#'his wife cried noisily at his bedside'

[anamariamauricia]

read this book (in a fruitless attempt) to better understand the details of the thirty years’ war and the author gets her digs at these people at every chance she gets:

“In the Louvre the King [Louis XIII] lay on his huge bed day after day, but his unhealthy body, which had for the last years never seemed truly alive, was unable to die. The pulse beat obstinately on in the wasted skeleton. Day after day he lay almost motionless, sometimes sinking into troubled sleep, sometimes half-conscious, sometimes speaking, while his wife cried noisily at his bedside.”

“Richelieu, though never popular, had evoked a certain apprehensive admiration. The people did not feel the same about Cardinal Mazarin. The dapper little Sicilian with his petty personal vanities, his childlike ostentation, his delight in craft and cunning, had few impressive qualities. Equally he had not the comprehensive genius of Richelieu; he never understood or managed to control the internal politics of France.”

“Philip IV, having lost both his wife and only son within a few weeks of each other, began, with indecent haste, to seek out a young bride; he was not a very prepossessing husband, old and glum for his forty-odd years, dumbly stupid; as a ruler, a useless idol. He was devoted only to his one remaining child, the scatter-brained little Infanta who was despite the formalities of Madrid and the splendours of Versailles remained through life a foolish, impulsive, perpetually sweet-tempered schoolgirl.”

[marmolady]

Back to School

Main Pairings: Estela x (f)MC, hints of Quinchelle

Summary: Endless Ending. The Catalysts are heading back to school. Or, at least, most of them are. For Taylor, Hartfeld is a whole new beginning... but the past isn't done with her yet.

WARNINGS: Character death (flashbacks), self-harm.

Word Count: 6348

Chronology: After 'Homecoming' and 'Clarity'.

Tagging: @saivilo, @edgydepressedchoicesthot, @sceptilemasterr, @greengroove @mauvecatfic​

Thanks for reading

“Stay with me, okay? S-stay with me!” Taylor frantically tried to stem the bleeding with the shirt she’d taken off her own back, but it was already stained through. “I can’t… I can’t lose you too. Not you, Diego, please…. P-please…. Please….”

His breath rattled in his throat, strained and weak. “T-tell… tell Varyyn I’m… I… s-sorr--”

“No. No. You’ll tell him yourself, all right? You’ve got to hang on, Diego, please….”

Even as Taylor spoke, she could feel her friend’s fingers growing cold in hers. A distant yell sent a chill down her spine. The Arachnids were closing in. If she was going to get Diego to safety, she had to get him on his feet. Fast.

“...Tayl… you… f-find…” he croaked.

Taylor tried to meet his gaze and failed. He couldn’t see her there before him, though he was trying… he was trying so hard…. Until his eyes were still, searching no longer.

And she shrieked. She screamed into the night, knowing that she was good as sealing her own fate but not caring. How could she care anymore? She was alone. She collapsed into the blood-soaked chest of the best friend she’d ever had… and howled.

“Taylor!”

Woken by a shake, she kept on screaming, her body convulsing with violent sobs. Where was she?

Diego… Diego, no….

Estela cradled her face, stroking tenderly with gentle fingers. But all Taylor could see was a lingering vision of unseeing eyes. Of blood, and death, and….

“Shh-sh-sh-shh…, it’s over, amor. Everyone’s safe….”

Taylor tried to ground herself, to bring herself back, but she was swimming in anguish-- no, she was drowning.

“Diego!”

More urgently, Estela stroked Taylor’s face and hair. Her own eyes were sparkling. “Querida, he’s fine. He’s safe-- I swear he’s safe. Taylor-- Taylor? I need you to come back to me, baby….”

Something about the fear in that voice snapped Taylor to reality. Estela. Estela was holding her. They were… home.

The tears kept coming. Why? Why was she not allowed any fucking peace? She was broken… her head was broken….

She couldn’t stop howling, even as she was held. The blood could still be on her hands… she could feel it there….

“I… can’t… make it… stop…,” she whimpered. Her hands trembled as she lifted them; they tingled with the expectation of what should have been there but wasn’t. Why won’t it stop?  She raised a hand to her head and smacked herself with all the force she could muster.

“I… can’t… make it… STOP!” Taylor hollered, and she slammed her open palm to her head again and again, resisting Estela’s panicked grappling. “MAKE… IT… STOP!”

Then Estela managed to wrestle her way to Taylor’s hands. The grip was like iron, though Taylor kept on struggling.

“Taylor-- Taylor!”

“LET… ME… GO!”

“I’m sorry.… I’m sorry, I can’t. It’s okay that you’re overwhelmed and you’re scared, but you can’t… you can’t hurt yourself like that.”

“LET ME… let me….”

Taylor screamed and sobbed, but she stopped fighting at the sound of the pain in her wife’s voice, and let herself be cradled and gently rocked.

“Sh-shh-shh… I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

“It’s too much…,” Taylor whimpered through her tears. “I--I can’t stand it anymore.”

“I know, mi amor. I know.” Shaking, Estela softly kissed her wife’s temple. “Will you be all right if I let go? I’m just going to grab you a tissue, okay?”

Just then, there was a loud rapping at the door, followed by Quinn’s voice.

“Can we come in? It’s me and Michelle… just a little worried about you guys.”

“Yeah… come in. And if you wanna help, we could use some tissues.”

At the sight of more friends, looking towards her in concern, Taylor cried all the harder, and very quickly she was being hugged by Quinn and Michelle… and Diego, who was also now wide awake and worried. Surrounded by friends’ arms and soothing words, she let her emotions flow forth until she had no tears left to cry.

With the risk of Taylor hurting herself diminished, Estela stepped away to get a hold of herself. “I’ll just get you a drink of water, cariña, okay?”

Taylor blew her nose noisily. “Actually, um, I might get up for a little while. If I try and go back to sleep now, I’m pretty sure it’s just gonna be nightmares all over again.” She shrunk into herself guiltily. This was not the ‘good night’s sleep before the first day of college’ that everyone had in mind. “And I don’t expect everyone to stay up just for me--”

“Oh, shut up, Taylor.” Michelle offered another tissue. “The sooner you let us help you, the sooner we can all get some sleep, all right?”

It turned out-- unsurprisingly, given the noise-- that the rest of the house had been woken by Taylor’s shrieking.

“So, uh… someone getting murdered up there?” Zahra quipped as the group descended the stairs.

Estela gave her a look, but turned her attention quickly back to Taylor. God, she was still shaking like a leaf… and then Estela realised that her wife wasn’t the only one.

Pull yourself together. For fuck’s sake.

If she was going to be any use at all, Estela knew she needed to sort herself out… and it felt like she was on the verge of breaking down sobbing. “I’ll… I’ll get you that drink, Taylor.”

Grabbing a glass from her wife’s bedside table, Estela retreated to the bathroom and collapsed over the basin with her head in her hands.

Taylor hadn’t hurt herself before. The way she’d hit herself over the head, as if determined to pound out a part of her she couldn’t stand… it struck Estela as hauntingly like the way she herself had lost immunity to her own fists in her frantic need to purge the poison. It hadn’t happened many times-- four?-- five at the most-- but Taylor was like a human sponge; it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that she’d been influenced by her wife’s response to trauma and taken it as her own. That was troubling.

Estela felt ill. Sick with guilt. Helpless.

So, when Raj popped his head around the door to offer a hug, she all but fell into his arms, all the bottled-up frustration bursting forth.

“I know it was stupid and naive,” she lamented against her friend’s chest, “but I really thought we’d cracked it.”

“I wouldn’t say you haven’t cracked it,” Raj said thoughtfully. “Taylor used to have these visions most nights, right? If this is the first time it’s happened since you guys moved in here, you must be on the right track… but even the right track’s gonna have a bump in the road here and there.”

“If she’s waking up screaming in the middle of the night, ‘the right track’ isn’t fucking good enough!” To her frustration, angry tears splashed down Estela’s cheeks. Crying wouldn’t do a damn thing to help Taylor. Roughly, she rubbed her face dry. She should have seen this coming; stepping foot into Hartfeld University as a student would be, for Taylor, incredibly significant. Estela had known Taylor was stressed leading up to the start of term. She should have done more….

“Yeah… I know. And it’s not fair at all-- after everything our girl was prepared to do for us, the least she deserves is a bit of peace at the end of it. So, we’re just gonna have to keep on taking good care of her. Like she always does for us. You know-- if relaxation is the key to Tayls’ good night sleep, I’m happy to give coaching….”

In spite of everything, Estela spluttered a laugh. “Raj, if Taylor ever wants to give the getting stoned route a try, I’ll make sure you’re the first to know about it. If I’m honest, some days I could probably use some of that shit myself.”

Raj grinned. “Even just the thought got a smile out of you-- that’s a win! But if a good hug is more your thing, I’m more than happy to deliver on that one too.”

Estela exhaled slowly, her eyes shut. She’d needed that hug… more than she’d known. Those disturbed nights punctuated by the anguished sobs of her poor wife crying out in her sleep, and it had been all Estela could do to stay calm enough to offer any kind of soothing comfort… they’d taken a heavy toll.

“I need to go back to her,” she said quietly.

“So, Tayls,” Craig had been asking, as if it was the most everyday thing in the world, “what’s the worst way I died? Gory details!”

“Craig!”

“I mean, we’re all curious, but come on!”

“What? You know what they say, ‘if you don’t laugh, you’ll cry’-- I mean, it’s not like any of those things are actually gonna happen now. There’s nothing to be scared of!”

Taylor’s mouth hung open. Actually… would that help? It wasn’t an approach she’d even considered. But as her mind flickered back to the vision of Diego dead in her arms… the feel of the weight of his body, she knew she couldn’t do it.

“I, um, I don’t think I’m ready. To laugh about these things. When I have these dreams it’s like… they’re fresh. New and visceral and vivid every time.  I… I can’t bounce back from that and just laugh. Maybe in like… a couple of weeks? That’s if it doesn’t happen again. But it’s like I’m living it. And when I wake up… all the shock, and dread… it’s all still there.”

Everyone was quiet. Taylor didn’t blame them. How the hell could anyone know what to do with this? Estela sat down beside her and offered the glass of water.

“Thanks, babe,” Taylor murmured. Her throat was parched and sore… she supposed screaming bloody murder could do that. She took a few sips, then let herself relax into the couch, and Estela’s and Diego’s arms around her.

“I think, “ she said, “I underestimated how nervous I was about starting tomorrow. I don’t know what I’m expecting to happen, but I guess it’s ‘cause I feel like… well, a bit of a fraud.”

Zahra scoffed. “Freaking pseudo-humans think they can muscle in on our school. Man, they’re letting that place go to shit.”

Taylor looked at her, taken off guard, then slowly… she started to laugh, until she was near doubled-over. Wheezing, she sat up and wiped away a tear. “Oh my god. It’s ridiculous!”

“Honestly?” Michelle said, “I think it’s going to be surreal. ‘Normal’ is going to be hard, after….” She shuddered, and Taylor knew where her mind had wandered to… the smoldering wreckage that was a past not another soul bar the twelve of them could ever comprehend.

Quinn hugged Michelle tightly. “That’s why we need to keep doing this. Sharing the burden. If we can survive the end of the world that way… well, that’ll be how we survive the aftermath as well.”

Regaining her breath, Taylor snuggled into Diego’s shoulder. She’d been the damsel in distress tonight, but come the next, it could be any one of her friends drowning in the enormity of what they’d survived. And she’d be there, offering a shoulder, as they’d done her. Taylor closed her eyes, and focused on her breathing; slow and deep into her belly. The horrors would fade, just as long as she could keep them at bay for long enough for them to do so.  It wasn’t as if she wasn’t well-used to the challenge; it had become almost routine until she’d thought she’d mastered it. Her friends had gathered around her, offering whatever comfort they could give, and that was the best hope she could ask for.

Raj sat bolt upright, clearly struck by inspiration. Always a worry.

“Guys! Gu-u-uuys!”

Taylor snorted an affectionate little laugh. “Raj! Ra-a-aaj! What’re you thinking?”

He jumped up and began moving furniture out the way.

“This is ominous….” Zahra muttered.

“Okay, doodlejumps, everyone one the floor! Sitting in a nice, wide circle.”

“Yup. I knew I had a bad feeling…. If this isn’t ‘pass the bong’, I’m out.”

Raj was undeterred, in spite of the scepticism shown by a chunk of the group. “Now, lie down, so that your head is resting on the belly of the dude or dudette to your right.”

“Er, okay,” Diego said, angling himself so that his head would fall to Taylor’s middle, “kinda weird, but why not?”

“Is everyone in positio--”

But Craig was already laughing; being sleep-deprived and tickled by the movements of Zahra’s diaphragm, he couldn’t help it if he tried. And Quinn with her head on his belly, found herself jiggled up and down in a most giggle-inducing manner.

“There you go-- you’re doing it!”

Bouncing up and down on Estela’s firm belly, Taylor laughed, and laughed, and laughed. Which made both Estela and Diego laugh more, which made her laugh more…. And so, Raj’s laughing circle worked its magic. It was simple, and silly, but actually… it worked. She was smiling so hard her jaw ached. The genius of Raj had struck again.

She laughed until…. “Okay, okay, I c-can’t breathe! Too much laughing!”

Taylor sat up clumsily, and a rosy-cheeked Estela put an arm around her once more, still giggling herself.

A rather uncharacteristically disheveled Michelle caught her breath long enough to give Raj a look of incredulation.

“I hate the fact that I feel so much better after that.” She collapsed against Quinn’s shoulder and shook her head. “I don’t even want to know how ridiculous we all looked just then…. The things I do for you people….”

“For what it’s worth,” Taylor said, “I appreciate it. More than I can say.”

It would be over an hour before everyone at last trundled along back to bed. An hour that Taylor’s loved ones had filled with chamomile tea, a giggly session of group yoga, a massage with soothing lotions from a talented Michelle, and many, many hugs. She even managed to snag a hug from Zahra; very brief and well out of sight of anyone else, but a hug nonetheless.

Taylor sunk into the mattress with a quiet moan, and curled her body into a ball, soon to have Estela’s wrapped lovingly around it. She was tired… so tired that the weight of her eyelids was painful. But she was relaxed, more-so than should have been possible after the horrific vision she endured, and with something as momentous as her first day as a student at Hartfeld lying ahead.

“Duerme ya, dulce bien; mi capullo de nardo,” Estela sang softly as her gentle fingers stroked Taylor’s hair.

Taylor closed her eyes, knowing nothing but the feel and sound of her wife. The surest thing she could ever trust in.

“Despacito duermete, como la abeja en la flor.

Duerme ya, dulce bien;

Duerme ya, dulce amor

Dulces sueños tendrás

al oir mi canción.”

And Taylor slept soundly, cocooned in love.

_________________________

As she pulled the van up into one of several car-parks on campus, Estela was struck by how right Michelle had been about it feeling surreal to be back in this place. The only reason she’d ended up there to begin with was because she’d intended to kidnap one Aleister Rourke and hold him hostage to gain access to his father. Circumstances had… definitely changed. That she was studying now wasn’t just a means to a probably violent end; it was to equip her to live a life fulfilling and true to who she was.

Her passengers piled out of the van; usually, those without a class first-thing would more than likely take a bus in later, but today felt significant.

“How are you feeling?” Estela checked in with Taylor, noting that she looked rather like someone on the verge of vomiting.

Taylor felt rather like she was on the verge of vomiting. She was a walking jumble of nerves. The smile she gave her wife was shaky. “It’s just… weird. Other than the Lernaean Gate experience, and I’m trying to keep that out of my mind, I’ve never stepped foot in this place. But I look over there, and I know that’s the Humanities building, and the best coffee shop on campus is around that corner, and if I were to bump into another Freshman, I could probably give them accurate directions to whatever lecture hall they were searching for. I know all that, and still… it’s new.”

“It’s okay,” Estela said gently, finding Taylor’s hand and squeezing it. “All the other new students are gonna be freaking out too. You’ll blend right in.”

“Yeah… yeah, you’re right.” Taylor took a deep breath. This was nothing, nothing that she couldn’t handle. When she stepped back and looked at it logically, there was obviously no threat. All those months of building this up in her head sure had wreaked havoc on her. “What do you have up first? Was it the subject on discrimination and identities?” That sounds right.

Estela nodded. “Yep, that’s the one.” She had just the three classes on this first day; one each for Identity and Discrimination, Conflict Resolution and Peace Building, and Social Development. Having opted to change her major from Business Studies to Peace and Conflict Studies-- something that hadn’t even been an option when she began studying in San Trobida-- she was starting this school year as a Junior rather than a Senior.

She wasn’t alone-- Craig had also decided to change direction, now focusing his degree on Game Development. “Well, uh, that sounds… fun,” he said, grateful that Introduction to Computer Game Design would be his first lecture. It was something he’d wanted to try out back in his Freshman year, before he’d gotten swept up in the popularity that came with joining the football team. Now, his inner nerd wouldn’t be hidden in shame. “Anyways, I’ve got to go-- I actually don’t wanna miss this class. Weird. That’s like… never happened before.”

He shuffled off with Zahra, who rolled her eyes as she swung an arm around his shoulder.

Taylor pulled Estela into a kiss. All too brief, for they had company, and because that Identity and Discrimination lecture wouldn’t attend itself.

“You still on for coffee?” Quinn asked Taylor as the rest of the group broke off for lessons. “Grace says she’s on the way there now.”

With a tight hug goodbye, Taylor let Estela go off to her lecture, and joined Quinn in a brisk walk to the coffee shop.

As with much of the Hartfeld campus, the coffee shop felt as familiar as if Taylor had been there many times before. Rather than feeling odd, in this particular instance it added to the warm and comforting feel of the place…. It was like a hug from an old friend.

And the coffee itself….

“Actually, that’s a nice cappuccino!”

“Good enough that you’ll convince Estela to give it a go?” Grace asked, a twinkle in her eye. She knew well from experience that, as a rule, Estela found American coffee to taste-- to quote her directly-- ‘like ass’.

Taylor snickered. “I could get her to join us no problem, but I’d put money on her sticking to her flask of a superior Colombian brew.”

Whether it was a world-beating cup of coffee or not, it certainly fulfilled the job of giving Taylor the wake-up she needed. It was hard not to keep on apologising for being the cause of a disrupted night’s sleep, but she bit it back. There was no shame in not being okay. Soon enough, it would be someone else’s turn, and she sure as hell didn’t want anyone else beating themselves up the way she did. Estela had always been very quick to snap Taylor out of hypocritical thinking where guilt was concerned, and it was appreciated. So, Taylor just let herself enjoy a warm brew and the company of two of the best friends she could ask for as they pondered on this new year of college.

“Ooh!” Quinn cried suddenly. “You could try ‘Hartfeld Creates’; it’s basically a club for people who are into arts and crafts of all kinds-- well, basically, anything that you create yourself.”

That sounded all right. If she was going to ingratiate herself into the school community, starting with something Taylor already had an interest in wouldn’t hurt.

“Do they take bumbling beginner knitters like me, d’you think?”

“They do a big exhibition at the end of the school year; if I remember correctly from last time, there were definitely a few knitters showing off their work.” Quinn took another sip of her coffee, then looked up with a shy smile. “Actually,” she said, “I’d wanted to sign up, but commitments were always tough for me. I guess… there’s nothing to hold me back now.”

Grace returned the smile. “It sounds like a good excuse for me to really start diving in to fractal art. If you wanted, we could all sign up together.”

“I think I might really like that,” Taylor said, and she licked froth from her lips. Estela was missing out-- this was a good coffee. “At least I’ll know there’ll be two people who will say nice things about my lumpy knitting.”

She brought her mug upwards to chink with her two friends’.

“To new experiences!” she toasted, before hastily adding, “--of the low-key variety!” No more sea monsters for me, thank you.

Before Taylor knew it, the next of her new experiences had rolled around. She’d found her way to the lecture hall for Introductory Spanish without a sweat, as if she had a campus map pre-downloaded in her brain. It was weird, but she did turn up looking less frazzled than a few of her classmates, so it had its value. Taylor took a seat beside a mature-aged student, quietly relieved that not everyone in her first class was fresh out of high school. And, of course, being Taylor, she immediately made herself acquainted.

“Hi,” she said, offering a hand that was gratefully shaken, “I’m Taylor.”

The silver-haired woman returned a smile. “Lovely to meet you. Sue.”

“Is this your first class, too?”

“Not my first class-- I just came from a Molecular Biology lecture-- but it’s my first day, so still getting my head around how it all works. I did try college years back, but, you know… life happened. I can tell you it’s changed a lot since then!”

This was so much easier than Taylor had anticipated. Caught up in her own head, she found herself frequently falling into the trap of underestimating the qualities that had always best served her. She wasn’t just the glue that held the Catalysts together simply because she’d been created as a perfect match to their needs;  it was more than that. Taylor loved people. She was good at people. So long as she focused on her innate humanity and not the part of her that felt alien, she could find her confidence.

“So, Molecular Biology, and Introductory Spanish. That’s broad. I’m guessing you don’t have a major in mind yet? I’m the same.”

Sue chuckled. “Well, I’m not studying for anything in particular. No one strong direction. To be honest, I don’t have a great deal of interest in a career change. I work part-time from home, which suits me fine. Plenty of time for the grandkids. But I have always loved to learn. The way I see it, if I’m to broaden my horizons, I might as well cast a wide net.”

“Fair enough,” Taylor said. “There’s certainly the range here to do that. I found it a little intimidating to have so much choice. I vaguely know what direction I want to take, but really, until I give things a go….” She shrugged her shoulders. “What’s really going to grab me, I don’t know.”

“There’s something to be said for the fun being in the journey. I know I’ve always wanted a university education, and I’ve always wanted to travel. Both things are coming to fruition after more years than I care to count, but I wouldn’t trade any of the stops along the way for anything. That’s what inspired me to take Spanish-- Latin America is high on the list.”

“You should go off the beaten track and give San Trobida a try! It’s really beautiful.” Taylor suggested to an intrigued nod. “For me…. My wife’s Colombian-San Trobidan and my best friend’s Mexican by blood. I’m kinda curious about what they say to one other about me.” She smiled cheekily, had a momentary realisation of ‘oh, I’m not sure how LGBT-friendly this older stranger is’, then realised Sue hadn’t batted an eyelid, and continued. “No, we’re probably going to end up spending a lot of time in San Trobida; my wife’s only family is there.” Well, I guess that’s not even entirely true anymore. “A bit more Spanish will serve me well. Wifey’s teachings have mostly centred around curse words and romantic pet-names… neither of which are appropriate in all circumstances.”

Sue gave a short laugh. “It’s a useful language,” she said. “Widely used. And once you know a bit of Spanish, you find related languages start to make some sense as well. French is next on my list.”

And so, by the time the professor arranged his notes and set up the projector, Taylor had realised that she really needn’t have worried about a thing. She was a social butterfly; on La Huerta, or anywhere else. All she had to do was spread her wings.

_____________________

Estela’s morning had been uneventful. Her classes had basically been introductions to the respective courses; general overviews of what to expect in the coming weeks and months of study. This was just as well, because she found her mind wandering.

The previous night’s events had rattled her. So long it had been since Taylor had one of her horrific nighttime visions-- the last one had been back in San Trobida-- Estela had been caught off-guard. Once again, that helpless feeling was seemingly inescapable.

She sat down in the library and buried her head in her assigned Peace and Conflict textbook, trying to focus for long enough to string two sentences together.

It was just a freak thing because of all the build-up to starting college. Chances are, she’ll sleep like a baby tonight.

Babies sleep like shit.

Who came up with that dumbass idiom anyway? No one who ever met a goddamn baby….

Taylor had always been prone to vivid dreams; dreams that weren’t normal dreams. Actually, on La Huerta, Estela had experienced a few of those herself. But after Taylor released the part of Vaanu that resided in her, things changed. The memories gifted to her by the Endless took over all of Taylor’s dreams. Between the two of them, they’d managed to note patterns; flashes of violent scenes had-- without fail-- been in the wake of a period of stress, while a reduction of Taylor’s waking anxiety led to lighter scenes playing through her head at night. The key, they’d deducted, was to ensure she went to bed relaxed and happy. Estela couldn’t believe she’d been so stupid to think it was a phase that had passed; it had simply been a case of waiting for a significant enough stressor and --whoomp-- back to nightmare city. And once Taylor closed her eyes each night… there wasn’t a damn thing Estela could do to keep her safe from the cruelties of her own mind.

Estela glanced at the clock. It would be three-quarters-of-an-hour at least before Taylor was done with her second class. She should at least take a few notes while she waited.

Then a voice echoed out from behind one of the rows of shelves.

“.…I’m still not convinced scar-girl wasn’t somehow involved. Nine students disappear off the face of the earth and that creeper just happens to be with them? I’m not buying it.”

In an instant, Estela felt a hot blush rise to her cheeks, and her stomach drop. In all honesty, she hadn’t expected much different but… she’d hoped she could get through the first day without… without…. How could it not hurt? Pointedly, she kept looking down into her notes, though any remaining hope she might have had to actually focus on them had fled. Nine students? She didn’t even count; she was an ‘other’. As everyone had always seen her. Don’t let it get to you. Don’t let anyone see that it gets to you.

“Oh my god-- right? I can’t believe they let her back here after what happened….”

Another voice cut through, sharp and comfortingly familiar.

“I’m sorry-- are you serious?” Michelle demanded.

“...We didn’t ask you!”

“I know, I know. You’re just too busy making up poisonous gossip about a person who you’re well aware has just survived a traumatic event. Classy!”

“What the fu--”

“I’m sure the dean would be interested in hearing all about your treatment of one of the Hartfeld Ten. Someone the rest of them owe their lives to several times over. Or, you know…. The both of you could just get out of here, and while you’re at it…. Get. A. Fucking. Life.”

There was some rude and clearly embarrassed muttering aimed in Michelle’s direction, the shuffling of feet, then quiet.

Estela realised she’d been holding her breath. Everything was different now. The sting was still real, but coming up behind it was something soothing. And she wasn’t the ‘other’ any longer; not in that moment.

“Michelle….”

And Michelle came around the corner, a look of horror across her face. “Oh, shit--you heard that?”

Estela offered a shaky smile. “It’s okay; I’ve heard worse.”

“It’s not okay! It’s not remotely-- They’re just… assholes. Self-absorbed, ignorant assholes.” Michelle was shaking with fury. And Estela found herself not surprised those students scarpered quickly as they did. “You would not believe how close I came to slapping those bitches just now--”

“No, I can guess. Thank you.”

“I used to be friends with people like that. Or… I thought they were my friends. I can’t tell you how grateful I am that now I’ve got the real thing.”

Michelle pulled off her shoulder-bag and sat down in the chair beside Estela.

“Are any of them still here?” she asked. “The people you used to know.”

“’Know’ is a strong word in hindsight,” Michelle commented dryly. “But, the vast majority graduated when I was meant to, or the year after. There are a couple of girls I was in the sorority with who were Freshmen at the time. I caught a ‘you saw Michelle Nguyen’s gay now?’ ‘thank god we saved poor Sean when we did-- he deserves so much better’.” She rolled her eyes.

Estela huffed. “Ignorant assholes,” she affirmed. She looked back down at her notes. “Too bad, though. So far up their own asses they missed out on knowing the most amazing friend a person could ask for. Sucks to be them.”

There was quiet, and noting the silence, Estela raised her eyes to see Michelle looking at her with the warmest, most appreciative of smiles. Somewhat shyly-- she’d not intended to stir up deep emotions-- Estela returned it.

Michelle glanced around, checking there was no one in earshot. “I was talking with Grace earlier; bringing her up to date on everything that went down last night,” she whispered.

Estela quirked an eyebrow. “Any words of wisdom there?” she asked with a soft sigh. “Anything at all, I’ll take it. Please.”

Sympathetic, Michelle reached out and squeezed her friend’s arm. “We’re going to look after each other. That’s the best wisdom I think any of us has to offer.”

It was hard to argue with that… but it didn’t feel like enough. Not when Taylor was still being wrenched back to the darkest of places, powerless make it end.

“We wanted to float an idea with the others,” Michelle continued, sensing Estela’s helplessness. “Maybe we could get together every month, every fortnight… whatever it might be, and all of us just… talk. Like therapy, but just us, because so much of what’s been the fucking hardest we can’t tell anyone else. I dunno… maybe Quinn will bring cupcakes or something….”

“That usually reels everyone in,” Estela noted, a smile tugging at her lips. It wasn’t a bad idea. For herself, she’d looked at the idea of some kind of counselling, but it had come down to the fact that she’d only really want to do that with a therapist from San Trobida-- someone who understood where and what she’d come from. That was a tall order, even before the challenge of dodging around sensitive La Huerta business was considered. Obviously, everyone else would also need to get help in their own ways, but for some things, they had to be one another. “I think…. I think that might be a really good idea.”

_________________________

“See? You survived two whole classes!” Diego laughed, coming out of a lecture theatre beside Taylor. He’d made a point of choosing at least one best-friend-friendly elective, landing on ‘Gender, Sexuality and the Media’. If the first lecture was anything to go by, they were going to enjoy it. “All those nightmares for nothing.”

Taylor sighed dramatically. “All we’ve gotta do now is hope my brain gets with the programme. She can be tricky, that one.”

With a kind smile, Diego gently bumped shoulders with his friend. The night before had been eye-opening. Of course, Taylor had told him all about the ghastly visions she’d been haunted with, but to be present through the aftermath… it had slammed it home just what she’d been enduring. And he didn’t know she’d kept herself together as well as she did.

“Hey… it’s all gonna get better.” As Taylor met his eye, appreciative but unconvinced, explained. “The way I see it, you’re basically Stitch right now--”

“I’m gonna need you to spell this out for me,” Taylor said with a laugh.

“Ha. Trust me, it’ll all make sense. You know how Stitch had been made for only one purpose, and he felt kinda lost when all that was gone? That’s you.”

“I… guess….”

“Hear me out!”

“Always.”

“Well, when Vaanu left you, there was this big empty space left behind. And The Endless’ memories are basically you clinging to what your purpose always was-- to care for us all. It’s like Stitch; you don’t have your own memories to take up space, it’s just you and your purpose.”

Taylor stopped in her tracks. “Hang on. Is Estela my aggressive, lonely orphan Lilo?”

Diego sputtered a laugh. “I’d like to think Estela and I are both your Lilo. But what matters is that’s not going to last. All that empty space is going to fill up, day by day.”

“I… really wanna believe that.”

“I know.” He put an arm around her shoulder and squeezed. “You know what else I think? I think the more you see that we’re all okay, the less you’re going to have that protective part of your brain setting off those nightmares as alarm bells to you. And for as long as it takes for you to be okay… I’m here for you. We all are.”

Taylor looked into his earnest face and saw only genuine love and care. And it broke her heart, because she couldn’t gaze into his warm, dark eyes and not see their light going out. A hard lump rose in her throat, choking her, and she buried her face against Diego’s neck, hugging him tight.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “Really. Thanks.”

Finally pulling away from an embrace that had been so needed, Taylor and Diego hurried toward the green wooded area of campus where they’d arranged to meet Estela.

She was waiting for them by the fountain, her eyes lit with a smile at the sight of her beloved.

“Hola, mi angel!” she called out as they approached. “Te traje el almuerzo. Quieres encontrar un lugar?”

“Hahaha,” Taylor said sardonically, rolling her eyes exaggeratedly for good measure. “Yes, one lecture and I’m not fluent. Clearly university is money down the drain. Pfft.”

“Joder!”

“That, I understand.” She reached for Estela… the simple feel of her bringing her instantly home. “If we ever have an exam on curse words, you’ll have me on the trajectory for an A.”

What a relief it was to see Taylor happy, joking. Estela wrapped both her arms around her wife’s neck, and just held her. And when she finally released Taylor, it was only for her to move in once more to kiss her.

“Uh, guys? Are you going to do this after every block of classes? I might need you two to get a room.”

“Por favor! You love it. We all know you’re as invested in Taylor’s love life as you are your own.”

“Hey!” Diego exclaimed, hand to his heart as if mortally wounded. “A little rude, but true. But, I guess I can leave you lovebirds to it for a few minutes. Is it sad that I’m dying to see if they have anything new in the food court?”

And so, Estela and Taylor were left to wander a beautiful corner of the sprawling campus. Estela hooked her little finger in Taylor’s, and everything that had once made this world hostile melted to nothing. It was hard sometimes, not to feel like a round peg being forced through a square hole. Somehow, Taylor softened the world’s edges to her… and when she was near, Estela fit. Just as she was.

“Querida?” Estela looked at Taylor, and adored her. She could only hope that in her, Taylor found the same sense of belonging… the kind so strong that it defied all else.

“Mm?”

“I really love you.”

Taylor’s heart swelled. As it did every time she heard those words stated anew. Every time, it was a promise that for all the pain that still lingered, everything really would be all right.

“I really love you, too.”

[fortheloveoffanfic]

Protective Service

John Wick x Reader (A/n-how is this like the second or third request that I’ve turned into a long ass series? Why does this keep happening? A/n2- I have zero medical knowledge, so hopefully the stuff I wrote makes at least the tiniest bit of sense.)

Masterlist   Protective Service Masterlist 

Warnings- Angst, the slightest hints of NSFW (teasing)

Chapter 9 Learning To Let Go

It was strange, John thought as he walked along the shore, his feet sinking into the soft sand and the chill of the salty wind breaking through his layers, the moment was unsettlingly familiar. It was the middle of fall and the water had started to grow colder as the evenings progressed, so they hadn't gone in, but still Helen had wanted to visit the beach one last time before winter descended upon New York. They'd spent the afternoon walking right past where the waves met the sand and she'd even collected a few colorful seashells that she thought would make the perfect keepsakes to pepper the shelves in their home. She hadn't gotten much though, and internally, John had noted that he should take her somewhere like Hawaii or Bora Bora on their next vacation, so she could get some nicer ones. 

As he walked, he grew nearer to where Helen stood near his beloved car. She was smiling and for a moment it felt like it had been a while since he'd seen her smile, her beautiful smile. He'd missed it. Though, he was overly aware of the fact that he shouldn't have, considering John had seen it not more than fifteen minutes ago. The entire ordeal felt surreal.

As John approached her, he suddenly felt like something was missing, like he’d gone through the motions before though with one detail absent. “What’s wrong John?” Noticing his bewilderment, Helen broken is dismal thoughts. 

“I….” John’s head snapped up to meet her worried gaze, those honey colored notes in her dark eyes standing out beautifully, “I don’t know,” finally he was standing next to Helen, leaning against the tailgate and instinctively taking his wife into his arms. “Something feels different.”

Helen nuzzled her head into his neck, wrapping her slender arms around his waist, “Well, that’s because everything’s different,” when he looked down at her, more confused than before, Helen knitted her brows, bringing her hand up so fragile fingers would ghost his bearded cheek, “Don’t you remember baby?”

“Hel……” He leaned into her touch, his breath hitching upon finding how cold it was, “I don’t understand,” John swallowed thickly; panic rising up as bile in his throat, “What’s going on?”

“You know John,” abruptly, Helen pulled away, detaching herself from his embrace and starting to walk away, “You know what you have to do.”

Immediately, he started following her, but despite his efforts, John couldn’t get any closer than within a couple feet, “No Helen, I don’t. What’s going on? Where are you going?” They walked and walked, but didn’t seem to be going anywhere, not really; the car never grew further away while the rocky formations in the distance never drew nearer. 

Turning, she smiled wistfully, tilting her head to the side so her brown tresses would sweep over her shoulder, and for some reason unbeknownst to him, her little gesture brought tears to his eyes, “I’m already gone, John.”

And that was when he remembered.

She was already gone. Long gone. Helen, the first woman he’d ever loved, the woman who had brought light to his shadowy depths and stilled the storm that brewed within, was dead. John had watched her wither away; seen smiles through immense pain, seen as she got thinner with each passing day and finally, seen as she’d taken her last breaths as the doctors turned off the machines. 

The memories had a stifled sob parting his lips and tears creeping out the corners of his eyes, “Helen…..” John pleaded, as if saying her name would breath her back to life. But it wouldn’t and John knew that all too well, “I miss you. I need you.”

“I know, but you don’t need me darling,” She kept her distance, and John ached to touch her, just one last time, even if it wouldn’t be near enough, “You’re doing so well; you’ve found happiness again. You just need to slow down and let yourself feel it.”

“What do you mean? With Y/n?” At the mention of her name, Helen’s eyes sparkled knowingly, not really in answer, but more so in permission. “I can’t do that to you Hel, she’s……she’s nothing like you.”

Her eyes were cast out to the boundless blue by then, and Helen seemed to let his words sink in before speaking again, “Isn’t that the best part?” There was now this hollowness in her voice, as if she were far away, “And you aren’t doing anything to me, I’m not here, remember.”

“You’re right in front of me,” his voice broke as he objected, knowing the truth but still having a hard time accepting it, “You right here,” reaching out, John’s eyes went wide as his fingers went right through her. 

Helen’s expression fell at his pained look, though, the only heart that broke was his. “No, I’m not.” Quickly, she licked her lips as they formed a frown, “Not anymore. And you know that. But you’ve found someone that is, so don’t hold yourself back. Fight for her, the way you’ve fought for everything else. Let go, John,” for the first time in a while, she was just a breath away, though, her presence brought no warmth. And that was when he realized that the person that stood before him wasn’t even Helen, not really, it was a dream, a figment his mind had conjured up so he could finally have the closure he needed, hear from the first keeper of his heart that it was okay to give it away again. 

“I can’t,” he whispered tearily, his hands hovered over her shoulders, knowing it would kill him if he tried to touch her again, only to be met with nothingness, “I don’t want to forget.”

Again, she was smiling, her confidence in him as vast as the sea washing their feet, “You won’t. I promise.”

He promised himself.

“You won’t forget. So stay John,” and just like that, as if she’d never been there, Helen, or at least, the image of her, was gone, evaporating before his very eyes.

“Stay John,” another voice pierced his mind, not coming from one place in particular, almost as if he were hearing it from all around, “I can’t lose you, so please stay.”

It had been a long time since Y/n had cried in the presence of another, though, she supposed it didn’t really count if the other person was unconscious. The doctor had told them that John wasn’t quite out of the woods, and he wouldn’t be until he’d woken up. Thankfully, he was still breathing on his own, waving the need for any specialized equipment. He wasn’t comatose either, but would definitely need time to recover from the blood loss. 

All in all, most of it had been favorable news and the greying doctor had assured her that John was otherwise healthy, so there was no need for too much worrying, unless he developed a fever favoring infection or a clot that they hadn’t caught. Still though, Y/n worried anyway and past the hour where dawn awakened the darkened sky, she’d stayed at his bedside, maintaining a tight hold on his hand while her gaze was trained on his insensate from, hyper aware of his soft breaths and the steady rise and fall of his bare chest, a large bandage covering a section of his abdomen. There was an I.V hooked up, running to the hand that laid flat at his side, and the doctor had left a small variety of medicines to be administered whenever John awoke. She’d be there, she’d give them to him.

Winston and Charon had left shortly after the doctor had, encouraging her to come with them so she could get some rest, she’d been awake for nearly twenty uninterrupted hours by then, but Y/n had refused. There wasn’t a chance in hell that she was leaving John’s side. He’d almost lost his life protecting her, the least she could do was lose some sleep over him. 

“Stay John,” the words were barely a whisper, breathed close to his ear and Y/n pressed her head to his, occasionally raising to lay the softest, most feather light of kisses to his forehead, carefully avoiding the bandage over his gash, “I can’t lose you, so please stay.” There was so much that she’d pushed down, ignored, in favor of not coming off as being vulnerable. But from the moment she’d seen him bleeding out on the ground, she’d instantly regretted it. He had to know, John deserved to know.

“Please stay,” Y/n repeated, tears hot on her cheeks and dripping onto John’s hair splayed out like a raven halo on the pristine white pillow. The words thoughtlessly tumbled out of her mouth, “You were right, I am selfish and I am so hurt that I don’t know how to do anything else but hurt other people,” borrowing against his cheek, Y/n sniffled noisily as she continued, “But you were wrong too,” painfully, she reminisced on the night two weeks ago when John accused her of not caring about anyone but herself, “I care about you, so, so much. You’ve made me feel things that I never have before, so how could I not?”

After a moment of hesitation, Y/n turned slightly to pressing a chaste peck to his cheek, feeling John’s scruff tickle her lips. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but I want to make this right with you,” Y/n desperately tried to swallow the lump in her throat, barely able to put the thoughts into words, “This- you,” faltering, she corrected herself, “You, in the past few months, have meant more to me than anyone else ever has.”

Y/n wasn’t sure how long she’d spent talking to John, or by extension, how long they’d been there like that; the thick curtains had been pulled shut darkening the room. The heavy ticking of the clock for a long time had been the only sound accompanying her words, each shift signaling that another minute had passed with John’s recovery seeming further out of reach. Her eyes had started to burn while their lids felt heavy, but that didn’t stop Y/n from warding off sleep as she whispered formerly guarded secrets into his ear. It had been hours since they’d gotten to the Continental, but when she said that last thing, it seemed to finally stir something in John’s drifting consciousness, bringing him back to her. “I…..” his voice was raspy and John’s lips barely moved, “I can…..I can hear you.”

Springing into a straightened position, and Y/n lifted one of her hands from his, leaning forward to cup his face, the pad of her thumb grazing his cheek as hope illuminated her eyes. His were still closed, but Y/n could see his lashes fluttering; struggling to open as she could feel his fingers twitching ever so slightly. “John?” Huffing and suppressing a relieved, tender smile, “You can hear me? Do you want me to get the doctor? Do you need anything?”

“Just....” He didn’t seem like he’d completely regained control of himself, but it was enough to prove that John wasn’t too far gone, “Just stay.”

“The doctor said that you need to take these,” Y/n was standing at his bedside, still dressed in what she’d been wearing the day before, the blood stains on her navy colored blouson dress downplayed by the dark shade, shaking some pills out of two different bottles. He’d been awake and coherent for a couple hours by then, and graciously, Y/n had taken the time to help John sit up, stacking some pillows behind him for support.

Intently, he’d watched her, buzzing around the room and trying to stay busy but definitely not wanting to leave. John had heard everything she’d said after his lucid dream had dissipated; everything about how she cared and how much he meant to her, and he found that it was enough to vanquish any anger he’d harbored before then. Still though, he and Y/n hadn’t really spoken since he awoke, John wanted to though. They needed to. “Can we talk?” Even if she was actively avoiding his stare, John tried to angle his head to meet her eyes, wincing at the pain in his abdomen. 

Finally, when she looked at him, it was to offer the medication with one hand and a glass of water with the other, “About?”

“About everything you said,” he explained matter-of-factly, trying to gauge some meaning from her unreadable expression.

For a minute, John was expecting Y/n to deflect brashly; offer some hasty line about how he’d heard wrong or that she was just saying something she didn’t mean. But the words never came, and instead, she just pushed her hands closer, “Take these first and then we’ll talk.”

“Blackmail?”

Quirking the slightest smirk, she rolled her eyes playfully, “Maybe.” Chuckling, John relieved her of both, swallowing the pills down with a few mouthfuls of water, letting Y/n take the glass and replace it on the nightstand before she sat. “Okay,” she sighed, pushing off her shoes with her toes, letting them fall to the floor with a couple of soft thuds as she curled one leg under herself. “I meant every bit of that,” her eyes softened, a genuine affectionate gleam in them, “I do care for you,” Y/n reached over, laying her small hand over one of John’s larger ones, “You……I shouldn’t have made you think otherwise, I’m sorry, and I understand if you don’t feel the same.” She knew it wasn’t her place to expect much, not after the way things had gone between them, with her going hot and cold whenever she felt like it.

Studying her thoughtfully for a minute, John turned his hand over beneath her, the warmth of their palms radiating. “I do feel the same,” he reassured, “I guess you’re not completely to blame; I’ve been so worried that being with someone else would make me lose what I had with my wife. Like I’d be betraying her somehow. But I realize now that I wouldn’t be, that it's time to let her be a memory,” Gently, John gave Y/n’s hand a tug, urging her to come sit on the edge of the bed. When she was finally there, she leaned in, neither of them faltering before sharing a sweet, dare he say innocent, kiss. Like butterfly wings fluttering against each other. It was so untainted and free of any suggestive undertones, the kind of kiss that was meant to say, ‘I choose you.’ “Are you sure this is what you want?” John probed when they broke, his thumb roving the soft skin of Y/n’s knuckles.

Blinking quickly, she pulled away some more, briefly averting her gaze before meeting his eyes again, “I think so.” It was hardly a concrete answer, but coming from Y/n, it meant something, It was far more than indecision, it was the most she could give him; the shreds of herself that she could piece together and offer to him, while he did the same for her. 

“Okay,” he nodded, daring to offer her the first glimmers of a grin, lacing his free hand in her messy tresses so John could pull her in again, “Good,” his lips sealed on hers again, that time deeper and with more passion. 

Y/n scooted closer, her knee sinking into the mattress while she pressed her free hand to his chest; steadying herself. Tilting her head, she granted John greater access, intent on getting even closer until she made an uncalculated move; her thigh rubbing harshly against John’s bandage. He emitted a pained groan, jumping in surprise. “Shit,” she swore under her breath, looking between them to ensure that he wasn’t bleeding, “Maybe this isn’t the best time,” she giggled sheepishly, pulling away from John and moving to stand, undoing the silk knot on her dress as she sashayed away, “We’ll have to take a rain check.”

“Right…..” John was far too busy staring as Y/n undressed to pay attention to the words leaving her lips. Even before their short time together in the kitchen, he’d found himself envisioning the way she’d looked undressed; all supple, unblemished skin, smooth curves that were made to look small in his large hands and perfectly delectable with her pert breasts and perfect ass. That time, the sound contained in his throat wasn’t one of agony, “What are you doing?" He smirked as she tossed her bra to the side,  hooking her thumbs in the waist of her panties next. 

"I'm gonna take a shower," Y/n shrugged nonchalantly, snatching up a towel from nearby as she sauntered towards the bathroom door, throwing him a taunting backwards glance. It was alarmingly clear that the mood had shifted, and John was all for it. 

"Need some help?" He inquired, not even thinking of his injuries.

Wrapping the towel around herself and effectively depriving John of the salacious view, Y/n turned, leaning on the door frame, "As fun as that sounds, you're not supposed to get that wet," she nodded to the bandage on his left side, "And you should get some rest. But I promise, when I'm done, I'll help you clean up real good," and with a wink and a giggle laced with mirth, Y/n spun on her heel, leaving John in heady anticipation.

*****

Tagging- @harrisongslimited @magnificentclodpiebanana @keandrews @greenmanalishi  @rdjloverxxx @danceoftwowolves  @planetkt @wheretheriversrunintothesea

[lanadeljones]

Kink Week Mini Ask Game

Tumblr is being a pain and not letting me post any of the gifs i wanted to use, so i had to delete @endlesswriter03 ask.

“3am. Pregnant Bughead. Ridiculously horny Betty. ”

Betty sighed as she stared at the glowing red numbers mocking her from her bedside table. She watches as the numbers change before her, 3:00am. She closes her eyes in a feeble attempt to will her body to relax and go back to sleep, but the restlessness she feels shooting down her legs makes it impossible. As if sensing her discomfort, Jughead pulls her back against his chest, running his thumb lazily over her growing belly. The new position has her ass pressed firmly against his groin. She wiggles herself against him, squeezing her thighs together to create some kind of friction she craves.

   Once Betty had found out she had fallen pregnant she assumed that meant kissing her active sex life away, but she was sorely mistaken. Even at 5 months, and feeling as big as a whale, she’s never wanted Jughead more. If she could, she would have him all day and all night, taking small breaks for food and maybe even integrating food into their activities. And on some days, when schedules fell just right, they would. But after each sweaty orgasm Betty still wanted more, her desire never quite being satisfied.  

   Maybe this is just some weird food craving thing that’s keeping me awake, Betty thinks to herself. Her mind wanders to what snacks are hidden in the cupboards and refrigerator. Maybe some ice cream, but instead of deciding what flavor she would want for her late night snack, her mind goes to walking into the kitchen earlier tonight to find Jughead eating some mint chocolate chip. Her mind going over every detail of his lips wrapped around the metal spoon, the small noise of pleasure from his throat, the way his tongue darted out to lick away the melted treat off his hands.

   Betty feels herself getting wet as her pulse quickens, no matter how tightly she squeezed her legs, she felt no relief. With her body aching for relief, Betty rolls onto her back and begins to run her hands over her breasts. Kneading and pressing them together she slowly travels her hands lower to where her skin cries the most for sweet relief. She uses one hand to pull the dampened cotton to the side, the cool air hitting her hot skin. She traces her finger along her lips before she began to circle against her clit, she bites down on her lip to quieten her moans. She prods at her entrance, gathering her slick up to her swollen clit, her wrist snaps and her circles grow choppy as she dances along the edge of her release. But try as she might, she couldn’t quite get herself there.  

   She sighs in annoyance as her fingers stop their movement, her eyes travel to her bedside table’s top drawer. Maybe I just need a toy for help, but before her mind could further go down that train of thought, something caught her interest. She could feel the heat radiating off Jughead’s hand against her stretched skin. A wicked idea played in her head as she moved her hands to her hips, slightly raising herself in order to completely remove the soaked through fabric.

   She gently pushes Jughead’s hand lower down her body, his calloused fingertips dragging down her lower belly. With one hand grasping his wrist and the other ghosting over his fingers, she begins to run his fingers through her core. Pressing his pointer finger slightly into her entrance she brings his tips to circle her clit. Growing delirious with need she plunged their joined fingers deep into her throbbing pussy, coaching his fingers to curl inside of her and drag along her walls. She can feel Jughead begins to stir from his sleep, but her mind was in a lust filled haze and all she could think about was that she needed more.

  “Well, this is certainly one of the best things to wake up too” his sleepy voice hot in her ear. He begins to pick up the slack and places his palm flat against her clit.

“I’m sorry, baby, I just needed you. I-” her voice traveling getting higher with each syllable she spoke

“Shh. Baby it’s okay. Let me take care of you” he moves a few strands of hair away from her face, caressing her jawline.

  She watches with lust filled eyes as he removes his hand and brings them up to his lips, sucking and licking them clean noisily. He rolls her back onto her side, careful not to hurt her in any way, and props himself up on one elbow. He firmly grabs the ticklish skin behind her knee and lifts her leg up and places it over his thigh. He lines himself up to her dripping sex and in one fell swoop entered her hard and fast, his pace matching the steady thumb in Betty’s ears.

Jughead kisses the heated flesh along her collarbone and shoulder as he snakes her hand at where their bodies are joined and begins to circle her clit. Betty’s groans of approval grow steadier with each breath, she can feel herself tip-toeing the edge again.

“More Jughead. I. Need. More” her words punctuated with each forceful thrust he makes.

He doesn’t respond with words, instead he wrapped his lips around her hard nipple, gently biting and sucking hard. The loud gasp pulls a low groan out of him, he removes his hand from it’s circling but before Betty could voice her protest he brings his hand down forcibly stinging her sensitive clit. Betty could feel her walls begin to quiver at the new sensation, Jughead’s hands patting a nonsensical song against her. She could feel Jughead’s thrust become choppy, his breathing becoming erratic. He was just as close to release as she was, the thought of him filling her up to the brink in his thick cum was just the final push she needed to fall off the edge. Her loud cries drowning the obscene sounds of their slick skin slapping, she can feel herself clamp down hard around him, waves of pleasure coursing through her. With one final deep thrust, Jughead’s hand clasped tightly around her hip, he came undone with Betty’s name on his tongue, his movement growing slower as he softens inside her.

Removing himself completely from her, he runs his hands over her over-stimulated heated skin, looking over her for any sign of injuries. After he deemed her to be okay, he rolls to the side of the bed and makes his way towards the bathroom. After a moment he returns to Betty’s side of the bed with a towel in hand, he begins wiping her clean with a soft smile across his lips. Once done he throws the towel to the laundry hamper, missing it completely, and lowers himself to place a gentle kiss on her rounded stomach.

“You want some ice cream, Betts?”

The question makes Betty laugh out loud, of course Jughead “i’m a weirdo” Jones would ask such a question in the middle of the night and directly after sex. She shakes her head yes, still laughing softly as he walks out of the room and down the stairs. After using the bathroom she curls herself up in the soft bed, sighing at the cool Egyptian sheets.

Jughead walks slowly up the stairs, carefully keeping the two bowls balanced in his hands. He turns the corner and walks into the room, the sight of a sleeping and slightly snoring Betty awaits him. Shrugging his shoulders he walks over to his side of the bed, adding the contents of Betty’s bowl into his own. More for me he thinks to himself as he sits in bed and begins eating, periodically looking over to his wife’s sleeping figure.    

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[puppetwritings]

Forgotten || Jun || Oneshot

Word Count: 2483

Genre: fantasy, chinese!mythology, one shot, angst 

Summary: A one shot based off the story/drama《三生三世十里桃花》

Junhui sat numbly, in a daze. He stared ahead, staying in the same position he had been in for several months, moving only to sleep and eat; his dry lips slightly parted and his eyes red, swollen, and glassy. His breathing came out slowly and shakily as if he were concentrating on not crying. His hair, which had been elegantly pinned up before, now fell around him in a curtain of black.

His parents stood by his bedside, looking heartbroken but not as much as Junhui did. His mother sobbed silently, a hand placed over her mouth as his father held her, looking sadly at their broken son.

“Please, just look at us,” his mother cried, stepping forward again and kneeling down. She took her son’s cold hands in hers but Junhui didn’t even flinch. “Just once, Jun…please.”

His father stepped behind his wife and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder as he began to tear up once more. “It’s useless…the doctor said he’s in shock. He…he’ll need some time.”

“It’s all because of that stupid mortal woman,” she wept, gripping Junhui’s hand tighter. “If she hadn’t…if he hadn’t...Oh, why did it all turn out like this?”

She felt Junhui’s fingers twitch around her hand and she looked up tearful as Junhui looked at her with scorn and pulled his hand away. His voice came out weakly, but his words were strong as he quietly said “It wasn’t her fault…none of it was her fault. It was my fault. I fell for her and I couldn’t…I couldn’t protect her.”

“She seduced you—“

“She did not seduce me!” Junhui roared, turning to her as tears streamed down his face. “And don’t you ever say that again.”

His mother stood and stepped back in fear. She backed into her husband who looked down, avoiding his son’s furious gaze as he let out a sigh, “Jun, your mother’s only worried—“

“If you two had been so worried you would have helped,” Junhui cried, his voice breaking as his sorrow overcame his anger. His fingers dug into the covers and his jaws clenched. “You should have helped me convince grandfather…you should have…protected her for me when I couldn’t. You both realized how much I cared for her yet, you…you harmed her over and over again…do you realize how much it hurt me to see her like that? It was death, every day.”

His parents became silent; his mother’s sobs became still and his father felt a lump forming in his throat.

Junhui turned away, his hair shielding his face. “Leave.”

“Jun—“

“Leave!”

His mother flinched and slumped as she turned to leave, careful to not step on her dress that dragged against the ground. His father took one last look at him—a stare that contained disappointment, sadness, and sympathy—before he followed his wife out. The fairy maids of the celestial court moved to close the door and stepped out themselves. His parents turned back to look through the silk screen for a second, taking in the cowering form of their son before the doors closed.

“He’ll be back to normal soon,” his father assured his wife, a reassuring hand on her back. He glanced back at the doors as they walked out, the fairies bowing their heads as they passed. “Jun��s strong. He’s always been strong. That’s how he became the Crowned Prince he is today.”

His mother pursed her lips and nodded. Junhui would be alright. He was strong. He would get through this. He is the Crowned Prince of the Celestial Kingdom after all.

Junhui’s head was tilted back, his hand outstretched as the peach blossoms fell into his open palm. His fingers slowly closed around the petal and he brought it down, closer before he opened it, a small, rare smile flickering on his face. She had liked peach blossoms. She said they were beautiful. When he brought her here, she had said she wanted a grove just like this—one that grew year-round and stretched for ten miles. And he had said he’d give that to her. He had said that but…she never lived for him to accomplish that promise.

His smile faded as the old heartache returned. It had been three hundred years but the wound still hurt like it was just yesterday; as if it was just yesterday that he had unknowingly forced her to her death while thinking he was protecting her.

His fingers curled around the peach blossom petal again before he opened it and allowed it to fall to the ground. He watched it drift and then get carried by the wind back up, brushing close to his eyes and flying above his head. Junhui turned, following the drifting petal until he saw a figure, leaning against a tree.

Dressed in blush pink robes, sat a beautiful girl. Her hair was partially tied up and framed her face. In her hand was a wine jug that was lifted elegantly to touch her lips. Her eyelashes gently brushed her cheeks every time she blinked but what shocked Junhui the most wasn’t her awe-inspiring looks. It was the fact that she looked exactly like Su-Su.

He stepped forward. One foot and then another. He moved, his robes brushing noisily against the fallen peach blossoms but the girl—you—hadn’t looked up. It wasn’t until he was nearly right beside you that your head lifted, a dazed look obvious in your eyes and a lazy, drunken smile on your face.

“Now,” your silky, charming voice left your pretty lips, “What’s a handsome young man like you doing in this peach blossom grove?”

Junhui didn’t answer. He only stared at you, mesmerized.

You frowned a little, tilting your head as you took in his appearance. He was dressed richly, in robes that must have cost a fortune to make but he wore black and only black. He headpiece that held his hair in a topknot wasn’t something from the lands around here and it looked a great deal like a celestial artifact. He was someone from the celestial tribe.

A lazy smile curled on your lips again as you lifted the jug to take another sip, “Lost?”

“…Su-Su?”

Your brows furrowed and you blinked up at him indolently. “Su-Su? Who is that?”

The hopeful look in his eyes faded and was quickly replaced by one of confusion. “What…what do you mean who’s that? You’re…”

The curious, unrecognizing look in your eyes told Junhui that you weren’t lying. You were telling the truth. You had no clue who this “Su-Su” was despite looking exactly like her. Could it be that Su-Su had a twin? That was impossible. The peach blossom grove was a magical one that only celestials could enter and you…you were obviously a celestial. Not only that you…you were a high goddess.

Junhui’s heart fell again and the look of confusion turned to one of disappointment. Su-Su wasn’t a goddess or a celestial. She was human. He bowed immediately, “Forgive me for my insolence, High Goddess. I had thought you were someone that I knew.”

You raised an eyebrow, interested, as you leaned comfortably back against the trunk of the tree. “Do I now? A lover?”

Junhui flinched. “…Yes.”

You let out a long sigh and took another delicate drink of the wine that was doing an excellent job of intoxicating you. “That’s what most men say to attempt to flirt with me but seeing the look in your eyes, I suppose you’re telling the truth.” There was a long pause but you had yet to tell Junhui to raise his head. “If she looks like me she must be beautiful.”

“Quite.”

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eyes, “And you loved her dearly?”

“Very much.”

“Then,” your voice drew out languidly as an apathetic smile came to your face, “whatever happened to her must have been very tragic. With you, openly calling out a woman sitting here in an unexpected place, hoping it was her, with such desperation.”

The more you spoke the more Junhui was certain you weren’t Su-Su. Your looks were the same but Su-Su wasn’t this coldhearted. She was warm and caring. Her heart ached for hurt animals and she always had a gentle look in her eyes. You had the look of a lazing lion who had just caught an amusing meal.

“It was…an unfortunate event,” Junhui replied, his head still bowed.

“Look up.” Junhui looked up. “What did happen to her?”

Junhui frowned, his brows furrowing.

“Well,” you shrugged, turning away again, “I was just curious. I love tragic love stories. But if you’re unwilling…”

Junhui’s jaw clenched. “Right.” He paused before he said, “She…was human. And I…put her in danger I could have protected her from if only I hadn’t fallen in love.”

“Ah…is that so?” you let out a long sigh, turning the wine bottle upside down to find nothing dripping from it. “That truly is a tragedy then. I’m sorry about that.”

But it didn’t sound sincere. If it was Su-Su, it would have sounded sincere. It would have sounded like the warm purr of the cat; not that hollow ring of a metal bell.

“Young man,” your words interrupted his thoughts and he looked at you and found your piercing stare. A shiver ran down his spine. They were familiar yet…so different. “Have we met before?”

“I don’t believe so.”

You nodded slowly and stood. You swayed a little before you leaned against the tree and then bent back down to pick up the other empty bottle. You looked back up at him, “Don’t stay too late. You might run into the old phoenix if you do.”

And Junhui watched silently, without bidding you a farewell or a goodnight, as you sauntered off, swaying drunkenly until you disappeared in a puff of white smoke. He would never see you again, he figured.

But he did. The next day at the gala he had traveled down to attend. It was held at the Western Water Kingdom, in honor of the inauguration of their new king.

Junhui didn’t notice you at first, drifting seamlessly through the crowd without anyone knowing who you were or stopping to greet you. It wasn’t until the party fully started (with the dancers dispersed and the musicians replacing them and playing lively music as the gods and celestials mingled) that Junhui noticed you.

He had stepped outside, hating the stuffy atmosphere that came with politely entertaining people, and he saw you sitting by yourself at a table. Your head was tilted, resting against the palm over you hand, your sleeve falling down a little to reveal your wrist. There was a scar there—a burn. One that was in the same exact pattern that Su-Su had. Junhui felt his stomach become twisted in knots as he stood to the side, observing you more. You let out a sigh, your fingers tapping in a very specific pattern against the table…one that Su-Su also did.

He wanted to step forward and ask you again—once more—if you were Su-Su. He knew you would give him the same, blank stare and you would maybe even laugh in his face this time. Su-Su? No, you weren’t Su-Su, you would say. But Junhui was sure. He was sure that you were. And he became even surer when a peculiar tune, that sounded like a lullaby, left your lips. One that he had only ever heard from Su-Su and nowhere else.

You looked up and your eyes landed on him. A flash of recognition crossed your face and you shifted to face Junhui. Your legs were still crossed and your form, leaning idly against the table, was elegant. Your head was still tilted and you looked at him rather expectantly.

Junhui walked over as he bowed again, low and respectfully. He heard your hum and he raised his head once more, looking at you. You were Su-Su.

“Young man,” your voice drawled out again in the same, drunken way (which Junhui realized you weren’t drunk. It was just how you spoke) you had spoken last night, “Why are you looking at me with such longing eyes again? Hadn’t I told you that I wasn’t your Su-Su?”

“You did but…are you sure?” Junhui asked, his voice riddled with hope.

You looked at him and let out a long, drawn out sigh as you turned away. Your head was still leaned against your palm and your eyes were focused on one of the bright lamps made from a large pearl. “I’m sure.”

“…I see,” Junhui whispered. He felt his heart ache again. He was sure you were Su-Su. He was so certain. But there was no way to prove it. If you didn’t recognize him to this degree, you must have drank a memory erasing potion or—

“But I can tell you one thing,” your voice pulled him out of his thoughts and he looked back at you. Your eyes that looked so much like Su-Su’s before she took her own life—hardened and apathetic—boring into him, “If I were Su-Su and I had just somehow forgotten…it might be best to allow it to remain that way.”

Junhui gulped. “Why is that?”

You shrugged indifferently, completely detached from this long, arduous love story that had involved the both of you. “Well, it’s just…if I don’t remember you so cleanly, there must be a reason, correct? And that means I had to have drank a potion…and if I drank the potion that erased my memories of you, then that means those memories would have been very painful.”

Junhui watched you silently as you worked your way up to your point.

“All that should be forgotten, was forgotten.”

“But what if I don’t want to forget?”

You turned to Junhui with the same, lazy, detached smile. “Then if you truly think I’m Su-Su, make me remember. Or,” you shrug, “Try to win my heart again.”

Junhui stared at you, unable to think of something to say when someone called him.

“Crowned Prince! This is where you were,” he received a heart clap on the back from one of the princes of the Eastern Sea. “Oh…was I interrupting something between you and your fiancée?”

“Fiancée?” Junhui turned to you with a raised eyebrow.

You frowned. “Crowned Prince?”

“Didn’t you know?” the prince asked, raising an eyebrow. “You two were recently betrothed. She’s Y/N, the ruler of Qing Qiu.”

Junhui turned back to you, excitement bubbling in his stomach as you looked at him questioningly, obviously sizing him up. This was it. This was the second chance he had been hoping for. You were right in front of him and you were his betrothed. And he was not going to mess up. He would never let anything happen to you again…even if you had willingly forgotten all about him.

[twilight-deviant]

Prompt from the list: "Are you drunk?"

AO3 Link

Okay, I received this prompt twice, so I’m doing one serious and one not so serious. This is the serious. Because its idea came to me first.

Flynn returned to their room and relieved Karl from the duty of guarding Lucy. “Out,” was the eloquent command he gave.

Karl closed the door behind himself, leaving Flynn and Lucy alone in a hotel room in 1893 Chicago. Flynn stared at her where she sat on the foot of the bed, her posture rigid and formal. He stared at her. He dismissed her.

Flynn took off his hat, jacket, and tie. He placed them, folded, on a table. He unbuttoned his waistcoat. There was a chair in the corner, which he used to sit in and remove his shoes.

“Bed’s all yours.” He sunk lower into the uncomfortable, half-wooden chair. “You should get some rest. Big day tomorrow.”

Lucy had not slept well in days. Their first night in 1780 meant sleeping in a wagon on the side of the road while Wyatt and Flynn alternated the night watch. It was worse than camping. Rest was fitful. There was no sleep the second night. Flynn dragged her from Rittenhouse to the present to 1893 with no stops in between.

Despite all of that, despite her exhaustion, Lucy would not sleep. She had an assassination to foil. She had a man, her captor, sitting in the corner, passively watching for any chance she might take to escape. Lucy could mitigate that concern and buy them both a little more comfort.

She stood and began unclasping the sleeves then front of her dress. Flynn looked away. His consideration for her modesty provided an opportunity to make a run for it, but Lucy knew he would grab her before she cleared the door. She pulled the dress over her head and hung it on the complimentary clothes hanger. Her earrings she removed and placed on the bedside table. When she unfastened the busk of her corset, Lucy felt she could breathe a little easier. Wearing only her slip (an acceptable level of dress for their time), Lucy sat on the bed and removed her shoes. She placed them together in the floor. Her chemise had the comfort of a nightgown and would be used as one when she laid in bed and did not sleep.

Lucy pulled on the hairpins securing her bun but they were stuck. She tugged, trying to free them. The pins clung to and yanked on individual hairs. “Ow… Ow, ow, ow!” she cried. Flynn ignored her. There was a small mirror hanging above the sink. Lucy moved in front of it and tried to inspect her hair, but the angle of the bun meant she could look at herself or she could dip her head to display the pins, not both. For several minutes, she fought with her own hair, and at the end realized she was only making it worse. She dared to ask. “Flynn?”

He did not jump to action. He did not say anything. Flynn had watched Lucy struggle with her hair and knew exactly what she wanted. That did not mean he was feeling gallant enough to volunteer. However, a direct plea could not be ignored.

“Flynn,” Lucy called again, “could you… help?” She looked at herself in the mirror. One pin was dangling from her head, barely visible in its cocoon of hair. The other two held fast to her scalp.

Flynn groaned long and loud, making known his annoyance with the matter. Noisily, he got up and stomped over to Lucy. He would have made an intimidating figure if his intent were not to aid. His hand pushed on Lucy’s shoulder, forcing her to turn around. She could see him in the mirror, examining her knotted hair.

“How the hell do you have this in there?” he grumbled.

“Whichever way worked,” Lucy said. Flynn had given her insufficient supplies and a changing room that was wanting. Usually, when she had trouble dressing or undressing, Jiya was there to assist. “You know, there was a reason ladies used to have help getting ready.”

Flynn moved her hair around the pins, untangling it like a puzzle, and pulled them out with moderate pain. Roughly, he grabbed Lucy’s wrist and turned it palm up so he could put the hairpins in her hand. He leaned in and then away again.

“Are you drunk?” Lucy scoffed, already smelling the answer.

“I’ve been drinking,” Flynn differentiated, insisting he could handle himself. “What, is that a crime? Man can’t have a drink?”

“Not yet, no,” Lucy murmured under her breath, “but give it another thirty years.” She walked around him, back towards the bed so she could place the hairpins with her earrings.

“You know prohibition was one of the most stupid laws in history, right?” Flynn said, rambling over unimportant matters. “Counterproductive after all the crime it started.”

“I know,” she replied, and she contributed no more to the subject. Papers, books, and precedents had been written from that blunder. It was not private knowledge. She turned back around to look at him. “You didn’t bring me any?” Flynn raised an eyebrow at her. “Woman can’t have a drink?”

Flynn facilitated her want. They were each in a situation to need a drink, and he would not exaggerate the kindness of Lucy’s kidnapping to deny her one. She deserved something. He pulled a cord near the door of their room. They could not hear the ringing bell two floors below, but a caretaker would soon be by to see what they wanted.

Lucy ruffled her hair with her fingers, brushing out the tangles. Her makeup would be a mess if she left it until morning, so she turned on the sink and wet a washcloth. The water had a distinct smell to it, the side effect of early plumbing and poor filtration systems. It still felt good and cleansing on her skin. She got most of her makeup off and would either go without tomorrow or make Flynn buy her more.

There was a knock on the door.

Lucy looked at Flynn, who was already looking at her. “Get over there,” he ordered, and he jabbed his thumb back towards the bed. Lucy sat, and when Flynn was satisfied with her obedience, he opened the door. His demeanor changed immediately. “So sorry for troubling you this late,” he said to the man outside, displaying perfect manners, “but my wife was feeling up for a nightcap. Do you have any… wine, maybe?”

“Stronger,” Lucy called. She needed more than wine.

Flynn looked back and scowled at her, a wordless threat for silence. He returned his attention to the caretaker and closed the door further shut, barely including his own face in the slit. “How about a beer instead?”

“Two,” Lucy said, refusing to be quiet and docile.

Flynn growled in his throat but did not look in on her again. “Three,” he requested.

“Yes, sir,” the man said. “Right away.” He clicked his heels and left.

Flynn closed the door. He came back into the room and glared at Lucy but said nothing. There were, after all, worse things she could have yelled out the door.

“You like beer?” The order was made, and he was not recalling it. Flynn only asked for curiosity’s sake.

“Sometimes,” Lucy answered. She was never one to pigeonhole herself with a drink order. “Beer sounds good right about now.” As with high school and college kids, all Lucy needed was something to take the edge off. She was not picky.

The space between them was oppressively silent. There was not much to say. Flynn planned to murder three important figures tomorrow afternoon. Lucy could not talk him out of it anymore than she could convince him not to shoot a child. The subject could not and would not be broached. And after what Flynn considered a betrayal, he did not care what Lucy had to say unless it was her willing cooperation. He demanded her help or else threatened her death. Lucy was still trying to figure out if he meant it. She had heretofore been so precious and valuable. Words spoken in anger were rarely credible, but Lucy had leaned that Garcia Flynn was wildly unpredictable.

They sat under that cloud of silence. Lucy looked at Flynn, studying his profile, as he stared out the window, taking in the lights of the World’s Fair as they flickered out for the evening.

Knock, knock, knock, rapped the caretaker upon the door.

Flynn got up. He glanced at Lucy but trusted he did not have to command her into compliance again. He brushed a hand through his hair and opened the door.

The hotel employee stood in the hall with a tray, barely visible to Lucy across the room and through the very slight crack of space Flynn allowed. The man tried to come into the room, but Flynn stood in his way, blocking entry. “My wife isn’t decent,” he explained. Only half of that was a lie.

“Of course, sir,” said the man. “My apologies.” He gave the tray to Flynn, who, in turn, gave him a tip. “Thank you, sir.” He left.

Flynn closed the door and brought in a pewter tray holding three beers and a bottle opener. He sat the tray on a table, popped open a bottle, and handed it to Lucy. As she took that first sip, Flynn opened one for himself.

“Not done yet?” Lucy said, drawing attention to his depression-based drinking habit.

“Did you want to drink alone?” he returned. Flynn did not drink solely for her benefit, but there was a promise for tension if she sat there going through two beers while he watched empty-handed.

Lucy shrugged. “Bottoms up, sailor.” It was not a toast and yet they drank at the same time.

Flynn sat in his chair. Between it and the bed there was perhaps six feet of space. It felt like more and like less. More for all of the emotional distance between them. Less because of the crushing inescapability of each other’s presence. A drinking partner did not cancel the tension.

Lucy cleared her throat. “Know any good drinking games?”

He undoubtedly did, but he was not in the mood to play them. “Drink.” That was the only game which mattered.

She drank. They drank. The crushing lull returned until, again, Lucy could take it no longer.

“Does it not bother you,” she inquired, “calling me your wife?” Flynn had a wife. She was taken from him. Now, he used the once beloved title in a con.

“Better than ‘captive.’” Lucy did not know if he was trying to joke— and if he was, it was not funny. The short sentence was too emotionless to guess how the lie affected him.

Lucy held out her beer bottle and shook it. “Refill,” she asked.

Flynn took the empty bottle and placed it on the tray. He grabbed the last full one and opened it for her. Lucy muttered her thanks, which Flynn ignored. He sat back down and nursed his own beer.

It would have been less depressing to drink alone in a dark room. At least then the grim silence would be excusable. Lucy almost wished Karl had watched her the entire night. She bore no sentiment towards the man. She felt no obligation to speak. With Flynn, Lucy could not brush away the nagging sensation that they should talk. There was, after all, so much to say. Yet Lucy could not think of anything that stood a chance of being discussed.

Flynn had something he wished to address, though he stifled it until the hush became so great not even he could stand it. “For what it’s worth,” he uttered, “you have my, uh,” it was difficult for him to say, “apologies… with Rittenhouse. Benedict Arnold was right. I shouldn’t have let you come with us.”

Lucy sighed. She feared such a fate when it was upon her, but she had since and by her own hand liberated herself from its horrors. If she lingered on every evil she encountered, she would never recover. “Well, you know,” she drank, “he was just gonna rape me.” She spoke with nonchalance, forcing strength from it. “You, he was going to kill.”

“And that’s worse?” Flynn questioned. He thought too much about one and perhaps never about the other, never happening to him. It was difficult to imagine, so he gave the situation he had little concern of the greater weight.

Lucy did not have a good answer. She had experienced neither, despite her brushes with them. “At the end of death there’s… nothing. No more life anyway,” she amended. “There’s always the… afterlife. But life itself is gone. And for the other one, for… There’s a life left. It’s broken. It’s… hurt. But it’s a life. You can come back from it… hopefully.” She took a very long drink. “Don’t get me wrong. Both are,” she exhaled, “horrifying. But I’m learning— from this- from… all of this— that anything you can walk away from is better than just stopping, better than, god, disappearing.”

“Well,” Flynn said, returning to his hanging threat, “if you play your cards right, Lucy, there shouldn’t be any reason for you not to walk away from this one.”

Flynn sought to exploit her confessed fear but was unaware of the dwindling credence Lucy gave to it. She had seen him kill— up close— and did not doubt his capability. He was qualified. But Lucy knew from watching him with John Rittenhouse and from allowing her to stand unharmed between them that Flynn was not gone. Lucy remembered every mission and report she had pored over in his classified file. She absorbed the stories like any other scrap of history. That man was still in there. She had seen it. He did not want to kill, not even her, not even after she betrayed his expectations.

Lucy did not call his bluff, not to his face. Flynn would only repeat himself and reiterate his decision.

“You’re a buzzkill.”

Flynn frowned. He was ruining the entire point of drinking. He knew that and was not going to stop because of it. However, no one liked being considered the opposite of a good time. He breathed loudly out his nose and slammed his empty beer bottle on the table.

“You done?”

Lucy swirled her last bit of beer around in the bottle and turned it up for a long drag. Her throat guzzled around the foul liquid until it was gone. “Yes,” she answered.

Flynn stood and held out his hand. Lucy gave him the empty bottle, and he put it with his own back on the tray. “Get in bed.” His phrasing was mindful of the fact that she might not sleep at all, but comfortable rest was almost as important.

Lucy folded back the blankets and slid into the too lumpy bed with hard metal springs she could feel and count. The nineteenth century was the pinnacle of comfort at the time but an antiquated shadow of the present day. Lucy was grateful for exhaustion and the slight persevering buzz given to her by the beer.

She turned out the lamp on the nightstand. Flynn got the one in the corner. It was darker but not dark. New electric bulbs lit the streets outside, and the weak beams made their way in.

The curtains were kept open, and Flynn moved his chair closer to the window. It put him right at the corner of the bed, and, not scorning the opportunity that presented, Flynn raised his feet up and rested them on the very edge of the mattress. He left plenty of space between himself and Lucy. She could not tell if he was being respectful or else despised the idea of close contact with her.

Flynn pulled his pistol from the holster and rested it on his lap. He reclined as much and as comfortably as he was able. It was not an enviable position, not with his head hanging unsupported on the chair and his long legs stretching out to the bed. He did not seem to notice. Lucy guessed he had rested under worse conditions.

He did not look at or acknowledge her. She was no threat. The street below was in far greater need of his attention. His face was shadow but the outermost line of his profile was highlighted with that exterior orange light.

“Who are you looking for?” Lucy asked. She knew. “Wyatt and Rufus?”

“Old habit,” Flynn said. The dark room inspired a softer tone. It shifted his voice into a dragging rumble. He spoke without turning his head, and the orange outline on his lips moved up and down. “Twenty hour ride back to the Lifeboat,” he estimated, “four hours to charge it when they return.” He dipped his head to the side in a contemplative shrug. “I don’t expect they’re gonna be here before the morning.”

“But you expect them.”

“I expect a bumbling rescue attempt,” Flynn told her. He turned his head and smiled, but it was not a pleasant emotion. “They have no guide.”

“They’re resourceful,” she insisted.

“You’re resourceful,” Flynn contradicted, flattering Lucy in a factual way. “They’re useful every now and then, each in his field, but they’re useless without you. Not exactly a good team.”

“It’s better than trying to do everything alone,” Lucy said, “like you.”

Flynn resumed looking out the window. “I’m not alone,” he said. “I have you, don’t I?” He did, but it was not by her choice.

Lucy spoke no more. She laid back on her pillow and closed her eyes.

It did nothing.

An hour later, she was still awake. Two hours later, she was awake— and three. Time ticked along with a clock on the wall and taunted her wakefulness.

When Lucy opened her eyes to check the time again, she saw that Flynn’s were closed. His head dipped down towards his chest. His breath was even and peaceful. He was asleep.

It was an opportunity which would never come again. Slowly, silently, and with no second thought, Lucy got out of bed. She folded back the blankets and moved to the edge of the mattress, creaking as few springs as possible. She put her foot on the floor. The wooden board whined but only slightly. Lucy stood and approached Flynn, walking on her toes. The gun was still in his lap, but his hand had fallen down beside his leg. It begged to be taken. Lucy reached for it, that weapon mere inches away. She reached for it. A strong hand wrapped around her wrist and squeezed!

Lucy tried to jump away, but Flynn would not let go. He pulled her closer in and she almost fell on him. “Up for a drink of water?” he asked, mocking her futile escape plan. His legs formed a gate to the pen between two walls and the bed. There was only one reason to get out on that side.

“You weren’t asleep,” Lucy guessed.

“Wanted to see what you’d do.” He was not surprised by the choice she made. Flynn threw Lucy’s hand away, forcefully releasing her.

“I’m not your enemy,” she declared.

“You’re not my ally,” Flynn observed. He picked up his gun and turned it back and forth, watching it glint in the secondhand light from outside. “What were you gonna do with this, Lucy? Huh?”

After a deep, ragged exhale, she said, “Leave.” It was the truth. She had no plans to use the gun on him.

“Leave,” Flynn questioned, and he sat forward in his seat, dropping his feet to the floor. “Leave and, what, warn Edison, warn Ford or Morgan?” He laughed. It was chilling. His smile was too wide. “But you say you’re not my enemy.” His joviality fell all at once, act over. “Here,” Flynn decided. He extended his hand with the gun and turned it around, presenting the grip to her. “Take it. Threaten me to let you leave.”

Lucy regarded the weapon but made no move to grab it. At best, Flynn’s little display was a trap. At worst, he called her bluff. A gun gave Lucy no more power over their situation, not when Flynn knew she would not use it.

“Take it,” he said again, dared her again. Lucy would not. Flynn held his hand out for a minute more then let it drop. “I guess,” he considered, “we know each other too well, don’t we, Lucy?” It was an unfortunate truth. “Or I know you, rather. See,” he continued, “I know you’re not going to shoot me, but you? What do you know? What do you know about me, huh? What- What have you tried to know, to understand?”

“I know enough,” Lucy asserted.

“You know nothing!” Flynn hissed. “Nothing… or you’d help me.”

“I know you’re not going to kill me.”

In a flash, Flynn jumped to his feet. With a fluid, automatic gesture and a metallic click, he loaded a bullet into the chamber of his gun. The muzzle went right to Lucy’s forehead, right between her eyes. She closed them in fear and dread. “What do you know, Lucy?” She did not speak. “Hmm?” He waited. “Tell me.” He leaned in close and asked it again. His breath smelled like the alcohol he claimed did not affect him.

Lucy swallowed hard. She inhaled and it quivered. “I don’t know you.”

That was all he needed. Flynn withdrew his gun and stepped away. Lucy watched him put the safety back on and was shaken by the fact it was ever off. However, and despite every implication otherwise, she still could not dismiss the optimistic notion that it was all in service to intimidation.

Flynn sat back in his chair. He put his feet on the bed. “Get some sleep,” he ordered.

“How can I?” Lucy retorted with indignation. “My- My… My would-be murderer is sitting at the foot… of my bed watching me sleep. You just put a gun to my head.”

Flynn did not respond immediately. When he did, it was not with an explicit promise of nonviolence. “You’re not useless yet.” The subtleties of his mission and mannerisms gave better assurance than the words. Flynn still needed her. In that moment, he despised Lucy, but consensual or not, he would have their partnership.

She was safe.

“You won’t kill me,” Lucy wanted to say one more time, but she knew it secured nothing but a repetition of events. Flynn needed Lucy to believe he would kill her, and while they were alone, while it was only them, he would threaten it again and again.

Lucy got back in bed. She laid her head on the pillow and covered up like she was hiding. For the rest of the long night, she did not look at Flynn and had no idea if he ever slept. She did not.