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axkirak · 3 months ago

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The Curse of Cassandra [EP : XIV] - END

Read in Ao3 : here

Pairings : Qimir x f!reader(SEA Reader) [The Acolyte]

Content Rating : Mature 18+ Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warning (AT YOUR OWN RISK)

tags/themes : Alternate Universe - Dune & Star wars, Partners in Crime, Strangers to Lovers

Summary : ‘Pick a flower on Earth and you move the farthest star.’ This describes chaos theory and the workings of fate as well, which illustrates how your final change of destiny moves the fate of the entire galaxy.

Status: Completed (Finally! 😭)

A/N : I can’t believe I actually finished writing this fic! It’s my first long English fic, and I’m pretty proud of it. I know my writing still has a lot of flaws (since English isn’t my strong suit), but I’m so happy people enjoyed it.

I loveeeee yapping about my own writing, so I plan to share more about this fic in another post—things like plot points I didn’t include and alternative endings I considered. Hope that sounds interesting to you, LOL

Lastly, a huge thank you to everyone who stuck with this fic till the end. Your comments and encouragement really kept me going, and I couldn’t have done it without you <3

Ps.Please go back and read the Intro again before starting the final chapter, as it’s part of the ending. (I used a storytelling style where the story opens with the ending) Reading the Intro first will help you understand the story more clearly.

And don’t forget to play this song while reading >> Skugge

I listened to it while writing the ending, and it really sets the mood

➡ Intro // EP : 1 // EP : 2 // EP : 3 // EP : 4 // EP : 5 // EP : 6 // EP : 7 // EP : 8 // EP : 9 // EP : 10 // EP : 11 // EP : 12 // EP : 13

Special OS : Phantom Thread // My mother is my enemy

[Episodes 14] The Power of Two. (Completed)

When contemplating deeply, every entity in the universe is intricately connected in various ways.

On the quantum level, all particles are entangled and influence each other regardless of distance. Even the smallest, minor actions can trigger unforeseen consequences that ripple through the universe. This is far more complex than ordinary humans can immediately comprehend.

And that’s exactly how fate works.

You know that the chain reaction has already begun the moment you decided to shoot Yord yourself.

The stun blaster is designed to be non-lethal—at most, it would knock Yord unconscious and possibly immobile for several hours. But this is all you need to save his life from the fate you've foreseen on the path ahead.

You've always known—Yord and Qimir are polar opposites, destined to kill each other. Yord stands for the light, while Qimir embodies the darkness. They cannot coexist in the same world. Whenever they fight, one must die, or both shall perish. There are only those three possible outcomes.

So you chose a fourth path: to prevent them from confronting each other so that neither would have to die.

You’ve only just realized how much selfishness lies beneath love. Instead of seeking a way to prevent the disaster that’s looming a hundred years from now, you chose to defy fate. You interfered with the story as it was meant to play out, pushing the universe toward an unpredictable risk—all for the sake of one word: 'love.'

The essence of Paul that flows within you still remembers the agony of the day Chani and Alia Atreides departed. Even though thousands of years have gone by, the torment remains too vivid to forget—like your heart being torn apart while still beating and your soul shattered beyond repair. You can't bear the risk of losing anyone to fate’s cruel hand again.

That's why you did it. You gambled on a path that has never appeared in any of your visions, not knowing what the consequences would be.

And you never expected that the consequences of your choice would ripple out so quickly.

You didn’t realize it...until you had to face the truth before your eyes half an hour later.

How could this be?

You stood frozen, as though the entire world had stopped spinning. Your gaze was fixed on Jackie's body, now lying motionless on the ground among the other corpses. The deep, searing wound from a lightsaber had cut through her flesh, blood pooling beneath her, staining the Jedi robes that were once yellow but were now soaked in a dark, gruesome hue.

The acrid stench of burnt flesh mingled with the metallic scent of blood, hanging thick in the air.

Jackie is still breathing, but her breaths grow weaker with every passing second. Her face contorts in excruciating pain, a pain that lasts only for a brief moment before her final breath escapes. Her eyes remain wide open—a sign that life has already slipped away.

At that moment, you hear a scream echoing in your ears, but the haze of shock leaves everything muffled.

You don't even know whose scream it is—Sol's or your own?

Never once did you think Jackie would die. In every vision you’d seen, she always survived, though gravely injured—losing an arm in the fight against Qimir. That was why you decided to come back instead of escaping alone. You knew that as long as Qimir lived, there was no escaping him—not for you. But Jackie still had a chance. If only you could get her and Yord aboard the ship in time before everything spiraled out of control, that would be enough.

But when you arrived, it was already too late. You saw it clearly with your own eyes: Qimir’s red lightsaber pierced through Jackie’s body three times, each strike aimed at a vital spot. There was no way she could survive such an attack.

You realized too late that the death of someone you loved was inevitable and unchangeable. If Yord and Qimir lived, it meant that Jackie would be the one to die. This was the consequence of your selfish attempt to alter fate. Jackie didn't die by Qimir's hand—it was your decision that sealed her fate.

You want to cry. The corners of your eyes burn with the sting of unshed tears, but none come. The grief is suppressed by the flood of information about the future that surges through your mind. You know you’ll mourn when the time comes, but not now. Not when death is crawling toward you.

“Run!”

A sharp voice jolts you from your thoughts. Finally, you hear it clearly—it’s Sol’s voice. He stands across the way, disheveled and wounded, with a minor gash at his side. His face shows shock, his voice shaking with fear. “Run! You shouldn’t be here!”

But his warning comes too late. You don’t even have a chance to respond, let alone follow his command. Suddenly, an invisible force wraps around you, tightening with each second, squeezing the breath from your lungs as if trying to crush you completely. You gasp, struggling for air, unable to move, like a drowning person on the verge of losing consciousness.

In that instant, memories from the depths of your mind flood back, dragging you into the nightmare you once foresaw. Each scene is like pieces of a puzzle coming together to form the terrible reality before you.

Your eyes fix on a tall figure in a black cloak, his deformed metal helmet etched with a grotesque grin. He stands amidst the scattered corpses of fallen Jedi, radiating an aura of ruthless malevolence. His gaze, hidden beneath the helmet, stares intensely at you. Though you cannot see his face, you clearly sense the fury seething within him.

And in the blink of an eye, a tremendous force pulls you toward him with ease, leaving you powerless to resist.

You are completely at his mercy, your body suspended in mid-air as his large hand grips your throat. He could crush your windpipe or snap your neck in an instant; however, he holds back. You sense his intent through the shared consciousness that binds the two of you. This is how The Stranger plays with his prey. When he wears that helmet, he becomes a merciless hunter, driven only by the instinct to kill.

Sol doesn't hesitate. The moment he sees you in danger, he charges forward, his blue lightsaber flashing brilliantly as he swings it toward the Sith Lord. But the enemy moves with surprising speed. He yanks you closer, locking you in a chokehold with his arm, then tilts his body slightly, using his helmet as a shield to deflect the attack. When Sol’s lightsaber strikes the cortosis metal, it sparks and fizzles, rendering Sol’s weapon temporarily useless.

You draw a deep breath, your body tense as the Sith Lord's lightsaber hilt presses against your neck. He hasn’t activated it yet, but you know the moment he does, your face and brain will be reduced to charred flesh in an instant.

“Don’t even think about trying any tricks if you don’t want to lose your tongue,” comes the cold whisper in your ear. You understand the threat well: Qimir is the only one who knows your true capabilities. The Voice is a powerful secret weapon for the Bene Gesserit, and he won't give you the chance to wield it.

Even if you dared to try, it wouldn’t change anything. It would only hasten the end for both you and Sol. You’ve already seen the future that awaits if you choose that path. So, you stay silent for now, your mind racing to find another way—any way to turn the tables on Qimir.

“Let her go. She has nothing to do with this. Let it be between you and me!” Sol shouts, reigniting his lightsaber, but you can see that his hope hasn’t reignited.

Apart from Yord, who lies unconscious somewhere in the forest, Sol is now the only Jedi left breathing, while his comrades, including his padawan, are all dead. He should have been dead too, if you hadn’t intervened.

“But you brought her here, didn’t you?” the Sith taunts. “And I’m certain you wouldn’t have made it this far without this Bene Gesserit witch guiding you.”

As he finishes speaking, you feel his arm tighten around your neck, making it almost impossible to breathe. The suffocating pain forces you to struggle, your hands weakly hitting his arm to no avail. All you get in return is a mocking laugh.

“Bene Gesserit... the origin of both the Sith and the Jedi. Isn’t it fascinating that such remarkable beings still exist in the galaxy?” He reaches out, gripping your chin and studying your face closely before turning his attention back to Sol. "But what a pity that she chose the wrong side."

Sol shifts, readying himself to strike again, but the man in black is one step ahead. He lifts the hilt of his lightsaber to your temple without a word, yet his intent is clear—if Sol dares to take another step forward, you will die.

The Jedi grits his teeth, reluctantly deactivating his lightsaber. His eyes remain fixed on you as he addresses the Sith, "Tell me, what do you want?"

He’s stalling for time, you think. But how long can it last? You know you can’t rely on Sol alone. You need to find a way out too.

A harsh breath hisses out from beneath his helmet; it’s hard to tell whether it comes from exhaustion or amusement.

"At first, I thought I only wanted freedom: freedom from the Jedi's absurd rules, freedom to feel regret and anger, and freedom to follow my own desires," he answered flatly, as if what he desired were something ordinary, not the taking of lives. "But now I know what I truly want. I want to change; I want to liberate this universe from self-proclaimed guardians like you..."

His words stop abruptly. The silence that follows makes your heart tremble. You can feel his cold, burning rage—rage directed at the Jedi and rage directed at you.

"...And I would have achieved it sooner if I hadn’t been betrayed by someone.”

A scream rips from your throat, unprepared for the sudden, crushing weight of his boot as it slams hard into your shin. The sound of breaking bones is crystal clear. The pain is so intense that tears spring to your eyes, and your legs give way, no longer able to hold you up. But you don’t collapse completely, as Qimir still holds you upright, his grip on your arm unrelenting. His lightsaber is still pressed to your temple, while he turns to shake his head to warn Sol, who is ready to lunge forward again.

“Think about it, Sol. Why are you still trying to save her? She’s the reason you’re in this mess. Without her, you all might still be alive.”

The Sith Lord speaks with chilling indifference, completely unfazed by your whimpers as he presses his boot lightly against your broken leg, deliberately toying with your suffering. "But this one... she exposed me. So, now I have to kill every single last one of you."

You flinch, a cold shiver running down your spine. His voice—there’s something disturbingly strange about it, twisted and eerie, nothing like the Qimir you once knew.

Time is running out. Your heightened awareness warns you: he will kill Sol first, then possibly you.

You bite down hard on your lip, tasting blood. If there were any other way, you wouldn’t resort to this, but it’s the only option you know will work. And right now, there’s no other choice.

Taking a deep breath, you force yourself to speak, your voice as loud as you can manage.

"Please... don’t kill me. I’m pregnant!”

Silence falls instantly. Even the soft whisper of the wind seems unnaturally loud in the sudden stillness.

No one can see the expression behind his helmet, but you know without a doubt—he is shocked, utterly stunned by what he’s just heard.

And Sol notices it too—the brief moment when the Sith Lord’s guard drops, his grip on the lightsaber loosening without him realizing. It’s a tiny flaw, difficult to spot unless one is well-trained.

As if time stands still, Sol suddenly meets your glance, recognizing the purposeful look in your eyes.

In that heartbeat, he knows exactly what to do.

Everything takes place within seconds: the Jedi ignites his lightsaber, lunging forward with all his strength and slashing into Qimir’s arm—the arm holding the lightsaber—sending both blood and the weapon crashing to the ground. The Sith Lord’s yell echoes through the forest.

Seizing the moment, you slip from Qimir’s grasp effortlessly. Sol pulls you toward safety, shoving you in another direction and shouting, “Get to the ship, quickly! I’ll catch up!”

He will never catch up to me, you think, glancing back at Sol one last time before turning away. Both of you know it—fate is already sealed. Sol will not leave this place tonight, and neither will you.

You force your battered body to keep moving, relying on the one leg that still functions, though each step is agonizing, nearly unbearable. Finally, you give up, sighing in resignation. With your current condition, reaching the ship is impossible. Fate has blocked every path—unchangeable and irreversible.

The only option left is to face the consequences of the choices you have made.

Weary, you sit down on a large stone not far from where you were. Jedi corpses still litter the area. A deep sorrow weighs on your chest as your gaze falls upon the faces of the fallen, remembering that just hours ago, they were all still alive.

Human life is so fragile, you think. No matter how many times you witness death, you can never grow used to it.

The sky visibly darkens as clouds turn a dull gray. The scent of moisture in the air gradually mutes the smell of blood. Rain will come soon, but you make no move to seek shelter. You place a hand on your slightly swollen belly, feeling the tiny life forming inside—the fruit of an instinctual mistake—now becoming another life reaching for the future amidst an approaching catastrophe.

At four months, it’s hard for most to see, but your Bene Gesserit training allows you to know everything about the growing flesh within you. Events unfold exactly as you’ve foreseen, and when this child is born, the future is certain—the beginning of the Skywalker and the path of a new Kwisatz Haderach.

You don’t want this child to be born, but it’s beyond your control now. The intricate weave of fate and bloodlines over the millennia has led everything to this point. Regardless of how much you try to avoid or change it, the Kwisatz Haderach will come into existence. It happened with Jessica thousands of years ago, and now it’s happening to you.

“The Bene Gesserit believe they can control everything, but the one thing they can never control is fate.”

Paul Atreides’ words resonate in your consciousness. You recall him saying this when you first discovered the truth about what will transpire in the next century through the realm of Alam al-Mithal.

“Every action in the present is a gamble for a precarious future. You cannot dictate the outcome to be what you want, and you’ll never know what will happen next until you’ve already made your choice,” Paul had said.

You tremble, feeling both isolated and terrified. It’s a profound fear—so deep that you don’t know how to express it. You know the path ahead has already changed. The universe has deviated from its course because of your actions, yet you have no idea whether things will get better or worse.

You close your eyes, forcing your mind into rapid meditation, trying to regain control over your thoughts. You push yourself into an awareness of the countless probabilities of the future, alongside everything that has occurred in the past. Those paths stretch out in every direction, twisting and overlapping in a bewildering tangle like gazing at the rippling surface of water that constantly morphs.

In that haze of uncertainty, you witness Paul Atreides wielding a crysknife, locked in a life-or-death duel with Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, as per the ancient tradition. He uses that knife to kill Feyd, claiming the title of Emperor on that very day.

This marks the first turning point of the universe.

Next, you find yourself pulling the trigger of a stun blaster, firing at Yord from behind to shield him from confronting Qimir, thus altering the fate that could have led him to his death today.

This is the second turning point.

The change doesn’t only affect Yord’s fate. The ripple effect expands, enveloping everything within the universe. Multiple branching paths start to converge, merging into a singular path.

Finally... you glimpse the true outcome of the path you've chosen, which will reveal itself in over a century.

This is the gamble you've already placed your bet on, for this purpose and for this moment.

"Qimir"

His name sounds strange when you utter it, as if it's not a name you're familiar with, and the man before you is not the man you know.

You understand why you feel this way: he is no longer your Qimir but The Stranger—the Sith Lord responsible for the slaughter of the Jedi.

He stands before you, unmasked, his dark eyes cold as ice, staring at you impassively. There’s no longer a need for him to hide. Every aspect of him, every dark secret, has been laid bare—just as everything about you has.

The man chuckles softly and moves even closer, cutting off any chance for you to escape. You swallow hard, trying to turn your face away from his intense gaze. But he doesn't let you. His fingers, wet with others' blood, dig into both of your cheeks, pressing hard enough to hurt, forcing you to look only at him.

"Surprised?" He leans in closer, his hot breath on your face, and whispers softly in your ear, "I told you, you can't run away from me."

His words are not merely a threat to you; they are the truth.

Because you both are bound by fate—an unbreakable karmic bond. No matter how much you try to run away from him, you will always be drawn back together. The only way to truly be free of him is death.

"I know, but a little effort wouldn't hurt, right?"

You respond, your tone almost playful, a smile still lingering on your pale face. It's as if everything is normal and under control, displaying no fear despite being at a complete disadvantage.

Your demeanor causes Qimir to furrow his brow, sensing something suspicious beneath your seemingly ordinary smile.

He doesn't quite understand, not until you slip your hand under your clothes.

Your body instinctively moves; muscle memory from years of training kicks in. In a flash, the knife hidden in your clothes flips into your palm, its sharp tip poised just inches from Qimir’s face.

You still remember every technique Qimir taught you—especially how to fight with a knife. You know you have numerous opportunities to thrust the knife into his vital points—his throat, neck, heart, or lungs.

But instead, you turn the knife on yourself. Without hesitation, without a second thought, you plunge it toward your own heart.

Before the knife pierces your flesh, Qimir's hand shoots out, gripping your wrist just in time. His dark eyes widen in shock, almost seeming terrified. Then, quickly, his expression twists into anger.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" he snaps.

"I thought you wanted me dead," you reply calmly, indifferent to his anger.

Qimir falls silent, appearing speechless for a moment. "I don't want you dead," he finally says, though he doesn’t seem certain of his own words.

It's changed again, you think, but this time, you feel an unusual sense of relief.

You're well aware that he could kill you at any moment. You’ve seen all the possibilities of how Qimir might end your life, and what just happened was one of those scenarios.

Even though you’re skilled at fighting, you know you could never match Qimir. Had you chosen to stab him moments ago, you would have failed, and he would have killed you without hesitation. You’d have met a miserable end right here, just like in the visions you’ve seen so many times before.

However, by choosing to turn the knife on yourself, you altered the course of events. Qimir was caught off guard, never expecting you would actually dare to do it.

You’ve made him angry, of course, but you’ve also ignited the fear he tries so hard to conceal. It reminds him of the time you drank the Water of Life and slipped into a near-death coma for weeks. During that time, Qimir had been frantic and panicked, not knowing how to save you and fearing that you might die.

Qimir may not realize it yet—or perhaps he’s unwilling to admit it. However, witnessing this moment again will eventually compel him to confront the truth: he doesn’t truly want you dead.

This is all part of your plan. Your reckless actions sow a seed of fear in Qimir’s heart, and from now on, the thought of killing you will never cross his mind again.

Since escaping from Qimir is impossible, you must ensure your safety while trapped by his side.

“But you broke my leg!” You pretend to remain defiant, pointing to your leg and matching his anger with your own. “And you held your lightsaber to my head. Now you’re telling me you don’t want me dead? How am I supposed to believe that?”

Qimir clenches his jaw, appearing as if he wants to grab and shake you until the frustration fades.

Instead of doing that, he lets go of you, stepping back slightly before letting out a long sigh, as if unsure how to deal with you.

“That’s because you betrayed me. The rest? I was just threatening that Jedi.” He speaks through gritted teeth, glancing at your leg before shrugging. “And I’m pretty sure a broken leg won’t kill anyone, will it?”

For a split second, you feel the urge to laugh at his sarcasm, even though there’s nothing remotely funny about this situation.

Both of you look worse for wear—blood-soaked and gravely injured. He’s just killed someone, almost killing you as well.

Who would’ve thought that the two of you would end up sitting across from each other, arguing back and forth like a foolish couple trying to figure out who’s right or wrong?

It feels strange how the tension between you both suddenly eases; for a brief moment, Qimir resembles the man you once knew.

You notice this subtle shift and realize this is the opportunity you’ve been waiting for. You quickly organize your thoughts and steady your emotions. Because there’s something important you need to discuss with Qimir—and this is the perfect moment to do so. There won’t be another chance.

“Qimir, I’ll help you,” you say firmly this time. “I don’t care how many Jedi you kill, but I have one condition.”

Qimir narrows his eyes, his sharp gaze scrutinizing your face as if searching for deception. He doesn’t trust you, especially after you betrayed him once and fled with the Jedi.

Yet, you don’t need to prove anything to him because Qimir needs you. Your power is what he desires, and across the galaxy, you’re the only one who possesses this unique ability.

Your assumption is correct. He finally nods. "What’s your condition?"

"The one person you cannot kill is Yord Fandar."

“Why?”

"Because I’ve seen a vision. He’s the only one who can kill you. You must avoid him," you say, though this isn’t the whole truth. Qimir has an equal chance of killing Yord himself, but it’s better to let him believe otherwise, to keep him away from Yord in the future. "But don’t worry. He won’t be a Jedi anymore after this."

You’re certain of this, as it’s what you’ve seen in your vision—a part of the altered path extending ahead.

The tragedy today will leave a permanent mark on Yord’s soul. Losing all his companions while he alone survives will haunt him like an unforgiveable sin. The guilt will gnaw at him, wearing him down until he can no longer bear the burden of being a Jedi.

Eventually, Yord will choose to leave the Order, turning his back on the Jedi way forever.

In many ways, Yord’s fate mirrors Qimir’s past. But there is one crucial difference: Yord never succumbs to the dark side. He has too much light within him to be overtaken by darkness. He becomes neither Sith nor Jedi, but a Wayseeker,[1] traveling the galaxy in search of the true meaning of life and the Force.

Yord’s life will take another turn when he reaches the planet Naboo, where he is destined to rescue the daughter of a noble family held for ransom by space pirates. This event leads to their falling in love, and Yord will eventually marry her, settling down to build a family and live out his days in peace.

His bloodline will continue, becoming a crucial variable in the future—a girl named Padmé Amidala.

In the future, she will be the love of Anakin Skywalker’s life and the primary reason for his fall to the Dark Side as a Sith Lord, plunging the galaxy into darkness. Yet, at the same time, Padmé’s existence will spark a new hope.

Luke and Leia Skywalker, the twins of Anakin and Padmé, will grow up to stop their father's devastation and restore balance to the Force.

Among the many paths branching through the stream of time, this is the only path where the Kwisatz Haderach faces total defeat.

"Promise me." You insist, eyes locked onto Qimir's with unwavering determination, barely blinking. "Promise me you will believe and do everything as I say."

"You ask for my trust after betraying me, my love?" He retorts sharply.

"You must trust me; you have no other choice." Your voice is calm, cold, and confident, as if you hold all the cards. "And neither do I, my love." The last line deliberately echoes his words.

You watch Qimir carefully, using the Bene Gesserit’s observation techniques. You notice the slight twitch at the corner of his lips—amusement mixed with satisfaction.

“You should have thought like this before betraying me," he murmurs, raising his hand. You have to force yourself not to flinch as his bloodstained fingers touch your cheek. "I have my own conditions, too."

You freeze, suddenly aware of the shifting dynamics. The familiar pressure returns, creeping in slowly and making the atmosphere heavy and uncomfortable. You immediately realize how serious Qimir is about his conditions.

This is a delicate moment for your fate, and you know you cannot afford to make a mistake.

You lower your gaze slightly, your voice dry and uncertain as you ask, "What do you want?"

"You," Qimir says with a teasing smile, though his tone betrays a far darker intent. "You belong to me. That means your life—whether you live or die—depends entirely on me. And don’t ever think about running away from me again."

His fingers trail up to your neck, brushing slowly over your shoulder. Each touch is tender, leaving you frozen as tension seeps through every muscle in your body.

"And I need to ensure this never happens again, even if it means breaking your other leg. But you won't force me to do that, will you?"

He means it, you realize. This is his way of letting you know he’ll forgive you this time, but there won't be a second act of mercy.

As you blink, fragments of the future flash before your eyes, disjointed glimpses of what’s to come—a warning, urging you to brace yourself.

You see countless more deaths on the horizon—deaths you'll help Qimir plan through your visions. You'll have to endure this torment, bitter and broken, haunted by the overwhelming guilt of what you’ve done for the rest of your life.

And you see yourself forever trapped, with Qimir watching your every move. You won't go anywhere without him or his permission. You will never be free again, like a bird with clipped wings.

This is the worst fate possible for you, yet you understand that this is the only path that holds a chance, the last hope to save the universe. You have no choice but to do whatever it takes to protect it, even if it means living as Qimir’s prisoner and forced to commit terrible atrocities for him, without question.

But it will be worth it. It has to be worth it. You reassure yourself silently as you nod slowly in response to Qimir.

He smiles faintly before leaning in to claim your lips in an intense kiss—a kiss that serves as both promise and a vow. His kiss is cold, reminiscent of a winter stripped of warmth, tinged with a metallic hint of blood. You don’t like it, but you don't push him away. You're too exhausted to resist, surrendering to fate and to Qimir.

There's nothing left for you to do but hope—hope that the path you've chosen is the right one.

Even though you will not live to witness the final outcome.

Footnotes:

[1] A Wayseeker is actually a position within the Jedi Order, referring to Jedi who want to carry out their duties independently of the Jedi Council's directives. However, in this fanfic, I don't consider Wayseekers to be Jedi like in canon; instead, I’m writing Wayseekers as independent Force users, completely separate from both Jedi and Sith.

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m4rveys · 1 month ago

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why i think harvey specter and louis litt are bpd coded (to an extent)

this is just harmless headcanon based on what i noticed while watching, don’t take me too seriously. i’m pretty sure aaron korsh has never even heard of bpd and no one in that writers room knew enough about psychology to actually write a borderline character…

i could make a way more in depth analysis of their mental… situations… but i haven’t rewatched the show in a while so these are just my most basic observations

louis

aside from his uh.. obvious emotional instability and anger issues. i think the most tangible proof i have of this one is when he was described as “loving, hating, and wanting to be harvey at the same time.” now, i’m pretty sure that was just a movie quote… but Very Telling imho…

also the way all his romantic relationships play out in the show (TARA!!!!)… idk y’all… that tara thing was textbook limerence in my eyes.

side note, i’ve seen people call him bipolar quite a bit but i’m pretty sure most of that is just the colloquial (see: wildly incorrect) usage/misunderstanding of the term and not actual concrete evidence of any bipolar theories.

harvey

this one is a little less obvious, so bear with me. but i think the way he started having panic attacks so severe he had to see a therapist (!!!) because donna went to work for someone else at the same damn firm… i’m sorry but the abandonment issues are wild. also the scene when he sees lipschitz one on one and he’s basically complaining that everyone leaves him and louis is gonna forget about him once he has a baby…? which uh, has he ever met louis before? also, that scene gets extra funny when the writers had him and donna leave for seattle like the day after lucy was born… who’s leaving who now?

also, his anger issues got pretty bad too… and his whole “i don’t care about anyone, caring makes me weak” shtick from the earlier seasons isn’t necessarily giving mental illness, but it certainly doesn’t paint a picture of perfect mental stability… i mean, he does change throughout the show (see: the whole situation with anna) but i’d argue that was directly a result of mike’s presence in his life.

ACTUALLY, DONT EVEN GET ME STARTED ON THAT ONE. SECRETLY KEEPING MIKE AND RACHEL’S OLD APARTMENT JUST IN CASE THEY MIGHT COME BACK??? but that deserves a whole separate post bc that’s not related to bpd… just homosexuality.

there’s honestly way more than that, but i’d have to rewatch the whole damn show and take notes to properly make an analysis, which i am not currently willing to do.

Also in my mind mike is slightly autistic coded (strong sense of justice, eidetic memory, hyperempathy (actually just normal empathy tbh but he just looks really emotional compared to Harvey “I Don’t Get Attached To Clients, I Win” Specter)) but that’s not an actual theory i have nor is it at all supported by canon, pure projection by me on that one.

Uhhh again don’t take this too seriously, this is just my brain ramblings. i just thought bpd coded suits deserves more love than 4 unknown reddit comments (one of them being me), 1 tumblr post from half a decade ago, and 1 paragraph in a “tv series that portray bpd” article… i was seriously spoiled in my previous fandoms with the mental disorder hcs (see: adhd denki, bpd goro, autistic izuku/shoto/bkg/ren/saiki/everyone hcs being wildly popular).

also, this is in no way meant to be insulting/demeaning to any characters mentioned, just to share an alternative perspective/interpretation, i’m literally the ceo of borderpolartism… (and made up words!) feel free to disagree as heavily as you’d like, this is nothing but my own personal opinion.

Uhhh, i also have no formal education in psychology, just years of lived experience w bpd/autism and their dsm-5 criteria memorized… (Not that the dsm-5 is great in itself, that book is wildly problematic all on its own, but that’s a subject more fitting for a formal research paper and not a tumblr post made by a generally uneducated moron who only finished school up to the 9th grade…)

one day i’ll write up a proper analysis/explanation/character study, but for now this is the best you’re getting outside of the mildly implied but never explicitly stated autistic mike ross WIPs rotting in my notes app rn, never to be finished.

#suits tv #suits headcanons #bpd headcanon #harvey specter #louis litt #mike ross #marvey #autistic headcanon #headcanons

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aphroditestummyrolls · 5 months ago

Note

we're gonna pretend I didn't misread that post and just assume it was another "post a WIP title in my ask box and get a snippet" post ANYWAY I would love to hear the premise for Little Star 2.0 xD

My friend! ❤️😂 I’ll give you both the premise AND a snippet— everybody’s getting snippets anyway. I’m trying to get back into a daily writing practice, and this only helps get the juices flowing again.

This is better known as The Scar Fic! Which you’ve listened to me bang on about a million times 😅 so, I’ll talk about the thing I’m having the most fun with in this story right now!

Developing relationships (romantic AND platonic) isn’t one of my strong suits as a writer— I’m usually an established relationship writer, or established found family person. But with the scar fic, I have to develop the relationships and take my time with them. Astarion is NOT the type to trust easily at the best of times. In the scar fic? He’s doubly guarded, and even more afraid than he is in canon. The bonds having the most fun writing right now are Halsin (of course), but also Karlach and Gale. There’s so much to be played with with these tadfools, and this story in particular is all about two of my favourite tropes: secret reveals and protectiveness ✨

Here’s a little snippet

Even Karlach looked somehow dimmer as she tucked Clive under Astarion’s arm. Unabashed as ever, she openly sniffled. Tear tracks evaporated from her cheeks. She stroked her pale friend’s hand as she placed her bear at his side.

“We’ll find out who hurt you like this, Fangs.” Despite her quiet tone, that righteous rage was sputtering and sparking back to life. “We’ll free you from whatever fucking devil did this to you.”

“I’m sure Astarion will have more insight for us when he wakes—��

“But that is infernal, isn’t it? I know those fucking filthy scribbles when I see ‘em! That RAPHAEL—!”

“Karlach!” Halsin fought to keep from shouting, his last frayed nerves barely holding back the bear. Even still, a growl leached into his words that shook the ground. “There’s still much we don’t know. Infernal is not a closed language— anyone may have carved this, imbued the sigils with their magic. He…” he has a master as diabolical as any devil, he didn’t say. Regardless of how much their party knew, it felt wrong to say the words aloud. “Astarion will have more insight for us when he wakes.”

Thanks for playing 🥹 I miss writing

#baldur’s gate 3 #astarion #halsin #halstarion #karlach #the tadfools #ask games #tag games #play with meeeee!#the scar fic

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aheroinasuit · 1 year ago

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@ununpredictableme asked:

For the emoji drabble prompt, can I ask these for John and Harold?

🤒 Needing to be looked after

🩸 Patching up a wound

For some peculiar reason I can't post the ask.

So, this part was written when D. sent me the prompt along, long time ago, but I really thought I could continue it with amnesia + platonic... well, marriage tbh (due to amnesia & John misinterpreting the case and Harold lying to keep him safe... yeah in my mind the angst and pain continued in the form of a Shekespearean comedy of errors). I may still write it at some point so I can work around the first part of the ask. Sorry for the delay...

"John, don't let this..."

Harold cannot listen, he can only stand and watch. He watches John holding her in his arms, cradling her head, rocking her body gently on the concrete, white shirt getting red from the blood of them both. He sees the tears, the subdued sobbing.

There is nothing he can do. His machine cannot help. John's eyes shatter again. After everything, it breaks his heart to see it. He limps towards them, and it is too late for her, it is too late for the strong woman who has graced their lives, mostly John's. John is the better character judge of the two. Harold just can't do that. He makes the wrong choices. He falls down by John's side, helpless, undecided. "John." He raises his hand, a few inches away from his friend. "John." He reaches over and touches.

Wide, lost eyes turn on him, looking up. John's breathing is hard and Harold searches with his hands if some of the blood is his and not Joss’. He saw the flinch at the first bullet shot while he was standing there lacking the ability to help. John is losing blood and by the look of it, a lot of blood. He groans painfully as he tries to remove his coat and then unbuttons John’s shirt. John still clings to Joss’ unbreathing body making Harold’s attempts at caring for his wounds more difficult. Harold’s eyes itch, his body and heart ache and he can’t think of both of the people in front of him. He can’t care for Joss as he’d liked to, John is still alive and all his thoughts go to him, to his continued ability to breathe.

What if John dies? What if Harold looks away for one single second and John’s heart stops pumping blood? Fear grips his heart, a sudden pain, emotional as strong as the one shattering his body, attacks him and it’s not about his mission.

It’s not about what the future will bring if John isn’t there to support Harold. It’s a soul wrenching ache over the loss of his partner. What will he do without John? It’s strange how Grace’s face comes behind his closed eyes. He can’t understand it and he doesn’t want to. The material of his suit jacket is not the best to treat wounds, but needs must.

“Joss…”

Harold makes noises of calmness. “Please, John, don’t move.” And the green eyes close and Harold sits and waits for help to arrive. Time passes, hand pushing against John’s wound, help called and Harold finds his brain occupied. How to remove them from this, he and John should not be here, should not give their statements. He has to make them disappear. Shaw and Fusco come and take them away. Harold cannot deal with more emotions, with Lionel’s despair, with Shaw’s silent outrage and John not opening his eyes.

Lionel takes over in the crime scene and Sameen takes over John. Harold stands aside and watches her removing the bullet and cleaning, operating on John. He wonders if she’s any good, but he’s not sure. He feels as if he’s under water, ears buzzing, watching, making sure John still breathes, hooked up in machines and medicine.

“He’ll live,” Sameen says and leaves him alone. It's crowded in his loneliness, John’s breathing, and thoughts, a lot of thoughts keeping him company, dark, bleak thoughts.

He sits and waits for John to wake up. Bear finds his way close to John and puts his head down next to his hand. Waiting as well. He and Bear are waiting for their human to wake up.

John doesn't and Harold has a funeral to attend. The world is moving beneath his feet and he doesn't have the power to stop it moving. He's losing control of all of it.

And he has to find John again. Any means necessary. Including Root. The fear seizes him again, huge tendrils wrap around him... Root, it is.

The emotional fallout of these kinds of traumas can be extensive. Grief. Losing his best friend again. Strange how he didn’t think John like that before, not always. He tries not to think of him like that, but thoughts and feelings, rarely are the same, are they?

He remembers things he should have done differently. Different doesn't mean better. Not for him, not for those he gets to care about. John's trauma is life threatening. John's trauma was always death threatening and Harold, mind sound and somber, chose to overlook it, dismiss the death wish and focus on the man's integrity. He needs to find John alive, as he needs oxygen to keep breathing.

Responsibility. Survivors' responsibility... no matter what he does, how much he tries. It just isn't enough. He always loses.

Will he get John back? His John, not a shadow of the man he knows. Running in the city trying to find him, Harold sees that Lionel cares, and, strangely enough, Shaw cares too. In her own way. She knows John in a way Harold will never do. He looks at her and he likes it. It's not the same as Joss. The thought disturbs him. The comparison disturbs him.

It doesn’t matter. John will need him and Harold will be there for him.

#John Reese x Harold Finch #my writing #not a drabble #Person of Interest #Harold FInch #John Reese

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thegreatmousebafoon · 9 months ago

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Ok this is a little bit of a rant so bear with me

I just started playing D&D- me and another one of my friends ( we’ll call him Damian ) are new at it. Me and him are the only ones as players, while our DM is the more experienced of us.

Each of us are theater kids, which makes a whole lotta sense. Surprisingly, I’m having a hard time keeping up role playing. Part of me has this problem because I don’t know what is and isn’t allowed in D&D. I’ve read the players handbook, I’ve watched as many videos as humanly possible, and I’m just not getting the hang of it.

Even though I am very active in theatre, improve has never been my strong suit. I’m also an active writer, but writing a character and not the world kind of throws me off..? I usually come up with an overall idea for the world or country or whatever setting I want and then I create the characters to best reflect the world and it’s issues or strengths. I’ve even done it where I make a character and that characters background and then make the world for the character, BUT the difference is that even while writing the character I’m thinking about what I’m going to do with the world.

Creating the character without thinking about the world is hard because I’m used to making characters to reflect the world. It also doesn’t help that I keep trying to make the character one that I can easily play in game.

We’ve actually already met about 3 times, AND ITS SO MUCH MORE FUN THAN ID THOUGHT IT WOULD BE!!! I don’t want to sound like I’m not having fun- I absolutely adore the game! It’s the most fun I’ve had in a while and it’s given me so much more motivation for my art and writting.

And our DM is very understanding of me and Damian’s lack of knowledge and experience.

I’d like to think I’m picking it up quickly? But I’m not really sure.

It makes things sort of awkward as well because both Damian and our DM are seniors, while I and a sophomore. We are really close friends as a group, I think of both of them like the older brothers I never had and I think those feelings are returned.

Regardless, Im a little scared of losing contact with them when they go off the college. I think that is making me a little more anxious than necessary about the campaign.

I’m worried I may be putting to much pressure on something that is supposed to a fun experience. I don’t want ti ruin this for ‘Damian’ because I’m stressing about it.

Does anyone have any advice? From a D&D player or a non-D&D player, it doesn’t rlly matter to me.

#i need advice #d&d adventures #dnd campaign #d&d #d&d campaign #d&d rp #dungeons and dragons #advice #help my poor soul

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thatstormygeek · 10 months ago

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I can feel some people reading this post screaming at me through the computer screen that the comparison between ChatGPT and a hammer is a category error. Hammers do one kind of thing: basically, they hit things. Any task that can be accomplished by hitting things is going to be a good candidate task for a hammer, and conversely, any task that does not require hitting things will not be. ChatGPT, on the other hand, generates text. And what can you do by writing text? Absolutely anything you can imagine! By generating the right kind of text you can solve math problems, program computers, write screenplays, negotiate discounts, diagnose patients, and the list goes on. It may be more efficient to list out the things that can’t be accomplished by writing text. ChatGPT, on this view, is a step on the path towards artificial general intelligence, a form of artificial intelligence that can tackle absolutely any task with superhuman effectiveness. But lurking beneath the surface of this point of view is a very strong assumption, without which the entire argument crumbles. The assumption is that ChatGPT can generate any kind of text, that all of the text necessary to perform all of these tasks can be generated by the specific procedure that ChatGPT uses to generate text. If there’s a particular type of text that it seems to be bad at, it’s not because LLM-based programs are not well suited to generating that type of text, but only because we haven’t given OpenAI enough money to make a large enough language model. Before addressing this argument directly, I’d just like to point out how astonishing it would be if it’s true. Lots of computer programs can generate text, but not any kind of text. My little Python script that plays sum-to-22 generates text, but only transcriptions of sum-to-22 games. The Wu-Tang Names Generator generates text, but only Wu-Tang Names. The ability to generate text with a computer is not new. But if the text generation algorithm used by ChatGPT can be used to generate any kind of text, then we really have invented the hammer for which every problem in the world is a nail. That would be, to put it mildly, a very big deal! It’s no wonder that the people who believe it are so excited! It’s no wonder that Sam Altman thinks OpenAI needs 7 trillion dollars! But it’s a really enormous claim, and one that it should take quite a lot of evidence to accept. Strictly speaking, it’s trivially false.

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wouldntyou-liketoknow · 5 months ago

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How the plot thickens, and so the shenaniganry ensues. . .

Both Caliban and Ness have some ‘splaining to do: the former has a quick chat with a very special guest character about his new plans, and the latter reveals what it’s like to be stalked by a certain wacko in a bear-suit.

(It’s honestly kinda funny how this snippet took about the same amount of time to write as the first one. Lol, I just keep on surprising myself.)

As always, I hope you enjoy!

___

Terminal Case of the Ol’ Switcheroo [Part 2]

(Disclaimer: only two of the characters in this snippet belong to me. For more information about my EgoPat Caliban, go here. And if you’d like to learn about my StephEgo R.D., go here.)

(One more thing: I’ve actually written a full character analysis on the dynamic between Mad and Caliban. If you’re interested, please feel free to check it out here.)

(Trigger Warnings: blood/gore, knives/blades, implied kidnapping, implied violence, talk of murder/death, mentions of cannibalism, mentions of illegal business, implied stalking/threatening, mentions of snakes, mentions of spiders, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

Part 1 Part 3 Part 4 Epilogue

___

The bindings slipped away, barely making a sound as they hit the concrete floor.

Despite his newfound energy, the captive’s legs—scratch that, the captive’s everything was very shaky as he stood up from the chair.

That shakiness only worsened when Caliban stooped down and grabbed that same burlap sack he’d used hours ago. Parts of it shone in the light, courtesy of the strips of duct-tape that formed a frowny-face with Xs for eyes.

“Hey, HEY!” Mr. Waiter—uh, Ness, if memory from that one after-hit-job-rest-stop from months ago served—yelped as the bag was tugged over his head, once again shrouding his environment in darkness. “This isn’t—!”

Caliban interjected, wrapping a firm hand around the other man’s wrist.

“What the hell did I just say?!” Caliban hissed, his voice dark and searing. “If you want this to work, then you’re following. My. LEAD.”

Ness dipped his head, probably to both nod and ever-so-slightly curl in on himself. “O-okay, okay! I’m sorry, I get it!”

Caliban clicked his tongue. “I’m gonna have to pull all kinds of strings now. So yeah, you’d damn-well BETTER get it.”

“I do!” Ness insisted.

“That thing stays on until I decide we’re far enough away from here,” Caliban continued.

He kept his grip on Ness’ arm, pulling him along as he crossed his den. He couldn’t go through the abandoned tunnels.

He couldn’t use any of his peer’s subway-office-turned-underground-hidey-holes right now.

He had to get on the road, and fast. And if that was going to happen, then it meant he’d have to bring his former (technically?) captive into his house.

Caliban grit his teeth as he ascended the old concrete staircase, Snare right on his heels and Ness somehow only tripping twice.

It won’t take very long, a voice in Caliban’s head assured. You just need to get some supplies together, get in the car, and then you’re off to the next phase! Easy-peasy lemon-fucking-squeezy!

Regretting the word choice of that last thought, Caliban all but ripped open the wallpaper-camouflaged door in the corner of his closet, elbowing it shut and locking it with the special key that lived permanently rent-free in his breast pocket.

“Oh my God!” A very familiar voice suddenly gasped from the center of his bedroom, only to offer a breathless laugh a few seconds later. “Cal, you startled me!”

Caliban froze in the closet’s hollow doorframe, staring at a beautiful woman who had way, waaaaaay more than enough brains and strength to make a name for herself in the world of underground experimentation.

The same amazing genius who, by some miracle, had decided to be with him, of all people.

“R.D.!” Caliban replied, shifting in place as he pushed Ness into the corner of the closet and out of sight, keeping a hold on his wrist. “You. . .you’re home early!”

Under normal circumstances, this would’ve made Caliban very happy. (Mind you, he was still happy right now—it was just impossible for him to not be happy when R.D. was around.)

Unfortunately, the fact that he was currently trying to drag a stranger out of his den and through their home…

Damn it.

Damn the UNIVERSE and its STUPID TIMING!

She was dressed in a lovely dark green blouse adorned by flowing streaks of black that almost resembled a pour-painting canvas. Still, Caliban knew her well enough to know that she’d just barely changed out of all the protective gear she typically wore at the hidden-in-plain-sight-laboratory of a warehouse on the other side of the city.

R.D. shrugged. “Yeah, I wasn’t expecting to come back until much later. But it turns out some of the chemical samples we planned to use are contaminated. So, the team and I need to get a new batch, and you know how long that can take.”

“Don’t I ever,” Caliban replied with a small laugh that definitely sounded shakier than he would’ve liked.

Ness did keep relatively quiet, but he was still trying to squirm in the corner, obviously confused and scared; survival instinct was so convenient like that.

The smile faded from R.D.’s features as she tilted her head at her husband. “. . .Hey, is everything alright?”

“Y-yeah! Yeah, everything’s fine!” Caliban insisted. “Why, don’t I look fine?”

R.D. raised an eyebrow. “You look like someone just shot you with a paintball gun and forced a ghost pepper down your throat at the same time.”

Caliban pursed his lips. “Well, that seems a bit harsh.”

“What are you hiding, Cal?” R.D. asked.

“Nothing!” Caliban answered. “I’m not hiding anything!”

“Oh, really?” R.D. folded her arms across her chest and took a single step closer. “Come on out here, then.”

“Ah–no thanks,” Caliban coughed. “I’m good where I am.”

“Why?” R.D. pressed.

Caliban, for the life of him, couldn’t come up with anything for that.

And before he knew it, R.D. was walking up to him and squeezing through the gap of space between him and the closet doorway and looking at the trembling stranger in the corner and...and...and...

Yeah, he really should’ve known better.

R.D. slowly turned her head to lock eyes with him. Then she was a blur of movement, making sure the window’s blinds were all closed and the bedroom door was shut. After that, she marched right up to him again.

The words rushed out of his mouth like a river: “...OkaylookIcanexplain!”

“I sure damn hope you can!” R.D. announced in a low, hurried voice. “Caliban. What the hell are you doing?!”

Caliban’s mouth opened and closed a few times with no words coming out. His eyes darted around the room. After a few seconds, he held up a hand, turning to the shaking man beside him.

He released Ness’ wrist, then put a firm hand on his head and pushed him down. “Just—just sit, alright?”

Ness (bless his heart) moved quickly, his back sliding against the wall until he was hugging his knees on the floor. Snare took this as the green light to scamper over and flop against him.

Caliban nodded, then turned back to address his wife. “Listen—”

“You can’t just bring your targets up here!” R.D. proclaimed. “You’ve never done that before, so what made you decide to start today?!”

“He isn’t a target!” Caliban argued. “I was after someone else, but I ended up getting him by accident!”

R.D. froze for a few seconds before shaking her head. “. . .That doesn’t make things any better! If he’s not a target, then he’ll just have even more reason to report you now! He’s already seen what you have down there! What if he gets out the door and down the street before you can re-catch him?!”

“That’s not gonna happen!” Caliban insisted.

“How do you know that?!” R.D. demanded.

“We made a deal! He and I had a discussion, okay?! We have an understanding now!”

Caliban paused, then glanced at Ness, who hadn’t budged an inch from his spot on the floor.

“Don’t we?” He called, intentionally making it sound more like a statement than a question.

Ness nodded, holding up his hands in a defensive gesture. "Y-yes! Yes, we do! I swear!”

Though she'd visibly calmed down, R.D. still only looked semi-convinced. “That still doesn’t explain what you’re doing right now!”

“It’s. . .it’s just a change of plans,” Caliban insisted, gesturing in Ness’ direction. “He has some kind of connection to the idiot I mistook him for! So now he’s gonna lead me to him before things go even more downhill than they already have!”

R.D. blinked at this, her eyes slowly but surely transitioning from stressed to contemplative.

She pursed her lips and began pacing in a small circle. To and fro, to and fro, either massaging her temples or fidgeting with the dutch side-braid she often tied her long, silky brown hair into. After a moment, she halted in place and looked at Caliban again.

“. . .Where exactly are you going?” She asked.

“At least a few towns over,” Caliban responded after a few seconds of hesitation.

A voice in his head reminded him that she knew what his work was like. This certainly wasn’t the first time he’d had to leave home to get a job done, whether heading to a different state or even a different country. Hell, she had to travel just as often as he did—if not more so—whether to snatch a test subject or gather supplies for her experiments.

R.D. nodded. “And how long do you think this’ll take?”

“I’m. . .not sure,” Caliban admitted. Most jobs could just be handled in a day or two, tops. But some could end up taking weeks, or even months, depending on how the cards were dealt. “But I promise I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

R.D. shifted were she stood, glancing back and forth between her husband and the closet, where she knew some stranger was probably questioning his life choices right about now.

“Rhea. . .” Caliban walked closer to her. He chewed his lip for a long few seconds.

His voice tapered down to a whisper as he continued, “. . .there’s a kid involved with this.”

A tidal wave of emotion rippled across R.D.’s features. Much like him, her career involved plenty of things that wouldn’t guarantee anyone a spot in heaven.

And yet, she could still be compassionate when she needed to. It was one of many things that he loved her for.

Horror crept into her warm chestnut eyes as she echoed, “A kid. . ?”

Caliban felt his heart drop as he nodded. “I’m sorry I had to just spring all this on you; that wasn’t fair.”

He then gently took one of her hands in his. “I’ll try to explain it more thoroughly later, but I need to get moving right now.”

R.D. stared at him for another long, tense second before sighing and leaning against him, wrapping an arm around his torso. He did the same. The two of them stayed like that for a bit; just in case it was the last hug they’d have for the next few days.

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” R.D. said as she pulled away, nodding first to the closet, and then to the bedroom door. “You go get your stuff together.”

Caliban’s eyes brightened in time with the smile that spread over his face. “I don’t deserve you.”

R.D. huffed a laugh. “No, you don’t.”

And with that, the cannibal raced through the door, heading down the hall to gather up whatever he might need for an impromptu roadtrip. Food, water, a first aid kit, a few spare body bags, way more knives than strictly necessary. . .

The next few minutes were extremely awkward; even with the explanation she’d been given, R.D. still didn’t know who the masked stranger huddled in the corner of her and Caliban’s closet was.

Even so, it didn’t take long for her to see that he wouldn’t cause too much trouble.

Snare seemed to like him, which was a good sign. . .usually.

“Thank you.” Ness broke the silence in a small, wavering voice. “For understanding.”

R.D. shrugged (though she wasn't really sure why, since it wasn’t like he could see her through the burlap-sack-mask). “It’s nothing.”

“N-no, it’s really not,” Ness argued. “If I wasn’t on the verge of an anxiety-attack right now, I’d probably try to hug you.”

A small smile graced R.D.’s lips. “That’s sweet of you to say.”

Caliban’s voice echoed from elsewhere in the house. “Hey, R.D.?”

“What?” R.D. called back, stepping closer to the bedroom door.

“Where’s my electric bone-saw?”

R.D. blinked, pursing her lips. “. . .What?”

“Where. Is my. ELECTRIC BONE-SAW?” Caliban repeated, raising his voice a bit.

“I, uh. . .put it away.”

“Where?!”

“Why do you need to know?”

“I need it!”

“No, you don’t!” R.D. insisted, rolling her eyes. “You already have more than enough weapons; I know how many you have in that duffel bag!”

“I need to be as prepared as possible!” Caliban protested.

“You’re always prepared! Your favorite cleaver is always in your pocket—you take it everywhere you go!”

“You tell me where my electric bone-saw is! We’re talking about a SPECIAL job!”

“‘SPECIAL?’” R.D. echoed, unable to help but put her hands on her hips. “I am your WIFE! I am the most special thing you’re EVER gonna get!”

There was no response to that last comment. R.D. smirked at the thought of Caliban’s expression. Shuffling from the closet caught her attention once again. She chewed her lip, then quietly walked over, leaning against the doorframe.

“It’s not a stretch for me to guess that he already scared the hell out of you,” she said.

Ness nodded, shuddering.

“Yeah. Well, I can tell what you’re thinking,” R.D. hummed. “It might be hard to believe, especially right now, but if he’s really serious about this. . .then you can trust him. His work can get chaotic depending on whatever happens in the moment, but he’s still professional.”

Ness shifted in place, subconsciously petting Snare. “A-alright, then. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good,” R.D. replied. She turned away, only to glance at him over her shoulder. “I just hope you can think on your feet.”

Ness flinched at that. “I’ll try.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Footsteps rumbled through the walls, and Caliban burst into the room yet again. “Alright! The car’s packed—let’s get going!”

He raced over to the closet, causing Ness to yelp as he was yanked from the floor and onto his feet. Snare hopped away at just the right second, scurrying out of the room to excitedly wait by the garage door.

Caliban, ever the dutiful partner, made sure to give R.D. a kiss on the cheek before tugging Ness out of the room. “Love you!”

“Love you too,” R.D. called after him. “Be careful!”

A dark laugh resounded on Caliban’s part. “Let him be careful.”

R.D. grinned to herself, knowing that Ness wasn’t who Caliban meant by that.

___

Ness wasn’t sure how long Mr. Sharp Te—er, Caliban, according to the woman he’d talked to a while ago—had been driving.

He didn’t know how much time had passed since he’d heard the unmistakable sound of a key being turned in the ignition, of an engine roaring to life. It wasn’t like he could look outside the windows, after all; not until Caliban decided to let him.

No, he’d just had to listen to the rumbling of tires for what felt like hours now.

A chill seeped around his neck when the car eventually came to a halt.

The burlap sack was, once again, pulled off of his head.

He blinked—mostly out of instinct, since the world outside was still just as dark as when he’d been on that walk with Mike.

The stars were still glinting like diamonds painstakingly sewn onto a black velvet tapestry. By that same logic, the moon would’ve been a pearl, casting long, winding shadows with its cold, pale glow.

Snare was in his lap again, titling his head, nose twitching with an eerie thoughtfulness.

“. . .Where are we?” Ness asked, voice dripping with hesitation.

“Nowhere important,” Caliban answered with a shrug. And it seemed he was right: there was nothing but distant trees and vacant fields for miles upon miles.

“Let’s make something clear,” Caliban started, tossing the burlap-sack-mask into the back while he shifted in his seat.

“Most of the people who end up in my den and see my face? Yeah, they don’t get to leave. There’s only so many exceptions to that, and I guess you’re one of them now. I’ve already cut things close by letting you see me. So, when we get to wherever we need to be, I can’t be seen by anyone you know. Not your boytoy, not his sister, no-one else. Get it?”

Ness nodded quickly. “Got it.”

Caliban squinted at him, then heaved a sigh. “Okay. Here’s the first part of this: I can remember the route I drove to get to the place where I took you. I won’t have any problem finding my way there again, but once we do get there, I’ll need you to navigate.”

“Oh,” Ness blurted. It was a pretty solid plan. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d been expecting, but high-adrenaline scenarios like this didn’t tend to lead to smart choices. (Then again, this was all happening in the first place because he’d agreed to a late-night stroll in the woods. . .) “Um, yes, sure! I can do that when the time comes. That sounds perfect, actually.”

“I know it does,” Caliban grinned, rolling his shoulders.

With that, he restarted the engine and they were off. The headlights didn’t come on (that was probably intentional), but it didn’t really matter. Right now, the moon was bright enough to let both driver and passenger see in the darkness.

Caliban suddenly reached over to Ness’ side. Ness flinched back, expecting a knife in his grasp. But just before he could start pleading again, something light and dull dropped beside him. He palmed it, realizing by touch alone that it was his cellphone.

“Text him,” Caliban instructed. “If this is gonna work, then it’ll be best if the kid is as far away as possible. So, tell him that the two of you need some alone time to figure things out. Convince him to drop his sister off to stay with someone else for a little while.”

Ness blinked. “Wait–shouldn’t I just tell him to go with her? That both of them need to get away?”

“No,” Caliban replied tersely. “If you do that, then the bear-onesie-idiot will get suspicious. We have no idea what he’ll do, so the longer we keep him in the dark, the better.”

“But Mike will still be near him!” Ness protested. “He’ll still be in danger!”

“Mike is about the same age as us, right?”

“. . .Yeah. Yeah, he is—”

“Then Mike can probably defend himself just fine,” Caliban concluded. In a low, heavy voice, he added, “If anyone’s at risk here, it’s his sister. Don’t you think?”

Ness shut his mouth with a little porcelain snap, nodding frantically.

“Alright. Now, send him that message and then pass the phone back to me.”

Ness did as he was told, thanking God for the fact that a Creative Writing course had been on the side of his Drama class in high school. It might've been a while since he wrote anything, but he still remembered how to make things sound nice and realistic and convincing.

Still, it felt so horrible to lie to Mike. Especially at times like this.

After a few moments, once he was satisfied, he sent the text and carefully pushed the phone back over the center console. Caliban’s hand was a blur as he snatched it up and stuffed it into one of the interior pockets of his jacket.

It was, for the most part, pretty damn quiet. Ness usually didn’t like heavy silences—the jukebox back at Sparky’s had always been a decent source of comfort when he was working—but right now he was just fine.

After all, it wasn’t every day you got kidnapped by a cannibalistic hitman only to wind up riding shotgun with him so he could track down a person who was equally horrifying in different ways.

One did not simply come up with casual conversation in this scenario.

“Don’t call Mike a boytoy,” Ness murmured, the words leaving his mouth before his brain could register them.

“. . .What?” Caliban asked, not looking at his passenger.

Though part of his mind screamed at him not to, Ness still reiterated: “Don’t call Mike that. He’s not a perfect angel–he might not know what he’s doing sometimes, but he’s not just a boytoy.”

Caliban stayed quiet for a few long seconds, then let out a sarcastic chuckle. “He sure texts like one.”

Ness sputtered. “Yeah, well, it’s really difficult to translate some things without body language, but—” He cut himself off, eyes widening to the size of dinner plates. “. . .Wait, you read my text messages with him?!”

“Yeah,” Caliban said, rather nonchalantly. “I had your phone, didn’t I?”

“You—you—!” Ness’ vocal cords seemed to be malfunctioning yet again. . .only, for the first time all night, it wasn’t out of fear. “It doesn’t matter if you had my phone! You can’t just do that!”

Caliban snickered. “Sure I can. If you’d been in a position to keep it from me, then you might have an argument there. But you weren’t, so...”

Ness spread his hands in a highly-aggravated lame gesture. He made to keep on ranting, but Caliban interjected.

“Y’know, I guess I could’ve focused on something other than that phone. Like, oh, I don’t know…taking a few bites out of you, maybe?”

He only glanced away from the windshield for a millisecond, but that was still enough time for his eyes to drill into the waiter seated beside him. “But I chose not to. So just think about that, huh?”

Ness’ face went pale again; fear swiftly handed frustration’s ass to it. He merely nodded again, edging against the passenger-window.

“F-fair enough.”

Caliban hummed in agreement.

More silence.

The minutes seemed to go by at a speed similar to a tortoise getting drunk off molasses.

Snare, for all the energy he’d shown earlier, suddenly seemed tired. He let out a silent little yawn, his buck-teeth making the gesture way funnier than it probably should’ve been. After that, he curled up, resting his head against Ness’ stomach.

Caliban piped up again: “How did it happen?”

Ness glanced at him, unable to avoid raising an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, c’mon. Don’t start forgetting things now,” Caliban chided. “By the grace of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, the guy I mixed you up with is apparently the same guy who’s been stalking you.”

He paused, then shot another glance at Ness, this one much more curious than sinister. “So, how did it happen? When did it start?”

“Um. . .” Ness didn’t particularly want to talk about this specific part of his recent life—hell, he’d never even talked to Mike about it.

Lot of good that did you, a voice in his head nagged.

Then again, he knew he had to if he wanted things to run at least somewhat smoothly.

Ness sighed. “I can’t remember the exact date, but it’s been going on for. . .I think about three months. Up until you took me, at least.”

“Do you know him at all?” Caliban asked. “Like, did you ever meet him before he decided to watch you from the bushes with a pair of binoculars?”

“No,” Ness shook his head forcefully. “I’ve never really even talked to him. The closest we ever got was late one night when he came into the diner for some coffee.” He paused, memories rushing back. “Way, way too much coffee, really. Enough to give someone legit heart palpitations.”

Caliban snorted. “Did he wear his bear costume that night?”

Ness thought back. “. . .No, actually. But think I did see part of it sticking out of a backpack he’d brought along.”

“Huh. Wouldn’t have expected that much tact from him.” Caliban shrugged, then waved a hand at his passenger to continue.

“I. . .I don’t really know what I did to trigger him,” Ness explained. “I could tell something was off the first time I saw him, but even then, I still just tried to be polite, and he’d hardly said a word to me.”

He took a deep breath. “About a week after that first night, he came back. . .but he never actually came into the diner. He just stood at the edge of the parking lot, staring in through the windows.”

Ness paused, glancing out at the fields they were passing. He could’ve sworn he’d caught the silhouette of a deer just out of the corner of his eye.

“And after that. . ?” Caliban prompted.

“After that. . .” Ness echoed, thinking. “After that, he started leaving things at the diner. Boxes that came in all sorts of shapes and sizes, all marked with my name. They all smelled like smoke; sometimes the edges seemed burned. None of my coworkers or I ever really saw him drop the packages off, but I still knew it had to be him.”

Caliban hummed again, nodding. “What was in those packages?”

Ness threw a hand up in empty air. “That’s the thing: the packages never even made sense. One of them was full of broken glass shards, another had what looked like a ripped-up rubber mask. . .But sooner or later, they got worse. So, so much worse.”

He shuddered, heartbeat suddenly pounding in his ears. “One had a live rattlesnake in it!”

“Wait, really?” Caliban wondered aloud. “What a coincidence; a friend of mine did that exact thing to scare a sleazy prick out of our territory.”

Ness gawked at this.

“Hey, don’t give me that look.” Caliban rolled his eyes. “The guy was a loan-shark. Have you ever met a loan-shark? They’re like landlords, but a thousand times worse.”

. . .Okay, that actually did calm Ness’ nerves just a teensy bit. The average landlord was typically just a few million leeches in a trench coat, so if loan-sharks were even more unbearable than that…

Ness awkwardly coughed. “Another box had tarantulas in it! A couple real damn tarantulas! I’m pretty sure he got them from the pet store or something!”

Caliban’s face contorted at the statement, a visible shudder running through his arms.

“I was so afraid he’d start sending me dead things,” Ness went on. “I really thought it’d get to the point where he’d just scrape up roadkill and put it in a box, or. . .” He trailed off, thinking about the squirrels or rabbits or birds he’d see around the parking lot.

He thought about a duo of raccoons that frequented the dumpster out back; the ones he’d affectionately named Dine and Dash. Sometimes he’d try to leave out fresher scraps for them. Since his and Jack’s apartment didn’t allow pets just yet, he almost saw them as makeshift ones.

He wasn’t sure what would’ve happened if one of them had been left for him to find…

“Thankfully, he never did. But what he did do was just as bad,” Ness sighed. “Eventually, he started leaving letters. Sometimes they’d be full of vague threats, sometimes they’d just be rambling nonsense. No two were the same; it got so hard to keep track, to figure out what exactly I had to look out for. And. . .and the last letter he left for me, before all this happened—”

Ness’ voice started to quaver. Something cold, clammy, and awful began to fester in the pit of his stomach.

He coughed. “It mentioned Mike. I don’t know how he ever found out I was connected to him, but…but…”

Caliban’s features became unreadable.

That was it.

Ness just couldn’t get any more words out.

Instead, he choked. Fat, hot tears streamed down his face as the horrible memory played over and over and over again in his mind.

Snare stirred on his lap, lifting his head and blinking groggily. At first, he seemed quite annoyed at his nap being interrupted. But then, he did something Ness would’ve never expected: he sat up, bracing his paws against the waiter’s chest, pushed his fuzzy little face right up to his…and started licking the tears away.

Ness froze in place. It didn’t feel bad—if anything, it felt like eskimo kisses.

It just seemed so. . .wholesome. Especially for the same creature he’d witnessed chow down on a severed human finger not too long ago.

After a moment’s contemplation, Ness decided to just give in and hugged the pale hare.

Sometimes you just needed to take whatever emotional support you could get.

No matter how strange and slightly terrifying it was.

___

@sammys-magical-au @insane4fandoms @im-a-weird0 @lexusinsannus @b-is-in-the-closet @forestcouncil @yourlocalsonia2 @sunny011387 @lampsforsocks

I decided to add in a little extra comic based of the after events of my friendo @wouldntyou-liketoknow’s snippet of my previous post. @iswmperson @crazy-obsessed-enby @lexusinsannus

Abby is concern that “Ness” is not doing so well after he and Mike got lost in the woods, but Mike being the sleepy man he is, reassures that he and “Ness” will work things out.

All the while his kinda-boyfriend is trying to plead for his life to save Mike’s.

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dragon-queensguard · 2 years ago

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Nettles, the Last of the Old Dragonriders, and Daenerys, the First of the New

Thought I’d create a post comparing Nettles and Daenerys, two of the best girls with significant roles in regards to the history of dragonriding, since I noticed a lot of similarities between the two, one marking the end of an era, one signaling the beginning of a new.

Both Dany and Nettles have rather humble beginnings. Nettles is a bastard, “growing up homeless, motherless, and penniless on the streets of Spicetown and Hull.” Daenerys is born a princess, and is able to spend the first years of her life in relative comfort under the care of Willem Darry, but things only went downhill following his death:

“They had wandered since then, from Braavos to Myr, from Myr to Tyrosh, and on to Qohor and Volantis and Lys, never staying long in any one place. Her brother would not allow it. The Usurper’s knives were close behind them, he insisted, though Dany had never seen one.

At first the magisters and archons and merchant princes were pleased to welcome the last Targaryen to their homes and tables, but as the years passed and the Usurper continued to sit upon the Iron Throne, doors closed and their lives grew meaner. Years past they had been forced to sell their last few treasures, and now even the coin they had gotten from Mother’s crown had gone. In the alleys and wine sinks of Pentos they called her brother “beggar king.” Dany did not want to know what they called her.”

Not much is expected from Nettles and Dany as they grow up. Nettles is considered an “unlikely” dragonrider, and the people around Dany expect her to serve as a pawn to marry off. Robert Baratheon fears her, but it’s less a fear of her herself, and more a fear of whatever sons she might bear, her potential to continue the Targaryen line.

But Nettles and Dany both defy expectations. Nettles is able to tame Sheepstealer, a notably ill-tempered dragon, who kills many of those who try to claim him before Nettles. Dany survives all the trials of her childhood, and the ones that follow in the first book, and brings dragons back into the world. Throughout all the challenges that continue to be hurled her way, she persists and she survives.

Then you have to consider the feat of taming and training dragons. The Targaryen royal family had centuries of experience in claiming and riding dragons, and an abundance of resources in doing so. There were people around them to teach them and guide them. Dany and Nettles have none of this. Nettles presumably only knows what she hears by word of mouth, but she still comes up with a plan to feed Sheepstealer and get him accustomed to her presence. Dany lives in an age where dragons have been dead for over a century, hearing a few things from her brother about them, but little in regards to their care and training:

“And they must be trained as well, or they will lay my kingdom to waste. For all her Targaryen blood, Dany had not the least idea of how to train a dragon.”

She quickly develops the “dracarys” command, though, giving her control over one of the most dangerous and volatile aspects of her dragon children. When she throws herself into the pit before Drogon, she’s operating on instinct, putting her life at risk in order to subdue him. When she flies upon his back, she does so bareback, using the whip at first, and then just her hands and feet later. Nettles and Dany conquered the feat of riding dragons all on their own.

Admittedly, we don’t know very much about the personality of Nettles, but she does share traits with Dany. Both are caring and empathetic, with Dany putting others before herself countless times throughout the books, and feeling sorrow at people’s suffering. Nettles is crying after the Battle of the Gullet, where thousands were killed, including Prince Jacaerys. But in addition to their sensitive sides, both Dany and Nettles are fierce as well, with Nettles flying Sheepstealer into battle and Dany conquering cities (in addition to countless other examples of her bravery). Both end up leading people who are known to value strength and proving your worth, Daenerys with the Dothraki and Nettles with the mountain clan.

Then you have the enemies of Nettles and Dany who try to cheapen and vilify their accomplishments by declaring them the work of sorcery and seduction:

“‘She is a common thing, with the stink of sorcery upon her,’ the queen declared. ‘My prince would ne’er lay with so low a creature. You need only look at her to know that she has no drop of dragon’s blood in her. It was with spells that she bound a dragon to her, and she has done the same with my lord husband.’”

Vs.

“‘Sweet?’ Qavo laughed. ‘If even half the stories coming back from Slaver’s Bay are true, this child is a monster. They say that she is bloodthirsty, that those who speak against her are impaled on spikes to die lingering deaths. They say she is a sorceress who feeds her dragons on the flesh of newborn babes, an oathbreaker who mocks the gods, breaks truces, threatens envoys, and turns on those who have served her loyally. They say her lust cannot be sated, that she mates with men, women, eunuchs, even dogs and children, and woe betide the lover who fails to satisfy her. She gives her body to men to take their souls in thrall.’”

(I have my doubts over whether or not Rhaenyra actually said this about Nettles, but if not her, certainly somebody was saying this kind of garbage about a bastard girl who dared to ride a dragon.)

Nettles’s story ends with her on the run from a monarch, and that’s how Dany’s story begins. Nettles flies away into the relative unknown, and her disappearance with Sheepstealer coincides with a weakening of Targaryen power, the extinction of dragons, the loss of magic in the world. This all sets the stage for Dany’s story, who, unlike Nettles, is in a better position to turn back and face those who want her dead. Far from exiting the scene, she’s stepping into the spotlight as she rises to power, bringing back all the things that disappeared alongside Nettles.

Anyways, just some similarities between two amazing female characters, both representing very different points in the story of dragons and magic in ASOIAF.

#asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #daenerys targaryen #Nettles #asoiaf meta #my meta #writing isn’t my strong suit so just bear with me #but yeah i love my fierce dragon girls #and i feel like im missing stuff between these two but im tired of writing

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zacharyleigh316 · 2 years ago

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the ghost of you is burned in every tape I mix

Suptober Prompt: Day 9 - Vintage | the ghost of you is burned in every tape I mix | Word Count: 2.3K | Teen and Up | Read here (or below cut)

Feelings were never Dean's strong suit-much to his brother's chagrin, he's sure. But some things are just too painful, too fresh. And some things...just don't stay dead.

Me, posting in the year of our lord and savior 2022? A true surprise, I know, I mean, seriously who would’ve thunk? But alas, the cryptid (or hermit, whichever suits your fancy) emerges at long last with a little treat for Suptober 2022. I can’t do every prompt, unfortunately, because y’know ‘life’ but, if all goes accordingly, I’ll have some more to post throughout the month, opposed to my first, and only, submission last year. Anyway, I hope you enjoy ‘the ghost of you’, which, technically, shouldn’t exist since I swore to myself I’d never write anything post the latter half of s15...so you’re welcome. And I’m sorry (lol)

“Jesus, Dean, it’s like a cassette graveyard in here.”

Sam fixed the box in his lap with a glare, the sound of plastic on plastic making Dean’s chest ache. He refused to even look over at Sam, didn’t dare turn his head in that direction, couldn’t bare to watch him sift through the collection of mix tapes, jaw clenched and knuckles white on Baby’s steering wheel.

“Do you even listen to these anymore?” Sam asked, pulling one from the box. “I mean, this one looks like it hasn’t seen the light of day in years.”

Dean said nothing, but swallowed harshly at the wave of emotion building up. Sam looked over, a series of emotions flickering across his face, too perceptive for his own good.

“Dean-“

“They’re vintage.” He managed, finally, cutting off whatever Sam was about to say.

He didn’t want to hear it.

“It’s part of my aesthetic. Can’t just ‘get rid of them’, Sammy. Who do you take me for?” He lied, chancing a look over at his brother.

Dean flashed Sam a grin; deflecting to humor was what he did best. He could tell Sam didn’t buy it, not for a second—they knew each other too well for that—but it didn’t stop Dean from putting on that thinly veiled mask anyway.

Fake it till you make it, right?

Sam huffed, and rolled his eyes, clearly tired of Dean’s bullshit, but too smart to dig any further. Dean reckoned Sam was right; knowing him, he was probably seconds away from clamming up at any mention of…feelings.

Sam shifted his attention back to the box of cassettes, the movement drawing Dean’s own eyes down to the tape still in Sam’s hand, which in turn made the older Winchester’s breath catch. Feeling the hot sting of unwanted tears well up, Dean quickly looked away, and glued his focus back onto the road, an endless inky black river of asphalt that stretched on for miles, absorbing Baby’s headlights as she urged forward. Much to Dean’s chagrin, it didn’t provide any of its usual comfort—quite the opposite, in fact.

“Anyway, vintage isn’t the word I’d use, Dean.” Sam added after a while, breaking the silence. “I’m just saying, you could stand to lose some of these.”

“And I’m just saying you could mind your own damn business.”

Sam sighed, “Dean,” and Dean rolled his eyes, hating how exasperated his name on his brother’s tongue sounded.

“Not in the mood, Sammy.” he warned, through gritted teeth. Too close.

“Do you even remember what’s on most of these?”

“I’m serious, Sam, drop it.” Dean snapped, body tensed and wired, looking for a fight.

“What happened to the you of a few minutes ago, the version of my annoying little brother who wasn’t this nosy? Who knew when to stop poking the bear? Can I get him back?”

“I wouldn’t have to poke the bear, Dean, if you just talked to me, and answered me-“ Dean opened his mouth, “-without being a smart ass.” Sam quickly added, effectively shutting whatever smart ass remark Dean was about to make, up.

“I haven’t even seen you listen to most of these.”

Because they’re too painful, he didn’t say.

“They’re basically clutter, at this point.”

But they’re not, they could never be, his mind screamed.

“I get it.”

No you don’t, you can’t, Sammy, and his heart broke all over again.

“Being sentimental over the past, or whatever, but this just makes you a hoarder Dean. Sometimes it’s better to just let things go.”

But can’t you see, that isn’t an option for me, because it’s the only thing I’ve got left of-

Dean made a sound that had Sam looking over from the passenger seat in concern, a sound neither of them knew Dean was capable of making, and Sam dropped the tape back into the box.

“Um, okay, alright, we’ll just…I mean, I’ll just…” Sam trailed off, and swallowed thickly, placing the lid back on the box, and the box back into the glove compartment.

“Right.” He muttered awkwardly, almost missing the broken, whispered ‘thanks’ that came from Dean.

That alone was surprising enough for Sam to shut up for the remainder of the trip back to the bunker.

Dean pulled the Impala up to the entrance and shifted her into park, but kept the engine running, making no move to get out. Sam furrowed his brows in worry, feeling that there was a lot unsaid between them, but undid his seatbelt and scrambled out of the car.

“Are you coming?” He asked, despite knowing fully well that Dean wasn’t.

“Nah, you go ahead.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, Sammy. ‘S’all good. Just gonna go out for a drive.”

Sam hesitated, standing just outside the passenger side door, before nodding and heading off into the bunker without another word. Dean let out the breath he was holding, and put the Impala into drive, pulling her back out, and away from the bunker entrance just as quickly as they had previously arrived.

He didn’t drive for long, unable to stand the silence just as much as he hated the noise. He loved his brother, but it wasn’t who he really wanted beside him on the bench seat. He loved his brother, but it wasn’t the same.

Dean stopped the car upon a nondescript field, empty aside from acres of tall grass. He figured it was as good a place as any to have a moment to himself, where he intended to let out all the pent up emotion that had been steadily brewing since Sam brought out that box full of tapes.

Before he could stew any longer, or second guess himself, Dean leaned over and retrieved that very same box from the glove compartment. It didn’t take long for him to find the one he was looking for, the white plastic yellowed, and the sharpie faded, with age, but he knew what it said. How could he forget? He remembered the day he gave it to Castiel, after the many grueling hours he had spent painstakingly adding each song; all the things he could never find the words to say, so he put them into a mixtape instead, just as his dad had done for his mom all those years ago. How Cas tried to give it back, and how Dean had refused, picking it up off the edge of the table where the angel had placed it, oh so gently, as if giving it up was the last thing he wanted to do, and returned it with a gruff, “it’s a gift, you keep those”.

Dean’s hands shook as he put it in, and stopped, just short of pressing play. He closed his eyes for a moment, gathering whatever little resolve he had left, and jabbed the button, the intro to Zepp’s Ramble On coming through Baby’s speakers.

The second he heard Plant’s voice, the air inside the Impala suddenly became stifling, thick enough to choke on your own breath. Dean stumbled out of the driver seat, knees and palms hitting the ground as he dry heaved into the grass. Bile burned the back of throat, and tears spilled steadily from his eyes, blurring his vision. A mangled gasp wrung itself up and out his mouth as he cried, his fingers digging into the soil for purchase, and the dampness soaking into his jeans went ignored.

No matter how hard Dean tamped down the hurt, the pain of watching the one person, your person, die in front of you, knowing this time was real, this time was it, it was always still there. It never left. Because Cas was gone, lost to the Empty, and Dean was left behind with only the ghost of a memory, and some ‘vintage’ cassette tapes.

Tapes that he hadn’t listened to, not since he made the damn things, not since it happened. Where Castiel confessed his love, something Dean didn’t even think was possible—not for them, certainly not for him—and then fucked off to wherever with Billie and the Empty because it was his true happiness or whatever.

Whose true happiness was making this big speech about how the (supposed) love of your life changed you so irrevocably, and being okay with dying without reciprocation?

“Stupid.” Dean croaked, body shaking. “You were so fucking stupid, Cas.”

He looked skyward, face streaked with tears, and screamed up at the heavens. “Fuck you, man. Seriously, Cas, fuck you!”

He didn’t know where Cas was, where the Empty was, or if he could even hear him.

“What about my happiness, huh? Did you really think I’d ever be happy if you-“ he swallowed, “-if you weren’t here? After everything? After…what I said in purgatory?

“C’mon, man, you know me better than that. Probably better than anyone. Even Sam. So why-“ his voice cracked.

Dean could feel the exact moment his heart split in two, opening like a fissure, a weeping wound reopened, just as fresh as it was the day it was created.

“Why’d you leave? Why’d you leave me, Cas I-“ he dropped his voice, and whispered the last part, like a secret spoken only to the wind. “-I need you.”

Dean closed his eyes at the new onslaught of tears, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of shit he was feeling.

“Fuck man, I need you, so friggin much, it hurts.”

How years ago in days of old…

When magic filled the air…

“You gotta know that right? Even if I didn’t say it? If I couldn’t say it?” He pleaded, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes.

'Twas in the darkest depths of Mordor…

I met a girl so fair…

“Fuck, Cas, I don’t even know if you can hear this, wherever you are, but please…come back.” He pulled his hands away, and blinked his blurry eyes back up to the sky.

Come back home, to me, he didn’t say, but it was heavily implied.

But Gollum, and the evil one…

Crept up and slipped away with her…

“I was so angry, at first. You just fucked off, just like that, man, after telling me about the deal, and then saying you love me…who does that shit? I didn’t-I didn’t get to process shit, Cas, didn’t even get to tell you…and then I blink and you’re gone.”

*I guess I keep on rambling…*

“You know I sat on that floor for hours after it happened? Wouldn’t even answer my phone. Sam kept calling and I couldn’t even be bothered to care, because I just lost you. It hurts so freaking much, Cas, you gotta know. You gotta know how I feel.”

Doodoo doodoo doodoo doodoo doodoo…

I gotta keep searching for my baby…

Dean looked around, the meadow still just as quiet and still as it had been when he first arrived. He was still just as alone as he was when he first arrived.

(Baby, baby, baby, baby, baby, baby)…

I gotta keep-a-searchin' for my baby…

“Yup. Figures.” He muttered, wiping the tears off his face. “Don’t even know why I thought that would work.”

(My, my, my, my, my, my, my baby)…

Yeah yeah, yeah yeah, yeah yeah yeah

Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah…

“Fuck,” he laughed, the sound both bitter and hysterical, “what am I even doing? This was stupid…I feel like crap.”

He got up, wincing at his popping knees, and turned back to the Impala, just as Plant’s vocals started to fade.

I can't find my bluebird…

Cas was gone, his brain supplied helpfully.

As if he didn’t already know.

I can't find my bluebird…

His bluebird was lost to the Empty forever, that much was clear.

Dean let the song finish, using the last few seconds to collect himself, fists clenched down at his sides. He couldn’t help but think how wrong Sam was; he didn’t feel any better after letting his emotions take over. Hell, he just had a chick flick moment with himself, and he still felt like ass.

He unfurled his hands when the next song on the tape rolled over, crescent shaped marks from his nails tattooed on the skin of his palms. He welcomed the pain, reminded him he wasn’t completely numb, yet, after everything.

A small breeze made its way through the meadow, faintly rustling the grass, and sending shivers down Dean’s spine. Thinking nothing of it, he sniffed, and reached out to pat Baby’s roof, deciding now was a good as time as any to start heading back to the bunker; it would just get colder as the night went on.

Just then the tape stopped abruptly, and Dean cursed, but just as he reached in to take it out, the radio popped and crackled to life, rapidly scanning through static. He furrowed his brows in confusion, only to stumble backwards in surprise when Baby’s lights started to flicker.

“What the-“

The flutter of wings behind him effectively cut him off, and Dean’s eyes widened, heart skipping a beat. He whipped himself around, and let out a sob of relief at the angel standing there, his angel standing there, trench coat and all.

“Cas.”

“Hello, Dean.”

He didn’t even care how it was possible, not yet, not when Castiel was right there. Dean ran toward him, and wrapped Cas in the biggest embrace, starting to sob proper when Dean felt Cas hug back. And, in a complete turn of events, Dean found he was done waiting.

He pulled away, just enough to see Cas’ face, before joining their lips together. Cas made a pleased sound, and pulled Dean closer, Dean letting himself melt into Castiel like it’s where he belonged.

”I know. I heard you, Dean, I heard you.” Cas whispered breathlessly against Dean’s lips.

“I’m home.”

#suptober22 #suptober day 9 #supernatural #supernatural fic #post 15x18 #canon divergent au #fix it fic #finale what finale #hurt/comfort #angst with a happy ending #dean winchester #Sam Winchester #castiel #dean x castiel #deancas #Destiel #destiel ficlet #my work #my writing

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yhmwatfhu · 9 months ago

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i think it’s time for me to share my Tavtash content (tumblr ate my durgetash pice but it has to be in my profile, come get a look)

1. My Tav’s name is Advena, she is a high elf and a bard. She is 127 years old, 5’2. My initial thoughts were to make her into a non-musical bard, into a dazed poet, into a loud orator, but then I remembered that Advena is a little freak, so it would be fun to make her into a nutty multi-instrumentalist. She gives me vibes of someone, who would perform like Will Wood, Oingo Boingo and Aurelio Voltaire. Her songs are crazy! And to add to that, she is a very versatile person, who really enjoys doing art, so she doesn’t only sing around and write poems but enjoys dancing, painting and sculpting as well.

She is a very controversial person, a little jester indeed. Advena is literally banned in most of the public spaces because she is a witty piece of shit, who goes out of her way to troll and bully mock people. With such talk comes a suiting reputation. She is well known amongst people in some circles. Some adore her, some hate her guts, and some are literally afraid of her. By the way, Advena isn’t even her real name, it’s a pseudonym that she chose, which translates to a stranger, which she remains to others her whole ‘career’.

2. She is a hardcore chaotic neutral. Sure, she has some morals, but she bends them if needed. There is an annoying prick who breathes too loud? Let’s give him a literal death threat. Oh, Gortash has slaves? Yeah, slavery was always there, what’s the biggie? He sold Karlach? Ummmm that’s her problem. What if he does the same to her? Welll ermmm then she deserves that for believing such bastard.

“If you won’t let me in, my pookie bear will fucking destroy your little dump.” she purrs in that obnoxious bitchy accent. Do I need to say more?

3. Advena doesn’t follow any Gods because she thinks that they request a lot. But she has no problem with Gortash following Bane. Advena loves being in charge, so being with someone strong who leads the cult of power? Glorious.

4. She didn’t accept his alliance immediately because fuck them people with authority. At first, she was parading around and screaming heresy about the archduke and were the people of Baldur’s Gate not that stupid, they wouldn’t have given Gortash more credit for that. It made his ratings fucking skyrocket. At this point Advena was leaning more towards eating the rich out, rather than just eating the rich. Her morals bend once again, and she came crawling back to accept the offer.

5. First of all, I hate how Larian downgraded Gortash’s sexy brain so much that he tried to face the bigger brain alone just to kill the poor fella off. In my story, he lives and servers cunt.

From that point, everything is simple: arranged marriage. He needs to keep his reputation high and clean, while Advena needs power and golden trinkets. She is an eternal Hero of Baldur’s Gate, and he is a Lord of Baldur’s Gate, they make a wonderful pair. Eventually, they fall for each other. There is probably some kind of co-abuse in there, but that’s the fun of it.

6. They’ll rule together because I dig the happy endings (not for durgetash tho). There will be one kid to pass the power to. After Gortash dies, Advena is probably going to lay hands on herself and play it out as murder. Let’s give that little fucker some trauma.

i have no idea if those baes were tagged but i pass the challenge to them @niaranda, @tillhen and to anyone who likes Tavtash in general

TavTash Tag Game

@bearhugsandshrugs post about the very small TavTash community inspired me to make this: I want to learn more about you and your Tavs!

Tell us a bit about your Tav!

What alignment is your Tav? How does that align or clash with Gortash? Do they agree with him morally?

What God does your Tav follow? Is Gortash's position as Bane's chosen an issue?

What did your Tav think of Gortash when they first met? Did they take his offer of an alliance?

How did Gortash and your Tav get together? What do they see in each other?

What does the future hold for your Tav and Gortash? Are they in a relationship, a one time thing, are they going to rule the sword coast together or kill each other in a tragic showdown?

I tag @bearhugsandshrugs, @avani-telvanni and @nyda-the-tav, plus any Tavtashers who see this!

#enver gortash #tavtash #gortash x tav #bg3 enver gortash #bg3 tav #tav #my tav #gortav

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earlgreydream · 4 years ago

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time for us.

| loki x reader | angst | fluff |

anon requested. loki has been working a lot lately and hasn’t really had anytime for the reader and he completely forgets about their anniversary and she doesn’t tell him for a couple of days but then he snaps at her and they have a huge argument

a/n: this doesn’t have any spoilers for the show— just mention that Loki works for the TVA (which isn’t canon at the time of me writing this)

You loathed Loki’s new job, working for the Time Variance Authority.

Ever since Loki began at the TVA, they’d managed to occupy nearly all of his time and energy, leaving little to none left for you. Your relationship was strong, but only a few weeks of work had put a strain on the two of you.

He’d become more short tempered, and easily agitated. You tried to be patient, but little things seemed to antagonize you, and soon every small thing was becoming huge.

Above all, you hated to fight with Loki. You bottled up your frustration, shoving them down inside of you and keeping them hidden and locked away. Your limited time with Loki was precious, and you didn’t want to poison it with your annoyance. However, it was doing damage that you hadn’t yet comprehended, building a pressurized weapon that was bound to explode.

It took weeks, but the explosion came.

Loki had been so caught up in work that he missed your anniversary. It had escaped his mind entirely, passing like any other day. He was distracted by variants running wild, and the need to please his new boss. He felt responsible for things that were going wrong, and he had put your relationship on the backburner.

You’d been certain he’d take you out during the night, or at least do something to acknowledge the anniversary of your love, but you’d been dead wrong. You waited at home as hours passed, and when his normal arrival time had long passed, the pain in your chest grew until your entire body was throbbing with hurt.

You took your makeup off, along with the pretty dress you wore-- the green one that your husband adored.

Loki had stayed late at work, taking overtime and showing up just before ten. You were so hurt you could hardly speak, but Loki’s mind was too muddled with work to even notice. You were already in bed when he returned home, and he’d kissed your forehead and gone to sleep with less than five words leaving his lips.

You laid awake in bed that night, staring at the wall. You should have told Loki you were angry, said something then and at least gotten it in the open. But you shoved it down with everything else— every other hurt and grievance and annoyance that poisoned you.

“Can you set that down, please?” You asked, four days later. You tried to keep your tone even, but you were impatient. The bite in your words was all you could do to keep from tearing the file from his delicate hands.

Loki was in the kitchen, his face buried in a variant case file. He was supposed to be helping you make dinner, but you were dismissed and cast aside once again as his work outshined you.

“I’m working, Y/N! It’s important. Don’t you want me to get paid so you can have your pretty things?” Loki snapped, shocking you.

“No!” You screamed, slamming the cabinet door shut.

He stared at you, turquoise eyes wide in shock at your outburst. He dropped the file on the counter, a harsh glare adorning his stunning face.

“No, Loki! I don’t fucking care about the pretty things. I don’t even know that I care about YOU!” The words were coming out before you could stop them.

“You don’t care about me?! All I ever do is for you!” Loki met your anger, matching your energy and only fueling the fire of rage that was building in your stomach.

“You’re such a selfish liar! You don’t give a fuck about me, Loki! You’re in a relationship with your bullshit job, you don’t give a damn about me! All of your time and your energy... and fuck, even your kindness goes to the stupid fucking TVA!! There’s nothing left for me, and I don’t want your scraps!” You shoved him back when he took a step toward you.

“I’m selfish? You’re needy and dramatic! You’re a spoiled brat, acting out when not every ounce of my attention is being given to you. What, you’re mad that I didn’t help you make this salad? Grow up, Y/N!” Loki’s hateful words poured out, tasting like acid in his mouth.

“No! I’m mad that you forgot our anniversary and that you haven’t seen how much you’ve hurt me!” Tears burned as they streamed down your face, blurring your vision that was bleeding at the edges.

Loki’s lips parted, and realization suddenly crossed his features. He took a step back, recognizing his anger had spiraled out of control, and that your anger was justified.

“I didn’t mean it… I do care about you, I just want you to care about me.” Your voice broke, and shaky hands went to your mouth, stifling a sob. Guilt swelled in Loki’s chest as he saw you fall apart, unable to bear the weight of your anger.

“I’m sorry. You’re right. I don’t know how I’ve forgotten. Please, my love, forgive me,” Loki’s tone softened, and he knelt down to his knees before you.

He didn’t care about the messy floors ruining his perfect suit, nothing mattered to him then except for you.

“I shouldn’t have gotten so angry, I just miss you,” you were weeping, unable to hold the sobs at bay.

“It’s okay, scream and cry if you need to, but know I love you more than anything and I am terribly, terribly sorry.”

Loki gently pulled you forward, closing his arms around you. His forehead rested against your stomach, and you laid your hands on top of his head.

“I know. I know,” you stammered in shaky breaths. Your fingers trembled as you dragged them through his hair, overwhelmed with every emotion that washed over you all at once.

You got home from work, a couple of days after your fight. You had both apologized, easing the tension over. Loki hadn’t stopped apologizing, even when you promised him it was okay. It had been better since-- you weren’t keeping secrets or harboring anger, and you felt exceedingly better in the aftermath of your fight.

You walked into your master suite, considering a hot bath or a shower after your day. You were lost in your thoughts as you kicked your shoes off, before turning to the bed. A dress was laid out on the end of the bed, glittery heels and jewelry in a box beside it. Loki wasn’t home, but a note was attached, telling you to get dressed and he’d meet you.

You smiled, lifting the black cocktail dress. You changed, fixing your hair and makeup in the mirror. Your day at work had been long, and you didn’t know what Loki had in store for you, but you were excited.

The lock clicked open on the door, signaling the arrival of your husband. You stepped into the foyer to greet him, met with Loki in an all-black suit. A grin spread across his expression as he noticed you, making warmth bloom in your chest.

“You look-” you both started at the same time.

You smiled and tilted your head, letting him speak.

“You look beautiful,” Loki spoke softly before giving you a kiss.

“Thank you. You look sharp. What’s the occasion, what are we doing?”

“I’m so sorry I missed our anniversary. I thought we could celebrate us tonight.”

You broke into a grin, nodding excitedly.

“Yes. Yes, let’s do it.”

“Of course. Let me set my things down,” he kissed your cheek and stepped into your master, cleaning up and dropping his bag.

You were driven to a fancy restaurant, one hand in Loki’s as the other smoothed over the wheel of his black sports car. He dropped the keys with a valet, and you were escorted to a table in the back of the place.

“Wine, Mrs. Laufeyson?”

“Please,” you nodded, and the waiter poured you a glass of sparkling pink moscato.

“I’ve gotten us a suite at the resort in the city. I have a bag packed for you in the car, I thought we could enjoy a weekend away. You deserve it,” Loki brought your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles.

“You’re spoiling me,” you giggled, sipping your wine.

“As I should be.”

Elaborate French dishes were brought out on gorgeous plates, looking like something from a food blog. It tasted divine, and Loki told you some history about the dish from some time he was living or traveling in Paris. You listened to his animated stories, thinking about how you were so in love with him.

“Why’re you staring at me like that?” Loki laughed softly, spooning sorbet into your mouth.

“Because I love you. And you’re charming and cute when you get excited,” you confessed with a grin.

“I love you too. I’m sorry about everything,” he apologized.

“It’s okay. We’re past it. Time moves forward for us.”

Loki nodded, leaning forward and smearing a kiss over your temple before retrieving your car from the valet.

“To the hotel?” he asked, sliding his hands over your hips and kissing your neck as you waited.

“Okay,” you giggled, squirming in his arms.

He squeezed your bum, making you gasp before opening the door for you, helping you into the passenger seat.

When you arrived at the hotel, there was a bouquet of roses on the table, and candles burning around. He kissed the back of your head, setting your bag down for you.

“Let me make this up to you,” his voice was deep as he unzipped your dress.

“Please,” you smiled, turning in his arms and pulling him into a heated kiss.

#earl grey loki #loki #loki laufeyson #loki odinson #loki angst #loki fluff #loki x reader #loki x reader fluff #loki x reader angst #loki x you #loki x y/n #loki imagine #loki oneshot #loki disney+#marvel #marvel au #avengers #avengers au #female reader

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runawaymarbles · 5 years ago

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an incomplete list of things that really happen in Moby Dick, an absolutely wild book that I have just finished after four months

Note: events are in the order that I think of them and not the order in which they occur in the book:

Ishmael goes to an inn and they say “there are no beds but if you want to share with this cannibal that’s cool.” Ishmael shares with the cannibal, whose name is Queequeg, and after establishing that he is not going to get eaten, seems to fall madly in love with him.

Quote: "How it is I know not; but there is no place like a bed for confidential disclosures between friends. Man and wife, they say, there open the very bottom of their souls to each other; and some old couples often lie and chat over old times till nearly morning. Thus, then, in our hearts’ honeymoon, lay I and Queequeg—a cosy, loving pair."

Quote: “He pressed his forehead against mine, clasped me round the waist, and said that henceforth we were married; meaning, in his country’s phrase, that we were bosom friends; he would gladly die for me, if need should be.”

Fellas is it gay to kiss a man's nose, cuddle in bed with him, compare yourselves to honeymooners, declare love after 24 hours, and then declare you’re married repeatedly throughout the book?

Backing up a bit, it’s apparently taken for granted the Pacific Islanders are cannibals? But Ishmael also does not seem to have a problem with this, and at some point straight up defends cannibalism (at one point going on a “we’re all cannibals because MEAT IS MURDER” tangent, which is a bit rich for a dude whose day job is killing whales.)

He regularly refers the Polynesian characters as savages, but then will occasionally remind us that he thinks all people are savages, singling out Achilles and, for some reason, German painter Albrecht Durer.

(Occasionally Queequeg will be like “wow Christians are weirdos” and Ishmael will be like “oh shit... he’s right. Why are we such weirdos.”)

At one point while they’re still on land, Ishmael becomes convinced that Queequeg has killed himself, because he’s locked himself in their room. The landlady tells someone to get a sign made that says “no suicides permitted here, and no smoking in the parlor;” because, quote, “might as well kill both birds at once.”

It turns out that Queequeg has not killed himself, he is just squatting with a statue of his god held over his head and refuses to move a muscle until sundown. This is how Herman Melville thinks Ramadan is practiced.

Sidebar: Melville seemed under the impression that Ramadan was a Polynesian thing?

Ishamel drags capitalism at every opportunity

and if there isn’t an opportunity, he makes one

“Paying for things sucks but getting paid is the best even though money is terrible and people who chase money are all going to hell”

On one of the ships they run into, one of the sailors has declared that he is the Archangel Gabriel, and basically recruited most of the crew into a cult. This is never mentioned again.

Instead, Melville gives us entire chapters on: whale heads, whale tales, why whaling is a noble calling actually, rope, etc.

At one point Ishmael flat-out says that if you don’t respect whaling he will fight you

There is an entire chapter about the color white, in which he lists other white things he thinks are scary. They include: great white sharks, polar bears, albatrosses, the Andes mountains, and albinos.

There is also an entire chapter about whale penis. At one point, if I read that chapter correctly, a dude makes the whale penis into a suit? Or possibly climbs into it? It’s all very euphemistic at that point.

After they kill a whale, they have to do something known as “squeezing sperm.” (He’s referring to parts of the sperm whale, not actual sperm." Ishmael REALLY LIKES squeezing sperm, and goes on about how how sometimes, when squeezing sperm, he accidentally squeezes the hands of his fellows by accident, because they are also squeezing sperm, and Ishmael really likes that and wishes they could hold hands more.

“Would that I could keep squeezing that sperm for ever!” - Ishmael, chapter 94.

He admits that sure, maybe over-whaling could lead to fewer whales, but whales are so big and have been here such a long time that there can’t be any risk of them ever being endangered: look at Elephants! Elephants are doing fine!

The previous chapter did not age well.

There is a dude named Peleg with very strong @dril vibes who, when accused of being a little off his rocker, declares “say that again to me, and start my soul-bolts, but I’ll—I’ll—yes, I’ll swallow a live goat with all his hair and horns on.”

At one point Ishmael’s boat almost gets run over by the ship, and he’s like “is that normal???” and everyone is like “yep” and Ishmael is like “cool if anyone is looking for me I’ll be writing my will” and goes and does that. Which is hilarious because he established in the first chapter that he does not own Anything.

Ishmael is so invested in measuring whales that he tattoos’ whales dimensions onto his arm because he doesn’t have anywhere else to write it down

He’s also really offended that pirates are more famous than whalers.

Queequeg gets a fever and has the carpenter build him a coffin, but then he gets better so they turn his coffin into a buoy. This buoy is the reason Ishmael is the only one not to go down with the ship, so in a way, Queequeg did die to save him. Huh.

Captain Ahab decides that what he needs to kill Moby Dick is a Special Harpoon. He has the blacksmith make one. They are still on their wooden ship at this time and, despite over-explaining every other detail, Melville does not seem to clarify how they did this without burning the ship down.

Ahab also decides he needs to temper it in blood, and asks the harpooners if they’ll contribute some, and they’re like “yeah, whatever, man.”

(The harpooners are all POC who write off all shenanigans as Weird White People Shit, and seem to be the only ones with the braincells.)

The other character with one brain cell is Starbuck, the first mate, who really wants to go home to his wife Mary, and his son, “boy.” I am not convinced he knows his son’s name.

Ahab makes himself a nest on the mast so he can look for Moby Dick and a bird steals his hat

Some out of context quotes:

“Hark! The infernal orgies!”

“Long usage had, for this Stubb, converted the jaws of death into an easy chair.”

“Stubb knows him best of all, and Stubb always says he’s queer; says nothing but that one sufficient little word queer; he’s queer, says Stubb; he’s queer-- queer, queer; and keeps dinning it into Mr. Starbuck all the time-- queer-- sir-- queer, queer, very queer.”

“Alas! Dough-boy!”

#moby dick #herman melville #i'm not sure if this book was great or absolutely terrible and i think it might have been both #op

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oh-no-my-hand-slipped · 2 years ago

Note

Hello, friend!

I have been holding onto the last prompt you sent me for far, FAR too long and I'm sorry to have let our prompt exchange die. I assure you, that is my first priority after Sicktember, now that I have cleared out all the other asks!

As a peace offering, I come bearing another prompt, since I saw you asking for inspiration. Without further ado:

Picture this: an incorrigible, lovestruck dandy, standing out in the rain to serenade or otherwise woo his beloved. (Is that person indifferent to him or do they favor him also?) He gets very ill for his troubles, coming down with a raging fever. His mates have you wrestle him into a tepid bath for his health while he continues to spout sonnets of love for his dearest.

Does the loved one come to take care of him? Or do his mates end up saving the day? Something else? Up to you!

I miss your work, and even if this prompt doesn't spark something or suit your fancy, I hope to see your writing on here again soon!

All the best to you.

Oh, my dear, dear friend! My snz companion! My rare and very much missed muse!

This is a wonderful idea. I love every bit of it. Now, that being said, don’t feel like you have to use my prompt soon, or at all! Just because I’m using yours doesn’t mean you have to “repay” me. Your creative, mental, and physical health comes first.

Now, without further ado, may I proudly present:

Love’s Sick

Length: Ficlet - Fic

Rating: 13+

Genre: Caretaking, Fever, Sickness, Emotional

Content Warning(s): Crying, Nightmares, Strong Language

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

“I don’t believe in magic

No stories or fairy tales

No hidden gold, or a talking stone

Or dwarves drinking their weight in ale

But if there is no magic

No mermaids in the ocean blue

Then why am I charmed into your arms

Under this spell for you?”

Simon tried to move on to the chorus, but the strings of his lute scraped as he coughed roughly into his elbow. He looked up at the duchess’s window, hoping to see her eyes peeking out through the curtains. But, though he had been there for several hours, he was completely alone in the manor’s front garden.

“Nothing wrong with…a small intermission for m’lady…” Simon rasped sitting down against a nearby cherry tree.

Sweat slicked the back of his neck, and his chest heaved with effort. Without a handkerchief or a rose or even a loving gaze to keep him going, his bard’s heart sank along with him. With a cold gust of wind, Simon felt a few raindrops fall onto his forehead.

He looked up at the swirling gray clouds. He knew he should probably find more shelter than the leafless cherry tree, but he couldn’t bring himself to rise. With a pounding head, Simon closed his eyes, letting the pattering of rain lull him.

He began to drift in and out of sleep, hearing the howling wind raindrops against the branches. But he could not rest - her eyes watched him wherever he went, teasing him with her beckoning gaze. Simon tried to reach toward her, but his body felt of lead. Even when he began to hear familiar voices tripping over each other around him, he couldn’t lift his eyes.

“Of course, on the day he decides to rest himself it rains! His empty skull is surely so flooded one could catch fish.”

“He has never fallen asleep before, not even after several pints of mead. Is he…?”

“Oh, you weeping ass, of course not! See how his breast rises? He most likely found a tavern to his liking and had a few rounds.”

“A slave to the drink, not he. He isn’t a servant to mead. But out of this gloom, we must away soon, and then we may very well see.”

“Martin’s right. We can ask him once we find shelter from the storm - he doesn’t look well.”

“I certainly hope he isn’t. Perhaps then he will learn not to trot after wealthy heirs like a slobbering lapdog.”

“Zeal…”

Simon heard Zeal sigh.

“Oh, alright. He shall receive a proper scolding once we return to the cottage. Now, you take his legs, Martin, and I his shoulders…Ferdinand, clear a path. Now, on three. One…two…”

Simon drifted off again, not waking until he felt someone’s hands feeling his face and neck as the rain poured on a thin straw roof.

“Oh dear, he’s burning up. I knew he didn’t look well - he didn’t seem himself last night either.”

“Serves him right, for making us drag him through this tempest. A chill will cull his ever-burning heart. Perhaps that will keep him out of noblewomen’s windows and the rain.”

Simon’s heart squeezed, and he felt hot tears streaming down his cheeks. Even in his sleep, he knew. His temptress laughed tauntingly. Ferdinand began to shush him, running his hands through his dampened hair.

“Shhh, Simon, Simon, it’s alright. You’re back at the cottage. We’ll draw you a bath - oh, Zeal, look what you’ve done!”

Zeal clicked his tongue in annoyance, but said nothing else. Simon heard water being poured into a pot.

“Make sure not to boil it,” Ferdinand fussed. “He needs to be cooled. Martin, you’ll hold him up, won’t you? He could drown…”

“Gah!”

Simon cried out as the shock of cold water pooled around his body. He trembled, his chill only made worse by the frigid bath. His eyes finally blinked open.

His fellow bards were scattered around him. Ferdinand, with his large, brown eyes knelt next to the tub, hands clasped over his mouth. Zeal was at the table, leaning back in their only chair, reading - or pretending to read - a pamphlet he had gotten from an up-and-coming scholar. And though Simon couldn’t see Martin, he could feel his strong arms under his own, keeping his limp body from sinking any further into the water.

“S-so…c-c-cold…” Simon chattered, his naked body trembling. His soaked clothes had somehow been made into a pile on the floor next to the tub. Zeal snorted, closing his pamphlet.

“Shall I get the scullery maid?” he murmured, only just loud enough to make himself chuckle.

Ferdinand gave Zeal one of his reproachful looks, then looked back at Simon.

“We must cool you off first,” he said. “Then we’ll wrap you up nice and warm.”

Simon was going to protest, but a sting in his nose stopped him in his tracks. Martin’s arms moved further around his chest, keeping him steady.

“hih…hiiii’YESHOOOO!”

The sneeze made the bathwater ripple around him, spraying a few droplets into the air. His nostrils ached, still twitching. Ferdinand already had a piece of cloth in hand, setting it over Simon’s nose.

“Blow.”

Simon did as he was told. By the time he was finished, his chest was heaving from the effort. He had begun to warm up again - not even the tepid water was providing any relief. His eyes closed again, the dull light from the window hurting his eyes.

“Could it be a witches curse, or a-” Simon rasped before a ragged cough overtook him. His head pounded to a beat he could no longer follow. He felt himself being lifted again, but not with Martin’s ease. He heard bed springs squeak as he was laboriously set down.

“He really is a dandy, isn’t he?” Zeal said, his voice much closer now. “Even now, he sings for one he’s never met.”

Blessedly cold hands cupped his face, and Simon sighed with relief.

“If this fever doesn’t kill you, I will myself. You lovesick fool.”

Simon shivered, and, with a resigned sigh, a soft quilt was laid on top of him.

“And then I’ll kill whomever weighs upon your heart. That gigglesome goose was most likely hiding behind the curtain, drinking up your misled affections. But she’ll sing for thee, alright - a swan song!”

Zeal flew into a passion, his namesake.

“I’ll hang her from the rafters!” he proclaimed. “With a sign announcing her misdeeds written delicately with a bitch’s blood - quite fitting, I think!”

Simon would have laughed if he had the strength to. Zeal continued, quoting Othello’s final speech, describing in detail Judith’s murder of the general, and even taking a moment to wonder aloud where he would store the body after it had taken its last breath (the forest next to an abandoned road, he reasoned, would be best).

Zeal then went a bit into fever himself, and sat down at the table to rest.

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

It wasn’t long before Martin and Ferdinand had come back, burlap sacks over their shoulders. By then, Simon had opened his eyes, but could barely turn his head without wincing. Every bone in his body ached, and it took all his strength to move even a finger.

“What did get from market today, market today?” Zeal sang, whispering the rhyme as the Martin and Ferdinand came in. “What did you get from market today, oh please tell me do!”

Ferdinand set down his burlap sack, replying without pause as he emptied it. He was quiet as well, glancing at Simon.

“A witches finger, two shillings off, the broom that kept her hide aloft! A silver tray, and may I say, it looks to me quite new!”

“The devil’s eye,” Martin replied, “to future seek, a bucket that has sprung a leak, a phoenix feather, tied and tethered, to my leather boot!”

Simon opened his mouth, but nothing came out. There was a pause, until Zeal sputtered.

“Ahem, er - that’s what you found at the market today, market today? That’s what you found at the market today, treasures far and few?”

Zeal clicked his tongue sharply against the back of his teeth.

“It’s alright,” Ferdinand said, already chopping what they had really bought. “It is a bit…different this time.”

Martin cleared his throat.

“The rhythm of life falls short - the tune is missing a chord. But as all the best, our friend must rest…for he has much endured.”

“You mustn’t be so dramatic,” Zeal said, flipping to another page in his pamphlet. “You talk as if he has one foot in the grave.”

Simon’s breath caught, and he began to cough. Martin’s large hands lifted him by the underarms and sat him up against the bed board, patting him on the back. His head swam from the blood rushing to it, and he could swear he heard a woman’s tittering.

“Diana?” he mumbled, before starting to cough again. Martin held him up with one hand, and felt his forehead with another.

“Should we draw another bath?” Ferdinand asked, the vegetables long forgotten. “Or perhaps light the fire? Oh dear, he hasn’t eaten since this morning, has he? Aren’t you supposed to starve a cold?”

Simon could almost see her feather fan, her sharp eyes only just peeking over the edges. Her gown shimmering like the night sky around her thin frame. Her ruby lips pursed as she whispered to the others.

What a beautiful nightmare.

A chill overtook him, and his entire body shivered - from fear or fever, he couldn’t tell. He made a strangled sound, almost collapsing in on himself.

“Simon!”

His chest heaved in what little breath he could, and began to cry, tears pooling down his red cheeks. She was so close, and yet so far. Yet again, his heart had been dropped.

And this time, it had finally shattered.

A cloth began dabbing away at his face.

“The fever is only getting worse,” Ferdinand said. “We can’t go to town - not in this storm! He won’t make it that far!”

Simon grasped at Martin’s shirt. He couldn’t be alone. Not now.

Suddenly, Simon felt himself being shifted to the side, then up. He came to rest on Martin’s chest.

“This chill isn’t caught from the rain - it’s an ill of a love ungained. With the warmth of a friend, and a soft hand to tend, his health will soon be regained.”

It wasn’t long before Simon’s chill subsided, and he calmed from Martin’s steady breaths. A squeak of the bed springs, and Ferdinand joined them, his arm only barely able to reach Simon’s side.

There was a silence, then yet another sigh from Zeal.

“If I awake with a single sniffle…”

The threat was left unfinished, and they were soon comfortably curled around each other, quilt only just fitting the three of them.

The rain fell much into the night - and even then, the musicians slept, their only sound a soft snoring.

@perfectpaperbluebirds

#ohnos fics #snz #snz kink #snzblr #snezblr #snz things #snzario #snez kink #snz scenario #snezario #whump #I’m sorry this is so short #I feel especially bad because it took me so long to finish it #I hope you still enjoy it anyway :)#I made up for it by making it very fever centric #just like you like it

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unchartedcloud · 2 years ago

Note

OR forgotten first meeting/locked in a room (Clexa)

Hey anon - when you sent this, did you mean, "I'd like 9k words of a totally new au"? Because what you're getting is 9k words of a totally new au.

Send us a combo of tropes and we'll tell you how we'd write them!

57 (Forgotten First Meeting) + 70 (Locked in a Room)

A John Wick (modern assassins) AU

TW: alcohol, sexual themes, gun & violence mention

Rated: M

It’s never a good sign when Lexa feels groggy upon waking. She’s either a) been drugged or b) at Doc’s office, most likely having been consensually drugged.

This drugging was not consensual.

The first thing she’s aware of is her surroundings. Relatively bright, fluorescent light. Green accents. The smell of cleaning solution and fresh linens. She’s in a room at The Continental. Lying on one of the small couches provided in the larger suites, if the vantage point is any indication.

The second thing she’s aware of is the muzzle of a Sig P365 pointed at her forehead.

“Finally,” the woman holding the gun says. Lexa blinks several times and focuses her gaze. A blond woman with curly, short hair. The curls are damp, as is the rest of her body; an easy observation, given that she’s wearing only a bra and underwear. “Care to tell me why the fuck you’re in my room?”

The woman’s tone is relatively light, given the situation. More curious and a bit peeved than outright angry, at least for the moment. Though how Lexa managed to interrupt this person’s shower whilst unconscious remains a mystery.

She blinks a few more times, waiting to move until her vision is reliably un-blurred. The couch is upholstered in a silken green fabric embroidered with coarse gold thread–a curious choice, given the difficulty of getting blood out of either–and the latter presses into her palm as she pushes herself up to sit. She neither watches the blond nor informs her she’s doing so; the Sig’s safety is on, so she’s clearly not in danger of being shot just yet.

The room is indeed unfamiliar. A suitcase is open against the far wall, its contents tossed; the sheets have been slept in and left mussed atop the bed; the closet door is ajar, the suggestion of an empty gun belt and a long rifle outlined in the shadows beyond. A quick flex of Lexa’s bicep tells her the holster beneath her left arm is empty. And she isn’t wearing her jacket.

She took her jacket off when she returned to her room in the afternoon…she’d poured herself a dram of whiskey, but it was from the bottle she’d brought with her. Had she swept the room first? Could someone have…

The Sig clicks, and cold gunmetal touches her right temple.

“Are you deaf?”

Lexa frowns. “No.”

“Well I’m not asking again.”

She angles her eyes to the side, turning her head two degrees to get the other woman in her periphery. Water drips from her hair onto toned shoulders, rolls down over a defined bicep tensed slightly in the work of holding the gun. Almost all of her is bare, the essential bits covered not by simple underwear, but lingerie: black, lacy, partially transparent, the half-corset bra she wears fades into strong abs. Her right forearm bears a geometric tattoo; the left bears the Sig.

So she’s attractive.

And familiar.

“I don’t know,” Lexa answers, and knows immediately the answer is unsatisfying. She can feel the pattern of the embroidery pressed into her cheek and rotates her jaw a few times. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“You could, though it would be somewhat unproductive given that this is, as I said, my room.” The woman sighs and pulls the gun back from Lexa’s face. It’s still in her hand; a sure, easy grip. A finger taps absently on the gun’s handle in a way that suggests habit rather than intention. And, perhaps, impatience.

“I suppose I shouldn’t kill you until I know whether you’re worth breaking the rules over.” Clear blue eyes roam Lexa’s body brazenly as if she were naked rather than fully clothed, and the edges of a smirk appear on the blond’s lips. “You certainly look like you could be.”

It sounds like innuendo, but Lexa doesn't give it the time required to process. She pulls her fallen suspender strap up onto her shoulder as she stands. "I wouldn't advise it. You've already tried once and failed."

The room spins. She has every intention of walking straight to and out the door to track down whoever thought this would be a fun prank to pull, but the drug is clearly still working its way out of her system. Not that she has any intention of betraying that; she covers by brazenly eying the blond right back. "Your lingerie was red then."

“Feeling okay?” The smirk is out in force now. “You look a bit…”

Lexa’s words sink in as the smirk falls away, replaced with an equally attractive frown. “Have we met?”

"Once." If she grits her teeth, the floor mostly stands still. It's enough that she feels confident about crossing the room without collapsing. "In Budapest."

“Budapest…” The woman taps the gun against her own shoulder, of all things, and looks up into the middle distance in a dramatic display of deep thought. “Hardly narrows it down.”

Lexa shakes her head before she can think to stop herself and grimaces. “Red lingerie in Budapest doesn’t narrow it down?”

“Not exactly.”

It does strike Lexa as strange that she meets no resistance on her way to the front door, but then again apparently this woman has just as much interest in Lexa being in her room as Lexa has in remaining in it. She manages to avoid the small table in front of the couch, round the edge of the bed, and make it to the door - where she meets a lock.

“The door is locked,” she hears, rather pointlessly, from behind her.

"I can see that." Lexa doesn't turn around, just goes on watching the doorknob as though its resistance to moving is another symptom of being drugged. "Why is the door locked?"

“If I knew that, you’d have woken up to an empty room.” When Lexa turns around, the woman is shrugging and in the midst of digging in her luggage. “Got a name, cutie?”

No gun, no jacket, a locked door…Lexa looks down at her wrist. Not even a watch. How much time remains? If the sunset is any indication, not much. She leans back against the wall to steady herself.

"These doors don't lock from the outside."

“Not usually.”

She’s pulling a dark blue dress over her head and adjusting it over her hips with a wiggle. Lexa finds herself staring at her ass before she manages to pull herself together. Her eyes are just tired, along with the rest of her body, from being drugged. Potentially by this woman, though that seems increasingly unlikely.

Which does remind her to ask:

"You didn't hear anyone break in?" She blinks hard, and finds herself staring at the blond's stretch of bare back instead. "Or them dragging a full grown human being inside?"

“I listen to music while I shower.” Somehow the gun is still in her hand, though her grip is relaxed and her arm is at her side. She gestures at Lexa with it. “You don’t remember drinking something you shouldn’t have? Maybe getting knocked over the head?”

Lexa doesn't merit that with a response. Music while showering? It's a miracle this woman is still alive.

"Have you tried to pick the lock?"

“No, I just noticed it was stuck and hoped a strong, pants-clad woman would come and save me.”

Lexa processes and is about to respond when the blond rolls her eyes and amends, “Of course I tried to pick the lock. The fact that I can’t narrows the suspect list down quite a bit.”

"Does it?"

The blond turns her back on her again and shakes her hair out, which Lexa finds only mildly distracting. Determined to get her feet under her she shoves away from the wall.

"Where's your lockpick set?"

She saunters over to Lexa, all hips and collarbones and eyes that seem to shift in color to match her dress. “Here,” she says, pausing only once she is fully within Lexa’s space. It takes Lexa a beat to realize she’s reached down to the nightstand beside them and opened the drawer. “Help yourself.”

She looks down. One lockpick set would have met expectations; two would have been smarter, assuming she didn't wake up in the room of a master thief. Instead, she finds a veritable drawer full of different sets, different makes, all in pristine condition. A comment comes to her lips and she lifts her chin to deliver it, but the other woman has stepped away, leaving the scent of citrus and spice in her wake.

So she swallows hard, grabs the top set of lock picks, and kneels in front of the door.

Surely she imagined the way those blue eyes bounced down to her lips.

"Well, I'm all ears."

“You want a drink?”

Lexa stops what she’s doing to level a raised eyebrow at the woman behind her, who is now standing at the small bar on the opposite side of the room. “I’m a little busy.”

She shrugs again and goes about fetching herself what appears to be a nip of whisky from the hotel fridge. “Suit yourself. Ever heard of Finn Collins?” The whisky ricochets off the crystal glass from the force of the pour, some of it splashing off onto the counter. The woman tongs one large square of ice from an ice bucket and plops it in, eliciting yet another small splash. “He’s a shit assassin, but he’s got connections. Including one of the world’s greatest locksmiths. He is also,” she swirls the liquid around and finally meets Lexa’s eyes, “after the Carl Emerson contract.”

What?

It's only because she's already locking her jaw that the word doesn't jump from her lips. Instead, Lexa only narrows her eyes and reevaluates her position. The contract on Emerson was too lucrative to stay exclusive for long–but she hadn't anticipated competition quite this quickly. Titus must have been talking to more people than he let on.

But as far as she's aware, Titus is the only one dealing this contract…which means her situation isn't the only thing she's reevaluating.

Lexa sits back, taking a breather with her weight on the ground while she studies the way a flower tattoo spills out from the back of that blue dress.

"Who are you, exactly?"

“Clarke Griffin.” She says it easily, readily. It even sounds genuine, and that smile that’s more of a smirk is back on her face. “Nice of you to finally ask. You got a name under those traps?”

Lexa frowns. “Under what?”

Now the woman–Clarke–raises an eyebrow right back. “Trapezius.” She gestures at her own with the hand currently unoccupied with a glass, leaving Lexa to wonder where she’s stowed the gun. “You have nice shoulders.”

She should be more concerned about the location of the gun than she is.

Clarke Griffin.

"You really don't remember trying to kill me?"

“I have killed a lot of people.” Clarke takes a sip of her drink and swallows - then narrows her eyes at the middle distance. “Red lingerie, Budapest…” the finger tapping is back, this time on the glass. “Tried to kill you, that does narrow it down…

“Oh, shit!” A resounding smack jars Lexa’s ears as Clarke slams the glass down on the counter. It’s a miracle the thing is still in one piece. “That was you? Fuck, what was that contract…Woods!” Now she’s pointing at Lexa like she’s caught her out in a lie. “Lexa Woods. I had no idea you were in the Network.” She shrugs apologetically, though that smirk is back on her face and Lexa gets the distinct impression that she is anything but sorry. “Misunderstanding, I’m sure.”

"Mm."

The light through the window shifts and Lexa is reminded of the ticking clock. She gets back on one knee and the world spins less as she turns and tries at the lock again.

"In your defense, Lexa Woods isn't in the Network." The lockpick jerks as she pushes a tumbler a bit too far, resetting the whole thing. She sighs, her shoulders deflating. "The Commander is."

Something happens then that hasn’t happened since Lexa woke up in this room: silence.

At first, it’s nice. She can actually hear the tumblers as they move and can identify more readily when she continues to fail. But then it starts to tickle at the back of her neck. Clarke hasn’t moved, and yet she’s quiet? Having known the woman personally for less than ten minutes, Lexa is confident that silence is not her natural state.

“The Commander?” she finally hears behind her. The surprise in her voice makes Lexa smile at the door despite herself. “You are the Commander?”

“Does that make you feel better about failing?”

“A little, to be honest.”

There’s more silence as Lexa manages to flip one tumbler…then two, then a third…that one clicks farther up, is a little more finicky, and then…

A clunk that Lexa has never heard in a lock echoes through the metal of the doorknob and the lockpicking tool snaps inside.

“...fuck.”

“Yeah.”

Lexa sighs and sits back on her heels, frowning at the keyhole. “The world’s greatest locksmith, you say?”

“One of. Locks that fight back are her specialty. I think some kind of bird is her calling card.”

“Hm.” Leaving the broken pick in the lock isn’t helping in any way, but it’s making it awfully hard to get it out. Several long seconds of twisting and pulling pass before she grunts, “For what it’s worth…I feel better about almost losing. I hadn’t realized Wanheda had been sent after me.”

“I’ve always disliked that nickname.” Lexa growls at the stupid little tool in her hand, still half-stuck in this absurd lock, and Clarke’s voice adds, “You sure you don’t want a drink?”

A fit of pique grips her and she slaps the door. “I suspect whiskey is how I got into this mess.”

“Ah. Well, you’re in it now, and I haven’t passed out yet so my whiskey must be fine.”

Lexa finally turns back around to see Clarke slam the rest of her drink back, swallow, lick her lips, and grab another glass. “Here’s how I see it.” She disappears under the bar to the sound of clinking glass, and then emerges again with two fresh nips. “There are three hours left of the contract. I can guarantee Finn is still scurrying to eliminate the competition. He scouts who has the contract he wants, eliminates them one by one, and waits until the last moment to pull the trigger.”

Clarke holds up the ice tongs and levels a look at Lexa. “Ice?”

Lexa finds herself shaking her head no.

“Right.” The cube plops back into the ice bucket. “So we have some time to discuss our exit strategy. And,” she slides the glass over the bar to Lexa, “to have a drink.”

Three hours…

She scans the room again as she pushes herself carefully to her feet. Lock picking is often an essential skill, but it's one she lacks the finesse to master; if Wanheda couldn't get it, with her reputation of sneaking into places she couldn't possibly be, then perhaps it's time to start working on a different plan.

Vents, windows, tools and points of leverage are catalogued as she crosses to the bar, feeling much steadier on her feet. But even so, once the glass of whiskey is before her she hesitates.

"Christ sake," Clarke rolls her eyes, "you literally saw me open it just now. Cracked the safety seal and everything."

An FDA approved tamper-evident seal is nothing for an experienced assassin to get through without altering, but saying as much seems unnecessary. Certainly after another handful of silent seconds the blond sighs, picks up the whiskey she poured for Lexa, and takes a sip off the top.

"Happy?" She asks, putting it down with a clink.

I'm content knowing that if Collins managed to poison this because you were listening to music in the shower, we'll both suffer, is what she thinks. What she says is:

"Every pane of glass in the Continental is bulletproof and shatter resistant."

“That’s true.” Clarke turns her back to Lexa - a known assassin, and a damn good one at that - to study the floor to ceiling mirrors that cover the far side of the room. This woman is insane.

“With enough bullets, perhaps,” she’s still saying, “but I didn’t bring an arsenal with me. You brought,” Clarke glances back over her shoulder to sweep her gaze up Lexa’s front, “less than that. I could keep working at the door, but it will take me some time. I’m open to less tedious ideas.

"Damn that man.” Her shoulders tense suddenly, drawing Lexa’s attention once again to an intricate floral tattoo that creeps around her shoulder blades and down her spine. “I may actually kill him next time.”

Lexa has never missed a contract. Not once. She's only even come close a handful of times. She hasn't yet decided this will be her first, but even coming close is grounds for revenge in her book. "I'll give you the gun."

The Continental spares no expense, least of all on its glassware; the crystal is solid and satisfying in her hand, and she gives its contents an experimental sip as she turns her back on Clarke Griffin.

Leaning back against the opposite side of the bar, she scans the hotel room's interior. One elbow rests on the arm she folds over her chest.

"Any chance of taking the door off its hinges?"

“You could certainly try.” A chuckle resounds from behind her. “I’d like to see how you plan to do so. Look,” a finger appears below Lexa’s right shoulder. “The hinges are hidden behind the doorframe. For aesthetic reasons, I imagine. It’s probably possible, given enough time.”

"Mm. Which we don't have." Lexa frowns.

“Well, we have some time. But perhaps not ‘breaking down the door’ time.”

Lexa considers her options while she takes a sip of her whiskey. It’s not bad, for something acquired from a hotel refrigerator. Balvenie of some kind, she thinks.

This woman–Wanheda, Clarke Griffin, whomever–knows about the Emerson contract. If she knows about it, she’s after it. If this Finn knows about it then he’s after it, too. Given that, who knows how many others may have knowledge of it. Lexa dislikes being forced to change her meticulously laid out plans, and she certainly did not have escaping a hotel room turned prison cell in the cards for this evening. She likes competition even less.

There has to be more at play here. Why stash her in this room? And how does Finn Collins fit into all of this? He must know Clarke. But how does he know who Lexa is?

“You seem rather unperturbed by this whole thing for someone who knows how much that contract is worth.” Lexa doesn’t have to turn around to direct the comment at Clarke; the blond has already stepped around the bar and is making herself comfortable on the corner of the bed, facing Lexa. “Do you have a plan for getting out of here? Or are you content to let Finn Collins walk away with your millions?”

“My millions?” Clarke folds one leg over the other, revealing far more of her thigh than was previously visible. “I didn’t realize you were giving up. That’s good to know.”

Lexa doesn’t reply and forces her line of sight to stay focused on Clarke’s face, which is of little help. Her lips twist into a look of disgust that has no right to look as pretty as it does. “I’d rather shoot Finn in the dick than let him have my money. It would be quite a loss for him, and frankly for me, but he’s pushed me too far this time. I might even shoot him in the mouth for good measure.”

"I imagine that would be less of a loss for you."

"Quite."

The vents are intentionally built too small to facilitate anything larger than a ferret to traverse them, the walls are reinforced with concrete and lead. Every element of the Continental meant to protect its occupants from each other has made it that much more effective of a cage–a stroke of genius she suspects is rare of this Finn Collins.

But why this room? Why her? Did he simply know they were both after the contract, and killed two birds with one replaced lock?

She pushes away from the bar and strolls to the windows, stands in profile against the fading light to keep Clarke in line of sight, and peers down at the street. Shatter resistant doesn't mean shatter proof…but they are several stories up.

"We get out of here," Lexa assumes, because there's no question that they will. She drops her empty hand to her equally empty pocket as a taxi scuttles by. "What happens then? I close my eyes, count to ten, let you run your separate way?"

“I think it’s more like I close my eyes and let you go,” Clarke meets Lexa’s eyes through the glass, “given that only one of us is armed. Though if I recall correctly, you weren’t armed last time we met either.”

“No guns, no knives.” Lexa allows herself a smirk around the edge of her whiskey glass. “I was without quite a few things, as I recall.”

She tips her chin towards the other bedside table, the one holding a hotel phone instead of an army’s worth of lockpicks. “I assume you’ve tried the front desk.”

“That’s disconnected. But,” Clarke emits a dramatic sigh, “since you did finally ask.” She produces a cell phone from, of all places, her cleavage.

How could she possibly have concealed a smart phone there so completely? Lexa's stomach flips at the thought, despite the enraging words now coming out of the blond’s mouth.

“He thought he’d blocked the signal, in his defense. But I’m a rather good hacker myself.” Lexa snorts. An understatement, if her reputation is any indication. “So it’s simply a matter of calling Charon and sorting it out. We’re locked in, not out. I’m sure he’ll make short work of the situation.”

"You can't be serious."

She may not have a gun, but that doesn't mean she's incapable of harming someone - and as she pushes away from the glass to face Clarke head on, fists clenched, she feels sorely tempted to do so.

"You've had a way out of here the entire time? Why didn't you take it??" She growls. "Emerson could be halfway across the city by now!"

“Well, excuse me for being curious when a stranger–sorry, someone whom I assumed to be a stranger–appears on my chaise lounge while I’m showering.”

Clarke has the audacity to look not only unconcerned by Lexa’s reaction, but is that pleasure in those blue eyes? Satisfaction? Lexa’s fists tighten.

“Alright, look.” Clarke holds up a hand in a universal sign of surrender, though Lexa hardly thinks it applies here. “The fact is that I don’t mind a little competition. I enjoy improvising, and our line of work can get so dull. I was curious about you. Even more so now that I know who you really are. I highly doubt an hour or so will make the difference between the Commander’s success or her failure. But I can call Charon at any time, whenever you like. Hell,” she moves so quickly that Lexa just barely manages to unfist her hand in time to catch the phone, “you can call him.”

Motion sensors cause the phone’s screen to light up as she turns it around. She’s confronted with a high resolution image of a female praying mantis in threat posture and a password prompt.

“It’s locked.”

“0813.”

Four quick taps later, a different kind of mantis appears behind app icons. It’s such a specific choice, Lexa needs to ask: “Why the bugs?”

“My most recent target considered herself somewhat of a maneater.” Clarke chuckles into her glass and shakes her head, perhaps recalling a memory. “She was also a Leo. Made for an interesting evening.”

“August 13th would be a Leo birthday,” Lexa says without thinking, and hates herself a little for it. Especially in light of the Cheshire grin she now catches from the corner of her eye.

“Exactly.” Clarke’s shoulders engage, biceps and abdomen tensing to keep her body steady as she lithely re-crosses her legs. Lexa suddenly can’t remember what comes after the front desk’s area code. “Leos like Leos.”

What the fuck was the next number…? Clarke watches for a moment, head tipped to the side. And with an even bigger grin, adds, “I’m a Libra. In case you were wondering.”

Right! Fuck. Her brain jerks back into gear, supplying the remaining numbers in short order. She puts the phone to her ear. “Taurus,” she admits, and Clarke “ooooh”s as she turns to face the windows.

“Front desk.”

Charon’s deep, placid voice picks up after the second ring, prompt and polite as always.

“Good morning.” Windows across the way reflect the sky, offering Lexa a glimpse of drifting clouds against a darkening sky. “I’m having trouble with my room’s door lock.”

“My apologies. The hotel can have that rectified right away. Which room?”

“Room number…” She looks at Clarke over her shoulder, prompting her to provide the answer. “518.”

There’s a pause from the other side. Several things must fall into place, because Charon says, “Ms. Woods, this is neither your phone number nor your room number.”

“That’s correct.”

Another pause. “Will you be needing a dinner reservation?”

The code drops surprisingly easily from his lips, given its meaning.

“That won’t be necessary. Just a locksmith.” After a beat. “A good one.”

“Understood. I will have my best sent up immediately. Please know it may take some time to solve the problem. I hope you will forgive the inconvenience.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

“Enjoy your stay, Ms. Woods.”

Lexa ends the call and tosses the phone back to Clarke. She doesn’t put it back in her cleavage, but rather stands up and walks past Lexa to place it on the bar.

“Charon to the rescue?” she asks.

Lexa nods. “He says it may take some time.”

“Oh, I’m sure it won’t be long. The man can really pull a miracle out of a hat when he wants to.” Clarke taps her phone to initiate the display. “If it takes an hour, that will still leave us with a little over an hour and a half. Plenty of time.”

Ire twitches again, making itself known in the corner of Lexa’s jaw. “It would be a full two, if you hadn’t delayed.”

“Perhaps. But then I wouldn’t have gotten to know that the Commander is a Taurus, and that would’ve been a shame.”

“Mm.” That is less than amusing, and Lexa lets her know mid-sip. The whiskey’s burn on her tongue distracts her somewhat from the new jitters beneath her skin. “This…Collins…must have known his trap wouldn’t hold us for long. Why wouldn’t he pull the trigger before then?”

Clarke purses her lips. “He might,” she admits, which makes Lexa’s blood nearly boil in her veins, “but I doubt it. He’ll be trying to take out others with the same information before he does anything, and even then Emerson is surrounded by a small army at all times. Finn may not be the best, but he knows a bad situation when he sees one. If he can’t find a solid way in - and he’s not that smart – he won’t pull the trigger. He’d rather forego a paycheck than risk his life.” She leans an elbow on the bar and crosses one ankle over the other, casual as you please. “A boring attitude for an assassin, but he’s stayed alive this long. I suppose that counts for something.”

He may not be smart, but Lexa is–and she has plans, plans to find a way in and deal with that army, plans that are no doubt melting away faster than the ice in the bucket behind the bar. She steps up to the corner of said bar, presumably to set her glass down…but doing so also puts her just on the edge of Clarke’s space.

“If I miss this contract,” she warns, “you and I will have a problem.”

Clarke shrugs, unperturbed. “I think there’s another, far more guilty culprit to blame, but fair enough.” She cocks her head to the side, her gaze studying Lexa’s still rather tense jaw and neck muscles. “You’re not a big fan of spontaneity, are you?”

“Modifying my plan to a changing landscape is a specialty of mine. But I prefer it if I don’t have to do so unnecessarily.”

“Did your plan involve getting drugged and locked in Wanheda’s hotel room?”

Lexa’s eyebrow twitches. “No, it didn’t. Nor did it involve Wanheda choosing not to help herself.”

A single, manicured eyebrow rises into Clarke’s forehead, that teasing smirk playing at the edges of her mouth again. Lexa’s eyes linger on its corners just a bit too long. “What makes you think I didn’t?”

She shifts her weight, one foot sliding slightly back. Her hand grips the glass tighter; it’s no Sig Sauer, but whiskey to the eyes and crystal to the face is still an effective combat strategy in the event Wanheda has decided now’s the time to sign her death wish. “Excuse me?”

“Oh relax.” Clarke waves at Lexa dismissively. “I don’t plan to kill you or get in the way of what I’m sure is a foolproof plan. Well, any more than I already have. I simply seized the opportunity to learn more about the mysterious Commander. Keep your enemies close and all that.” She takes a final sip of her whiskey and flicks the crystal across the bar when she’s finished. It teeters precariously close to the edge. “We all have our methods of survival, don’t we?”

Lexa's grip relaxes only slightly as she debates whether or not she can believe her. Clarke's glass only wobbles twice before its weight settles safely on the bar, a small but clear demonstration of her reflexive understanding of distance, friction, and weight. That kind of knowledge makes Wanheda one of the best shots in the business, can take the wings off a fly at a hundred and fifty yards, and yet…

A second later she decides: "A strange tactic for a member of the Network."

“I don’t think so. But it’s often to my benefit that my peers don’t understand, let alone share, my strategies.” Clarke holds out a hand, palm up, between them. “More scotch?”

Lexa hands over her glass wordlessly and tries not to focus on the warm, brief feeling of Clarke’s skin touching her own. She smiles and steps back behind the bar.

“I excel by being…unexpected. Surprising,” she clarifies unnecessarily. Glass and aluminum clink as she rummages through the fridge before producing another nip. Lexa is now close enough that she can see the label: Balvenie 15 Year. “I hear your strengths lie in being the best. The best shot, the tidiest kills, the cleanest trails. You’d think the Commander was a boogie man, the way some of our coworkers talk about you.”

"Baba Yaga," Lexa breathes, and thinks nothing of the gender aligned with that fantastical figure.

"There's a reason Charon can call me by my name without anyone in the lobby making the connection." She accepts the glass when it's offered, but doesn't drink immediately. "Precision is easier. If your competition doesn't know you, they can't lock you in a hotel room and take your kill from under you."

“Except someone clearly does know you.” Clarke folds her hands and leans forward on the counter on her elbows. The position accentuates her cleavage in a way that, Lexa assumes, is intentional. “Two someone’s, now. But don’t worry, your secret is safe with me,” she adds with a wink.

Before Lexa can express her mild–why only mild?–disbelief at that, Clarke asks, “I have to know: how did you get that mob boss in Tokyo? No one I know could get into the building to get a look at the guy’s face, let alone take him out.”

“Research,” Lexa answers flatly, because she knows it will irritate. And it does: the word is hardly out of her mouth before Clarke is whining.

“Oh come on! There’s no one else here, you have to give me something.”

“I’m not giving away trade secrets just because I happen to be trapped in a room with someone for an hour.”

“Oh please,” Clarke scoffs. “I think if nothing else, we can agree that there’s minimal overlap in our methods. And here I was, all ready to be impressed.”

They watch each other for several seconds of silence. Just when Clarke opens her mouth to egg her further, Lexa says: “I went in through the basement.”

“The construction site?” Clarke’s frown of confusion deepens when Lexa nods. “But Bellamy tried that and couldn’t get through.”

“Bellamy?”

“Sorry–Gemini. Or one half of Gemini, anyway.”

“Mm. I tracked Gemini’s attempt. The security system that stopped them has a habit of opening exploitable doors when it’s overtasked, which happens when, say, it’s running fire control protocols in three other locations in the building.”

“Okay. But there would still have been half his guys between you and the penthouse.”

Lexa just looks at her over the rim of her cup and drinks.

“Damn.” This time Clarke’s eyebrow rises nearly into her hairline. “Color me impressed.”

“Glad I could oblige.”

A brief pause. Lexa isn’t in the habit of casually conversing with…anyone, really, least of all her competition. But they have nothing to do but wait in this room, and in an unusual turn of events, talking to Clarke seems a better way to pass the time than sitting in silence.

“What happened with your Leo?”

“Oh, nothing all that notable.” Clarke pushes herself up onto her hands, leaning forward just the littlest bit more into Lexa’s space. “She was a princess, believe it or not. Tough security. I was posing as a sommelier. Not my forte, wine, but I’ve found that I hardly need to know much about my cover. People tend to overlook expertise in the face of…other assets.” She grins. “We had a drink later that evening, she gave me the information I needed to get inside, and they found her the next morning.”

It’s harder than she’d ever admit to keep her eyes on Clarke’s face. Other assets, indeed.

Wanheda’s penchant for the honeypot is well known; had Lexa not deprioritized finding the person who put a hit out on her in favor of catching her target, she might have made the connection prior to now. As it is, having fallen for the strategy herself has her affording the honeypot far more respect–despite one rather obvious flaw, in her book.

“How do you avoid being connected?” She asks, and it’s genuine curiosity that prompts her to do so. “Being seen so close to the target in public, by her security guards, by bystanders…”

Clarke nods along as Lexa speaks, as if she anticipated the question. Or has been asked it before, perhaps. Lexa can’t be the only inquiring mind to ever cross her path.

“You’re not the only one who does research,” she says. “My skills lie in knowing people. Their likes, dislikes. Desires and habits and dirty little secrets. People take note of the things that interest them, and ignore the things that don’t. That, a good disguise kit, and avoiding cameras can get you a long way. Besides, I have a good memory. Any information about a person could be useful, given the right context.” Her eyes take on a playful glint and Lexa can guess what she’s about to say before the words leave her mouth. “I managed to get to you, didn’t I?”

She lets herself have the little smirk evoked by that. “Sounds like I should stop talking, if I know what’s good for me.”

Clarke’s laugh takes Lexa by surprise. It sounds fuller than she expected; louder, more genuine. It could still be a part of the act, which would be rather impressive. But it could also be an honest response, a little part of Lexa insists. This woman is either the best actress Lexa has ever met, or she actually is enjoying Lexa’s company. It is, of course, unclear whether she’ll ever know the real answer.

“Don’t worry, I already tried to kill you once. I try not to repeat mistakes.” Clarke folds her arms and shrugs, a teasing look on her face. “Unless I get an offer I can’t refuse, of course.”

“Right. So the thing I said.”

“It would have to be a pretty compelling offer to go after the Commander. My wrist still aches when it rains, you know. Thanks for that.”

"You had a six inch long switchblade in your hand!"

"And?"

It is, objectively, a strange thing to share a chuckle over. But the Network doesn't exactly attract normal people.

"If I asked you who hired you…" Lexa lifts her glass and strolls slowly towards the couch, catching another enticing whiff of citrus and spice as she passes briefly through Clarke's space. Upon reaching the couch she sinks carefully back into it, resting one ankle over the other. "Would you tell me?"

Clarke steps around the bar, eyeing Lexa as she settles into the couch. “I don’t make a habit of revealing my contacts. Tends to lead to less contracts and therefore less money. But,” she settles back on the edge of the bed, this time in the middle directly across from where Lexa sits, “perhaps if we become better friends. And you had a compelling enough offer.”

Friends. Lexa perks an eyebrow instead of laughing.

"I'm afraid Collins didn't leave me with any gold coins when he dragged me here." She pats her empty pocket as though a demonstration were necessary. "Do you take IOUs?"

Clarke chuckles. “I certainly do. But how do I know you’re good for it?”

Lexa finishes off her whiskey and sets the glass down on the low table in front of her. "You don't. You'll just have to trust me."

“I see.”

Clarke leans back on her hands, her torso elongating in a way that draws Lexa’s attention–and this time, she doesn’t look away.

“Would you trust me?” Clarke asks. “If you were in my position?”

"I don't trust easily."

“And yet interestingly, that’s not a no.”

A smile twitches at the corner of Lexa's lips. "I suppose it's not.

"I think I would be inclined to trust you. But then again," she tips her hand palm-up in a shrug, "you can't know if you can trust I'm telling the truth any more than you can know if I'm good for the money."

“All true.” Clarke cocks her head to the side and her gaze takes on a quality Lexa hasn’t seen in her yet. Curiosity, almost to an analytical degree. It makes Lexa feel as though she were a specimen under a microscope.

“You are though, aren’t you?” Her voice isn’t teasing anymore. There’s curiosity there, and a hint of surprise–but no jest. “Telling the truth. If I were a betting woman, I’d say you do that more often than not. That’s a unique quality for someone in our line of work.”

She tries very hard not to squirm under this scrutiny. Revealing herself, willingly or not, is not something Lexa is accustomed to–so she shunts the spotlight off herself as quickly as possible. "No more so than genuine curiosity, I would say. Few would sacrifice time on a contract to ask a competitor's name."

“That’s, probably, also true.” When Clarke smiles this time, it isn’t sarcastic or self-satisfied. “It’s like I said. Knowledge is how I succeed–how I survive. I can get it myself, but I don’t always have to with the right contacts. With the right friends.”

There it is again: Friends. The concept is as foreign to Lexa as a sniper rifle is comfortable in her hands. And Clarke is bandying the word around like she really means it; like she really understands what it means.

There’s a pause where Clarke considers Lexa again. Gauging who knows what from her posture, her expression, her ticks. It should feel menacing, but it’s only making her feel…seen. One doesn't study the unconscious habits of a gun, of a weapon. The kind of attention Clarke gives her in this moment is the kind one gives to a person.

Perhaps it says something about her that this attention is so novel to Lexa.

“They had a feminine voice,” she says; suddenly, matter-of-factly. “Never got a name, but I traced the call to London. Analysis of the recordings provided a codename mentioned in the background: CW.”

She holds up a hand in a mirror of Lexa’s earlier gesture. “That’s all I know.”

For the first time since waking up, Lexa forgets about the ticking of the clock. She goes very still.

London. Feminine. CW.

Costia Waters.

"CW?" Lexa repeats. "You're certain? That's what they said?"

“I’m positive. I spent some time analyzing the background noise. Not even I like working for a ghost, but the money was too good to pass up. They were careful, but someone in the room must’ve slipped.”

Clarke’s eyes move between Lexa’s quickly, studying her reaction. “Do you know them?”

She stands up.

CW. In London.

She paces. Looks at the door without seeing it.

Costia is alive.

More pressingly: Costia wants her dead.

Do you know them?

"You could say that." Lexa turns on Clarke. "Did she tell you how to find me? What to say?"

“She gave me a location and a description.” Clarke raises an eyebrow but otherwise remains seated on the bed despite Lexa’s sudden movements. “I think you know me well enough by now to know that I don’t need to be told what to say.

“She didn’t mention your moniker, though. Either she was hiding it so as not to deter potential hires, or she doesn’t know it.”

An interesting prospect. Distressing, too. She sets her jaw.

"She chose well, apparently," Lexa mutters, uncertain if this new information makes her falling for Clarke's trap more or less humiliating. She runs her hand through her hair. "Fuck."

Clarke merely watches as Lexa paces–which Lexa only discovers when she remembers the other woman is there and finally looks back up.

“We’re fresh out of whiskey, but there’s some vodka and gin. Though this seems like it may be a tequila situation.”

Lexa frowns in response, her mind whirring so quickly around this new development that Clarke’s words hardly register.

“You look like you could use a drink,” Clarke clarifies. “Or seven.”

"What I could use," she seethes, her spleen mounting towards unbridled rage as she turns to glare at the door, "is a fucking pack of C4 so I can blow this FUCKING door off its fucking hinges!"

Immediately, Lexa expects some smug, half-clever comment from Clarke. Or worse, that she’s given away some valuable weakness by letting her emotions get the best of her.

But if that’s true, Clarke doesn’t respond the way Lexa anticipates. Instead there’s silence, and it’s so surprising that she whirls on her heel half expecting the woman to be holding that Sig again.

Instead she’s still just sitting there, watching. “I’m not here to hurt you, Lexa. Not this time, anyway.” She nods at the door. “And Charon will need more than twenty minutes. You could waste your time cussing out the door, or,” her lips purse in a delicious sort of way, “we could pass the time some other way.”

Lexa scoffs. "All the liquor in that bar could not be distracting enough."

"Pretty lucky that's not what I meant, then."

That draws Lexa up short. There's something new in Clarke's voice, that semi-permanent smirk taking residence on her face again, and the two combined succeeds–at least briefly–in doing what liquor wouldn't.

"Oh?"

“Well.” Clarke stands up slowly, as if a sudden movement might scare Lexa away. “We have some time. I think you know by now that I don’t plan to kill you this evening, and if I’m any judge you don’t plan to kill me. You like me.” She’s standing closer to Lexa now. When did she get closer? “I like you.” If Lexa reached out she could easily grasp Clarke’s hip. “And you need to let off some steam.”

Clarke stops just shy of a foot away and from this close Lexa can see the flecks of deeper blue in her eyes. She doesn’t touch her, doesn’t even reach out, but from here she could wrap an arm around Lexa’s waist. Or a hand around her neck to pull her closer…

Imagining it sets off a sudden and surprisingly powerful pang of desire in the pit of her stomach. That, in turn, sets warning bells off in Lexa’s head.

"You like me?" She should step back, at least attempt to deny her own interest–but is there any point? Clarke doesn't have to speculate; they've been in precisely this position before. "And here I thought I was just a job."

“Well, you were. But you aren’t anymore. And even assassins need a little…” she presses her lips together and looks up, searching for the words. “Break from reality, shall we say?”

There are at least two guns in this room. The drawer is full of lockpicks, which aren’t typically classified as weapons but could certainly be used to harm or kill by the right hands. There’s no doubt more killing implements that Lexa can’t see, peppered throughout the room by a hand that knows any shower or nap or moment of dropped defenses could mean death. And yet, Clarke has made no attempt to retrieve any since Lexa woke up.

It’s possible she’s waiting for the right time. Lexa hasn’t fully discounted the possibility that Clarke is working for this Finn Collins, paid to distract her just long enough for him to steal her target. Or to lure her into a false sense of security, let her lower her walls to then kill her without a fight.

But if Clarke wanted to kill her…Lexa wouldn’t have woken up on the couch at all. There’s no easier fight than one against a drugged and unconscious opponent on one's home turf.

“A break?” she prompts, eyes tracing the wave of a damp curl, and Clarke shrugs.

“All this…running around, second guessing. Always watching over our shoulders, certain that the next smiling face would kill us as soon as kiss us. The backstabbing, double dealing, constant suspicion.” She waves a hand. “It’s exhausting. And I, personally, think I deserve a break.”

Lexa snorts and voices a thought that’s repeated in her mind every few minutes since she woke up. “It’s a miracle you’ve survived this long.”

“Yeah, well.” For a moment, Clarke looks honestly, genuinely wistful. “Shouldn’t life be about more than just surviving?

“But, of course, if you’re not interested,” Clarke starts to step away without giving her time to process that, and Lexa knows, knows what she’s doing, “then–”

Her hand shoots out anyway. Clarke is nearly out of her space but she catches her by the wrist before she’s fully out of reach. The blond stops, looks back, and they hold each other’s eyes for a beat…until Lexa’s eyes drift down to trace folds of deep blue fabric.

More than just surviving. The last time Lexa tried to take a break, Clarke nearly killed her.

“...if I take that dress off,” Lexa looks up, green eyes meeting blue. “Will I find that Sig Sauer?”

“You might have, under different circumstances.” Clarke’s gaze doesn’t waver. “But not today.”

Lexa hesitates for a second. She’ll tell herself later that she absolutely did hesitate, and that this was a considered, measured decision. But the second goes by, and she sighs. “Fuck it,” she mutters, and pulls Clarke against her.

Their lips meet and, for a brief moment, it isn't desire that greets them but…familiarity. The kiss feels like a long awaited exhale, as if the last two years never happened–as if they’d already, somehow, spent a lifetime finding the ways they fit against each other. That’s absurd, of course. Clarke Griffin could not be a more experienced lover, Lexa is certain, and much as she’d like to, she can’t deny her attraction to the woman. Clarke's knowledge and her own pliability could account for the simple ease of this, the immediate pleasure, comfort, and dare she say, butterflies that meet this initial embrace. But still, for a moment, passion seems to ebb and time seems to pause. There’s only Clarke, only the soft feel of her hand in Lexa’s, the intimate way Lexa's arm automatically settles around her waist, and the way she naturally, gently, kisses her.

And then another second goes by.

Clarke’s arms are around Lexa’s neck, fingers twining up into her hair, and before Lexa can think she’s tightened her own arm around Clarke’s waist. Long fingernails dig, painful but not intolerable, into the soft skin at the nape of Lexa’s neck. Her breath escapes her in a sigh.

“Do we want…to take bets?” She says between kisses, needing to tug herself away from Clarke to get a word in edgewise. She tries again and Clarke’s teeth close on her lower lip, prompting Lexa to twist them both around and shove Clarke's back into the closest wall. “On how long it’ll take?”

The air rushes out of Clarke’s lungs from the impact as she chuckles, but Lexa doesn't give her the chance to catch her breath; she closes the distance, her hand on one side of Clarke's neck, tipping her head up and back, and her mouth on the other. Clarke's chuckle gives way to a higher pitch as she’s taken by surprise. “That depends,” she says, and Lexa feels her breath hitch beneath her hand as it snakes down Clarke’s waist, “on whether you refer to yourself or Charon.”

Lexa pulls Clarke’s dress up roughly and finds soft skin, inviting and warm…as well as a slim knife holster strapped to the top of her thigh. “Don’t worry,” Clarke says, and Lexa can hear the smirk in her voice, “it’s empty this time.”

It takes her longer to puzzle out when the hell the sheath got there than it does for her to take it off: she yanks the strap that holds it to Clarke’s thigh and a second later it drops to the floor with a thud.

“Disappointing,” Lexa smirks against her ear, her voice a low, breathless rumble, and Clarke makes a sound as her breath is trapped too fast in her chest. Hips press forward against Lexa's, and the hand on her thigh takes advantage of the new gap between her and the wall to grab a handful of ass.

"Well if that's how you feel," Clarke begins, and reaches down towards the nightstand beside her as though she intends to call Lexa's knife play bluff. But Lexa is quick to catch her hand and pin it to the wall. The fingers still twisted in her hair tense, the scratch of Clarke's nails turning truly painful.

"The last time you had a knife," Lexa grunts through the pain, "I ended up with a scar."

Clarke's hand turns to water in Lexa's grip, a twist and pull too fast for Lexa to track letting her slip free. Both hands then find their way beneath Lexa's collar, following the line of it down to its top button. "A scar, you say?" she asks, and Lexa can practically hear her replay their last encounter in the hopes of locating where and how.

"No need to sound smug. And you're avoiding the question."

“I think it is, entirely,” Clarke yanks Lexa’s collar forward, jerking her face up to hers, and nips at her lip again, “up to you.”

Lexa opens her mouth to say something clever back, but Clarke’s mouth captures hers and it’s all she can do to focus on breathing. Clarke’s fingers make quick work of the buttons and before Lexa knows it her shirt is untucked from her pants, her suspenders are down in the corner of her elbows, and teasing fingernails are trailing patterns across her abs.

“Fuck you’re hot.” Clarke traces the line of the scar she left on Lexa’s stomach. “I’m almost glad I didn’t kill you. Would’ve been a shame.”

"Almost?" Lexa repeats, and has to fight to keep her voice even. It's been so long, so long, since someone has touched her like this–her abdominal muscles, so unused to this attention, shiver and shy away from Clarke's fingers, making it difficult to breathe normally. Some part of her, adolescent, foolish, fears what Clarke will think of what she finds: muscle, yes, but bruises, too, a network of scar tissue only partially hidden beneath tattoo ink.

But then Clarke presses her palms flat to Lexa's chest and shoves, throwing enough of her weight and the leverage of the wall behind it to push Lexa back several stumbling steps. She catches her weight and closes her fists, instinct immediately bracing her for a fight…but Clarke remains against the wall, dress straining as she pants, eyes overflowing with such hunger as they rove from Lexa's waist to her face that it's a miracle she isn't consumed right then.

As Clarke reaches behind her back, green eyes never once leaving blue, hardly even blinking, Lexa should be ready for anything. She should be ready for the blond to produce a weapon of some kind, at the very least, but her muscles remain tensed for a wholly separate reason. The soft snick of a zipper coming undone reaches Lexa’s ears and a moment later blue fabric is cascading down Clarke’s body and pooling at her feet.

The sight is nearly identical to the one that Lexa was greeted with when she woke up an hour ago. But this time, there’s no gun. Lexa isn’t half-drugged, Clarke’s hair isn’t dripping wet, and the burning in her eyes has far less to do with curiosity and anger than it does with something else entirely. Something Lexa recognizes, though she’d come to suspect she may have forgotten.

Clarke takes a step toward her, then another, and all the while Lexa is rooted in place. Her breaths sound heavy to her ears as Clarke enters her space and takes both her hands, gently uncurls her fists and places them on her own waist. “Why don’t you show me what I missed last time?” she whispers.

She’s been ignoring this part of herself. She knows she has because it can come so close to love, and love, she’s learned, only ever leads to weakness. That hard won lesson is a difficult one to shake, but this…need sears through her at the invitation, because while the mysterious blond was enticing in Budapest, Clarke Griffin is all but entrancing now. Beautiful, yes, but murderously competent too, and it’s been years, longer than Lexa can remember, since she could show herself so freely in front of another person. Clarke Griffin, Wanheda, expert assassin and member of the Network. There’s nothing Lexa could reveal about her professional identity or skill set that would surprise Clarke now.

More than this, Clarke is indisputably, undoubtedly, absolutely fucking hot.

Lexa’s fingers tense, drinking in the soft, warm press of Clarke’s skin for just a moment before she drops them lower. Knees bent, hands under thighs, she pulls–and Clarke gives her weight over so easily and so smoothly it’s as though they’ve practiced this a hundred times before. No verbal communication need be exchanged: Clarke automatically drapes her arms around Lexa’s neck and holds on, allowing Lexa to pull her legs around her waist and pick her up.

With fingers buried at the nape of her neck once more, Lexa looks up into Clarke’s eyes and breathes, “With pleasure.”

There's a bit more where this came from - did I say 9k words? We actually wrote 11k - but the rest belongs on Ao3. Find us there!

#clexa #clexa fanfic #the 100 #the 100 fanfic #clarke griffin #lexa woods #commander lexa #writing prompt #john wick au #assassins au #nsfw-ish?#anon love #my fic

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