for her. “Sir was my pops, and he’s not around anymore.”

“Alright… Bucky,” she murmured, a smile curling her lips. “Thank you for this chance.”

“We’re gonna make you work for it, darlin’. My men eat like elephants.”

“That’s okay. I’m used to feeding the masses.” At the stairs when he held out his hand, she took it without hesitation. “My disability really doesn’t bother you?”

“Not one bit.”

A genuine, full smile broke on her lips. “Thank you.”

“Maybe,” he grinned at her, “if your cooking is half as strong as your determination, I’m gonna be thanking you come lunch time.”  

***

That’s it. The plot bunny in progress. When I have more put together, I’ll start the story.

T~

[the-lady-bryan]

Weird Dream - 11/26/2019 - “Ryan Reynolds will fucking KILL GOD if he has to be Green Lantern again.”

So...... this is a bit of a weird one. I overdid it yesterday and exhausted myself. Add to this a cocktail of cold/flu meds, my normal pain meds, and a garlic burger from steak-n-shake with a strawberry-banana shake not long before bed and this is what you get.

So I was part of a film crew. I have no fucking clue what my job was. But I had to be on set like, all the damn time.

And we were on location near where I lived.

Ryan Reynolds and his wife were having another baby and Ryan was like "I guess I should do some actual work for a while" and that was why he was in the movie. It was a superhero movie, but nothing related to Marvel or DC. But like, Ryan wasn't the main star of the movie because in his words, "The costumes are too damn much like Green Lantern. I will kill God before I'll put on green screen capture spandex again." and I'm like "okay, fair enough. So.... should we tell Matthew Lillard he's got the leading male role then?"

So, Matthew Lillard was the leading male in the movie. He was pretty cool, and totally rolled with the Shaggy God meme. It was awesome. But he's not the main character of my dream. Me, Ryan Reynolds, this other guy who everyone called "Brian" but his name was some foreign name literally nobody could pronounce so the dude literally just picked a random name off a bookshelf and said to call him that, and this woman named Vivi - who was playing Ryan's girlfriend in the movie but she was like “yeah, my wife ordered me to get his autograph or don’t bother coming home like, ever” kind of attitude towards the entire ordeal - we were the main people in the dream.

So Ryan, Vivi, and Brian's hotel reservations were shot to hell and since we were going to be in town for only like a week, I was like "we got extra rooms at my family's house. Y'all could stay there. I'll call my husband and let him know to prep three guest rooms." So that happens. Husband, son, and my mom are off somewhere else, but there's three rooms prepped for the three guests.

So after a few days we get the filming done, and we're all just chilling at this restaurant in my hometown and everyone's having a good time. And then I get this call and go outside to take it and while I'm out there I hear screaming and shit and like a dumbass I go and investigate.

And there's these people dressed in like, better versions of the movie's hero costumes, and there's this monster looming over their dead bodies and I'm like "nope." and I'm about to nope out of there when this green bracelet shoots off from one of the bodies and the dude ends up in regular street clothes and my brain goes "FUCK FUCK FUCK NO! I'D RATHER KILL GOD!" and I try to run from it but it snaps on my wrist and suddenly I'm in like this badass green costume and I'm fucking powerful as hell. And I have this weapon. It's basically just a chain with a hook on the end. And that's when I realize I'm a dude because damn there's no room in this damn hero costume and i can totally sympathize with a lot of the guys during filming now. Anyway, so this monster's gonna beat my ass and I'm trying to run away because I'm not gonna fight this fucker if it killed some other people with whatever it was I had now. But I end up having to fight it and I kill it. And it turns back into a person and I recognize the person as some girl I went to school with. And this ring slips off her finger and darts off into the dark.

And that's when I see a flash from nearby and turn and there's Ryan, Vivi, and Brian. And Brian's got his phone out and had just taken a picture and I'm like "guys, i honestly can't explain this shit" and Ryan's like "Fuck me. You're a goddamn superhero. A real god damn superhero."

And I'm like "I'm really not. I don't know what the fuck is going on." And then I'm like "how the fuck do I get out of this thing? Is it like, do I just think about it? Do I say a magic word? Do I just take the mask off? Or is this like, a Power Rangers thing where I can take off the mask and still be in the suit but to get out of it I literally have to say Power Down or some shit?" and as I'm saying Power Down, that's exactly what fucking happens and I'm like "great. I'm some weird ass power ranger meets green lantern shit."

So I take the other three to the other bodies of the dead hero people and they're just.... gone. And I'm like "but y'all saw the monster, right?" and Ryan's like "None of you slipped acid in my beer right because if you did you need to tell me now." and i'm like "fuck this i'm going home." so we all go back to my place up the hill from the main road in town.

I ended up waking up and having to deal with my kid for something and then I went right back to bed.

When I dropped back into dreamland, I had just missed the train, and the plane, and the bus, and the blimp that the rest of the film crew were using and the boat we all arrived on to wherever this was had already left and i'm like "fuck me. i'll never make it to california with everyone" and then i see Vivi and she's like "oh, there's a small charter plane leaving soon. you can ride with us." and lo and behold, when i board the charter plane with Vivi, there's Brian and Ryan and some other people from the film crew's special effects team.

I call my husband to let him know what happened and he's insisting he sends the private jet out to me and i'm like "Babe. Baby no. You don't need to send the jet. I'm fine. I got a ride with some friends. It'll be fine." and everyone else is snickering and joking around and laughing at me, until i'm like "yes, I KNOW you have more money to throw around than Tony Stark but fucking hell babe you don't need to send the goddamn jet! No I will NOT tell you which fucking airport it is!" and "I swear to god if you fly the fucker yourself I'll rip your spine out through your throat and feed it to Fluffy!" and that shuts him up and the others as well. and when I get off the phone Vivi's like "Fluffy?" and I'm like "our super fucking massive caucasian mountain dog. i mean, it was at the house when y'all were there. how did you not see it?" and Brian's like "i thought that was a fucking BEAR!" which causes everyone to laugh. and then Ryan's like "y....your married to the only guy richer than Tony fucking Stark and you never bothered to tell anyone?!" and i'm like "well, yeah." and Ryan's like "i don't feel so bad about stealing your really nice towels now."

we never make it to california because the plane crashes, but i manage to save myself, Brian, Ryan, and Vivi with my superpowers. Though we do get banged up a bit after crashing into a small town storefront. and Ryan's like "no. No, don't send the private jet with the jacuzzi tub and the strippers and the warm towels. i'll just take THE RICKETY FUCKING CHARTER PLANE!" and i'm like "IT WAS A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME!"

So my phone's broken. no one else has service. and there's like, a major emergency situation going on outside the plane crash itself and there's another of those fucking monsters and i have no control over powering up. it just sort of happens. and then i fight the monster. and i'm getting pretty good at this.

so i hack the thing's head off, and it turns back into a human head and so does the body and the necklace it was wearing shoots to Ryan and he's like "no! NO NO NO NO NO! FUCK!" and he gets this bright neon pink suit like mine and it's got a miniskirt instead of pants/leggings like mine does and i'm laughing my ass off at him. but he has this massive fucking sword that's practically bigger than he is. And he's got this fucking tiara, too. and it's just so hilarious but at the same time he totally manages to pull this costume off.

And we end up powering down and exploring this place mainly to find a working phone. but as we explore we find that more and more we're fighting monsters. like, lesser monsters than the ones with these weird power accessories.

we end up coming up on a boss fight situation and rescue this one woman from a big ass monster and ryan manages to cut the thing's ear off which reverts it back to a human and this earring comes off and flies over to the woman we just saved and she ends up in this golden armor suit like our's with like, a roman soldier's skirt thing. anyway, she thanks us for rescuing her and it turns out she's a princess from an alternate dimension that's been bleeding over into our own. and these accessories that have been giving me and ryan powers and turning people into monsters are part of a collection of items belonging to the queen of her kingdom in this alternate dimension and when worn they bring out the wearer's inner self, be it good or bad. and the only way to stop it is to remove the object, but in doing so it kills the wearer.

and Ryan's like "so my inner self loves neon pink and wants to wear a mini skirt. okay. sure. fine. this day can't get any weirder anyway. but at least i'm not in CGI green spandex." and i'm like "you're never going to let that one go, are you?" and he's like "no. my dying breath will be a complaint about that damn movie and i'm going to keep flogging that dead horse until it's nothing but mush, and then i'll stomp it like a barrell of grapes turned to fine wine. but this wine will be bitter and foul and will kill anything it touches. just like that green lantern movie."

It's clear Ryan still has a sore spot for that movie.

So anyway, me, Ryan Reynolds, Brian, Vivi, and the princess go on this epic quest to save the world from the merging of dimensions.

Brian and Vivi end up getting costumes, too.

Weird montage time skip and we've been separated from the princess, and our power accessories have been stolen somehow but we're still alive which doesn't make any sense and it means that part of what the princess said was a lie. We end up kicking this one monster's ass in Texas and seize it's power accessory, and it's a keychain. and Vivi's like "how the fuck are we supposed to wear it?" and i'm like "I have an idea." and i slip it onto my middle finger, and the ring part of the keychain resizes to fit my finger and suddenly i'm in this badass black version of my green suit armor thing and instead of the chain/hook combo i've got a fucking badass keyblade. because the keychain was a fucking Kingdom Hearts piece of merch. and it's a good thing this happened, because we get ambushed and i have to fight the monsters off. we end up holing up in an abandoned lingere store - and yes there's lots of jokes at Vivi's expense but I remind Ryan that his "inner self" is basically just a neon pink version of himself in women's clothing with a giant sword and they shut up.

i end up managing to get a landline phone and call every number for my husband i can think of because it's been months since i saw my husband, and i manage to get hold of him on a number i hadn't expected to work and he's so relieved to hear my voice and he tells me what's been happening in the world and i'm like "wait.... did you say YEARS?!" and he's like "yeah..." and i'm like "but it's only been like five or six months!" and he's like "it's been ten years." and i'm like "fuck me...." and he's like "i didn't remarry. i knew you weren't dead." and i'm like "how'd you know?" and he's like "seriously? you don't even wear a fucking mask when you're fighting monsters! green looks good on you." and i'm like "what?" and he's like "richer than tony stark, remember? i've got fucking sattellites shooting these fuckers from space! you don't think i couldn't get google earth pictures of my long lost spouse fighting monsters and trying to save the world?" and i'm like, fucking hysterical. and i'm trying to find out where he is, and i'm so relieved to hear that him, our son, my mother, and even Fluffy are alive and well, but he won't tell me where they are because "things have changed. it's not safe to tell you on the phone. hell, nobody uses phones anymore. nobody knew if the phones even worked anymore." and i'm like "i'm on a landline. that might be it."

anyway, now relieved that my family is alive and safe, and i find out a bit more about the world situation, i return to the others for the night.

weird time skip montage of fighting monsters and getting more powers for the others, and it's final boss fight time. we've hooked back up with the princess, and we contain the big bad and then, inexplicably, i'm killed. we're all killed. and we don't know what happened.

cue weird cutscene situation like when Scott Pilgrim got that game over fighting against the last evil ex, Gideon, and the whole desert thing with the extra life do-over thing. only THIS TIME we manage to win the big bad bossfight. and at the end, the day is saved. the dimensions un-merge and we go back to our lives. the world is normal again and time goes back and reverts to what it was before all of this started.

and i'm back in that restaurant. and i get a call. and it feels like i've done this before. but i go outside and i take the call and i hear screaming. i again go check it out like a dumbass, and THIS TIME i get there soon enough to see the heros get killed but this time there's no magic bracelet thing to make me a green warrior but i find a weight in my pocket and check it and there's the keyring. and i use it. and i'm back in my badass form with the badass keyblade, too. and it's fucking awesome. and then i remember that i've done this before and i'm about to kill the monster but then there's a neon pink energy blast and the monster is disentigrated and there's Ryan fucking Reynolds in a neon pink miniskirt and this time heels, too. Like something out of goddamn Sailor Moon or some shit. and he's got a glowing neon pink laser gun and i'm like ".....shit. we're in New Game Plus mode now aren't we?"

And Vivi pops up and is like "oh shoot! you two still have powers but we don't!"

Everything goes like, hyper fast, and me and Ryan are fighting monsters and shit and THIS TIME we don't even bother with the charter flight from hell and just call my husband to send the private jet.

And the giant dog Fluffy because I want my big fluffy gonna fucking fight a bear and win sized doggo.

And this time the plane doesn't crash and we don't meet the princess in that small town. instead my husband examines the acessories using science and engineering and shit and he's like "okay. so.... i've got good news and i've got bad news." and i'm like "bad news first babe." and he's like "so this keychain? i bought this for you for christmas and lost track of it." and i'm like "how is that bad news?" and he's like "i got it for you before we were married you idiot. i haven't seen this thing in seven years." and then he's like "but the good news is that i recognize the energy in it. remember that quantum energy i've been experimenting with that put Stark and his arc reactor to shame?" and i'm like ".....yes......" and he's like "that's what this is. but somehow it's like, weaponized." and i'm like "okay. now how do we fix this?" and he's like "honestly, i haven't a fucking clue. but it's really fascinating, isn't it?"

so we find out that the bracelet i had before, and the necklace, and pretty much all the ORIGINAL accessories we had started with the first time did in fact come from this alternate dimension and shit. that wasn't a lie. but the replacement ones we found along the way are from our dimension and somehow were imbued with this weird ass quantum energy. and my husband being the only person who knows even just a bare minimum about the stuff on the entire planet is like "i can experiment on one and see if i can learn more or upgrade it or something."

and that's what he does. ryan hands him his keyring with a little spacey ray-gun on it over and my husband experiments on it and he manages to at least change the outfit from Sailor Moon styled to something with a bit of actual armor on it, but he can't change it from the mini skirt and heels unfortunately for Ryan. This is after using it himself just to see what would happen and he ended up in neon pink iron man armor with a giant laser rifle. which was fucking hilarious.

we also learned that we could combine them and use two at a time and when we did i ended up with a keyblade rifle hybrid thing and black and neon pink elven armor like from fucking Lord of the Rings. it was fucking glorious! And when Ryan Reynolds tried using mine and his together he ended up in a Slave Leia bikini in black and neon pink with a laser pistol the size of car key and it was vaguely key shaped.

Anyway, what was determined from these tests and experiments was that these items from our dimension had somehow become imbued with these energies and were stronger than the ones from the other dimension because they originated here while the other objects originated elsewhere and the engergies they carried from elsewhere as well.

So we end up going and fighting evil monsters and stuff like the first time, but are able to come back to base and have a sort of save point system? New Game Plus mode is weird as fuck. And my big dog gets a charm for his collar and he ends up transforming into this armored tank of a beast that Ryan Reynolds likes to ride into battle. It's so fucking odd.

Weird montage time skip dream thing and we're at the final battle. We've met up with the princess every so often in our adventures over years and not months. and in those years we've learned some of the lore of her dimension, like the fact that the queen had banished her after becoming evil and the accessories collection ended up being stolen by an evil sorceror and scattered through dimensions. and each dimension they went to fell to the evil queen and our dimension is the last one to stand against her and shit. me, Ryan, Vivi, and Brian don't really care. we just want all this weird shit to end.

So we fight the big bad, AGAIN. and it's so much easier this time because again, we've already done this. and then after we defeat it, we expect cut scene type of scenario like last time. but THIS TIME the Princess is like "oh snap! the ancient relics of my dimension have been brought together and summoned my mother the queen!" and now we have to fight this EVEN BIGGER BAD! and we do, and it's hard and so fucking tough but we win by combining powers together and yay teamwork i guess. and when the queen falls, it turns out she banished her daughter the princess, yes, but not because the queen was evil.

PLOT FUCKING TWIST! IT WAS THE PRINCESS ALL ALONG!

and with her dying breath the queen begs Ryan to stop her daughter and then dies in his arms. and her crown falls off and breaks into five pieces. and we each take on and hook it onto our power devices and i add one to Fluffy's collar and holy fucking hell it's like the epic boss battle of all boss battles and we nearly die so many fucking times and we know that if we die this time, it's not just game over. it's world over. existence over. the universe is doomed type of over. it should be noted now that Ryan Reynolds was no longer in a neon pink miniskirt after adding the piece of the queen's crown to his power keychain. Oh no folks. his piece of the crown had an emerald on it....

and let me tell you folks.

this is the wildest dream i've ever fucking had. because only in my wildest dream will i ever see Ryan fucking Reynolds so fucking angry to be dressed as the green fucking lantern Hal Jordan again, riding the back of an armored tank of a fucking dog that's become this fucking massive eight story tall BEAST in shining platinum and purple armor, while Ryan Reynolds is screaming at the top of his lungs that he will fucking kill God himself while weilding a neon pink water pistol sized laser and he's just fucking charging into battle with this unearthly scream of rage and somewhere, for some reason, i just know Matthew Lillard felt like someone walked over his grave and was like "zoinks" and i have no idea how the fuck i even knew that but i did.

and when he's done, the princess has been obliterated and Ryan's like "......did i do it? can i take this fucking suit off now? i'd rather have the mini skirt and heels back. fuck, i'd rather have the Slave Leia look."

And then, it's over. And we're powered down and the day is saved and the dimensions unmerge and just....

that's it. that's all there was. time doesn't reset again. existence just..... is. the day is saved and we just....

are there.

and then i woke up.

and let me tell you, if i get dreams like that every time i eat a steak-n-shake garlic burger with a strawberry banana shake, then by the gods i'll eat it every fucking day for the rest of my life because that. that was fucking brilliant and wild and just omfg. that was awesome.

[yastaghr]

Broken Things Shine Brighter 14

You can find the next chapter of BTSB on Ao3 Here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/13431909/chapters/47642734

Or under the cut!

Papyrus raced through the snow. His long legs carried him far and fast. He had to be the first one to get there. He just had to!

Finally he rounded a corner and caught sight of them. There they were. A human. The first human he would be able to collect a soul from. They were maybe a few inches taller than his brother, so something like five foot two. Their skin was a rich tan, maybe a little darker than the color of cinnamon. They had small brown eyes set high in their face. A broad nose filled out most of the rest of their face. They had prominent cheekbones and thin lips. They were wearing a loose black t-shirt and jeans over leather moccasins.

The human stopped walking the moment they spotted him. They held their hands up, showing that they held no weapons. Papyrus slowed to a stop about three feet away. The monster and the human stared at each other in silence. It was broken by a racking cough from the human that brought up blood.

“Heh. Sorry about that,” The human said quietly as they wiped off the little trail of blood. “It is why I am here. Are you a policeman?”

Papyrus blinked. He’d heard that word before. What did it mean again? “oh. i’m not a member of the guard, but i am a sentry. kind of like the next tier down. i can still make arrests and such. i just don’t have to wear the stupid armour. why?”

The human smiled. “The old man wouldn’t take my soul. I asked if a policeman would have the proper authority. He said yes.”

“why do you want someone to take your soul?” Papyrus asked with a frown. “you do know you’ll have to die for that to happen, right? why would you want to die?’

The human laughed. It fell apart into another coughing fit. More blood came up. “Heh. Pain will do odd things to a person, and I am in a great deal of pain. And even if I did not want it, death is coming to me. I am dying of cancer. It has already spread to too many places for even the best doctor to fight it. If I am going to die, it is better to make use of it to right a wrong than to waste it. My people have many stories, stories that have been passed down for generations in such a way that nothing is lost. Others may have forgotten about the monsters we locked down below, but we have not. We remember your bravery, your kindness, your generosity. You saved many of my ancestors’ lives. We were wrong to help lock you below. I am here to help you regain the sunlight you never should have lost.”

Papyrus blinked, dumbfounded at the passion in the speech this human had brought. Their eyes sparkled with a light he had seen before. A sense of justice was hard to deny. Who was he to argue with it?

“What is your name, human?” Papyrus asked as he summoned his weapon. It was a four foot glaive with a one foot blade of pure amber magic on the end of it.

The human eyed it with a calm acceptance he couldn’t help but admire. They closed their eyes and tilted their head back, ready to die. “Ama. My name is Ama. It means water in my people’s language, tsaligi gawonihisdi, or Cherokee in the language we are speaking.”

Papyrus readied his weapon, pointing it at their throat. “Thank you for your sacrifice, Ama. It will not be for nothing.

With that, Papyrus quickly sliced through their throat. Blood spurted out for a few seconds, then it died off to a trickle. Ama smiled weakly, closed their eyes, and collapsed to the ground. A few seconds later their soul floated into being above their chest. It was bright yellow. The bells faced upward. There were no pockmarks or scars on it. Papyrus could almost be jealous.

He didn’t take a lot of time to admire it. He dismissed his weapon and quickly grabbed the soul. He pulled a canister out of his pocket. It was a modified vacuum tube. The yellow soul fit perfectly into it. Papyrus smiled and pocketed the tube. One down, six to go.

Blue pulled himself up the staircase one hand at a time. He was exhausted and shaky and he really wasn’t in the mood for a fall. He was still too fragile; he wouldn’t survive. So he dragged himself up by the railing with a white-knuckled grip - at least, it would have been white knuckled if he had skin.

When he reached the top of the landing he paused. His breathing was harsh. Best to take a little break. He looked around at all the decorations, comparing them to what he could remember of his own. They matched up pretty well - a bone flag replaced their painting, the door to Sans’ room still had warning signs and caution tape, green and blue fire flickered from underneath Papyrus’ door - but then Blue noticed the shrine.

In the far corner of the upstairs hallway, wedged in between the balcony door and Sans’ room, was a little wooden shrine. It hung about three feet off the ground and was made of wood so dark it was almost black. Little candles riddled the shelf. In the center of them all were five jars.

“I SEE YOU HAVE NOTICED OUR SHRINE,” Sans said from just behind him. “IT WAS HARD TO FIND THE WOOD, BUT THEY DESERVED IT.”

Blue gulped and asked shakily, “um...who are they?”

Sans frowned at him. “IS IT NOT THE CUSTOM IN YOUR WORLD TO HONOR YOUR LOVED ONES IN THIS MANNER?”

Blue shook his head. “we spread their dust on the thing they loved most.”

“AH. I SEE,” Sans said quietly. “THAT IS NOT THE CUSTOM HERE. WE PUT THEIR ASHES OR DUST IN JARS AND KEEP THEM AROUND SO WE CAN REMEMBER THEM AND INCLUDE THEM IN OUR LIVES.”

Blue smiled. “that sounds nice. i’ve always felt weird about the dust scattering. you can never get the grit off of the item, and that means you can never use it again.”

“WHAT A WASTE. THIS IS MUCH MORE PRACTICAL,” Sans said proudly.

“it’s definitely different, that’s for sure,” Blue said noncommittally. “um...is it alright if i ask who is in your jars? i can’t remember having anyone that close to me and paps...although that doesn’t mean there wasn’t.”

Sans walked over to the shrine and pointed to each jar in turn. There were the suspicion of tears in the corners of his eye sockets.

“THIS IS POE. HE WAS A GOOD DOG - BETTER THAN SOME OF OUR SENTIENT DOGS. HE WAS NOT VERY SMART, BUT HIS SHEER SIZE MADE HIM A GOOD GUARD. HE WAS A NEWFOUNDLAND THAT FELL DOWN INTO THE DUMP AS A PUPPY. HE HAD A COLLAR AND MICROCHIP, SO WE THINK HE FELL DOWN BY ACCIDENT. WE HAD HIM FOR 6 YEARS. HE SLIPPED ON THE ICE ON ONE OF OUR WALKS AND BROKE HIS NECK.”

Sans moved on to the next jar and said angrily, “LOVECRAFT WAS A BASSET HOUND. HE WAS TALKATIVE AND FIERCE WHEN PROVOKED. SOMEBODY SHOT HIM, BUT THEY DIDN’T KILL HIM. HE WAS LAYING THERE SUFFERING FOR HOURS. WHEN I FOUND HIM I HAD TO PUT HIM OUT OF HIS MISERY. THE BULLET COLLAPSED ONE OF HIS LUNGS.”

Blue was horrified. “who would shoot a creature like that? non-sentient dogs are so rare. there… there was a waiting list in my world. we were pretty low on it, but we would have gotten one eventually.”

Sans smiled. “WE HAVE LOTS OF DOGS FALLING DOWN INTO THE DUMP OR BEING BORN IN LITTERS. CATS, TOO, ALTHOUGH THE CATS ARE LESS HAPPY ABOUT IT.”

“i can imagine,” Blue said quietly. “are the rest of the jars all pets?”

“YES,” Sans nodded. “THEY WERE ALL MUTTS, BUT GOOD DOGS. SHELLEY LOVED TO DIG. SHE ACCIDENTALLY CAUSED AN AVALANCHE THAT CRUSHED HER SPINE. STOKER WE GOT AS A PUPPY. HE LIVED FOR 14 YEARS BEFORE CANCER OVERWHELMED HIM. THE LAST JAR IS STEVENSON. SHE WOULD EAT ANYTHING. SHE ATE SOME RAT POISON AND BLED OUT FROM A CUT BEFORE WE COULD SAVE HER.”

“i’m so sorry for your loss,” Blue said, holding his hands out for a hug. “It must have hurt to lose them.”

Sans waved the hug away. “IT’S BEEN YEARS. POE WAS THE LAST OF OUR PACK. THE MAGNIFICENT SANS WOULD NOT BE SO CRUEL AS TO CARE FOR A DOG KNOWING IT WAS GOING TO DIE. THE DOCTORS HERE DON’T WANT TO SEE THEM.”

Blue tentatively asked, “are there no veterinarians here?”

Sans blinked at him as if he were speaking gibberish. “WHAT SORT OF NONSENSE IS THAT? YOU MUST HAVE HIT YOUR HEAD HARDER THAN WE THOUGHT.”

“a veterinarian,” Blue said quietly, “is like a doctor who only sees non-sentient creatures. we had a few back home. it’s a lot of schooling and studying. there’s way more people who want to be vets than there are spots for them in the schools. it’s a huge challenge.”

Sans stroked his chin thoughtfully, a wicked gleam glittering in his eyes. “THAT SOUNDS LIKE A PERFECT CHALLENGE FOR THE MAGNIFICENT SANS! I WILL BECOME THE BEST VET THE WORLD HAS EVER SEEN! NO ANIMAL WILL DIE FROM SOMETHING I CAN PREVENT. ILLNESS AND PARASITES WILL TREMBLE BEFORE ME! I CAN SEE IT NOW! DR. SANS, THE GREATEST VETERINARIAN OF ALL TIME! MWAH HAH HAH!”

Blue felt a little overwhelmed by the sheer enthusiasm of the monster next to him. He couldn’t help but grin. “i’m sure you will be. if there’s anything i can do to help you achieve that, let me know.”

“I WILL DO IT ON MY OWN!” Sans said fiercely. Then, quietly, he said, “THANK YOU.”

Blue nodded happily. He was glad Sans was willing to acknowledge him. He knew he had it in him.

[dontshootmespence]

Supernatural AU: Episode 5 - Faith

Part 1

Another greasy, backwoods, podunk hick stinking of beer and motor oil thinking he was gonna get into her pants.

Little did he know.

She was exhausted by it, but unfortunately it came with her assignment and for him she would deal with an infinite amount of these idiots.

Meg glanced in the rearview mirror, a smirk playing across her lips when he asked her where she wanted to go. It was all fun and games screwing around with one dumbass after another, but she did have a job to do and all her plans had been derailed after they left. He would want an update.

“Why don’t you pull over?” She crooned. The down-home country twang got them every time. It was too simple. Of course he would pull over; this idiot thought what they all did. ‘A pretty little blonde asking me to pull to the side of the road - I’ve hit the lottery!’

She tried to suppress a gag when she saw exactly how excited this moron was at the prospect of a little ass, but she’d do what needed to be done.

On this almost moonless night, he pulled the rickety van into a clearing with more than a few trees. He could have gone further up the road, but he underestimated the woman in the passenger seat, thinking if she decided not to go through with it, he’d have her in a corner. She banked on the stupidity of others.

The scraggly-haired redneck glanced in her direction expectantly, mind buzzing with possibilities that would never come. She wanted to laugh. She could just cut to the chase, but toying with him was so much fun. The silver goblet slipped effortlessly out of her bag, intriguing the man next to her. “I need to make a call,” she said sweetly.

A hint of confusion struck him before he offered her his cellphone. How cute.

Slipping her left hand into the pocket of her leather jacket and molding her palm to the knife’s hilt, she spoke with ice in her veins. “It’s not that kind of call.”

Before he knew what hit him, she jabbed the knife into the side of his throat, delighting in the gurgling sound that came from him. She’d revel in it more if she had the time, but she needed answers and per his orders had been keeping herself under the radar – very little fun, but necessary. Tipping the goblet toward the steady stream of blood, the scent of copper filling her nose, she gathered it and watched until it pooled into the basin.

With two fingers, she pushed the dying man in the direction of the driver’s side window and smirked before dipping the same two fingers into the pool of blood, stirring as she spoke – to him.

The blood reached out, its power eminent. He could hear her. “Why did I have to let them go?” She asked. She trusted him. Truly, she did, but her abilities were wasted. “I could have taken them, both of them.”

As the indistinct voice emerged from the goblet, she relaxed into her role. They were needed for a larger purpose and she would just have to trust that fact for now. “Yes, I trust you,” she whispered. “I trust you father.”

                                                             -----

Probably a good thing they came back. “You were toast,” Bobbie laughed. Some might balk at the idea of being chased around an orchard by a killer scarecrow for a pagan sacrifice, but alas, it was just another day in their lives.

“Seriously, you should be kissing our asses.” Sam said with a smile, pointing between himself and Bobbie as they all piled into the Impala again.

Dean claimed he had a plan all along; he would’ve been fine. But he couldn’t fool them. He and that girl had been mere moments from being on the wrong end of the scarecrow’s blade. Thankfully, the freaks that had been orchestrating the sacrifices for years were the ones to bite it this time. “What made you decide to come back?”

Bobbie came back because Sam decided to return. After her brothers ended up fighting in the car and walking away from each other despite her protestations, she decided to go with Sam. He wanted to look for John, a mix of worry and anger flowing through every muscle of his body. Dean wanted to follow John’s orders – for them to stop looking for him and do their jobs.

Honestly, Bobbie didn’t care either way. She knew there was work to be done, but she also wanted to find John if for no other reason than to punch him in the throat. After all the shit he’d been putting them through lately, she figured she was entitled to that much. But Sam had been the reason she’d left Dean. As his big sister, she was supposed to protect him – love him – that was her job, but when Jessica died she knew she’d failed, so instead of staying with Dean who could in all likelihood handle a job or two on his own (apparently she’d been wrong about that too, cue more guilt) she went after Sam and found him at the bus station on the tail end of a conversation with a pretty blonde.

“Well, you weren’t picking up your phone and we got worried about you,” he replied. “Good thing too. Otherwise you’d be a dead man.”

“No way, man. I had a plan. I was golden.” Bobbie rolled her eyes and smiled as Baby purred and began growling down the road.

“And I just figured that we know dad’s alive and finding him could wait another day. Something Meg said, even though I don’t think she meant it that way.” Sam didn’t want to admit how much he’d understood her, the desire to get away from family – forge another path, but when it all came down to it, no matter how much of a pain in the ass he found his brother and sister, they were all each other had.

Dean turned around, hand resting on Baby’s wheel. “Meg? You met a girl and you came back? Was she pretty?”

“Shut up,” Sam quipped. “It’s only been six months. Not ready for that yet.”

Bobbie’s lip twitched as she looked out the window. Jessica’s death was still so raw for him and she couldn’t do anything to help him. “I thought she was,” Bobbie said, forcing a little too much levity into her voice. “Like a southern belle with a rebel streak, but it didn’t look like she had anyone, not like us.”

Sam leaned back in the front passenger side seat and closed his eyes. “Yea, we can wait another day for Bobbie to punch dad in the face. We’ll find him together.”

“You wanna punch dad in the face?” Dean asked incredulously.

“You don’t?”

                                                            -----

A few days passed before they got a hint of anything on the radar, but the second a Rawhead showed up (a humanoid with decaying skin that lurks in basements and preys on children, seriously you can’t make this shit up) Bobbie, Dean and Sam formulated a plan to take it out.

Considering they tended to crumble under electrocution, the plan was fairly simple - take stun guns and shoot the bastard. But the best laid plains of mice and men often go awry so the saying goes.

The moment the Impala parked on cool, damp grass, the three of them jumped out of the car and grabbed their stun guns from the trunk. “Okay,” Dean said quietly as they snuck up the side of the rickety, wood-eaten house, “Once we get down there, we separate, corner it and finish this thing off so we can go back to the room and get drunk. I want this thing extra friggin crispy.”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Bobbie whispered into the chill of the night.

Sam thought more along the lines of sleeping for another few days, but it didn’t matter. Whatever motivation they could find to make it through another job was about all they could really ask for.

Inside the home, they made their way down the stairs, careful not to draw any unwanted attention through clacking shoes and creaking floors. Easier said than done. When Bobbie’s boot pressed heavily into the weak wood, Sam shot her a glance, grimacing when she mouthed her ‘sorry.’

It took them forever to get to the bottom of the steps, but once Dean’s ratty shoes hit the concrete floor, they tiptoed in opposite directions to cover more ground. A chill ran up Bobbie’s spine. The never-ending silence paired with the dank, musty smell and the lack of light making her question every single move made around her. Was it Sam? Was it Dean? Was it something else entirely?

From across the basement, the sound of some kind of opening doors focused her attention again. Practiced agility brought her back to her brothers in seconds. The children had been cowering in the cabinet. “It’s okay. We aren’t going to hurt you,” Dean whispered.

Bobbie reached out and ushered the children toward Sam. “This is my brother. He’s going to help you outside okay?” The frightened youngsters nodded, eyes searching everywhere, desperate to get out of their own personal hell without any cuts and bruises. “We’ve got this,” she said, looking up at Sam, whose worry was always apparent in furrowed brows.

Close behind the children, Sam bounded up the steps and got knocked down when the Rawhead shot its hand out from between the dilapidated stairs and grabbed him by the ankle. “Sam!” Bobbie yelled.

Sam kicked his leg out of the monster’s grasp before following behind the children, leaving Dean and Bobbie to handle the barely human creature on their own. Instead of separating this time, they stood back-to-back, stun guns raised with fingers ready to pull at the triggers. “Where the hell did it go?” Bobbie whispered.

He didn’t have any clue, but before he could answer, the monster raced toward them from the sides, its inhuman speed taking them off guard and knocking Bobbie and Dean in different directions among the dust and debris. She could feel the air get knocked from her lungs as the force of the Rawhead’s push smashed her into the back wall. With her brain rattling around in her skull, she tried to refocus her vision and reach for the stun gun, but the otherworldly screeching of the monster and the sizzle of electricity brought her attention upward to where it was convulsing.

The ripples of shock ripped through the monster’s body and traveled down through the floor where it stood in a puddle of water. As the blur started to fade away, she saw Dean in the water too. “Dean!”

Not again.

She failed him again.

The electricity rolled through him, snaps, crackles and pops making him sound more machine than human.

Bobbie’s heart raced as she ran to his side, cradling Dean in her arms. “Dean! Dean, wake up!”

                                                            -----

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